Leafton had been in an excellent mood lately.

  As an investigator permanently stationed in the Slums District, he had nearly believed he would die there.

  After his encounter with the wraith Oclair—the fright of a lifetime—and a complete battery of examinations at the National Bureau of Occult Affairs, he had been declared clean. Not only that, he’d even been credited with merit. At last, he was transferred out of the Slums District’s death detail, promoted with a raise, and made a senior investigator.

  On paper, his public identity was now that of a senior inspector within The Blackwater.

  “Boss, we’ve got a case!”

  A subordinate knocked and entered, handing Leafton a file.

  “This is a report from a noble lady. It concerns the Latter Light Church. By procedure, any case connected to Dark God worship gets transferred to us.”

  That was also why Leafton held a post at the precinct in the first place.

  Leafton took the file. “Lattrell Lyte… Latter Light. Hm. Have you confirmed he truly believes in some Obscured Existence?”

  If he did, Leafton’s little team would never be able to handle it. They would have to report upward to the National Bureau immediately.

  “No. In fact, we’ve had eyes on this cult for a while. We’ve confirmed the leader’s identity—it’s this Lattrell Lyte. Just an ordinary man.”

  The subordinate answered honestly. “The informant is outside.”

  “I’ll see her.”

  Leafton rose and entered a reception room—only to be caught for a moment by the beauty of the young lady seated inside.

  “Hello. I’m Leafton.”

  A trace of astonishment flashed in his eyes, but he recovered quickly and offered an elegant bow.

  “I’m Metana Jacques.” Metana held a white porcelain cup and took a sip of black tea. “I’m here to report the Latter Light Church. I want you to act as quickly as possible.”

  “As quickly as possible? We should at least wait until their next gathering, then take all the believers in one sweep.” Leafton frowned.

  “No.”

  Metana set the cup down, her tone severe. “Do you know how I came into contact with that heretical society? I was introduced by a lady from high society. If this spreads, it will cause irreversible damage to the reputations of multiple women—how much turmoil do you think it will trigger in the upper circles?”

  “I’m nobility. I know the rules of the hidden world. Besides, that Lattrell Lyte is just a normal man. If you arrest him and a few key members, the organization collapses on the spot. There’s no further mystic hazard, is there?”

  She leaned forward, faint pressure radiating from her posture.

  “And if you make this bigger, do you think those gentlemen whose faces are ruined afterward will let you off? Even if you’re Bureau, you’ll still be reassigned to the most remote and dangerous place!”

  Leafton shuddered. He never wanted to go back to the Slums District again.

  After a moment’s struggle, he answered with difficulty, “Madam… if the situation is as you say—if Lattrell Lyte has no transcendent power—then, for the sake of those ladies’ reputations, handling this quietly and minimizing the impact… is acceptable.”

  “Good.”

  Metana rose with grace. “I will donate one thousand pounds to your precinct department. Buy a few carriages. The officers protecting us shouldn’t have to rely on their legs to do their work.”

  She offered a bow and left the station in measured steps.

  To investigate in secret and keep the impact minimal was also that lord’s requirement.

  At the same time, it was protection—for her.

  The thought cast a thin shadow across Metana’s face as she climbed into her carriage. “Home.”

  Baron Jacques’s residence.

  It was a three-story mansion even larger than the Stass home, located in the Queen’s District. Living here was a symbol of status.

  After passing through the main gate, Metana saw a man wearing a platinum-blond wig sitting in the drawing room, smiling as if at ease. A storm gathered across her face.

  “Metana, you’re back?” Her mother rose.

  The man, however, kept sitting, pouring wine into his mouth—Baron Jacques’s treasured cellar stock, the kind they usually wouldn’t dare drink.

  “Metana, I heard you’ve been having quite a bit of fun outside. You see your tutor and you don’t even greet him? What have I taught you?”

  The man in the platinum wig lifted his head and let his brazen gaze sweep over Metana from head to toe.

  “Good day, Tutor.”

  Metana lowered her head and spoke softly.

  This was the private tutor her father had hired—Sundar. In truth, he was a watcher sent by the Blood Robe Club to keep the Jacques family under surveillance. And he had long entertained filthy thoughts about her, never bothering to hide them.

  Rumors about her and the family tutor had already spread through the noble circles, dragging her reputation straight down.

  Metana found the behavior revolting. Before, she had been immobilized by the Blood Pact LAW. Now, she was genuinely afraid she might not resist killing him.

  “I’m going to rest.”

  She lifted her skirt in a curtsey and fled to her room.

  As the door clicked shut, Metana suddenly understood something:

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  The Blood Robe Club knows I’m a Transcendent. So reporting and destroying a con artist’s little fake cult is fine. But if it involves Transcendents, they’ll investigate deeply. So that lord disguised himself as a normal man as well—to reduce impact, and protect me?

  “What… a beautiful youth.”

  Sundar stared at Metana’s retreating back, licked his lips, and murmured, “Soon. Just endure one more month. Then there’ll be no need to worry about any damned ‘impact plan.’ I can do as I please.”

  He cast a cold glance at Baron Jacques’s wife and snorted. “Madam. Another glass?”

  “Of course.”

  The Baroness wore a gentle smile, and like a maid, picked up the bottle…

  Lattrell Lyte’s house.

  “Captain!”

  Several investigators were crouched nearby. When they saw Leafton approach, they hurried to salute.

  “The arrest warrant is approved. Prepare to move. Any abnormalities with the target?” Leafton asked carefully, holding an arcane artifact he’d specially requested in case of accidents.

  “No abnormalities. But the target’s also been keeping two female ‘believers’ in the house—he didn’t just scam their money and bodies, it was mother and daughter. It’s infuri—no, it’s outrageous!”

  The investigator answered loudly.

  “Damn it.”

  Even Leafton felt sour hearing that. He waved a hand. “Move!”

  The loudest investigator led the charge, kicking the door open and rushing straight for the bedroom.

  Bang!

  The bedroom door was shoved open violently. Leafton heard a woman’s scream.

  Then he saw the target—fat, balding, middle-aged Lattrell Lyte—dragged from under the covers. He offered no resistance. He was subdued and locked in special shackles.

  “Captain, we found these…”

  After a quick search, the team pulled out a pile of stage-magic props, accounts used for skimming money, and several fabricated copies of The Latter Light Canon.

  Leafton flipped through a few pages. There was no mental contamination—only content so obscene it made his eyes sting.

  Rubbing the corner of his eye, he produced a crystal sphere the size of a fist. Within it, countless starlets seemed to bloom. The points of light moved in steady patterns, and a few were noticeably larger than the rest.

  “The Witch’s Astrolabe shows no warning…”

  Those larger points represented Leafton and the other Bureau Transcendents. There were no other transcendent presences nearby.

  Leafton finally exhaled. “Just an ordinary case. Report it as a Category V incident.”

  That was the lowest level of danger in the Bureau’s records. To land work like this—every investigator felt relief.

  National Bureau of Occult Affairs.

  Lattrell Lyte, shackled, was escorted by two investigators down a subway staircase, step by step, into a vast underground tunnel.

  In that body—he was, in truth, Javon, possessing a scumbag’s flesh through spirit attachment.

  So the National Bureau is underground. And there’s a subway line straight here—just a hidden station.

  Javon studied the smooth walls of the passage with curiosity—until a rough shove landed between his shoulders.

  “Move faster!”

  Once they confirmed he was merely a normal con man, they had dispatched a cleanup team to wipe the minds of the poor mother-and-daughter pair, and without trial or sentencing, dragged him straight here.

  “I protest!”

  Javon played Lattrell Lyte with loud cowardice. “I demand a magistrate’s court—religious court is fine too—but you can’t bring me here without reason. What is this place?”

  “Heh. If you went to an ordinary court, you might actually hire a lawyer and wriggle out.” One Occult Constabulary escort sneered. “That would be too cheap for you. We don’t have courts here—only adjudicators.”

  “But don’t worry. We don’t hand out death sentences. You’ll spend the rest of your life repenting for your sins!”

  He didn’t even have a girlfriend, and this disgusting middle-aged bastard hoarded ‘resources’ maliciously—filthy rich, and supposedly entangled with ‘noble ladies’ from high society…

  Not beating him to death on the spot was already restraint from a crowd of single men.

  “Ahem… we’re at headquarters. Watch your mouth and behavior.”

  Leafton, a family man, was much steadier. “If you can’t stand him, find a chance to punch him a few times later. Quietly.”

  Even with a gentle wife and a lovely daughter, seeing this “cult leader” dragged from a mother and daughter’s bed had nearly exploded Leafton’s lungs with rage.

  I used to think my work was just a job.

  But now I know—my work has value.

  He told himself that silently, and reached the entrance of the underground complex.

  Two black iron doors stood there, each marked with a crest.

  One belonged to the Sodoma Royal House. The other was the emblem of the Upper House.

  When the doors closed, the two crests combined into the Bureau’s insignia—shield as the base, a dagger at the center, and a ring of olive vines as ornament.

  A black gate… an eerie sense of déjà vu.

  Once he passed through the unmistakably transcendent black iron doors, Javon found himself in an enormous underground plaza.

  Bureau agents in black uniforms moved briskly, threading through the various buildings ringing the square.

  The most striking feature, however, was the altar in the plaza’s center—and the spear driven upside down into it.

  A Deity-grade Eldritcha—The Spear of the Sun King!

  A flash of pure white crossed Javon’s eyes.

  In his vision, countless streams of Essence and Ethal converged like rivers, then centered on that spear and spread into innumerable networks, seeping deeper underground—forming a strange, sealed prison. Inside those cages, lights of every shape and hue flickered. They nearly blinded him.

  Too many. Who knows how many arcane artifacts, Transcendents, and monsters are imprisoned beneath this place…

  From the flow of Essence alone, the spear was absolutely not a replica. It was the very core of the seal.

  Javon stared at his escorts, momentarily tempted to ask, “Do you really need to be this cooperative?”

  He had infiltrated the Bureau headquarters to scout—specifically to examine The Spear of the Sun King. Yet the Bureau had placed it openly at the center of the plaza, as if inviting anyone to look.

  It almost made him feel embarrassed.

  In his eyes, the broken spear radiated impossible splendor.

  At the spearhead, a few drops of blood remained bright and fresh, as if ready in the next instant to crystallize into tiny white suns.

  Along the scarred shaft, a tranquil night shimmered—within it, every star burned with blood-red light. Stare long enough, and those crimson stars seemed to shift into eyes that opened and closed endlessly.

  In the seam between sun and night, a phantom figure stood. Its features were blurred beyond recognition; only the outline remained—a crown of iron, royal vestments…

  —Sun King Arthur I.

  Worthy of a Deity-grade Eldritcha.

  Javon lowered his head. Even as red veins spread across his eyes and pain stabbed through his skull, he walked across the plaza without hesitation.

  He noticed that after he passed quietly, Leafton seemed to finally release his last held breath.

  So they’ve had plenty of Transcendents infiltrate before—people aiming for the Spear? And they got exposed near the altar?

  Javon didn’t care.

  He could feel the Essence inside his spirit-body leaping with joy.

  After witnessing a great creation, the last trace of accumulation for his Forgebearer Path had finally become sufficient.

  He had reached the point where he could open the Fourth Sephiroth.

  As a Forgebearer, enlightenment was born through forging itself—along with the accumulation of Essence.

  Javon could already craft even Beyond Mortality-grade arcane artifacts. After arriving in Wynchester, with Havier—an extravagant patron—throwing him endless orders for Transposition Drawers, plus daily meditation and the steady draw of Essence, he had long since met the requirements.

  Observing The Spear of the Sun King supplied the final sliver of forging insight—his state rising to an incomparable peak.

  Leafton had no idea. He led Javon down one level beneath the plaza and stopped before a gate carved with countless mysterious patterns.

  Among wild Transcendents, passed from mouth to mouth, this place was known as the “Gate of Hell.” Any Transcendent taken inside was as good as damned—no one ever escaped.

  Yet in front of the Gate of Hell sat an utterly ordinary registration desk, with an old doorkeeper in a linen robe behind it. A sign stood before him:

  —Registration

  “Patrol team leader Leafton, delivering a prisoner, number—”

  Leafton registered him, then added, “This bastard is truly vile. Get him a slot as an experiment subject as soon as possible—”

  “A normal man? Confirmed no Essence reaction?” The old doorkeeper swept Lattrell Lyte with a glance, barely lifting his eyelids. He pointed at the Gate of Hell behind him. “Too much going on today. No one has time for him. Take him through and put him in a standard cell.”

  “What happened?” Leafton asked, disappointed—and curious.

  “Of course it’s because our noble pontiff of the Holy Spirit Church—Crowned One Feret—is about to personally visit the Bureau headquarters, to undergo the highest-level examination.”

  The doorkeeper spoke with undisguised teasing.

  “That’s why everyone’s busy today. No one’s going to spare a thought for a petty swindler.”