The Magi Order.
Serin heard those words and couldn't help but feel a rush of excitement—the same kind he had experienced when Priest Phelipe had performed a healing ritual on him. It was the excitement of encountering something otherworldly, something far beyond the comprehension of someone from Earth.
Over the past year, Serin had read and heard enough about Eidryth to understand what the Magi Order was. Ever since learning of its existence, he had been eager to know more and, if possible, interact with its members. But until now, he had never been given the chance.
The Magi Order was an Order of Mages. In Eidryth, it was one of the most influential forces, and much like the Divine Order, it did not fully belong to any single geography on the continent. Rather, it existed everywhere—almost like merchants or mercenaries.
Nearly every mage in the world was part of the Order and thus bound to it, as the Order held an exclusive monopoly over the realm of magecraft. It unified the collective strength of mages and took it upon itself to recruit and train new ones throughout the world.
The Magi Order was a sensitive topic within the Solmarch Empire, which was why Serin had never dared inquire too deeply about it. From what he had heard, the Magi Order and the Divine Order were at odds, vying for influence over the empires and kingdoms of the continent.
In the Solmarch Empire, the Divine Order had been dominant until recently, but that balance had begun to shift ever since Emperor Corrino ascended the throne. The tension between the two factions had only grown more contentious with time, and no one wished to be caught in the crossfire.
Serin broke free from his chain of thoughts, finally understanding why everyone in the study wore such grim expressions. The silence felt increasingly awkward, with everyone exchanging uneasy glances yet unwilling to speak.
Seeing that the Countess grew more apprehensive with each passing second, Serin cleared his throat and spoke, his voice steady.
"Aunt Elayne is making a sound suggestion—especially now, when there are no other options." He stepped forward slightly and turned to the Count. "What do you think, Uncle?"
The Count's expression was conflicted. He clenched his fists, knuckles whitening, before finally speaking.
"The mages…" he said slowly. "They worship Chaos. Godless men." His brows furrowed deeply. "How can we—" He hesitated, then released a tired breath. "At this moment… the Divine Order will not take this well. I fear it will be interpreted the wrong way."
Admiral Fane shifted in his seat, the leather creaking softly beneath him, before speaking decisively.
"If the Divine Order will not help us, then there is no other option."
The Count turned his gaze to Steward Bartley, who had remained silent throughout the discussion.
"Steward," he asked, "what do you think?"
Steward Bartley slid his fingers slowly along the rim of his porcelain cup, his expression thoughtful.
"There are two things to consider," he said at last.
He paused, then raised his head and met the Count's gaze directly.
"First, my lord—who matters most to us in this moment? Is it not the Emperor?"
Reluctant nods spread around the room.
The Hainar Family, like many aristocratic houses, was deeply faithful to the Divine Order, which embodied divine authority. However, with the Emperor drawing increasingly closer to the Magi Order, the political reality had grown far more complicated.
Marshal Verne took a measured sip of tea before asking casually, "And the second thing?"
"This is an emergency," Steward Bartley replied, his voice calm but firm. "If the Divine Order cannot help us, then we cannot be blamed for seeking aid elsewhere." A bitter smile crossed his lips. "The High Priest should understand that much."
The discussion continued, voices rising and falling as arguments were weighed. With every passing moment, it became increasingly clear that requesting assistance from the Magi Order—as the Countess had suggested—was the only viable option left.
Though the Count and the others still harbored reservations about offending the Divine Order, the circumstances left House Hainar with little room to maneuver.
Serin listened quietly, absorbing every word, until a question finally surfaced in his mind.
"The Divine Order, through the Order of the Holy Mother, has a presence in this city," he said. "But to my knowledge, the Magi Order doesn't maintain a strong presence within the Empire."
The Count nodded. "That is correct."
"Then I assume they must be based in the Capital," Serin continued. "Wouldn't reaching out to them take time we don't have?"
The Count narrowed his eyes briefly, then a faint smile tugged at his lips. He turned his head toward Lady Elayne.
She merely shrugged, averting her gaze with a mildly incredulous expression.
Serin frowned, confused—until the Count chuckled softly.
"Nephew, given everything that has happened, it's understandable that you overlooked this," the Count said, gesturing toward Lady Elayne. "Your aunt's father—my father-in-law—is the younger brother of Duke Erwen."
Serin's eyes widened slightly.
"The Magi Order maintains a temple in Waham," the Count continued. "It is the Ducal Seat of the West. A senior mage oversees the Western region from there. Waham can be reached on horseback in three days."
Hope visibly rekindled in the eyes of everyone present.
Serin was momentarily stunned by Lady Elayne's background, but the realization quickly settled. Her composure, capability, and quiet authority suddenly made perfect sense.
He also understood why she had proposed this path without hesitation.
"Then it's decided?" Admiral Fane said, exhaling in relief. "We should send an envoy to the Magi Temple in Waham as soon as possible."
"Who should go?" Eldric asked eagerly, leaning forward.
The room fell silent once more.
This was no ordinary request. There was no guarantee the Magi Order would agree to help, and persuading them would require not only political finesse but full authority to negotiate decisively.
Slowly, all eyes turned toward the Count.
The Count rose to his feet, straightening his back as he met their gazes one by one.
"I will go personally," he declared. "Tomorrow."
The tension in the room finally eased, shoulders relaxing as a collective breath was released.
Serin felt excitement stir within him at the prospect of encountering mages firsthand. He had heard countless stories of their eccentric, enigmatic nature—and now, he might finally see it with his own eyes.
Just as his thoughts began to wander, the Count stepped toward him and placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
Serin blinked and looked up, startled.
"You're coming with me," the Count said calmly, his tone brooking no argument.
Serin froze.
Eldric raised a brow, while the others nodded knowingly, as though the decision had been obvious to them all along.
Serin hesitated only a moment before excitement overtook him. Outwardly, he nodded with measured restraint.
"Are you certain, Uncle?" he asked.
The Count smiled faintly. "I am. Don't underestimate yourself, boy. Don't forget whose blood flows through your veins."
"Yes," Serin replied solemnly.
The Count gave his shoulder a light tap. "Prepare yourself. We leave tomorrow before sunrise." He paused, then added, "But before that, go to the Cathedral and inform the High Priest of our predicament."
Serin frowned. "But… won't they refuse?"
The Count's lips curved into a knowing smirk. "Most likely. But we must ask regardless." His eyes gleamed faintly. "If the gods deny salvation, we cannot be blamed for seeking it elsewhere."
Realization struck Serin like a spark.
He nodded. "I understand."
With that, he took his leave.
---
Once again, Serin walked through the open grand hall of the cathedral, draped in pure white robes, his hair tied neatly behind him. As before, he found himself awed by the sheer atmosphere of the place. There was a sense of serenity and reverence here—something he hadn't experienced anywhere else.
This time, the cathedral was quiet and calm. Only clergymen and nuns could be seen moving softly about, going about their duties in hushed silence. No one spared him a glance; their minds were occupied entirely by devotion and prayer.
Angelic chants echoed faintly through the vast hall, their cadence soothing the weary heart and restless mind as Serin made his way toward the altar. There, High Priest Velenor stood waiting, scepter in hand.
"Prince Hainar," High Priest Velenor said, his face expressionless, his tone carrying an unspoken weight. "What brings you here today?"
Serin froze for a brief moment. Meeting the High Priest's gaze, he felt an uncanny certainty that the man already knew the reason for his visit. Shaking off the unease, Serin offered a proper greeting and, without wasting time, began explaining the situation in detail.
Throughout his explanation, both Priest Phelipe and High Priest Velenor remained composed and unreadable, offering only the occasional nod in acknowledgment.
"We find ourselves in a dire situation," Serin concluded, bowing deeply. "We humbly ask the Divine Order to intervene and help us face the terror of Akh'Thal."
High Priest Velenor immediately reached out and grasped Serin's shoulder, stopping him mid-bow. His grip was firm yet gentle. He studied Serin closely, his eyes thoughtful and distant.
After a moment, a sorrowful smile appeared on the High Priest's face.
"It pains us to say this…" he began, his expression tightening as though the words themselves caused him discomfort. "But unfortunately, we are unable to intervene at this moment."
Serin's expression showed the appropriate measure of distress as he attempted to bow again, only for the High Priest to hold him firmly in place.
"Your Eminence," Serin said, his voice strained, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "Lives will be lost when the sea monster attacks the port. Many lives."
He faltered mid-sentence.
Suddenly, Serin felt something strange.
It was similar to when the Anchor blessing activated—but also distinctly different. His thoughts sharpened, his mind clearing as a powerful sense of righteous conviction surged through him.
His expression changed abruptly.
Sorrow filled his eyes, but so did an unwavering confidence—calm, sincere, and deeply earnest. Even Priest Phelipe stiffened in surprise at the sudden shift.
Serin realized, dimly, that he knew exactly what he was saying and doing—yet it felt as though he were slightly removed from himself, as if something else were guiding his words. He felt elevated, as though standing atop a great height and looking down upon the world with clarity.
"I dare not lie before the Goddess," Serin said solemnly. "Having no other choice, we intend to approach the Magi Order for assistance."
Priest Phelipe frowned sharply, while the High Priest fell into silent contemplation.
Serin continued, his voice steady and resolute, carried by that same righteous certainty.
"How would the people perceive the Divine Order?" he asked softly. "The Holy Mother is merciful—yet if Chaos-worshipping mages come from afar to offer protection, while the Divine Order remains absent…"
He met the High Priest's gaze meaningfully and let the implication hang in the air.
"Insolence—!" Priest Phelipe snapped, only to fall silent under a single glance from High Priest Velenor.
The High Priest turned back to Serin, his expression benevolent, a gentle smile resting on his lips.
"Then tell me," he asked calmly, "what do you suggest, child?"
Serin swallowed. A bead of sweat slid down his back as a sudden chill ran along his spine. Standing before the High Priest's kind, elderly face—one that could easily be mistaken for that of a gentle grandfather, if not for the scepter and sacred sigils—he felt immense pressure.
The Anchor blessing activated once more, calming his racing nerves. At the same time, it confirmed something important—whatever he had experienced moments ago had not been the Anchor's doing.
Then it happened again.
Something shifted within Serin, as if an unseen mechanism had clicked into place. His demeanor changed subtly yet unmistakably. That same righteous presence surged forth, steadying him beneath the crushing weight of divine authority as he spoke with renewed clarity.
For the next ten minutes, Serin explained—carefully, passionately, and with unwavering resolve—laying out his reasoning before both priests.
When it was over, Serin stepped out of the cathedral with his back drenched in sweat, his mind numb and exhausted.
As he boarded the waiting carriage, he glanced back once more at Priest Phelipe, who stood smiling and waving faintly.
Serin nodded absently, then leaned back against the carriage seat.
"What the fuck was that…?" he muttered inwardly, utterly bewildered.