"Well then, that covers the general procedure for the sacrificial ritual, the Advent of the Holy Sanctum."
Silas tossed aside the chalk and turned back from the blackboard.
By now, the blackboard was completely covered with all manner of diagrams and text: twisted, deranged emblems of evil gods, and dense lines of ancient Hermetic script steeped in blasphemy and filth.
Occupying the central portion of the board were several human figures Silas had sketched. One showed a figure peeling off its own skin as though undressing, trying to stretch it over a scarecrow frame.
Another showed a figure with both arms and both legs severed and reattached backward, crawling face-up along the ground. And last of all, the sketch Silas had left for the end.
It was a simple stick-figure drawing of a family of three.
The figures meant to represent the wife and child were missing their uppermost portions, yet those missing parts had reappeared on the shoulders to either side of the central figure's body.
Three heads, gathered together on a single torso, all opening their mouths wide in exaggerated joy, as if singing the praises of divine glory.
Though the images on the blackboard were nothing more than simple sketches, they instinctively made people feel ill at ease.
"So then, is there anyone who didn't follow along? Or... any questions?"
Silas clapped his hands, brushing off the chalk dust as he asked.
The conference room fell silent.
The Red Gloves sat quietly in their chairs, every face grim.
As seasoned Beyonders who had weathered no small number of ordeals, it wasn't that a few simple drawings could turn their stomachs or make them squirm.
But the sheer absurdity and horror packed into the information had, without question, made its way clearly into every one of their hearts.
They all stared wordlessly at Silas, their expressions seeming to say, "Please, we're begging you, don't go on."
"What's the matter, the mood in here isn't very lively."
Amid the heavy atmosphere, the corner of Silas's mouth curled slightly upward.
He continued, "Listen carefully, everyone. What I've shared with you today are extremely evil, extremely dangerous rituals. Under no circumstances are they to be passed on, nor are they to be written down on paper.
What you need to do is commit them to memory, inside your own heads. I hope this knowledge will prove useful in your future work..."
"By the Goddess, how does he know so many evil rituals?"
Leonard overheard one of his colleagues mutter under his breath.
Don't go running your mouth, someone will hear you...
He was just about to warn the man when, from up at the lectern, the high deacon in the black formal suit and red shirt, the one with the cold, aloof bearing, suddenly spoke up. "Mr. Nelson Sandro, if you have a question, why not say it loud enough for everyone to hear."
"My deepest apologies, Your Excellency Ishmael!"
With a clatter, the Red Glove shot up out of his chair in fright. "I don't have any questions!"
"No questions? Very well then, let me ask you something. I just went over several cults devoted to evil gods. From what angles can we distinguish between them?"
Silas smiled coldly, pressing the question further.
Having once served as a Listener, his hearing was far from ordinary.
Truth be told, given his usual temperament, this sort of thing was hardly worth bothering with. But since he was the one in charge here now, as the newly appointed leader, he needed to establish his authority.
"Uh, well..."
Nelson Sandro's face fell at once, and he racked his brain before answering, "Um, they each worship different evil gods. And, and the philosophies they hold are also different..."
For a combat unit used to nothing but fighting and killing, being made to sit through class like a student was genuinely a tall order.
Not only that, the high deacon's indifferent gaze and the unnaturally quiet classroom atmosphere only added further pressure to his already strained nerves.
Fortunately, someone arrived just in time to save him.
Footsteps clattered.
"Your Excellency, a telegram for you."
A church member responsible for communications hurried into the conference room and handed over a translated telegram.
Silas reached out and took it, flipped through it, and then began to laugh.
"Just now, an incident suspected to be a cult sacrifice occurred in the Backlund Bridge District. The police were unable to handle it, and it's been passed along to us."
He raised his head. "We've had several sessions of theory now, so this happens to be a good chance to put it into practice."
Silas thought for a moment, then added, "That said, sending the whole team out to investigate a single case seems a bit much. Let's do this: Sandro, get your squad ready. You're coming with me to the scene."
At once, the eyes of many of the Red Gloves turned toward the man still standing there, whose face flushed with embarrassment.
"Yes, sir!"
Leonard's squad leader, Soest the Spirit Warlock, rose to his feet and answered.
---
In a certain house, in the Hilton District.
A snap.
Fors clicked her fingers, and a burst of flame flickered into being at her fingertip like a conjurer's trick.
She brought her cigarette, already fitted with a filter, up to light it, then spread open that morning's copy of the Tassok River Daily and read the news lazily.
[Admiral Amyrius Reassigned as Naval Defense Minister, Vows to Continue Serving the Kingdom]
That name rang a bell somewhere... oh, right, he was the one attacked by Mr. Temperance, the one who'd nearly had his mind shattered... Looking at this, it seemed he'd already recovered?
After suffering such a crushing defeat at Bayam, he was still able to hold a high position within the kingdom...
Then again, he was a demigod, and he represented the interests of an entire family line...
Thinking of this, Fors gave a faintly mocking smile. After skimming the contents briefly, she turned the page.
[Craziest Hunter Gehrman Sparrow Notches Another Victory: The Admiral of Blood Slain!]
The Admiral of Blood was dead?
After barely escaping alive from the pirate conference, he'd still ended up dead in the end. Perhaps that was simply fate.
Still, this Craziest Hunter's exploits were rather interesting, and it seemed there was some entanglement with two female pirate generals as well...
Fors tapped the ash from her cigarette, absorbed in reading the story about Gehrman.
Gradually, an idea began to form in her mind.
Perhaps she could use this as material and write a new novel... actually, if she used Mr. Temperance as the model, the story would probably turn out even more thrilling, but she didn't dare... Using this Gehrman as the protagonist instead, there'd be no pressure at all...
Fors began jotting and sketching idly on paper, planning to write a fast-paced novel blending romance, suspense, and adventure, one she'd call something like The Craziest Hunter and the Female Pirate Generals: Things We Really Ought to Talk About. She could guarantee that, tacky as the title was, it would definitely sell well...
After all, I could use the money lately.
She thought, and kept turning the pages of the newspaper.
There, on the third page, printed as brazenly as could be:
[Scientific Research Proves the Feysacian Are Inherently Inferior, a Belligerent, Defective Race]
Tch.
Reading a headline like that, disgust immediately showed on Fors's face.
Another one of these third-rate articles stirring up division...
It was true that relations between Loen and the Fusack had always been somewhat fraught, but it seemed public sentiment in recent years had grown more and more extreme.
As someone who worked with words for a living, she caught a whiff of something dangerous in it.