The Compulsory Catechism
It took less than an hour and a half for Elama, who had rushed to Kikiwai Airport to meet the branch manager, to return to the outpost. Given the emergency, he must have grabbed only what was essential without any real chit-chat.
“What's the situation?”
“They seem to be holding on somehow.”
I'd just been on a video call with Donjubara Palri, the accounting manager. The camera had captured Gambian Turea in the middle of a fierce battle against the bishop on the first floor, flanked by water and rock spirits.
A clash between spirit mages wielding nature's elements at will. The surrounding elves were barely keeping their distance to avoid getting caught in the crossfire. Golden light streamed from their palms, feeding energy into the spirits' bodies—it looked like they were sustaining them that way.
Turea's side had more elves, but the rumors were true: fire spirits were the strongest. Turea was starting to get pushed back, bit by bit.
I hope exhausted Turea can hold out until we arrive.
“Kweet kweet.”
Eco, tucked in my suit jacket's breast pocket instead of a handkerchief, buzzed with vibration and let out a spirited cry. Urging us to hurry, no doubt.
And that's exactly what I planned to do.
“Let's get moving.”
“Got it, kid.”
Plop.
This time, without Elama shoving me from behind, I threw myself into the dimensional gate of my own accord.
The World Tree's first floor resembled a vast shopping mall. Beneath the massive rock blocking the open central ceiling that stretched up to the fifth floor...
Zailini Bambino the bishop and Turea were locked in a brutal fight.
WHOOSH!!
Flames devoured oxygen from the air at blinding speed. The World Tree's inner walls were scorching black, but Zailini pushed his fire spirit to the max, menacing Turea and his followers. The blaze spread like a living thing in all directions before converging again, toying with its prey—regardless of the spirit's own will, bound by an ancient pact.
“Bishop Zailini! This fight is wrong!!”
“Silence!! Protecting the World Tree from scum like you is my sacred duty!!”
“You call that—!!”
Turea hesitated, wondering if he should refute with the facts he knew, but clamped his mouth shut. Shouting it here wouldn't shake the bishop's fanatical followers. For now, all he could do was endure and wait for a counterattack opportunity.
“You just never listen!!”
The bishop's relentless assault. But Turea didn't falter. Still down on one knee, he slammed the floor.
BOOM!
“Now...!”
The water and earth spirits flanking Turea unleashed their power.
RUMBLE!!
Mud materialized in midair, instantly forming a massive jar-like structure that trapped the bishop. His furious shouts echoed from inside the colossal vessel.
“If this buys time...”
The ferocious flames scorched the spirit-infused mud, but the structure hardened more with each passing second. Success. This was Turea's trump card, held in reserve for a counterstrike. The fiercer the fire spirit's heat, the denser the mud solidified—like pottery firing in a kiln. Plus, trapped in that sealed space, the bishop would be burning through his own oxygen. He was probably pulling back his power right now, gripped by the fear of roasting alive in his own flames.
Sway.
“Representative...!”
Employees rushed to support Turea as extreme fatigue nearly toppled him. Dizziness from the intense heat overwhelmed him. It wasn't just from pulling an all-nighter—his condition had tanked. He'd hidden it when the Dimensional Credit Vault bankers arrived, but he couldn't hold out anymore.
“That's why I said you were pushing too hard...”
Turea's skin was charred black like a lump of coal all over. His secretary couldn't hold back tears at the sight, fat droplets falling.
Turea had spent years sleeping outside the World Tree to preserve as much life force as possible for the younger generation. In that state, running low on spirit energy was inevitable. And with all the overexertion, his lifespan must have shortened considerably.
Still, his reckless stand had bought them a momentary halt to the bishop's advance.
“Smash the jar!!!”
The problem was the elders, spotting their leader trapped in pottery, charging with iron weapons. Some, thinking the bishop defeated, approached the fallen Turea with faces twisted in vengeful fury.
“...Excuse me for a moment.”
The secretary hoisted her limp boss's body and started carrying him to safety.
“You can't collapse yet.”
Feeling his weakening heartbeat, she muttered fiercely. Turea had given everything for her generation, including her. Now it was their turn to protect him.
“Then, we're counting on you.”
Young elves loyal to Turea gathered behind the secretary. Half to guard the jar holding the bishop, the other half to secure Turea's escape route.
“Leave it to us.”
“We'll hold out until the bankers arrive.”
“As long as the representative and the sapling are safe.”
The battle-hardened artisans and employees flashed confident smiles as they cleared a path for the secretary and boss. The sapling would wither if exposed to outside air too long. So they had to protect it inside until they defeated the bishop. And Turea, who had shielded them all this time, too.
“This time, we'll protect you.”
The elves summoned Turea's two spirits and began replenishing their energy. Not for anyone else—for their own future.
About thirty minutes after Turea sealed the bishop. The old elves, veterans of past wars, subdued their opponents without seriously injuring the younger generation. Half the young elves had been deployed to block the elders trying to grab Turea, giving them the numerical edge.
“This is what happens when you underestimate us old folks.”
The arrogant elders, always sneered at by the youth, savored their near-victory as they shattered the pottery imprisoning Zailini.
Crack...
BOOM!!!
They packed the jar with old explosives and detonated it. Amid the deafening roar, a massive hole blasted through the fired-mud structure.
“Bishop Zailini! Are you alright!!”
Someone emerged from the smoke-filled interior, waving off the haze.
“...Cough.”
Face smeared with soot, Bishop Zailini was unscathed.
“Turea.”
“He's down.”
“...I see.”
The bishop gazed up at the rock wall sealing the ceiling, a satisfied smile on his lips. Shatter that, climb to the roof, burn the sapling—and all debts would vanish. Ownership would pass to that man, but no matter. He could still live out his comfortable retirement here. After all his contributions to the race's prosperity, he deserved it. He couldn't lose everything just because a petty gambling debt snowballed unluckily.
“Then, let's head up.”
The bishop and his followers pressed forward, driving back the young elves. Subdue the remaining few, seize command of the earth spirit—and with the World Tree as collateral, eliminate Turea, who constantly nitpicked his behavior. He might even claim the representative seat at Cappelino di Driade alongside his Tree Bishop title. No kin had died in this show of force, so his hard-earned reputation wouldn't suffer.
Now he could truly become the elves' leader.
As he sauntered toward the cornered opposition with such thoughts—
Thud thud thud thud thud...
A strange noise echoed from outside the World Tree.
“What is that sound...”
The bishop and followers stepped out and looked skyward. Some young elves guarding the rock wall followed.
“...A helicopter?”
Something—no, someone—was approaching in a helicopter. As it descended, gusts flattened the grass and kicked up dust. The bishop and elders shielded their faces and pressed closer against the wind to identify the visitor.
And who stepped out was—
“From the Dimensional Credit Vault. Slick Elama of the Kikiwai Multidimensional Outpost.”
“Kim Jian here. Nice to meet you.”
“Kyuu!”
Two men in suits. And a wind spirit poking its face out from one's breast pocket.
“What business does a banker have here? Get lost.”
Their arrival wasn't welcome to the bishop. Seeing them return after nearly catching fire showed their loan determination.
“We have no business with bankers. We will never hand over the World Tree as collateral.”
Fwoosh!
No matter what, the World Tree couldn't fall into the bank's hands as collateral. He summoned his fire spirit to intimidate, but the bald man facing the heat stared back with a relaxed expression.
“Fiery temper, huh? I know you have no business with bankers.”
The man straightened proudly and declared:
“I, Slick Elama, have business with you. Personally, with you, Bishop.”
His face was an utter enigma. Before the bishop could guess his intent, the man boldly dropped to his knees and clasped his hands.
Thud!
“What the—?!”
The bishop recoiled a step at the unexpected move, but the man seized the opening.
“Noble priest who serves the World Tree and the star souls within its wood, Bishop Zailini Bambino!!”
“...?!”
The man's voice boomed. Exaggerated expressions, lines, and gestures straight out of traditional theater. Eyes blazing like a lion's. Only then did Zailini realize—he needed to plug his ears. Or silence the banker. If he let this continue—
Fwoosh!
The fire spirit manifested a massive blaze on his command, but it was too late.
“This humble human, Slick Elama, beseeches you. I lay my lost soul humbly before you and the World Tree, seeking your guidance.”
Elama followed scriptural protocol: kneeling and placing gold, pure salt crystals, and a branch with leaves before the bishop.
“Heed the plea of this small one and teach him for his benefit. Guide him to the righteous path.”
Elama murmured the scripture's call for catechism in a soft voice.
“This isn't the time for—”
“You'll do the catechism, right? Fair and square, in front of everyone.”
“...”
“If someone requests doctrinal questioning per precedent, the bishop must respond. I found records of it even on battlefields.”
An ancient prophet's golden words, unknown to young elves but binding even to the bishop himself and his devout followers.
“You look rough, but it's not a warzone, so carve out time till evening. Or quit being bishop if you hate it.”
Everyone knew refusing meant forfeiting bishop status.
“...Insolent.”
Open fury twisted the bishop's face, now forcibly detained.