Chapter 122: Where Fates Converge

Chapter 122: Where the River of Fate Converges

Lyman looked down at the *Book of the Evil God* in his hands. Tucked between the pages was the fifth Apostle card, its surface bearing only a few crude, sketchy lines that outlined a vague human figure.

【You have triggered a new mission: "Cornerstone of Faith V"】

"Description: To build a grand temple, one must first lay a solid foundation. You too must build your church on bedrock. Now is the time to add bricks and mortar to your temple."

"Objective: Recruit the fifth Apostle (0/1)"

"Reward: Choose one Supernatural Ability from the reward pool."

This morning, while eating breakfast, he suddenly heard an intense prayer. Excusing himself from the table claiming he felt unwell, he immediately summoned the *Book of the Evil God* to examine the identity of the supplicant.

To his great surprise, it turned out to be Princess Stella of Moltalia—the same Stella who had once explored the underground museum with Dorian.

She was consumed by vengeance, harboring boundless hatred, vowing to tear her enemies apart. Yet the Apostle card had not taken shape—it was nowhere near half-formed. Revenge wasn't her true desire.

Lyman marked Princess Stella, allowing him to observe her situation at any time and, when necessary, personally "descend" to speak with her.

He could also see whatever was within a certain radius of the marked person. He had intended to see through Stella's eyes to watch what she would do next. Just then, at the edge of his vision, the Cornelis siblings' carriage came to a halt.

The two abandoned their carriage and raced to the riverbank, pulling a waterlogged drowning victim from among a pile of driftwood.

Ingrid brushed aside the man's golden hair.

"Thank the God of Dawn he's still alive," she said.

"Inquisitor Aether?!" Lyman gaped.

He watched as the siblings began performing rescue techniques with questionable technique on Aether. Then, the next moment, the vision vanished. Stella had moved out of range.

"Damn it! Go back! Walk back a little!" Lyman yelled at nothing.

He desperately wanted to "descend" beside Stella and tell her to turn around, but then again—since Stella had already gone far, he shouldn't delay her escape. If she were discovered by soldiers near the bridge, all their careful planning would be for nothing.

Besides, she had no supernatural abilities or medical knowledge. Even if she went back, she couldn't help. Leaving Aether in the hands of those two siblings from the thieves' guild was actually the safer choice.

"Come to think of it, Aether's actually alive..."

It looked like he'd drifted down the river to this area. If he had just fallen into the water, why would the Knights report him as dead without finding a body?

And the "cause of death" wasn't even drowning—it was killed in battle. This couldn't possibly be a simple misreport.

Lyman paced in his study: "If Aether truly fell into the water by accident—say, falling into a river during battle—and the Knights were unable to search because they couldn't, they should have reported him missing. Why lie about his death? Did they want the Tribunal to think both Aether and Nashel were dead? What would be the point?"

"Lyman, I have something to say..." Lunast said sneakily.

"Knock."

"Knock, knock, knock." Lunast mimicked the sound using ventriloquism. "Generally speaking, the person who benefits most from someone's death is most likely the killer."

"A classic." Lyman, who had read quite a few detective novels, nodded in agreement. "Aether and Nashel were sent to the front because the Tribunal wanted them to earn glory in battle to build their case for future promotions. With them dead, the Knights lose two strong rivals. Without a doubt, the Knights are the ones who benefit the most."

"Directly eliminating competitors by killing them off is the most common and most effective tactic in political struggle," Lunast pointed out in a lazy but sharp tone.

"In other words, Aether and Nashel weren't 'killed in action' on the battlefield—they were stabbed in the back by their own people."

Lyman's eyes darkened. He had always known the Church harbored dirty power struggles, but he never imagined they would stoop so low as to turn on their own comrades on the battlefield.

"The Knights reported them as 'killed in action' rather than 'missing'—was that because they feared the Tribunal would send a search party?" Lyman stroked his chin. "The Tribunal had high hopes for those two. As long as there was any chance they were alive, the Chief Inquisitor would never stop searching. And a search like that could easily uncover the truth. So the Knights lied about their deaths to prevent the Tribunal from investigating."

Lunast let out a snickering laugh: "But the Knights never imagined that Aether would still be alive—and that someone would rescue him."

"The Knights know he might not be dead. They're certainly searching for him too. Once they find any trace of him, they'll kill him to keep him quiet."

Lyman stopped pacing, his crimson eyes gleaming sharply.

"We've got to find a way to save Aether."

Having said that, Lyman paused, waiting for Lunast to start his usual rant about Aether.

He waited a full minute before Lunast hesitantly asked, "Uh... and then?"

"You have no objection?"

"Why would I have an objection?"

"Usually around this time, you'd jump out and start whining, demanding to know why I want to save an enemy. What's wrong with you, Lunast? Did you hit your head? You're not yourself anymore!" Lyman said with profound grief.

"Oh, that. I've already come to terms with it." Lunast spoke in a dreamy, ethereal tone. "When I think about it, I—a mighty evil god—bickering with a mere mortal is rather beneath my dignity."

"With all due respect, it's always been you unilaterally taking a disliking to Aether. He doesn't even know you exist. That relationship can hardly be called 'bickering.'"

"Lyman."

"Hm?"

"Take me out."

"Take out which part of you?"

"Whatever. Take whichever part you like."

Lyman thought for a moment, then pulled Lunast's arm out of the Divine Casket.

"Why not the head?" Lunast asked.

"I'm rather tired of that mouth of yours."

"Oh! So that means there's nothing on my hand that you dislike?"

Lunast gleefully had his hand clasp Lyman's, palm to palm, then draped his entire arm around Lyman's neck.

This was far too strange. If anyone saw him like this, they'd surely think he was a deranged dismemberment killer, proudly wearing a victim's severed limb on his body. He wouldn't be able to clear his name even if he jumped into the sea.

"Lyman, your pulse is racing."

"I'm envisioning my tragic future of being falsely accused as a murderer." Lyman said mournfully.

Lunast let out a series of angry sputtering sounds, like a motorcycle engine that wouldn't start. His arm slipped back into the Divine Casket with a whoosh, and that annoying mouth of his refused to speak anymore.

For some reason, this fellow was sulking again. Lyman decided to let him sort himself out for a while—he still had other things to think about.

"Hmm, how should I save Aether? I'm in the Holy City, far beyond reach. If only there were an Apostle near him. But the only Apostle currently in Moltalia is Captain Dorian, and he's busy pursuing further education in prison. Stella hasn't yet discovered her true desire. By the time she does, Aether might already be cold...

Lyman suddenly had a flash of inspiration. The Tribunal hadn't only sent Aether and Nashel to the front—there should be others. They were just limited in ability; the Chief Inquisitor never expected much from them anyway.

The Tribunal could contact them directly. If they could find Aether before the Knights did, he might just be saved.

And Lyman currently held an "important position" that gave him more than enough reason to move the inquisitors on the front lines.

If Chief Inquisitor Elhart chewed him out for this... what did "Minister Lutz" getting scolded have to do with him, Layman Vichard?

The next day, at the routine meeting of the White Tower, Lyman broke with his usual routine and spoke first.

"Chief, I got some intel yesterday on that mysterious organization we've been tracking."

"Oh?" The Chief Inquisitor raised an eyebrow. "I'm all ears."

"Along the Evre River in Moltalia, people have spotted mysterious superhumans in black—probably members of that organization."

Lyman spread a map of Moltalia on the table. The map was rough, showing only the main mountains, rivers, and a handful of big cities. As a rule, national maps were closely guarded military secrets, so the Holy Nation getting its hands on even a rough one was no small feat.

Lyman traced his finger along the Evre River, from White Spring Valley all the way to Seven Lamps City, and circled the city with emphasis.

"The sighting is already days old—by the time word reached me, it's probably stale. But I still think it's worth sending someone to check it out."

The Chief Inquisitor looked grave. His secretary piped up, "Minister Lutz, how'd you get your hands on intel this important?"

Lyman had seen this question coming and answered without missing a beat: "As you know, I'm always buying up items with special powers and have people scouring the land for them, so I've got connections with merchants everywhere. Refugees fleeing Moltalia have brought all sorts of stories about relics and oddities. But that's not the point of today."

He waved a hand in annoyance, shooting the secretary a dirty look for cutting him off and wasting precious time.

The secretary shrank back, wilting under "Minister Lutz's" murderous stare.

The Chief Inquisitor cocked his head and said, "So you're saying we should pull our front-line inquisitors to investigate this organization?"

"Exactly. Them showing up in Moltalia at this exact time is no coincidence. They're definitely up to something."

"The inquisitors we sent to the front are technically under Grand Master Antonella's command. If we go over her head to deploy them, she'll be pissed, and might even accuse us of overstepping our authority in front of the Holy See."

"The Dawnlight Knights have already taken White Spring Valley—it's only a matter of time before they roll over all of Moltalia. Our inquisitors are running out of chances to make a name for themselves."

Lyman knew the Chief Inquisitor was itching to use this war to score points for the Inquisition, so he hammered that point home on purpose.

"But if we can pick up the organization's trail and shut down whatever they're doing in Moltalia, that'd be a big win."

That got the Chief Inquisitor's attention. "Hmm, you've got a point. As long as we get results, going over her head is easy enough to explain..."

Of course, even if the front-line inquisitors tore Seven Lamps City apart, they wouldn't find so much as a hair from that organization. And Lyman knew damn well where that organization was, didn't he?

But during the search, they just might find Aether... no, they'd definitely find him. The second Aether caught wind that Inquisition folks were nearby, he'd definitely reach out to them on his own.

As long as he could rescue Aether and expose how the Dawnlight Knights betrayed their own comrades, the Chief Inquisitor would forgive "Minister Lutz" even if they never found a trace of the organization.

Now it was a race between the Inquisition and the Knights—first one to move wins.

"Aether, you better hold out long enough for me!"

*

Aether had a long, long dream.

He dreamed he was a first-year at the Seminary. It was an autumn afternoon. He was napping in a hidden corner behind the library, tucked away in the trees, when he heard four upperclassmen picking on a freshman.

They sneered, "A commoner thinks he can get into the Seminary?" "With blood that low, you're not fit to shine my boots!" while laying into the poor kid.

Aether sized it up—one against four upperclassmen, he didn't stand a chance. But he couldn't just stand there and watch that kind of injustice. Besides, he too came from commoner origins.

Just as he was about to step in, he heard a long, loud "Stop—" and a red-haired freshman came stumbling out of the bushes.

He looked clumsy and ridiculous, but he was shouting all the right things: "Bullying a freshman as upperclassmen—have you no shame? Who cares if he's a commoner? The top scorer on this year's entrance exam is a commoner too—you think you're better than him?"

Then the upperclassmen proceeded to beat the crap out of the red-haired do-gooder.

Aether couldn't take it anymore. He dropped his books and jumped in to help the redhead.

Then the upperclassmen beat them both up.

After teaching the two "ungrateful brats" a lesson, the upperclassmen left, satisfied with themselves. Only Aether and the redhead (the kid who'd been bullied had long since bolted) lay there bruised and beaten, trading wry smiles.

"Thanks for having my back," the redhead said. "I'm Nashir Solaris. You?"

"Aether Orolan."

"Oh, you're the top scorer in this year's entrance exam. I saw your name on the list."

Nashel hauled himself up, looking Aether dead in his blue eyes. After a long pause, he broke into a grin and stuck out his hand.

"Let's be friends. Who knows—maybe one day we'll fight side by side."

After that, Aether and Nashir did indeed fight side by side. First against upperclassmen who liked to bully freshmen, then hunting heretics who preached false doctrines. They went from losing more than winning, to winning more than losing, to never losing at all—becoming legends of the Inquisition.

Countless times they saved each other's lives, and countless times they were saved in return.

But in their final battle, Aether suffered a crushing defeat. Saved by Nashir, yet never given the chance to repay that debt.

Aether drifted on the surging river of fate, carried toward an unknown horizon. Every drop of water was a memory of him and Nashir, together forming a shimmering, glistening river. He sank and floated, until finally the waves pushed him toward the shore, stranding him on the riverbank.

He opened his eyes amid the noisy clatter of wheels striking stones.

I'm not dead, he thought. Unless the eternal radiant temple of the God of Dawn is a rickety, drafty wooden carriage, inside which sits a woman with flaxen hair dressed so "boldly" that the Church's stuffy moral guardians would scream in horror.

The woman turned toward the front of the carriage and shouted to the driver, "Cornelis, can't you drive more steadily? It's all your fault—he's crying from the pain!"

"Go complain to the ground, blame it for being so hard," the driver retorted grumpily.

It was only then that Aether realized his face was wet and cold—he had been crying in his dream.

The last time he shed tears was probably at age six, at his parents' funeral.

Only now did reason belatedly return to his mind.

"Where is this place?" His voice was hoarse, his throat like a desert.

"Neither heaven nor hell, if that's what you're asking," the woman replied with a smile.

The driver clicked his tongue loudly. "This is Moltalia, and we're on our way to Seven Lamps City."