Under the dim candlelight, an elderly man dressed in white vestments with a golden crown stood solemnly before a towering statue. Not far away, a nobleman in rich attire bowed respectfully, his body trembling with barely concealed fear.
The elder paid no attention to such trivial displays of weakness.
Although as Pope he had countless affairs demanding his attention daily, today he wanted to do nothing—only wait for midnight to arrive.
Everything in this church had been rebuilt, but it still lacked one final, crucial step.
Using the pain and lives of a great wizard and dozens of others to grant it the enduring ability to create Silencers.
For this moment, they had planned for one hundred and twenty years. Pope after pope had passed away, and finally this great feat would be completed tonight.
Once this church named after Saint Peter was rebuilt, those unable to learn magic would never again have to cower before wizards' power. They too would gain that strength without restriction.
Even greater strength.
His gaze drifted to the wooden box sitting quietly on the marble table.
Inside, masses of nearly invisible wind churned restlessly, yet could not break through that simple wooden container.
However, after he stared at the box for several seconds, the churning wind suddenly transformed into masses of black, oily substance. They flowed back and forth within the confines, occasionally condensing into different faces—screaming, pleading, raging—before slowly dissolving.
The wooden box began to shake violently, as those dark masses seemed to be desperately clawing for freedom. Seeing this, the elder finally withdrew his gaze, no longer looking at the cursed container.
The moment his attention shifted, the shaking ceased. The black substance quickly faded, transforming back into nearly invisible wind that drifted slowly within the wooden prison.
Only after the box had completely returned to stillness did the nobleman beside him recover from his trembling and dare to look again at the figure before the statue.
However, the first words that figure spoke made him tremble all over again.
"I don't care whether your so-called atonement is real or fabricated."
"I also don't care how much wealth you've embezzled from the church coffers."
"As long as this sanctuary can be successfully consecrated, as long as the Lord's glory is no longer obscured by so-called 'magic,' I can overlook everything."
His voice dropped to a whisper that somehow felt more threatening than any shout.
"But if that prisoner suffers any mishaps..."
The nobleman was already drenched in cold sweat. He trembled as he bowed deeper, fighting to keep his voice steady.
"Rest assured, Your Holiness. That old heretic has been shackled by his own people and imprisoned in the forbidden zone."
"No one can penetrate our defenses, and no one can rescue him."
"To prevent any possibility of failure, I've divided the penance knights into five rotating teams, taking turns entering the confessional for purification. The Silencers' power will not weaken by even a fraction."
"Even if that Lavok experiences a change of heart, he could never break through our blockade."
Though his body shook with fear, the man's tone carried absolute certainty.
He had good reason for such confidence. The Silencers' power originated from those very wizards the Lord had crushed beneath His divine authority. This power was uniquely lethal to magical beings because it acted directly upon their life force.
To infiltrate a Silencer blockade, any wizard would need to wield this same power. But wizards possessing such abilities invariably died before age ten, and at that tender age they simply couldn't contend with the battle-hardened penance knights, let alone overcome the other defenses the Silencers had left behind.
That dungeon was absolutely impregnable—there would be no mishaps whatsoever.
Hearing the man's assurance, the elder said nothing more. He turned back to face the statue, lowering his head in silent prayer.
The nobleman breathed an almost imperceptible sigh of relief.
Truth be told, when His Holiness had mentioned those "properties," his heart had leaped into his throat. Fortunately, this Pope wasn't the type to be rigidly inflexible—he still showed some favor to their extended family.
Otherwise, his accumulated wealth would likely be forfeit.
But just as this comforting thought crossed his mind, the chapel doors burst open with a thunderous crash. A very young-looking knight rushed in, his face flushed with exertion. He wasn't wearing a helmet, revealing pupils of completely normal color.
Not caring that his lungs felt ready to burst from his desperate sprint, the knight dropped to one knee and spoke at breakneck speed.
"Your Holiness! The forbidden zone... it's been destroyed!"
"What?"
"God... what kind of magic was that?"
Under the crimson glow of the setting sun, Della stood in the narrow alley, still shaken to her core. Her hands pressed against her knees as she gasped for breath, her entire body trembling with exhaustion and residual terror.
Her three rescued companions were in similar states—utterly drained but with eyes bright with the joy of impossible survival.
Since Evans's abilities could only transport one person at a time, after he'd used his devastating stomp to obliterate the entire dungeon complex, he couldn't Apparate with so many people. Instead, he'd been forced to cast multiple lightening charms on them all before they fled together on foot.
It had been a genuine race for their lives. At least twenty heavily armored penance knights had pursued them through the winding streets, their lances crackling with invisible winds. Anyone struck by those ethereal projectiles would have their magical power instantly disrupted, risking catastrophic magical backlash.
Fortunately, the knights' endurance couldn't match the wizards enhanced by multiple strengthening spells, allowing them to successfully outrun their pursuers.
Steadying his breathing, Evans turned his attention to the old man, who hadn't spoken a single word since being rescued.
Only now could he get a proper look at this Bellance family elder.
He was remarkably robust for his age. Though deep wrinkles mapped his weathered face, his posture remained perfectly straight. The long sprint had flushed his cheeks, but it hadn't diminished his dignified bearing in the slightest.
Most men his age would have collapsed from such exertion—the fact that he was still standing spoke volumes about his constitution.
After assessing the old man's physical condition, Evans focused on his eyes.
Those ancient orbs held sorrow so profound it seemed to have weight, and beneath that grief lay a trace of determination buried impossibly deep.
Yet despite such emotionally charged eyes, his expression remained completely neutral—as if the emotions burning within those depths belonged to someone else entirely.
Perhaps the strain of his advanced years finally caught up with him. The old man suddenly doubled over, wracked by violent coughing fits as if something were lodged in his throat.
Seeing his distress, Evans instinctively stepped forward to help. The old man raised his hand to ward him off, but their arms brushed together.
The instant their skin made contact, invisible sorrow crashed over Evans like a tidal wave.
It was a kind of despair he had never experienced—the feeling of being utterly abandoned by the entire world, with no light remaining in his heart. The weight of absolute isolation pressed down on him, suffocating in its completeness.
At the same time, blurry images flickered at the edges of his vision—fragments of memory or perhaps something else entirely. But before they could sharpen into clarity, the old man jerked his hand back as if he'd been burned, severing the connection.
"What was that?"
Emerging from that ocean of grief, Evans stared at the old man who was slowly straightening up, his eyes wide with confusion and concern.
How could a simple touch flood him with such overwhelming sadness? Was this some kind of defensive enchantment? But what kind of protective magic tormented its own caster?
The old man had no intention of explaining. He remained silent for several heartbeats, then raised his head to meet Evans's gaze with those sorrow-filled eyes.
"As long as you don't touch me, there won't be any problems."
As he spoke, he scanned their surroundings, seemingly confirming whether any immediate danger remained.
After satisfying himself that they were safe, he gripped the cypress wand that had previously been sealed in crystal, turned sharply, and vanished on the spot with a soft pop of displaced air.
Only his final words lingered in the evening breeze:
"Beware of Lavok."
[Chapter Complete]
***
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