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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 4
Chapter Title: Religious Trial (1)
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*
The Inquisition was an institution run on fear, performance, and rumors. Those who burned heretics at the stake, hanged devil worshippers, and executed demons.
Hunting dogs that had severed all emotion solely for their duty. Zealots who acted more fanatically than anyone else to safeguard human reason.
Yet from an internal perspective, Inquisitor Marco was fulfilling a role weighted more toward fear than performance or rumors. He was, in other words, a Religiosa Enmagicka.
Among the many prerogatives of the Inquisitors, they wielded the transcendent authority of legislation, administration, and judiciary over heresy trials.
In essence, heresy judges were those permitted to employ pyres and guillotines in official proceedings.
Thus, it ranked among the safer, more comfortable occupations for a typical Inquisitor, one that commanded social respect and reverence.
It was akin to an honorary post with substantial power.
*
Fernandez gazed at the old man chuckling heartily like some spineless monk and pondered.
All the Inquisitors he had truly faced in his past life had been young men, cold and sharp like finely tempered steel blades.
Yet this elder, despite donning the sleek-lined Inquisitor uniform, somehow appeared disarmingly guileless.
'Is it because he's in a backwater post away from the front lines of heretic hunting that he seems so at ease?'
"Hohoho, Baron Cerned. I've heard the tale of your succession quite well. A most dramatic inheritance of title, wasn't it?"
"Ah, yes. Thanks to Your Excellency the Bishop's concern."
Bishop. On paper, all Inquisitors held the rank of diocesan bishop.
Fernandez's words signaled that he was no heretic—treat him as a fellow man of faith, not a judge—and Marco erupted in laughter as if he hadn't heard a thing.
"What worry would this old bag of bones have? My sole concern is heretics."
"Ah, I swear it by the great Holy Pantheon. I share your worry."
"Oho? Truly?"
Marco stared at Fernandez with exaggerated surprise, then grinned and clapped his hands. At the sharp crack of applause, his attendants swiftly forced three men to their knees before him.
Familiar faces, every one. The former lord's chamberlain. Fernandez's own squire. And the guard who had first spoken to him.
"It gladdens this old heart to ease Your Excellency's worries. For one man of faith to reassure another devout believer—what could be more beautiful?"
Fernandez furrowed his brow.
"They are my subjects."
"Children of the Holy Pantheon as well."
Fernandez pressed on, willfully ignoring Marco's swallowed "for now."
"Their parents are my subjects too, and there's no guarantee they faithfully worship Beitasser. Your Excellency, our barony affirms the Holy Pantheon of Good Gods, as per the kingdom's solemn laws."
"Ah, the Order affirms it too. The Holy Pantheon of 'Good Gods,' that is. And the Holy Pantheon has ceded all rights of trial and interrogation over heretics to Beitasser. We uphold religious freedom, but heretical worship is no religion."
The tone was brazenly direct—diplomatic insolence that would invite the Noble Duel Law from any other noble.
The trouble was, his opponent wasn't a diplomatic equal, but a religious authority.
By international law, no human nation under the Holy Pantheon of Good Gods could disregard an Inquisitor's authority.
"So, what do you propose?"
"A formal complaint has been filed. That Your Excellency is demon-beguiled, exploiting your subjects, consorting with fiends, and wielding illicit magic. As you know, unlicensed mages are prime candidates for 'correction.'"
"I don't recall ever learning anything called magic..."
"Light casts deep shadows, yet darkness ever yields to the sun."
Marco recited a scriptural verse as he methodically removed the gags from the kneeling men's mouths. He then reached out to the attendant standing ramrod straight at his side.
The man placed an ornate silver longsword in his grasp. Marco murmured a brief prayer and stepped before them.
"Now, let the first testimony commence."
The first was the former lord's chamberlain.
"Young Master Alejandro, Guard Captain Sir Basel, and Baron Daniel Cerned—all perished by that man's sorcery!"
"You're certain it was sorcery?"
"He pointed his index finger, and the three clutched their faces before collapsing! In that moment, the ruthless cur brutally slaughtered the unarmed lords!"
Marco smiled at Fernandez.
"A rather detailed account."
"I can explain."
"You will. But first, the procedure."
Marco approached the second man—Fernandez's squire.
"Let the second testimony commence."
"Glory to great Beitasser! Glory! Glory!"
"The testimony."
"Th-that Baron Cerned bought strange foreign contraptions and herbs!"
"Curiosity, perhaps?"
"No! He drained the family vault dry. The barony has countless other needs... but the baron insisted on... decorating his chambers... with a w-work, w-work—"
"Workshop?"
"Yes! A workshop!"
He had said as much. Of course, "workshop" was utterly neutral terminology. Wizards called them that, but so did alchemists, smiths, and jewelers.
Still, a workshop built by someone capable of magic? The implication was crystal clear.
"Workshop, eh. Workshop."
Marco smirked as he moved to the third man—the guard who had shown Fernandez initial kindness.
'The Devil's Advocate?'
To curb trial bias, the Beitasser Order mandated a "Devil's Advocate"—a defender or aide tasked with arguing unconditionally for the accused.
The catch: it rarely proved meaningful in religious courts.
"Let the third testimony commence."
"A week ago, Baron Fernandez Cerned was getting thrashed daily by Young Master Alejandro."
"And then?"
"Th-then, upon taking the title, he audited the finances himself, managed the barony hands-on, and th-the manor's lights burned past midnight."
"Diligent sort, then?"
"Y-yes! Everyone fears the baron, but I-I knew him as a boy. No truck with magic or sorcery, demons or h-heretics. Spotless!"
Marco stroked his neatly trimmed beard.
"So, to sum up: a frail lad beaten daily by his cousin suddenly slays the brute, fells the guard captain, seizes the barony—and this same boy, with zero prior interest in magic, abruptly wields it?"
"Y-yes? No, never..."
"I heard every word!"
Marco chuckled, eyes on Fernandez. Staring at the kindly old face, Fernandez finally saw it.
Those eyes had never once smiled.
A chill prickled his skin. Outwardly dissolute? All the more reason. This grizzled Inquisitor was the real deal.
'Surviving as an Inquisitor into old age speaks volumes...'
He held exalted rank. Even at the Inquisition Keep—the Inquisitors' stronghold—elders like him were rarities.
Fernandez's misfortune: facing such a veteran for the first time, and in the Cerned Barony of all places.
"Now, Your Excellency, your turn for rebuttal."
Fernandez swallowed hard under Marco's icy stare, then spoke deliberately.
"Your Excellency. Unforeseeable injuries from incidental trickery fall under special assault statutes, not mana usage—and under kingdom law, where Noble Duel Law applies, they mitigate charges of assault, murder, or parricide."
—In short: butt out of noble duels, holy man.
"Three official instances, used only at critical junctures—no leeway to deem them incidental. Plus, Noble Duel Law mandates pre-duel armament disclosure, which wasn't done. Rejected."
—Was it a duel? And didn't you use magic?
"Your Excellency, per the Standard Magic Encyclopedia: 'Low-level techniques' absent magic's triad—ritual, incantation, sacrifice—qualify as incidental trickery. Whatever I did, if it lacks those, it's no spell, just a technique. Innate or learned skills aren't 'armament' under civilian ordinances."
—No? Just sleight-of-hand. Your foes were chumps.
"Low-level tricks yield inconsistent results. Yet testimony claims identical outcomes across three duels. Call it coincidence? Demonstrate it yourself for verification."
—Prove it or fold.
Marco stifled a grin, appraising Fernandez. Logical, for a sixteen-year-old noble whelp.
Admirable? Adorable?
Under that gaze, Fernandez pointed at the fallen leaves littering the ground. His fingertip sparked—
The leaves burst aflame.
—Sizzle!
"Hm."
"Great Beitasser, bless and safeguard us, deliver us from evil's grasp..."
Marco eyed the blaze gravely; the witnesses murmured prayers, crossing themselves in unison. Fernandez shrugged.
"Flint Spark."
"Flint Spark..."
For campfires sans flint—or sodden ones—anyone with a scintilla of magic talent could manage it.
Hardly magic. Just a flicker of flame.
Know the trick, have the spark? Anyone could.
No talent? Impossible.
'Magic savvy, deploys parlor tricks with timing, exploits blind spots with cunning. Logical, erudite—sixteen-year-old noble orphan...'
Marco's smile deepened at Fernandez's brazen poise. Prime stock, unexpectedly.
'Inquisitor material.'
"Time to inspect that workshop?"
Fernandez exhaled deeply. The gravest charge was dodged. One more hurdle, and he might emerge unscathed.
*