Chapter 109: The White Dove

Chapter 109: The White Dove

If you resolve to make a pilgrimage to the Holy City—the great capital of the Holy Nation, the holy domain of the God of Dawn, the city favored by the saints—then you will find, ten miles from the city, a white marble signpost inscribed with elegant, flowing script:

"Traveler, welcome to the Holy City, bathe in the eternal light of the God of Dawn! You will find peace of mind, discover the meaning of life, and atone for your worldly sins. Praise the holy name of God!"

And when you circle around to the back of this signpost, you will discover that someone has, with great irreverence, carved a few words here:

"Beware of pigeon droppings."

This is no idle warning.

The city is said to have a thousand churches (the exact number has never been counted, so let us assume as much), and every single church houses countless white doves.

Every morning and evening, as the church bells ring out together, the flocks of doves take flight at once, and in an instant the sky of the Holy City is covered by pure white wings.

Pilgrims seeing this sight for the first time are invariably awestruck by the holy beauty, feeling as if they've received a spiritual baptism, their hearts seemingly ready to rise with the flocks, to receive the grace of the God of Dawn.

However, they soon figure out what the signpost ten miles outside the city meant. And also why the hat and cloak merchants in the Holy City always do such good business.

Of course, the doves see it differently.

"The people of the Holy City are all civilized folk, and everyone in the Holy City has been pooped on by a pigeon. Therefore, getting pooped on by pigeons is what makes you civilized."

An old dove with the title of Dove King imparted this wisdom earnestly to the younger doves.

"Flawless logic!" said a young dove.

"Holy! Holy!" said another young dove.

The Dove King was very pleased with his own theory. He thought that if he were human, he might have become a great theologian.

The Dove King was a permanent resident of a place in the Holy City called the "Fountain of Rebirth." It was a castle made of white marble, with a natural fountain at its center. It wasn't called "Rebirth" because the fountain could bring people back from the dead, but because it allowed sinners to start a new life.

In plain, blunt human terms, this was a prison.

Compared to Cape Prison, which was said to be impenetrable, the Fountain of Rebirth focused more on rehabilitating its prisoners. Many prisoners held here, after being "educated" by the Warden and the guards, had, thankfully, turned over a new leaf.

As for those who didn't reform, the guards would send them before the God of Dawn, and let the great deity personally straighten them out.

On an ordinary day, the Fountain of Rebirth welcomed a new batch of "prisoners about to be reborn."

They were dusty and exhausted from the road, many with salt crystals crusted in their hair—which meant they'd come by sea, sent to the Fountain of Rebirth from other prisons.

"A bunch of stinking out-of-towners, come to our Holy City to eat free meals in our jail," the Dove King said coldly from his perch on the roof.

In his eyes, the birds of the Holy City were more noble than the migrant birds from outside. The city's residents naturally had higher status than outsiders. Even criminals—the local ones had more swagger than the out-of-towners.

But one prisoner stood out to the Dove King.

He was a tall, lean young man who looked very intelligent, with long silver-white hair. Though clad in tattered prison garb, he didn't look pitiful or messy; rather, he had the air of a noble who'd fallen on hard times.

From the first moment he saw the young man, the Dove King thought he looked remarkable and was destined for great things. The young man seemed to have a strange pull on doves, making the Dove King want to discuss deep theology with him.

The young man was put in a cell on the top floor of the Fountain of Rebirth. This was good—it made it easier for him to touch the sky, to talk with the creatures of the sky, and to get his soul cleansed much better than on the ground.

So, that same evening, after finishing his evening flight with the bells, the Dove King flew to the young man's cell and slipped through the iron bars of the window.

In the dusk light, he saw the young man weaving the straw from his bed into a crude straw doll.

"Oh, hello there, little guy. Can you do me a favor?" The young man noticed the Dove King, set down his work, and scratched the Dove King's head with his knuckles.

That was pretty rude, but the Dove King decided to forgive him. After all, before today, he was just a savage with no doves. And from today on, he'd be a civilized man who'd been pooped on.

"Go ahead," the Dove King said, puffing out his chest proudly.

The young man handed him the little straw doll he'd just made: "Can you take this around with you? Preferably somewhere with high-ranking holy officials. The Tribunal would be even better."

That's easy. The Tribunal was in session almost every day, sometimes from morning to night, with every Inquisitor having to report on their work—daily, weekly, and monthly reports, and they were all different. The Chief Inquisitor loved it, while the people under him complained bitterly, hoping he'd get pooped on by a pigeon when he went out.

The Dove King grabbed the little straw doll and flew out of the cell, heading toward a pure white tower north of the Fountain of Rebirth. The Tribunal's headquarters, one of the Holy See's three main branches, was there.

The cold, proud white tower stood against the setting sun, the sunlight gilding it with a golden-red glow, making it look like a sword pointing at the sky. The Tribunal proudly called it the "Sword of Justice," but because the tower was so tall, it got hit by lightning all the time, so the people of the Holy City called it something else—"that unlucky place that always gets struck by lightning."

The topmost room of the white tower had its lights on. The Dove King rode the wind up and landed on the balcony. He stretched his neck and peered into the room without a care.

Five or six people were sitting around a table in the room. A cold, drafty wind blew in through the windows, and the fire flickered in the fireplace.

At the head of the long table sat an old man in a white robe. He had gray hair and silver-rimmed glasses on his nose; behind the lenses, his sharp eyes gleamed.

The Dove King peeked around on the balcony, but nobody noticed him. There were dove nests on top of the white tower too, so a dove showing up here was totally normal.

"Who's that?" the little straw doll in the Dove King's claws made a cooing noise. This thing can actually speak pigeon—that's amazing.

"He's the Chief Inquisitor, Elhart. One of the three most powerful men under the Holy See," the Dove King introduced.

"Ah, the boss of Nashel and Aether," the little straw doll murmured to itself.

The person sitting to Elhart's left—a middle-aged woman with her hair in a bun—flipped through the papers in her hands noisily.

"The Polar Day Legion has already set out today, ready to march north. They're planning to attack White Spring Valley, and once we take it, we'll have secured the land route to Moltalia. From there, our armies can march north without any trouble."

Chief Inquisitor Elhart nodded. The middle-aged woman added, "Inquisitors Nashir Solaris and Aether Orolan have joined the Polar Day Legion too. This time we have over three hundred Inquisitors fighting alongside the Dawnlight Knights—way more than in any previous war... Is that too many? The Grand Master doesn't seem too happy about it. And with more people sent to war, we have fewer people to fight heretics. I'm worried..."

The middle-aged man across from her shrugged his shoulders. "How long could the war last? By the end of this year, Moltalia will surrender to us, and we can pull the Inquisitors back in time."

"Besides, this is the first war in twenty years—both the Knights and the Missionary Order can get a piece of the pie," said the young man at the end of the table. "The Knights can get a share of the conquered lands through military achievements, and the Missionary Order can take control of the economy by moving into Moltalia after the war. Our Tribunal gets the short end of the stick here. We're sending our young Inquisitors to join the Knights to give them a chance to make a name for themselves. Surely you wouldn't want to hand the honors over to those muscle-headed idiots, or those fat, good-for-nothing drunkards?"

The middle-aged woman looked at him suspiciously. "Will it really go that smoothly? If we fail, we'll lose the Tribunal's young core. Moltalia's Griffin Legion is also famous for being tough."

"We have superhumans. The Research Department also provided fifty relics. Not all of them are for fighting, but they're enough to blow those northern hicks' minds."

"Can we trust the moles inside Moltalia?"

"We have to. Don't forget why we're fighting this war—to win the throne for Duke Alfonso of Cold Mountain. The young duke was always the rightful heir to the throne, but he lost the crown because of Moltalia's backward customs. Now it's time to put things back on track. The Duke of Cold Mountain is doing this for his own benefit, so he'll definitely work hard."

After the young man finished, the middle-aged man added, "This time we'll attack from both land and sea at the same time. The Dawn Fleet will work with the ground forces to launch the attack. Moltalia is fundamentally a maritime trading nation—once their ports are blockaded and they lose control of the seas, surrender is only a matter of time."

The middle-aged woman started to say something more, but Chief Inquisitor Elhart raised a hand to silence her.

"The matter of the war is decided. No more discussion needed."

"...Yes, Chief."

"Now we should consider how to maintain the Tribunal's normal operations during this period of manpower shortage before the war ends. Speaking of the Research Department—"

Chief Inquisitor Elhart shifted the topic, "A new batch of prisoners arrived at the Fountain of Rebirth today. The one from the Research Department wants to examine them tomorrow."

"Why is the Research Department in such a hurry? Because they've lent out so many relics, that gentleman is panicking over insufficient firepower?"

A low laugh echoed through the room. Several high-ranking members of the Inquisition seemed to share a knowing joke that only insiders would understand.

"The report sent by Aether Orolan mentioned that there is a supernatural among the prisoners, which has got the Research Department interested," said Chief Inquisitor Elhart. "Unfortunately, that prisoner died on the way due to an attack by bandits. Orolan was unable to bring the body back, and the gentleman from the Research Department is quite upset. He insists that there might be hidden supernaturals among the other prisoners. After all, everyone at Cape Prison is a real 'talent'."

"I'll make the arrangements," the middle-aged woman said, bowing her head.

The Dove King shook its wings on the balcony, loosening its tense muscles. The Little Straw Doll in its claws asked, "What is the Research Department? I've heard the name, but I'm not sure what they do."

"An institution that studies human supernaturals," the Dove King boasted, showing off its extensive knowledge. "They belong to the Inquisition, but they operate independently and have a lot of power. All prisoners at the Spring of Rebirth must undergo inspection by the Research Department. If any of them are supernaturals, the department locks them up separately for research or gives them 'ideological education' before making them work for the Inquisition."

The Little Straw Doll asked, "But how do they know who is a supernatural? As long as the person doesn't say or reveal their abilities, no one would know, right?"

"Oh, you really are a savage from the countryside, not even knowing such a simple fact." The Dove King shrugged its wings. "Inquisitor Lutz, the head of the Research Department, has the supernatural ability to sense other supernatural abilities."

The Little Straw Doll let loose a series of colorful curses. The Dove King thought to itself, young human brains sure come in handy—it could never come up with such creative metaphors.

"Now, what do you plan to do?" the Dove King asked.

"Though I feel sorry for Mr. Lutz, whom I've never met, I'll have to ask him to die," the Little Straw Doll said.

"Amen," said the Dove King.