Chapter 269
Chapter 269
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Translator: Vine
Chapter: 14
Chapter Title: One Empire, Three Legends (28)
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The battle for the imperial throne. The war against the Mutts being waged by the eastern nations.
And the curse flowers.
Events on the scale of those first two had suddenly come crashing down from above like a list that demanded to be added to their ranks.
The situation had escalated so rapidly that there was no time for calm reflection or measured action.
The immediate priority was verifying the facts.
Assuming this was enemy territory—what areas did the enemy control? Where could they secure a safe zone? Whose aid could they count on, and how far had things progressed?
To uncover all of it, the Professor dashed outside with Notum, searching for the curse flowers she claimed were "littered along the roads" just as she described.
"Here it is."
"Where?"
"Right here. Right in front of the Professor's eyes."
"I don't see it."
"Gruk. Don't look with your eyes—use your soul. Your skin, your nose, your every breath in and out. That shiver, that prickling sensation. The feeling you get when a carriage veers off the road and tumbles down a cliff. Find that clustered together. It's not hard."
*What the hell is she even saying?*
[She's talking about intuition, gut feeling.]
First off, the curse flowers weren't as numerous as Notum had implied. They were shielded by such potent concealment magic that not even an elf with eyesight sharp enough to read Braille from a hundred meters away—let alone an ordinary person—could spot them.
Second.
"Curse flowers? Curse flowers, you say? Impossible. Though our Church of Luminance may not shine as brightly as the sun in the Empire, we have far more than enough devotees to defy such a label! With their faith by our side, how could anyone dare commit such an atrocity right under our noses, in the capital itself—"
"—but here they are. Picked this one up on the way."
"Heavens! H-hand it over. I'll summon the priests for purification and sealing rites at once—"
"Oh, while we're at it, this one too. And this."
*Thud. Plop. Thud.*
"Th-there's more than one?"
The bishop and priests of the capital diocese recoiled in shock, as if beholding curse flowers for the very first time.
The Church's failure to detect them meant the flowers fell outside the scope of holy magic—and that they hadn't yet begun functioning as catalysts for curses.
Third.
"I've examined the curse flowers closely. These things take at least thirty years to grow without mass slaughter or racial wars flooding them with blood. In peacetime, even planting seeds might not yield a sprout for over a century. As they feed on impurities, they're heavily influenced by their surroundings. Know what that means?"
"What?"
"Their growth rates vary wildly. Ones planted in misery-soaked slums sprout fast; those in tight-knit family districts grow slowly. With growth spans exceeding a decade, one might fully mature while another hasn't even hit half. But... every single one we've gathered haphazardly is fully bloomed. We didn't arrive just in the nick of time. The catalyst planting phase ended long ago."
"So... we're already too late?"
"Way too late. By at least a decade. But here's the odd part: nothing's happened in the Empire. No massacres, no plagues, not even the rebellions or clan exterminations you'd expect. The ritual foundation is complete, yet the witch has done nothing—just let the Empire chug along."
"Doesn't that mean she needs something else to proceed?"
"Or she's afraid of something. Or being thwarted. Who knows. What's certain is the ritual groundwork is done. Why she's waited so long... I can't even guess."
Third: Confirmation from the black mage Aldrich via his forbidden knowledge.
Time wasn't just pressing—it had already passed the point where we could intervene.
At least within the scope we'd surveyed, preparations for the sacrifice were complete and ready to begin at any moment.
The biggest mystery: the Empire was thriving peacefully.
No demon-worshipping lords slaughtering subjects.
No families warring over territories.
It was more peaceful than any imperial depiction in history books or tales.
The witch had done nothing despite letting preparations fester this long.
The Empire still stood as the Empire.
*...What the actual fuck? She sets all this up and then suddenly turns saintly?*
No clue. For once, I couldn't tell where this mess began or ended.
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- Jokasss: Isn't this a grand demon summoning ritual? An empire-scale sacrifice could pull that off.
- Speed Wagon: That requires specific offerings. Corrupted priests en masse, ominous comet shards, crystallized deathbed regrets... All impossible to obtain in the Third World now, so unlikely. More plausible: she's allied with the Mutts, biding time to unleash dual catastrophes...
- professor: Nah. Even evil gods have different agendas, just like the churches of righteous ones. The Mutts schemed to claim an evil throne, but their goal boils down to Mutation Blood survival. Luminance ties to prosperity. The witch who embraced the undead lord's corruption walks a different path.
- Speed Wagon: They could still ally temporarily against a common foe—humans?
- professor: No trace of even a drop of Mutts blood in the capital. Their side has a guy as paranoid as me. If they allied as "enemy of my enemy," he'd have made moves. The Empire's eerie Mutts-free purity? More like the witch blocked their spies and infected humans.
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Even the 47th District's chat—wasteland's top gaming experts—drew a blank.
"...Let's relocate the inn, at least."
"Right... Can't sleep soundly in a place like a cracked ravine, no matter how many decades it's sat dormant. Where to?"
"The temple. Head to the temple first."
This wasn't even a race against the clock anymore—the deadline had expired long ago.
But lingering wouldn't dispel the eerie unease, so the group abandoned their half-eaten meal, hastily packed, and fled the inn.
The butler's panicked shouts chased after them amid the winter morning chill, servants scurrying in bundled clothes through the servant city.
"...Hurry."
Amid the curse flower-infested city's deceptive peace, the Professor quickened his pace.
Hoping their arrival hadn't triggered yet another disastrous path.
****
*Crunch!*
"Is that... what you call an order right now?"
[....No more words. Abort the mission. Return to the Church.]
"But if it's properly embedded in your mind—!"
"Th-the Saint... P-please, calm... U-ughhh...."
"...Tch."
The Professor punched another hole in the confessional's wall—repurposed for holy comms—and steadied his breath at the sight of the trembling young priest opposite. Not out of pity, but because that priest sustained the link.
The capital diocese of the Church of Luminance moved with commendable efficiency. The moment the curse flowers' nature was confirmed, they began erecting purification barriers around the temple, hauling out sacred relics meticulously maintained to counter apocalyptic threats.
All protocols ironically born from the manual forged in blood during the undead lord's uprising—when they stood at the forefront of the human alliance to reclaim the Saintess.
In the end, those preparations now served to approach her once more.
The diocese handled everything flawlessly. Swift, composed responses. Even upon learning the foe involved imperial high officials, they proceeded in utmost secrecy to prevent leaks.
Outwardly unchanged, but fling open the doors to reveal a fortress of holiness—a testament to a Church forged battling impurities on the frontlines.
My task while they prepared: contact headquarters for reinforcements. Expecting a flood of holy knights given the Saintess tie—the Church's deepest scar—they'd surely overreact...
"...Seems age has dulled your hearing, so I'll repeat: The fallen Saintess we once 'purified,' Mea-Maria, lives. She's plotting an empire-wide sacrifice here. I need holy knights and priests—especially those versed in cursed foes—plus aid from the other four great churches."
[I heard clearly and pondered deeply. My answer stands. Return.]
*Hoo, haa. Hoo, haa.*
Calmly. Logically. No surrendering reason to rage.
Archbishop Norman wouldn't spout nonsense from senility. There must be cause. A reason...
"...Archbishop, then let's hear that reason. The projected scope covers the entire imperial capital. Not just Old Amperria, but the holy city and servant city housing populations of five concentric metropolises. What reason demands we abandon souls whose names alone would consume your lifetime in memorials—and retreat? I'm dying to know!"
[....Because nothing's surfaced on the surface.]
The archbishop's voice carried worries as deep as my own.
[As you know, we've monitored the Empire closely. You've been here a day? We've watched for decades via priests, faithful, shadows! We found cultists, sadists aplenty! But no signs of mass sacrifices, curses, or the purified former Saintess.]
"My colleague... *grr*! She's the witness..."
[Not about trust. The Empire runs normally even now. Curse flowers, House Telmeier's secret! Even combined, no cause for holy war in a problem-free Empire! Our holy knights on the Lordric front seize the Mutts' lull to reclaim territory! They're in bloodbaths daily! Declare holy war on a quiet Empire over unverified evidence? You'd awaken the sleeping lion—not as ally, but as our starving foe!]
Reality. Brutally sharp, blood-tanged in my throat.
Luminance knights to the front. Mercy knights seeking and guarding the reclaimed Saintess.
Valor Church, imperial state faith, won't oppose easily. Wisdom and Abundance lack ties.
"So... no support, just come home?"
[....In the Great Holy War era, countless martyrs fell purifying the fallen Saintess. Heroes guided by God like you, Saints who wrought miracles. The witch bloated them with curses, drove them to self-impalement. Not solvable by a handful. Might require all five churches in full. Think the Empire sits idle?]
"Damn it..."
[We never wanted such calculus.]
Beyond the holy comm, the steel-firm archbishop's voice quavered faintly.
[We've... barely found light again. You are it. Decades without our Saintess, through darkness and faint dawns, we've reclaimed Luminance's spark. If God's will truly touches you, we can't lose you. Please return. Our light's too feeble against that evil...]
Order. Notice. Plea.
Only then did I grasp the archbishop's uncharacteristic stiffness—not to deny a request, but to mask fear.
Fear of losing the Saint they'd deemed true light, reverting to intrigue, compromise, anguish, politics.
[....Kinda heartbreaking. They're saying they can't bear seeing you die. What's the play?]
*...Norman's the world's most devout priest—yet mad enough to forge scripture. Reinforcements are a bust.*
Grasping that, I dropped the argument.
"...Fine. Preparing to return."
[Thank you for understanding. Once things settle and we leverage your curse flowers for consensus and proof across churches, we can declare the Empire's capital cursed, the near-inviolable imperial domain swayed by other powers. Just hold till then. Need escorts on return?]
"As you said, the witch likely knows I'm here, watching. She won't let me slip easily. Might even scheme."
[....I'll send the holy knight guard staying to protect me. Brother Gregorio will lead.]
"Report noted Mutts forces camped at imperial borders. Witch and Mutts squeezing from both sides could turn dicey."
[....Light's Choir too. Exhausted, but knights carrying them... by meeting time...]
"Thanks. I'll await confidently. See you at headquarters."
[....Wait. Surely you're not—]
*Click.*
The Professor cut the comm after relaying only essentials to the bishop. More talk risked backpedaling.
[Really going back?]
*Crazy. Obvious she'd erupt like a volcano if left. Follow Church orders after Rabbit botched the witch pursuit? That'd make us idiots.*
No sign of compliance, so he bluffed.
*'Not the Church forces hoped for, but archbishop's personal guard means elite holy knights. Choir's hymnals, AoE buffs, heals, purges—handy.*
Pretend to return gravely, snag escorts. Upon arrival:
*"The Saint? Already deep in the capital?"*
*"????"*
What could they do? Here to save me—they'd follow.
[Gregorio already dislikes you. This'll make him hate you more.]
*'Tough. Tell him to become Saint. If I gave average faithful my holy power, I'd have pretended to obey.*
Comms done, the Professor burst from the confessional to rejoin the group.
"How'd it go?"
"Misjudged. Holy war's the wrong path."
"No way... The Church refused reinforcements?"
"Yes."
"Then how the hell do we resolve this..."
Despair gripped the group at the rejection. The Professor's sharp gaze swept their assets.
*'No problem's unsolvable. Their flat refusal means holy war isn't the fix— it'd backfire. Curse flower capital. Witch's wait. Flawless Empire. Normal. Normal...*
Purification barriers underway at temple. One soul sorcerer. One shaman. Merchant-politics-cult expert. Water mage. Player.
*'Aldrich: witch's nemesis archetype. Notum: quest accelerator key player. They'll drive this. Backtrack dead end to fork. Origin of moves: incident start, key item...*
"Aldrich, curse flowers."
"Over there—Church sealing them."
The Professor bolted up, shoving through busy priests to the flowers.
Neatly arrayed on the white marble altar.
Incident's genesis item. Mere curse conduits, scattered citywide—we'd dismissed them post-confirmation.
Our sole lead.
"Notum. Where'd you find this rat-skin-sealed one?"
"Gruk. First find. Bearded old gent in fine clothes watering garden. Smallest house here."
"This?"
"Ancestor ghost shoved into alley."
"Alley means space—outer servant city. This?"
"Under our inn."
"Then this... deeper in."
"Y-yes, Saint! Don't touch—dangerous!"
One, two, three, four. Nine total. Professor rearranged haphazardly placed curse flowers by discovery order/location.
Revealing an overlooked faint clue.
"Aldrich. Thoughts?"
"Vitality... differs."
Purple curse flowers, near-identical. Yet subtle variances—undetectable sans herb lore or my elven sight.
From servant outskirts to inn inward: deeper finds grew drier, less vibrant.
"Aldrich. You said ritual prep's done. Least from here."
"Y-yes."
"Yet varying growth rates—all fully matured while she delays? Means waiting on something. Or—"
"Fearing something..."
"Or obstructed."
Witch prepped but stalled.
Curse flowers wilting inward.
Capital cult scene growing chaotic daily.
"...Fuck. Not a hidden path—it's 'dig through the rat hole.'"
The faintly concealed trail emerged, its complexity forcing a wry laugh.
"Hey, Lucilla."
"Y-yes?"
"Yesterday's meet was weird but succeeded, right?"
"Uh... y-yeah?"
"Got invites then?"
"Yes. As you predicted, party for whole group: two counts, one marquess, one marchioness-hosted..."
"Prep. Highest status first."
"N-now? In this mess?"
"Yes. Because now. Because this mess. Must attend."
Empire versus witch. Holy Church—prime anti-profane ally—unavailable; Empire flawlessly normal.
"Something in this Empire blocks the witch's ritual. Find it first. Can't rampage under Church banner. Can't brute-force solo. One answer left."
Player's secured factions off-table.
Player's might plus allies—no dragon-taming, knight-slaying cheat—can't start quest.
*Then, something inside fills my gaps, empowers witch fight.*
Inward-wilting curse flowers. The clue.
Answer lies in Empire's heart.
*'Politics as Saint under witch's nose in curse-choked capital? Sadistic art. Always fresh. Damn game.*
"R-really going? I contact them?"
The Professor nodded at Lucilla—expression screaming *this right?*—as she dug party garb from rushed luggage.
If witch's shield is 'Empire' authority, infiltrate it.
Pierce 'flawlessly normal' Empire's core via 'flawlessly normal' means.
Politics, looped back. Knowing the hidden truth or not.
"Yeah. To the holy city."
The Professor eyed the distant palace—visible everywhere—the Emperor's seat.
Whatever it was, the answer lay there.
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