“The moon is exceptionally bright tonight.”
A Storm Priest sat on a bench by the cathedral entrance, gazing at the pale moon hanging in the sky. A faint smile touched his lips.
Within the boundless tapestry of the night, the sacred sun had long since descended. Only the moonlight remained to pierce the spreading horror of the pitch-black void, offering a brief respite for those who walked without the protection of flame.
Though the moon’s radiance was ultimately a dim reflection of the sun, incapable of incinerating evil beneath its rays, it was the final shred of mercy the world granted humanity during the dark hours.
A soft evening breeze brushed against the priest’s cheek. His expression softened further; such tranquil nights were rare.
Even during the most perilous hours of midnight, the doors of the Storm Cathedral never closed. A priest remained on watch, prepared to receive the wretched souls lost in the darkness, ensuring they might survive the terrors of the night in safety.
However…
As the priest reflected on recent events, his brow furrowed with anxiety.
Over a week had passed since the Queen’s funeral, yet there was still no trace of the assassin. As long as the regicide remained at large, the Queen’s coffin was confined to the harbor, her soul unable to find eternal rest. It was a sight no citizen of York, who cherished Queen Isabelle II, could bear to witness.
Furthermore, those with even the slightest insight into the royal court knew of the bitter infighting among the princesses. For those who cared about the future of the Kingdom of York, it was a source of constant dread.
The Kingdom of York stood on the precipice of collapse, yet the royal sisters exhausted their strength jockeying for the throne.
It was a disgraceful spectacle.
“But what does any of that have to do with a lowly Storm Priest like me?” the man thought, exhaling a long sigh.
Great figures had great troubles. No matter what became of the Kingdom of York—even in the worst-case scenario where it fractured into countless small states—the status of the Church of Storms would never change.
The Church was the very foundation upon which the Kingdom of York was built. Its priests and the Storm Navigation techniques they wielded were vital to any fledgling nation. No state would reject a powerful, orthodox organization.
Of course, such thoughts were merely self-consolation.
Beyond his status in the Church, he was a citizen of York. He did not wish to see his motherland torn asunder.
As the priest wallowed in his lamentations, a foul scent suddenly tickled his nostrils.
“This is…”
The priest took a sharp sniff, his expression instantly turning grave.
“The scent of blood?”
It wasn’t right. It was thicker than ordinary blood. Instead of the typical metallic stench, it carried a cloying, seductive sweetness.
This sweetness wasn’t a pleasant fragrance, but rather a pull on the senses—an inexplicable, magnetic attraction.
“Could someone be in danger?”
Thinking this, the kind-hearted priest felt a surge of tension. While the Church of Storms had grown increasingly corrupt alongside the kingdom’s decline, there were still those who adhered to the original tenets, willing to sacrifice themselves for the suffering. A man who volunteered for the grueling and dangerous night watch was certainly no decadent seeker of pleasure.
Without hesitation, the priest invoked Storm Navigation.
This technique was a fundamental requirement for every Storm Priest, serving as a divine compass. It could find a safe passage for ships caught in the violent gales of the sea, or serve smaller purposes like locating missing persons or objects.
Swiftly, the Storm Navigation pointed the way.
It was an unexpected direction.
“It’s… inside the cathedral?” The priest was startled. Aside from him, the only others inside were a few elderly priests who had retired to bed early. Most younger priests had families and lives of their own; they rarely lived within the cathedral walls. Since the Church had few restrictions, marriage and children were common for its members. Only the lonely and aged stayed behind—after all, if given the choice, who would want to sleep at their workplace?
Following the guidance, the priest stepped into the cathedral with a fluttering heart. The path led him to a place he never expected.
“The Prayer Hall?”
Confusion flashed in his eyes. The Prayer Hall was where the faithful beseeched the God of Storms, Yster, for miracles. It was where the priests held their daily orisons. No one lived here.
But the truth revealed itself quickly.
He slowly looked up. As his eyes landed on the target designated by his Storm Navigation, his face twisted in uncontrollable horror. He stood paralyzed, unable to speak for a long time.
Eventually, the priest regained his senses. He let out a trembling, low cry.
“Oh, my Lord…”
The eerie, bloody aura was emanating directly from the Sacred Icon of the God of Storms. From the body of the elder who commanded the storms, deep crimson blood seeped, saturating the icon and releasing that intoxicating sweetness. It’s eyes were completely veiled by a film of gore.
Early morning.
Within the Metropolis, the doors of every church—regardless of which deity they served—were slammed shut. Priests stood before their gates, urging the faithful who had come for morning prayer to leave immediately and not loiter nearby.
Hathaway meticulously straightened her nun’s habit. Standing beside her was Eliana, who had returned to her light travel gear.
“I didn’t expect things to come to this…” Eliana mused, resting her chin in her hand as she thought seriously.
In the early hours of the morning, Hathaway had practically dragged her out of bed. Eliana wasn’t usually one to sleep in; she had been remarkably diligent as an Inquisitor, often being the first to arrive and the last to leave the Tribunal, sometimes working for several days without rest.
But that was for work. Who wakes up early every day while on vacation?
Hathaway was different. She was a practicing nun—at least, she wasn’t unemployed yet—and was required to pray at specific times daily. Since the Gray Goddess, Nanala, presided over Silence and the Night, waking up before dawn for prayer was a mandatory course. Consequently, without being able to explain, Hathaway had essentially carried the groggy Eliana to the Silent Chapel in the Metropolis.
The old nun guarding the Silent Chapel only relaxed when she saw Hathaway and Eliana. She then led them deep into the basement, toward the icon of the Goddess.
From the old nun’s account, Eliana finally grasped the full scope of the situation. Previously, the icon had only bled due to Hathaway’s prayers. Now, every icon across the Metropolis, regardless of deity or sect, was exhibiting the same phenomenon.
Undoubtedly, if this news reached the public, it would incite absolute chaos. Thus, the major cathedrals were forced to suppress the information while searching for a solution.
“You mean… you want me to figure something out?” Eliana pointed to herself, looking down at Hathaway.
Hathaway shook her head.
“…I’ll take that as a yes.”
Hathaway shook her head again, appearing pleased.
“Though, Miss Luo Wei would usually be the one familiar with this sort of thing…” Mid-sentence, Eliana realized her mistake and gave a bitter smile. “I’m sorry.”
Hathaway looked at her, an unreadable emotion crossing her small face. Perhaps she was saying, “Why are you apologizing to me? I have nothing to do with her.” Or so Eliana imagined. She and Hathaway were quite familiar, but they hadn’t reached a level of spiritual telepathy yet. After losing Miss Luo Wei, their communication had become exceptionally difficult; even simple exchanges required Eliana to guess through context.
Hathaway looked at Eliana and suddenly reached out, tapping her on the head. Then, she pointed her finger at Eliana’s heart before tugging at the family crest sewn onto Eliana’s clothes.
“Are you saying if I offer my heart to the icon, it will be restored?” Eliana blinked.
Hathaway waved her hands in frustration.
“Alright, alright, I know what you mean,” Eliana sighed. “I served as an Inquisitor for ten years. Investigating matters that reek of ‘Horror’ is indeed my specialty.”
Hathaway glared at Eliana, her cheeks puffing slightly.
Seeing Hathaway like this, Eliana suddenly understood why Miss Luo Wei enjoyed teasing the girl into a fit of pique… Come to think of it, even Eliana, who had always been stern, seemed to have removed the mask she tightly clamped over her face since meeting Miss Luo Wei. She no longer forced herself to be a serious adult at all times and had started making little jokes.
But now, Miss Luo Wei was dead. Her death felt utterly surreal to Eliana even now. She kept expecting Miss Luo Wei to suddenly pop out from somewhere, grinning as she hugged her and asked if she had been missed lately.
Yet, the facts stood before her, witnessed by Hathaway and Aunt Miriel. She had no choice but to believe.
“Since this has happened…” She wasn’t an expert in the religious field; she needed to find another person to help.
Eliana pondered for a moment and quickly thought of a candidate: the High Priest of the Church of Storms. Such a grave incident with such a wide reach was likely something even that centuries-old elder had never seen.
The logic Eliana followed was shared by the other princesses.
While Eliana was driven by her sense of responsibility to the Kingdom of York, the other princesses immediately realized that whoever could resolve—or even just alleviate—this crisis would surely gain the support of many denominations. This was tangible power they could use to ascend the throne.
Thus, when a travel-worn Eliana arrived at the Storm Cathedral with Hathaway, she found several luxurious, new-style carriages parked at the gates. While others traveled by carriage, Eliana had come on foot; she was naturally slower.
As expected, when the priests led her to the inner hall, Eliana saw her “dear” sisters. The Third Princess, Susanna, stood alone in the furthest corner. When Eliana looked her way, Susanna offered a gentle smile. Cassandra, meanwhile, had the grandest display. Not only was she accompanied by her fiancé, Sir Dax, but she also had a tall, beautiful maid in attendance. She was… distractingly beautiful, yet she inexplicably radiated a faint, spine-chilling sensation.
Eliana frowned and averted her gaze. She had always loathed such ostentatious displays.
The Sixth Princess, Hesperia, had a slightly smaller entourage, but it was no less significant. She sat nearby, devoid of expression—neither cold nor warm. Regardless of the looks thrown her way, the beauty known throughout the nation sat as motionless as a statue. Standing behind Hesperia, however, was someone Eliana had not expected: Mr. Charlie, the Troupe Leader of the Crimson Troupe.
“Wait, isn’t Mr. Charlie one of Cassandra’s people?”
Regarding the crisis in Kolun County, Eliana had used the influence of her father, Grand Duke Hilton, to conduct a private investigation after arriving in the Metropolis. She had uncovered some secrets regarding the Crimson Troupe. It seemed her sisters had already been clashing in the shadows.
Seeing this headache-inducing scene, Eliana truly wanted to leave. She genuinely believed she lacked the qualifications for the throne, and she certainly didn’t think she possessed the capability to be Queen. Compared to her late aunt, she was far too green. As for using the Prince Regent’s power—Eliana had never considered that possibility from the start, even if the Prince Regent was her father.
“Your Highnesses… and honored guests. Please, be seated.”
Once Eliana entered the inner hall, an elder sitting on the preaching platform, looking like a piece of decayed wood, slowly raised his head and spoke softly.
Susanna respectfully bowed to the elder. Cassandra merely crossed her legs, and Hesperia remained like a statue. Charlie, however, gave the High Priest an elegant tip of his hat. It was almost unimaginable that a leader of a cult organization would dare to act so boldly in front of the Orthodox Church. Even Hathaway found it hard to look at.
The High Priest, however, acted as if he hadn’t seen it. His hand trembled as he reached out, put on a pair of spectacles, and scanned the princesses with murky eyes.
After a moment, he let out a disappointed sigh, as if he hadn’t found the result he sought. He took off the glasses.
“None of you… are prepared.”
“Prepared for what?” Cassandra couldn’t help but ask. She was indeed the most impatient of the sisters.
The High Priest looked at her deeply, then glanced up at the maid behind her, a flicker of doubt passing through his clouded eyes. Soon, however, he composed himself. He spoke one word at a time, delivering a sentence that struck the hearts of every princess present.
“To inherit her Authority… and her Responsibility.”
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