Clive stepped fully into the corridor, facing captain Jecht head on. Behind him, the fallen guard's torch still burned, giving him an amber back glow that resembled a golden aura.

  "You know," Clive said, "I've been thinking about what you said earlier. About finding out how much pain it takes to change an artist's mind."

  Jecht's armor clinked as he shifted his stance, sword raised high.

  "Funny thing about pain," Clive continued, loading his brush paint. "Artists are quite familiar with it. Cramped hands from long hours. Burns from hot wax. Cuts from sharp tools. We develop a rather high tolerance."

  "Big words from a man who got caught."

  "Caught?" Clive laughed. "Captain, I think you misunderstand the situation. I’m not trapped in here with you. You’re trapped in here with me. And I have some questions that need answering." The paint on his brush began to glow.

  Jecht didn’t reply. He charged straight at Clive.

  [Mix: Brown Granite Wall]

  The captain's charge ended abruptly as he collided face-first with a barrier of solid granite that materialized between them. The impact sent him reeling backward, blood streaming from his nose as he shook his head in dazed confusion.

  Clive studied his opponent with the detached interest of an artist examining a flawed canvas.

  [Jecht]

  Power level: 60

  There was a time, perhaps, when Captain Jecht might have posed a genuine threat. But after facing monsters like the Huntmaster and surviving the Warden's domain, Jecht seemed less like a dangerous adversary and more like a playground bully. There was no need to fear him.

  “You know,” Clive said conversationally, “the only thing you could possibly hope to exchange with me are words. So I strongly suggest you start talking.”

  Apparently unable to process this simple concept, Jecht charged again. With a flick of his wrist, Clive shifted the wall back into Jecht’s path. The result was identical. Another bone-jarring impact, another stumble backward. A thin trickle of blood now ran from his split lip to join the stream from his nose.

  Clive sighed and shook his head. "You're remarkably dense, captain Jecht. At least Auron seemed competent."

  "Shut your mouth!" Jecht snarled, spit flying from his bloodied lips. "What would you know about it? Auron was weak. Too soft for the real work that needed doing."

  "The real work?" Clive's hissed. "You mean betrayal? Murder? Grave robbing?"

  Jecht wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his free hand, his eyes never leaving Clive's face. "Enough talk. Stop hiding behind your little wall and come face me like a man. I’ll put you back in that cell where you belong, you worthless dog."

  Clive smirked. Jecht must be getting desperate to resort to such petty insults. But he had heard much worse over the years to feel any indignation from it.

  "I don't think so," Clive said, raising his brush. "But putting you in a cell? That's actually an excellent suggestion, Captain. Thank you."

  [Mix: Brown Granite Gaol]

  Four walls of granite erupted from the stone floor around Jecht, boxing him in. The captain barely had time to register what was happening before he found himself trapped in a space no larger than a coffin stood on end. He pressed his palms against the walls, pushing frantically, but the stone was solid as bedrock.

  "What—" Jecht's voice cracked. "Let me out! You can't—"

  The walls began to close in.

  Not quickly, Clive wasn't a sadist. But inexorably, grinding against each other with the sound of millstones, they compressed the space inch by inch. Jecht's breathing quickened as the walls pressed against his shoulders.

  [Paint: Blue Flood]

  Water began seeping through invisible cracks in the granite, pooling at Jecht's feet. Cold mountain runoff that quickly rose to his ankles, then his knees.

  "Let me know when you're ready to talk," Clive said, his voice carrying clearly through the stone. "I'm a patient man, but granite and water? They're rather less forgiving."

  Jecht hammered against the walls with his fists, panic replacing his earlier arrogance. "You're insane! This is torture!"

  "Is it?" Clive tilted his head thoughtfully. "I suppose it depends on your perspective. From where I'm standing, it looks more like... artistic justice."

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  A part of Clive recoiled at the coldness in his own voice, at how easily cruelty came to his lips. But then he thought of all the people they had killed, all the people they had harmed. Poor old man Gregor was still a stone statue out there in the wheat field. He firmed his heart.

  The water reached Jecht's waist. His struggles grew more frantic.

  "The Saintess!" he gasped. "I'll tell you about the Saintess! Just—please—stop this!"

  Clive lowered his brush, and the water stopped rising. The walls ceased their grinding advance.

  "Good," he said. "Now we're getting somewhere. Start talking, Captain. And remember—I'll know if you're lying."

  “What do you want to know? I’ll tell you anything.”

  “Let’s start with, where is this place?”

  “What do you mean? It’s a cave. You came here with us.”

  Clive shook his head, wondering how someone this dense had managed to survive long enough to achieve any rank at all. Intelligence was clearly not a prerequisite for advancement in the templar hierarchy.

  Clive glanced around at the prison cells. This wasn’t just a cave. It had clearly been developed by human hands and wasn’t natural.

  [Paint: Yellow Spark]

  A crackling bolt of lightning arced from Clive's brush into the water-filled cell. Jecht convulsed as electricity coursed through his body, his scream echoing off the granite walls.

  "What—" Jecht gasped, pressing himself against the back wall. "I answered your question!"

  "No," Clive said patiently, "you gave me the answer a child might give. Let's try again, shall we? What is this place? And think carefully before you speak."

  Jecht's eyes darted frantically, sweat mixing with the condensation on his face. "Alright, alright! Just—no more shocks. Please."

  He took a shuddering breath. "We found this place when we were exploring the ruins on the cliff face. The Cathedral of First Light—that's what the scholars think those ruins are, anyway."

  The water lapped at his waist as he spoke, and he kept glancing down at it nervously.

  "This cave system... It was carved out beneath the cathedral, like a hidden foundation. Secret chambers, holding cells, ritual spaces. The Saintess thinks it was used by the old priests for... well, for things they didn't want the faithful to see."

  Clive nodded slowly. That made considerably more sense. "And the Saintess decided to put it back to its original use?"

  "Something like that." Jecht's whimpered. "She said the old ways had merit. That sometimes faith required... harder choices."

  "How many of you are there?" Clive asked.

  "A handful at first. Mostly from the reformist faction. Templars who believed the church had grown too soft." Jecht's words came faster now. "But we're growing. More join us with each passing day. The Saintess... she has a way of making people see reason."

  "What about Tacitus? Was he part of your little conspiracy?"

  Jecht shook his head vigorously, water sloshing around his waist. "None of the clerics we brought were involved. They're true believers, too naive to understand what real faith requires."

  A chill settled in Clive's stomach. "What happened to them?"

  Jecht’s voice went soft. "Do you really need me to spell it out for you?"

  The silence stretched between them, heavy with implication. Clive felt something twist in his chest. He had only known him for a while, but Tacitus seemed like a good man. Pedantic, perhaps, but genuinely devoted to helping people. The thought of him dying confused and betrayed, just like Auron...

  "Where is the Saintess now?"

  "At the summit," Jecht said quickly, sensing the shift in Clive's mood. "In the ruins. She's resting there. Told us to alert her when you awaken." His voice gained a note of desperate bravado. "You won't get away with this! The Saintess has power beyond anything you can imagine. When she finds out what you've done—"

  "When she finds out?" Clive let out a sharp laugh. "Captain, I'm counting on it. In fact, I'm rather looking forward to our reunion."

  He raised his brush and paint began to swirl around the bristles with ominous purpose.

  "But first, I think it's time this conversation reached its natural conclusion. You've been most... illuminating."

  The granite walls dissolved. Jecht collapsed to the wet stone floor, his legs unable to support him after the ordeal. Before he could recover his bearings, Clive's boot connected solidly with his temple. The captain crumpled, unconscious.

  Clive stood over the fallen man for a moment. Jecht would live. Bruised, humiliated, but alive. More mercy than he'd shown Auron or Tacitus.

  Now came the real challenge. The Saintess awaited him above, and Clive had no illusions about the magnitude of that confrontation. If he was going to face whatever power she wielded, he needed to be at his absolute peak.

  He opened his satchel and withdrew his sketchbook. He drew a sushi set coupled with a glass of red healing potion.

  As he ate, Clive felt strength flowing back into his body. The raw wounds on his wrists stopped aching, and his bruised ribs no longer protested with each breath.

  [Status: Satisfied]

  Power Level x 1.1

  HP x 1.1

  MP x 1.1

  Satisfied with his preparations, Clive made his way through the snaking corridors toward the cave entrance. The underground complex was larger than he'd initially realized, a maze of cells, storage rooms, and what appeared to be ritual chambers carved deep into the rock. The work of centuries, perhaps, hidden beneath the facade of holy ground.

  He emerged into the cool night air, breathing deeply after the stale atmosphere of the caves. Above him, the moon hung like a silver coin against the star-scattered sky. From here, he could see the ruins of the Cathedral at the top. There wasn’t much of it left, but the remnants of crumbling stone structures inspired the imagination of what it had once been.

  Movement caught his eye. A figure stood silhouetted against ruins—white robes flowing in the night breeze, unmistakably feminine in outline. The Saintess. She was looking down at him, and even at this distance, he could feel her attention on him.

  Their eyes met across the gulf of air and stone. For a moment, neither moved. Then, she turned away and disappeared into the shadows of the ruins.

  An invitation. Clive began to climb.

  The cliff face was treacherous in the moonlight, loose stone and crumbling handholds that threatened to send him plummeting back to the valley floor. But his enhanced strength served him well.

  He hauled himself over the final ledge and stood among the ruins proper. Broken columns and fallen stones created a maze of shadows in the moonlight. Somewhere in this labyrinth of ancient faith, the Saintess was waiting.

  Clive materialized a mithril sword and stepped into the ruins.

  "I know you're here," he called out, his voice echoing off the stone. "Shall we finish what we started?"

  “I’m glad you’re here, Clive.”

  The deepest foundations often hide the darkest truths.

  —Writing carved into the ruins of the Cathedral of the First Light