Wynchester.
Patrol officers filled the streets. On the main thoroughfares and at crossroads, the Royal Guard had set up checkpoints, scrutinizing every passerby with hard, vigilant eyes.
Low clouds blanketed the sky. The atmosphere was heavy enough to freeze the city to the bone. All of it, people said, was tied to the horrific attack that had occurred during the Pontiff’s address.
Metana Jacques, daughter of Baron Jacques, returned with her mother to their residence in the Queen’s District.
Her mother kept wiping at her tears with a handkerchief. When she saw the familiar house, she began to sob in a small, broken voice.
“I’m sorry, Metana. I’m sorry…”
“It’s all right, Mother. You were only controlled by an evil spell.”
Metana soothed her, then pressed the doorbell.
After a maid screamed in delighted surprise, a middle-aged man with disheveled hair came running out at once.
His face was drawn with exhaustion. It was Baron Jacques. When he saw Metana and her mother, he traced a sign with trembling hands.
“The Holy Spirit above—thank the heavens you’re safe. I… I regret everything!”
“It’s all right. It’s over.”
Metana comforted him gently. “That hateful man is dead. Everything will return to normal.”
“As if it were that simple…”
Baron Jacques forced a bitter smile—and then his expression changed sharply.
Metana looked to the side and saw two men in black trench coats approaching. They produced their credentials.
“We’re with Military Intelligence. We’d like the three of you to come back and assist with the investigation.”
Anyone involved with the God of Suffering and Blood Pact LAW—commoner or noble—had to be examined.
Military Intelligence. They were lying in wait for me on purpose. This is outrageous.
Metana’s indignation flared, but her face settled into calm composure.
“Very well. But we must wash and dress first. That is noble etiquette.”
The two agents exchanged a glance.
“Accepted.”
Elsewhere in Wynchester, deep underground.
A secret hub of the Lotus-Eaters.
The Blood Chalice Archbishop wore a blood-red robe. His aged features were lit by the shifting shadow he held in his hand—an undulating mass that flowed like living ink.
As an auxiliary to the operation, he had not directly participated in the events at the speech square. Instead, he had led his subordinates to incite unrest across Wynchester, tying down a reinforcing The Crowned One.
Afterward, he withdrew intact.
Not only that—he had been paid.
The shadow in his hand belonged to the The Crowned One of Inves—Ethereal Realm Shadow—the very one whom the God of Suffering had assassinated with the Spear of the Sun King.
It was a sixth Sephiroth Essence remnant. Whether traded or forged into an arcane artifact, it was a fortune vast enough to make entire circles tremble.
“This operation… at the very least… was not a complete loss.”
The Blood Chalice Archbishop smiled at the Lotus-Eaters’ upper ranks before him.
“Next, notify our people. Lie low as much as possible. If necessary, withdraw from Wynchester. Do not challenge an enraged Inves.”
Among the heretics, there was rivalry—often fiercer than among ordinary societies.
The God of Suffering’s betrayal, and his failure to open the seventh Sephiroth, counted as a setback for The Night-Mother and The Ossuary Lord. Yet the Blood Chalice Archbishop’s emotions were complicated.
“Apostle… what of the mysterious figure that appeared within the historical haze? Should we investigate?”
One senior Lotus-Eater asked carefully.
“Mm. Conduct a casual inquiry.”
The Archbishop replied with a certain indifference.
In truth, he possessed more intelligence than the others. After all, one of his avatars had fallen in the Sothos ruins.
But when it involved a World-Sanctioned Immortal, he had no desire to confront such a being directly before opening the seventh Sephiroth himself.
The God of Suffering is finished. But he at least showed us a path forward. In this era, the Gate of Immortality can truly be challenged.
Next… perhaps it will be my turn.
A heat kindled in the Archbishop’s heart.
Hiss—hiss…
At that moment, a faint serpent’s hiss rose from the altar behind him.
Threads of dark-red blood seeped from the altar’s seams, spreading outward, staining as they went.
“My Lord!”
The Archbishop’s expression snapped tight. He dropped to his knees first, leading the others into prostration, and chanted in a ringing voice:
“We beseech The Ossuary Lord, the god who holds dominion over February!”
“You are the sovereign of ghouls, the ruler of bone and blood, the great serpent coiled around the mortal world!”
…
As the prayers swelled, blood-mist billowed across the altar—then, in an instant, swallowed two senior Lotus-Eaters who stood too near.
They screamed as all flesh and bone dissolved into that dark-red fog. The mist thickened, and from within it emerged a pair of enormous golden slit-pupils—terrible beyond description.
The Blood Chalice Archbishop screamed as well.
Veins burst beneath his skin. They spilled out like writhing little serpents, crawling and squirming across the floor…
“My Lord… I am guilty!”
The old man wailed, drenched in blood, yet still crawling to the altar to press his brow to the ground. He confessed the darkness in his heart with sobbing sincerity.
The scene—like torture—lasted for a full half hour.
At last, amid a piercing murmur composed of countless serpent hisses, the mist above the altar dispersed rapidly.
The Archbishop hauled himself upright, shaking. His back seemed more hunched than before. Yet his gaze had turned glacial as it swept over everyone present.
“The great Ossuary Lord has delivered an oracle!”
He crushed a lump of flesh in his palm. Strands of blood-red liquid rose into the air, sketching several vivid portraits.
The Archbishop’s voice was like winter wind.
“Investigate—Malevolent Spirit Oclair·Sothos!”
“Investigate—the Javon Yuggs who came from Verdant City!”
“Investigate—the Sothos family, everything about the Earl of Verdant City—most of all, his faith!”
“Investigate—after the resurgence of the Ether tide, every Obscured Existence with a true honorific name, whether extinct or still present. Prioritize sects tied to the Spirit of Null Observance!”
“I want to know everything about them. Remember—at any cost!”
Every Lotus-Eater leader felt their heart tighten.
An oracle from The Ossuary Lord—this level of attention was unprecedented.
But no one dared object. They had all seen the Archbishop’s earlier state.
Now, they only raised their voices higher in praise of The Ossuary Lord…
The Blood of Decay, at a hidden gathering point.
Bojin Soren, the scholarly leader, stood rigidly. Across from him, at the dining table, a gastronome cut into a steak with unhurried precision.
The gastronome had platinum curls. His posture was elegant—flawless, even.
In truth, he was the President of The Epicurean Society—
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Flandre.
A favored divine servant of The Night-Mother.
“Do not disappoint the Mother Goddess.”
Flandre dabbed the corner of his mouth with a white napkin as he delivered his final instruction.
“President… our ancestor was only an exile from the Sothos bloodline. About that legendary Earl… we truly know little—”
Bojin Soren had barely begun when it was as if an invisible hand seized his throat. Cold sweat broke across his forehead.
Not long ago, when Flandre first arrived, a Blood of Decay executive had failed to recognize him immediately—an offense that had looked merely like a small discourtesy.
That executive was now in the serving dish.
Bojin Soren’s expression hardened.
“We will, without exception, serve the Mother Goddess—at any cost.”
March 29.
The catastrophe in Wynchester churned the entire occult world into turmoil.
More than one covenant received an oracle.
Nearly every power in the hidden world was roused…
Verdant City.
Morning. The cathedral.
Breakfast hour.
Bishop Nicholas Enam habitually lifted the newspaper. He read the report—an updated count for the casualties of the “Rostrum Massacre,” climbing yet again—and irritation tightened his jaw before he set the paper down.
The kingdom declared it an attack by a hostile force. As for which force, the investigation continued.
Perhaps, when the kingdom wished to go to war with some faction, suitable “evidence” would be found. That was politics, filthy and plain.
As a Transcendent—and a high figure within the Holy Spirit Church—Nicholas knew more than ordinary people.
“The Cult of Desire’s leader tried to force open the Gate of Immortality, controlled Pontiff Feret of the Holy Spirit Church, even triggered a brief descent, and created the Rostrum Massacre…”
Nicholas watched the faithful outside the window, and his expression softened, little by little.
“My lord Bishop!”
At that moment, his secretary pushed the door open, tense, holding up a letter.
“Urgent dispatch from Wynchester!”
As a bishop’s secretary, he clearly held Nicholas’s trust.
“Read.”
Nicholas stood at the windows of the newly built cathedral, giving the order without expression.
“Transfer order… Bishop Nicholas Enam, upon receipt, you are to depart immediately for Wynchester and assume the office of Cardinal Archbishop!”
The secretary could not keep the surprise from his voice.
“Cardinal Archbishop…”
Nicholas gave a self-mocking chuckle. “A leap to the heavens, isn’t it?”
Under the Cult of Desire’s infiltration, the Holy Spirit Church had been a disaster zone.
Upper ranks were either corrupted or eliminated. Those who survived the Rostrum Massacre were seized and subjected to examination.
The high clergy had been nearly wiped clean—too many seats left vacant.
Thus, bishops from across the dioceses had to be pulled in.
As the chief authority of Verdant City’s region, Nicholas was handed an enormous portion. If his years of service were not so short, and if his merits were more dazzling, he might even have contended for the pontificate.
Nicholas had expected it. He asked, “Anything else?”
“A bulletin… on the kingdom’s latest developments. Due to the massacre, and certain legislators’ temporary reversal, the kingdom will amend its decision to publicly disclose mysticism to the populace.”
The secretary was also a mysticism insider, and his tone remained steady.
After all, Feret and some legislators had been controlled by Blood Pact LAW when the legislature passed the full-disclosure decision. Reversing it was possible.
As for Wynchester’s populace?
If the press and the few available channels were controlled—given the era’s poor communications—the Rostrum Massacre could be packaged as an explosion or another kind of attack, concealing the existence of transcendent forces.
Especially in cities beyond Wynchester: they might only learn that Wynchester suffered an attack—then life would continue as usual.
“How very…”
A faint, scornful curve tugged at Nicholas’s mouth. “Continue.”
“And… a confidential letter from the Church.”
The secretary handed him another envelope.
Nicholas opened it and read against the sunlight. His expression shifted, changing as he went.
“So that’s how it is.”
He braced both hands on the balcony rail, sinking into thought.
The Holy Spirit Church’s urgency to rebuild its central authority—to the point of conceding to regional factions—was because it faced an immense threat.
A recent bill passed at the kingdom’s upper levels. Though it did not fully disclose mysticism, it would gradually loosen restrictions.
This event forced those gentlemen to realize: stronger forces were needed to match the era’s currents, to protect their bodies and their property.
Therefore, the kingdom planned to acknowledge the existence of True Deity, while promoting several Velthyr cults friendly to the kingdom as “True Deity churches.”
Religion would come first: gradually proclaim the existence of True Deity, then introduce mysticism step by step, opening the gates little by little.
And without a single miracle to its name, the Holy Spirit Church would inevitably be replaced by the rising True Deity churches!
If not for this life-or-death pressure, the corrupt central families of the Holy Spirit Church—who had nearly made the highest religious offices hereditary—would never have conceded to the provinces.
“Wynchester…”
Nicholas lowered the paper, a longing glimmer in his eyes.
Several days later.
Verdant City’s steam-train platform.
Nicholas Enam carried a suitcase, passed the ticket checkpoint, and entered the carriage. It was a first-class car, and thus relatively empty.
A young man approached from the opposite direction. Nicholas found him oddly familiar and paused, studying him carefully.
The newcomer was in his twenties. Blue eyes, high cheekbones, an exhausted air, dressed in a gray-black overcoat.
He carried the unmistakable posture of training—yet there was a heaviness to him, a dispirited slump, as if he had suffered some blow.
“Excuse me. Coming through.”
Percy lifted his gaze and glanced at Nicholas before speaking.
“All right.”
Nicholas stepped aside to let him pass, watching the Bureau man’s back.
As a preacher trained in the choir, Nicholas was extremely sensitive to voice. Even if the other man used a false register, certain minute traits were difficult to erase.
Height and build supported the suspicion as well…
Is that man… the Raven from our Unseen Order?
Nicholas’s eyes darkened.
He seems to be Bureau. He’s going to Wynchester too—an assignment report? Or… a promotion?!
…
Woo—woo!
The steam train began to move.
Percy sat by the window, watching the scenery retreat. His expression grew more weary.
What had happened before earned him the label Untrustworthy. If Jacob and the other upper ranks had not later decided to use him as a bridge to the Unseen Order, lifetime confinement might have been his best outcome.
Then…
After that gathering, the Order seemed to forget him completely. They never contacted him once—not even the two locals.
Colleagues’ exclusion and the bitterness in his chest wore the young man down into deeper exhaustion.
And then the explosive news arrived.
Percy went numb.
The Bureau’s headquarters had been destroyed.
And the kingdom intended to rebuild the National Bureau of Occult Affairs, recruiting talent from regional branches.
Percy thought it over, again and again—then he signed up first.
He had no other work. And starting over somewhere else might be the better choice.
Before leaving, he also wrote to that secure address, informing them of his transfer.
Perhaps, in Wynchester, the Unseen Order’s influence was greater still.
…
“Great Lord of ours!”
“You are the Spirit of Null Observance, who wanders the unknown!”
“You are the absolute neutral existence!”
“You are the Silent Watcher!”
“Please hear a believer’s prayer… Your believer is about to leave Verdant City and travel to Wynchester to assume the office of Cardinal Archbishop. I will surely lead the sect of your incarnation back to glory…”
__________________________________________________________________________________________________
Verdant City.
Javon, lying in bed, suddenly opened his eyes. Beside his ear, a hazy, indistinct prayer echoed on and on.
“This is…”
In an instant, his expression sharpened into absolute clarity, confirming that it was not an auditory hallucination, but something real.
“This feeling… it’s almost identical to what it was like when I, as the Spirit of Null Observance, listened to a believer’s prayers. So now… is this because my rank has risen high enough that I can finally accept faith?”
Perhaps the believer was too few in number, or the distance too great—Javon had noticed nothing before.
Now, he entered a meditative state, and his intuition surged.
A layer of indistinct mist appeared before his eyes, as if it covered more than half of Verdant City.
Within that mist-map, most of Verdant City was blurred into an outline. Only one place stood out: a pale golden point of light.
Javon extended his Essence and touched that point.
In the next instant, an image formed before him—inside a carriage, Nicholas Enam sat with fingers interlaced, performing his daily prayer.
Beside him, the scenery beyond the window was racing backward…
“It’s Nicholas. He’s about to leave Verdant City for Wynchester? Truly devout—praying every day, even with no response at all.”
Javon murmured.
As the steam train pulled away and gradually left Verdant City, he felt that sense weakening rapidly, about to vanish.
“My current range for receiving prayers is… more than half of Verdant City? Normally, only at the fifth Sephiroth can one receive—and respond to—prayers within a small area. At the sixth Sephiroth, the range becomes far greater, and that’s why it’s called… a false god.”
“The response range gained at the fourth Sephiroth—Omniforge—seems slightly larger than that of an ordinary fifth Sephiroth?”
Watching the connection about to snap, Javon took a slow breath. His Essence burned away at speed as he forced a single sentence into Nicholas’s mind.
Inside the carriage, Nicholas—eyes closed in prayer—jerked violently. A majestic voice sounded directly within his heart:
“I know.”
“My Lord… my Lord has answered!”
Tears spilled from Nicholas without restraint. “My lifelong devotion has finally moved my Lord! You are the greatness of all things! I will carry your will and reshape the Holy Spirit Church!”
“Only more than half of Verdant City… still far too small. Once believers realize it, they can easily infer that the Spirit of Null Observance is a false god.”
In the inn, Javon rolled over and sat up, pressing his fingers to his temples, a touch of helplessness on his face.
Of course, there was a simple solution: never respond at all. The Spirit of Null Observance had never been known for answering believers, even watching a sect collapse without lifting a hand—history itself bore witness.
But as the Unseen Order grew and its members scattered, Javon had to find a solution in order to build a secure, high-end gathering platform.
“Omniforge’s limit is here—perhaps with the Spirit of Null Observance’s amplification… After all, other Beyond Mortality-grade beings can’t do what I do.”
“Then I should approach it from another angle. For example—use an arcane artifact of high standing as a signal tower?”
After becoming Omniforge, his forging capability had risen again. Javon was fairly confident he could craft a suitable arcane artifact.
“And… I do have good materials. The best, of course, is The Broken Spear of the Sun King and the Velthyr blood upon it… but my current ability isn’t enough to forge with it, and it isn’t an auxiliary-type arcane artifact anyway.”
“Other than that, there’s only the Essence remnant left behind by the God of Suffering. I can forge that into an arcane artifact. And if I come up with a new idea later, I can always melt it down and reforge it…”
The God of Suffering’s remnant was mixed with an immortal trait—a remnant comparable to a World-Sanctioned Immortal! And a World-Sanctioned Immortal, in the mortal world, was effectively a smaller Obscured Existence.
If he could forge the God of Suffering’s remnant into an arcane artifact, playing the Spirit of Null Observance’s mortal incarnation would be effortless—the standing and the presence would match perfectly.
“The Twelve Velthyr are suppressed in the mortal world, yet they descend again and again, delighted by it, using every method to deepen their interference and influence. Is it curiosity? A struggle for Sovereignty and territory? Or… are they searching for some secret in the mortal world?”
A thought surfaced in Javon’s mind—then he cast it aside. When his strength was sufficient, he would know.
What truly troubled him was the problem of forging the God of Suffering’s remnant.
“If it were a sixth Sephiroth remnant, I could barely attempt it under the Spirit of Null Observance’s blessing—forge an Angel-grade Eldritcha.”
“But the God of Suffering wasn’t an ordinary sixth Sephiroth. At the final moment, he was essentially one step into becoming a World-Sanctioned Immortal, and the trait he left behind reflects that. In theory, it could be made into a Deity-grade Eldritcha… which exceeds my limit.”
“I need another plan. Directly use its immortal trait, then lower the requirements. Forge an Angel-grade Eldritcha that carries a portion of Deity-grade characteristics? Or simply make a half-finished artifact?”
“Or I could just forge it into a signal tower—because that’s what I want in the first place!”
“Place the signal tower in the Ethereal Realm, and with the nature of LAW, receiving signals from across the mortal world wouldn’t be difficult… no, that won’t do. That makes it too easy for powerful beings in the Ethereal Realm to notice. Whether they destroy it or seize it, it’s a catastrophic loss.”
“Keep the signal tower’s main body in the mortal world, and build relay base stations in the Ethereal Realm with other materials? That line of thinking works. Set up several locations—if one is discovered, abandon it… and I can build decoy stations too, to conceal the real one.”
Javon converted the Essence in his body from Forged Light to Tower and invoked a thoughtstorm on himself. Instantly, his mind accelerated, and inspiration erupted in a frenzy.
The sensation was like putting points into Intelligence.
“So that’s it. The conversion trait of Omniforge should be used for support.”
