Chapter 238
Chapter 238
Chapter 238
Translator: True Detective
Chapter 238 – The Darkest Hour of the Northern Continent
Late January, on the southern coast of the Protos Empire, Northern Continent.
In this relatively warm coastal region, snow was not a common sight.
Lilorom City had always been a warm, lively, seaside city.
Because of its geographical position—far to the southwest, distant from the empire’s major southern ports—and because its hinterland was nothing but vast mountains and forests, with the nearest inland city being hundreds of kilometers away, it had mostly grown as a tourist city.
Though not particularly rich, its scenery was enchanting.
The city sprawled across a chain of coastal islets connected by bridges, and so those artistic bridges had become Lilorom’s most iconic feature—not only facilitating travel, but also serving as perfect viewpoints to gaze at the sea.
However, in this rare, bitterly cold winter, storms seemed to have swept down from the imperial capital in the north all the way to these remote border cities.
One night, a light snowfall quietly arrived.
The lighthouse’s glow appeared hazy through the thin veil of snow. Ships moored at the harbor were dusted with white, seabirds hid in cabins or the lighthouse’s warm crevices, and the masts, veiled by falling snow, cut phantom silhouettes against the distant lights.
Snowflakes fell softly onto the city’s stone-paved streets, blending with the older snow already layered beneath.
From the harbor to the city hall, the long road’s streetlamps were smothered by snow, their light glowing dimly through the frosted glass.
Once night fell, passersby became rare. Those who did appear wore thick coats and hats, hurrying along.
Their footsteps left wet streaks, turning fresh snow into patches of black slush.
It wasn’t simply the cold that kept them indoors.
It was the recent, disturbing “reforms” across the Protos Empire—and the silver-robed clergy who now strode openly in the streets.
On this deep night, even the moon was nearly hidden.
Not far from city hall, in a manor befitting wealth and power…
Scarlet tapestries hung along the walls, their detailed embroidery depicting war, trade, harmony, and prosperity—the supposed glories of the Protos Empire.
In the reception hall, two men sat across a finely crafted moonwood-and-metal table, drinking leisurely.
It was a scene that had repeated countless times in the history of the Northern Continent—banquets of villains.
“Honored one of the Resurrection Church, I drink to you on behalf of our lord.”
The corpulent nobleman, dressed in a custom-made robe, raised his glass and downed it in one gulp.
“Viscount Francis is far too blind to the times, unable to see the empire’s great changes.”
He shook his head with mock grief, as if a noble soul burdened by worldly troubles.
But his fawning toward the Resurrection Church cleric across the table said more than his words ever could about who he considered fit to rule this city.
“…Actually, I rather admire that viscount.”
The man opposite him—a silver-armored priest with a strange, blue sigil hung around his neck, symbol of his devotion to an evil god—swirled his wine thoughtfully.
The sigil on his chest was a rare blue-quality [Proof of Resurrection – Ba’tian].
Any cleric carrying such a badge was of significant rank, a high priest. Above them were the violet “rare” seals—usually direct subordinates of a bishop, or their personal enforcers. The pink “sacred” seals marked chosen saints. At the pinnacle, the epic-grade [Bishop’s Proof] itself.
Normally…
Resurrection Church members hid their [Proofs] carefully, showing them only to allies when necessary.
Only a madman would flaunt such an item openly as an emblem.
But now—
Within the Protos Empire, the Resurrection Church was a legal religion.
The very cardinals who had long been reviled across the continent as monsters now stood as the empire’s great archbishops, to be revered by the people.
A reversal so shocking no one would have believed it just a few years ago.
But here it was.
“…The viscount—Francis—leans heavily toward the Church of the Goddess of Fate. His distaste for your church is plain. Especially… he would never embrace the doctrines of your Ba’tian branch.”
The noble sipped cautiously, watching the armored cleric’s reaction.
“Then it seems… he is guilty indeed.”
The cleric turned, gazing at the garden fountain with a quiet murmur.
The manor was warm, peaceful, a world apart from the tension outside—though in truth, men like these were the very source of that atmosphere.
“Exactly. For your mission to spread smoothly here, and to prevent hostile powers from tarnishing your church’s reputation, I believe this city’s leadership requires… change.”
The noble chuckled, draining his cup and wiping the red from his lips with his sleeve.
“…Though we are now recognized as orthodox by the empire, we cannot act too brazenly. Slay a noble openly, and if the imperial investigators uncover it, even a priest of my rank would face execution.”
The cleric frowned in thought, voice slow.
“To ease your concern—Viscount Francis’s daughter bears certain atavistic traits of demonkind. Though both her parents are human, such features mark her as a half-demon, stripping her of succession rights. Once the viscount is gone, I’ll quickly make her part of my household. The city will then fall to me. I assure you—her voice will never reach the capital.”
The noble’s jowls quivered with a vile grin.
Wife, concubine… no, to him she would be nothing but a toy, a slave.
“You really are a wicked man.”
The cleric smiled faintly, lifting his cup.
He would have to tread carefully; dealings with such nobles left leverage in their hands. But none of them would dare cross a Ba’tian priest.
If they did, this entire city could be erased overnight.
“So, honored one, what do you say? Francis is at sea—returning soon from the eastern port. I can provide his usual routes.”
The noble filled his guest’s glass again.
Once, such collusion with the Resurrection Church would have meant the gallows.
Now, their temples stood openly in the city, their “services” plain for all to see.
“Then I shall help you.”
The cleric leaned back, his armor creaking.
Francis was indeed an obstacle. Removing him was only natural.
After all, if a weakling was slain by the strong, who could complain?
“I’ll fetch the maps of his routes, and prepare a ship for you. You can approach without raising suspicion.”
The noble’s belly shook as he laughed.
Imperial policies, the church, northern unrest—none of that mattered.
What mattered was his power, his taste of it.
Power could turn black into white. They were the law.
The empire was absurd—and delightful.
A festival for villains.
“I’ll come with you.”
The priest rose, dinner concluded.
The noble eagerly led him through the halls, up to the third-floor study overlooking the night city.
The calendar on the wall had just been turned to the new year: 1798 of the Solar Calendar.
The desk was piled with edicts from the capital—mostly notices about remnants of the Fate Goddess Church. If spotted, they were to be reported immediately to the provincial capital, then the military.
“How ironic. In just two months, the once-mighty Church of Fate has been purged from the empire.”
The noble chuckled, rifling through a drawer.
It all made sense. The empire needed the Resurrection Church’s power, clearing the path for larger wars to come.
But among the papers—
One crimson warning stood out.
From the start, it had caught the cleric’s eye.
It bore the profile of High Priest Loren of the Southern Continent’s Fate Goddess Church, warning all southern ports to stay vigilant.
Perhaps southern aid might come, but unlikely. Loren would not abandon his homeland kingdom to cross the sea.
Destroyer-Bishop Ivanos already kept him plenty occupied.
And the Saint of Fate, far northwest in Aetherthalan, posed no threat to the empire’s southern core.
“The empire is… strangely cautious.”
The cleric picked up the notice.
The first line read:
If the bearer of the [Primordial Tablet – Wind] is discovered, immediately report to the Imperial Military.
Below were images of the tablet, and descriptions of the unique glow it emitted when channeling wind magic.
No disguise could conceal this.
To identify Loren, identify the tablet.
“Ha. Loren is said to be a noble soul, unlikely to stoop to tricks. But the empire fears strong men most of all. Should he gamble everything, abandoning his homeland to infiltrate…”
The noble mused.
“They truly misunderstand him.”
The cleric set the paper down with a shake of the head.
“He would aid Aetherthalan openly. He would not skulk into our heartlands. Unless he’d gone mad—and tried to break into the imperial prison, freeing the great demons bound there for centuries…”
The noble laughed, half in jest.
The cleric even paused, frowning as if to consider it.
But no, headless bands of eighth-rank demons posed little real threat.
At last he burst into laughter.
The noble, relieved, laughed along.
“To storm that prison? Suicide!”
“Exactly. Should Loren dare appear, he’d meet the empire’s judgment—and end up in that very prison himself!”