Heretic Inquisitor
Dominus vobiscum.
It was late at night in Lumen, the capital of the Lustia Holy Kingdom, when the bells tolled signaling curfew. The streets had emptied of pious worshippers' footsteps.
Yet in the northern part of the city, a gray stone building stood at a deliberate distance from the grand cathedral, its lights still burning defiantly.
There was scarcely anything one might call decoration. No holy icons adorned the shabby structure—only chiseled stone walls, narrow windows, and a single word carved above the entrance.
Lustia Holy Kingdom Heretic Inquisition
The Heretic Inquisition. The weight of that single term was immense. This was no sanctuary for learning faith or attaining enlightenment. Here, instead of offering prayers and reciting hymns, those who wielded doctrine like a blade gathered. It was a place where doubters of the faith existed to safeguard the faith itself.
Their mission was simple: Uphold the doctrines of the Holy Light Church.
To achieve it, they spared no means or methods. Perhaps that was why the rumors about them were so grim.
Once you crossed the threshold of the Heretic Inquisition, a person's life was no longer their own.
Guilty or innocent, they unearthed the truth. If no truth existed, they forged the answer closest to it. At least... that's what people believed.
Every member of the Holy Light Church knew their name. Yet no one spoke it lightly.
Priests who bestowed blessings were welcomed; nuns who tended the sick were revered. But inquisitors were different. They were not objects of gratitude. Necessary, yet shunned—like the shadow of faith that naturally followed the light.
At the center of their building loomed a massive iron door emblazoned with the crest of Goddess Yustia. Unlike the benevolent image in other cathedrals, here her eyes were closed, the scales tilted in judgment.
Mercy yields to judgment...
Inside, the rustle of turning pages and the scratch of pen nibs never ceased. Their pens were light, but the words they inscribed were anything but. A single life could topple a nation's foundation.
Priests in black robes organized records at their stations. No idle chatter broke the silence—here, quietude was discipline.
Then came a knock at the door.
"Enter."
The door opened, and a young clerk stepped in cautiously, bowing deeply as he held a sealed letter aloft in both hands. Red wax bore the seal of a provincial crest.
"A letter has arrived from Brunel Village recently. Sent jointly by the village chief and the priest."
Several priests' hands froze mid-motion. Reports from remote villages under joint signatures were rarely mundane.
The elderly priest at the head of the table extended his hand.
"Hand it over."
He unfolded the letter and read slowly. At first, his face remained impassive. But after a few lines, his eyebrows twitched.
"...Presiding over Mass."
A nearby priest asked, "A dispatched priest?"
"No."
The elder's reply was firm.
"Check the ordination records."
Ledgers flipped open immediately.
"...No record of the individual."
"Baptism records...?"
Pages flew by.
"...Not found."
"..."
The elder continued reading.
• Inciting the populace, starting with the poor.
• Expanding influence in the village.
• Clashes with village militia.
• Drawing crowds.
His gaze lingered on the final line.
"Didn't we send knights recently?"
The clerk replied promptly. "Yes, dispatch records confirm it."
"What was the outcome?"
The clerk hesitated at the elder's question.
"...They... failed to subdue and returned."
"...?"
The room's air grew heavy. Murmurs rippled through the once-silent chamber.
Failed knightly orders were rare—especially from a backwater village.
The elder, letter still unfolded, spoke calmly. "Repelled the knights, presides over Mass without priesthood, rallies the poor."
He raised his eyes slowly.
"No claims of miracles, at least."
A young priest ventured cautiously, "Could be just a demagogue."
The elder shook his head. "...A demagogue? Could a mere agitator manage this? Even if so, no ordinary man. Regardless, we can't leave him be."
No one contradicted him.
The elder rose, his robe whispering against the stone floor.
"What do we call one who plays the priest without ordination?"
"...A heretic, to be judged."
He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them. The verdict was set.
"The Holy Kingdom's authority stems from doctrine."
"..."
"Yet those who mimic it sow chaos in order."
He folded the letter and set it on the desk, his tone even.
"Summon them."
A priest looked up.
"The Heretic Inquisitors."
In that instant, the entire Inquisition buzzed into motion.
The next day, Lumen, capital of the Lustia Holy Kingdom, basked in peaceful routine.
Under dazzling sunlight, merchants hawked from dawn. The scent of baking bread mingled with children's laughter—a city alive with humanity. People jostled through their day.
Threading between them walked a silver-haired woman at an unhurried pace.
Black coat with silver trim. Sealed document pouch at her waist. Sword etched with the Holy Light Church crest.
A Heretic Inquisitor.
Passersby glanced, then averted eyes. The crowd parted subtly. No overt avoidance, but no one drew near.
A familiar reaction.
She patrolled her route in silence. Then her gaze caught on a shop window, reflecting her sunlit form.
Straight posture. Impeccable attire. The perfect inquisitor.
And her expression.
"..."
No smile.
More precisely, no expression at all.
A old comment surfaced.
-Dominica Alba, try smiling once in a while? People are terrified...
She'd brushed it off then. Inquisitors needn't seem kind. But now, it nagged.
She paused.
Forced her lips upward.
A smile.
...Or something like it. Awkward, mechanical. Eyes dead, mouth unnaturally curved—like a doll mimicking humanity.
A passing child startled, hiding behind his mother.
She stood frozen a moment, then exhaled softly.
"...Enough."
Even she knew it was foolish.
She knew why she couldn't smile. She hadn't always been joyless.
Quite the opposite. She'd once smiled constantly.
From childhood, she'd idolized the Holy Light Church. Saving lives, protecting the weak, spreading God's will. Joining them filled her with pride.
Until... she saw it.
Forbidden records behind locked doors. Names discarded to maintain "order." Verdicts issued not for faith, but power.
That day, something inside quietly shattered.
What she'd believed in. Whom her sword served. Sometimes, she couldn't tell.
She shook her head. Nothing changed.
She resumed walking. Laughter sounded distant. The document pouch felt heavier.
"..."
She drew out the rolled parchment from her pouch.
Orders delivered that morning from the Inquisition itself.
Location: Brunel Village
Suspect: Unordained individual presiding over Masses, rallying populace (starting with poor), expanding influence.
Incidents: Knightly order and village militia repelled.
Directive: Confirm heresy. Interrogate. Dispose if necessary.
Her eyes traced the lines slowly.
The report was straightforward. Unordained figure holding worship gatherings, mustering crowds, growing influence. Common type: frauds peddling God for profit, or agitators.
She'd seen countless like him.
Most crumbled in fear; some raged to the end. Outcomes never varied.
Yet.
"...Knights and militia subdued."
Her gaze halted there.
Fingers twitched faintly.
Knightly order.
Not mere armed rabble. Faith-forged and trained. Militia aside, knights retreating changed everything.
Meant he could fight fiercely.
Or more.
"..."
No need for speculation. Verify.
No fear stirred. No arrogance. Just knowledge of her path. Years wielding the Inquisition's blade. Faced hordes of heretics, survived.
Her skill was undeniable.
She rerolled the parchment, tucked it away, and exhaled deeply.
Emotions unnecessary. Judgment sufficed. So she steeled herself.
Her reflection flashed in another window. Expressionless still. No trace of that forced smile.
That felt right.
"...Duty calls."
She turned, leaving the central avenue for the carriage station.
Her mind mapped the schedule.
Travel time. On-site inquiry. Subject identification. Interrogation. Disposition if required.
All by procedure.
A vague unease tugged at her core, unbidden. She ignored it.
Feelings weren't criteria.
So thinking, she halted at the station and boarded a carriage.
"...Then, off we go. To Brunel Village."