Chapter 386
Chapter 386
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 386
Chapter Title: Omen (5)
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The forms of the apocalypse are countless, but the outcome they bring is always the same. It was a statement both the Church and the heretics could agree on.
Thus, the Church declared it would tolerate not even the slightest evil, mobilizing every possible means. The heretics, each harboring their own twisted ideals, raced toward the apocalypse they dreamed of.
At least, that was how people of this era saw it.
“But they all regard the apocalypse as nothing more than vague rumors and secret myths.”
No one had ever witnessed the moment of the apocalypse firsthand.
With two exceptions in the current material world. Fernandez spoke to the one remaining person besides himself.
The king with aged, profound eyes listened to his words—the lord from distant myths who still preserved his immense power from his prime.
Jerolen. The last founding king of the Elven Tri-Kings dynasty. He held his wine glass as he listened to Fernandez.
“Indeed. At least we know what form the apocalypse takes. Why have you sought me out?”
“I wish to borrow the method you used to aid Charlemagne.”
“Hm...? You want to ride a griffon?”
In the late Heavenly War, it was said that Jerolen had mounted Charlemagne on his griffon and flown him into battle, where the emperor personally slew the great archdemon and secured peace in the material world.
But Jerolen did not answer readily.
The situation now was utterly different from when Charlemagne had plunged into the heart of the enemy lines back then.
At that time, demons had built a vast empire in the material world. To claim the head of the great archdemon, they had to carve through millions of demons—but this era was not like that.
There was no need for stealthy movement, no deep enemy camps teeming with foes, and on this continent, there were plenty of lords who would raise their banners at his call.
Why on earth would he need a griffon for transport?
“Where do you intend to go? If you need fast movement, sailing the seas would be safer and more comfortable.”
“The land where Charlemagne drew his final breath, where he slew the great archdemon. You’re the only one left in the material world who knows its exact location.”
Fernandez spoke while gazing at the dockworkers unloading cargo at the harbor. Infermur, once the elves’ territory, was a massive port with facilities spacious enough to accommodate even an elven flagship.
Tugs, carts, wagons, and pulleys intertwined in complex cranes were unloading foodstuffs and the like.
Not even ten days had passed since news of the war’s end reached the empire, yet the elven royal flagship had appeared in the east, loaded with relief grain.
Everything seemed to move like perfectly meshed gears.
Even before the rumor of the war’s end reached the imperial court’s center, grain from across the empire had already been loaded at Guir’s harbor. And by coincidence, an elven flagship capable of massive voyages had been docked at Guir. No one dared question these conveniences.
Before they could seize control of the seas, the northerners had conveniently fled into the deep ocean, and the pilgrimage knights had “regrettably” failed to block their retreat.
The empire had “repaid” its support from the recent civil war by aiding Dane with grain, and Dane had supplied the eastern petty kingdoms with relief rice at “bargain prices and low interest.”
The supply chains and distribution plans everywhere were overseen by Dane’s scattered Round Table Knights, right on cue.
Now, Dane could claim both fame and profit, rising as the hegemonic power in the east.
No one suspected this meticulous, extraordinarily coincidental series of events. A single piece of bread in their mouths was worth more than idle curiosity.
“It’s been a thousand years since Charlemagne died. I doubt even traces from that time remain.”
“I have means to heed even the souls of the dead from a millennium ago. How long do you think it will take?”
“To get there? Once this is done, a week to ten days. Riding five griffons and switching them the whole way should take that long. Any others coming along?”
“None.”
Jerolen shrugged as Fernandez shook his head curtly.
“Your resolve to face threats alone is admirable, of course, but occasionally consider the worries of those around you.”
“Unnecessary advice.”
“Stubborn as ever. Very well, let’s go. Return in ten days.”
With that, Jerolen turned away as if he had said all he needed to, gazing back at the docks. Fernandez could sense yearning and faint nostalgia in that gaze.
It was the eye of the king of exiles, forever banished from the earth. The eye of a king who still remembered the days when he walked the land.
* * *
The grain distribution proceeded smoothly. Smooth enough that Fernandez didn’t need to roll up his sleeves.
In truth, Fernandez excelled at devising grand schemes but was not well-versed in running a nation or crafting intricate economic plans.
He had lived his entire life as a wandering mage, assassinating heroes through intrigue countless times, but he had no experience as an administrative noble.
So now, he was enjoying a rare vacation. Leisurely touring the war-ravaged lands of Altbert and Dane as they rebuilt.
“Do you remember that village?”
“It’s been two years already. I do.”
“Heh, sometimes it’s good to have time like this.”
Abel smiled softly, matching her horse’s pace to Fernandez’s. She suddenly wore a playful expression as she looked at him.
“But is it alright leaving Kirhas like that?”
“She’s the most capable among us.”
“I’d like to disagree. Don’t downplay my value!”
Unfortunately, Kirhas could not join this outing.
As regent prince-elect ruling Guir and chieftain overseeing her people, she had mountains of tasks demanding her attention right now.
She remained at court, handling the beastkin slave issues scattered across the east and trade matters between the empire and the east—as both an imperial noble and head of the beastkin alliance.
‘No! This can’t happen!! Ancestors! Help me! Don’t do this to me!!’
‘Kirhas. Denying it won’t make the work disappear.’
‘This is betrayal! Benefactor! You’re no longer my benefactor! You’re a traitor!!’
Kirhas had shrieked and attempted dozens of escapes, only to be dragged back by the pilgrimage knights each time and buried under stacks of documents.
Abel giggled, recalling the scene.
“Do you think that girl can handle it? I still can’t imagine her having any political sense.”
“Don’t underestimate her, Abel. Kirhas is a lord who single-handedly triumphed over the old monsters steeped in Guir’s political filth her whole life. She’s more politically adept than her words or actions suggest.”
Politicians fall into three broad types: schemers adept at intrigue and plots; puppet masters hiding behind veils of truth and lies; and instinctive warriors like her.
Her eyes had now fully awakened, approaching those from her past life.
In other words, she had evolved beyond mere instinctual drive toward victory in battle, now capable of instinctively making the most perfect choices.
It was the result of diligently accumulating experience, talent, and the karma of her soul. No trap could easily ensnare Kirhas now. From tiny clues or brief conversations, she could select the most rational path.
This must be what an innate hero achieves through acquired effort. In her past life, she was among the greatest lords countable on two hands; now, she vied for top among one hand.
“Well, thanks to that, I get to enjoy good times, so no complaints. Where to next?”
“Shall we look for traces?”
“Traces?”
“Even if the Inquisition headquarters is gone, it doesn’t mean all Inquisitors died on the same day. But the dispatch of the pilgrimage knights also means communication between the Papal Court and the Inquisitors has been severed.”
If the Inquisitors had all survived intact and could carry out headquarters duties, they would have appeared amid Sigismund’s blatant heresy incident.
The main reason the Pope had resorted to desperate moves and dispatched the pilgrimage knights anyway was surely the mysterious disappearance of the Inquisitors.
The Inquisition was the Church of Beitasser’s most extensive intelligence network.
If the headquarters’ task of refining and reporting intelligence gathered by countless Torchmen suddenly ceased, the Pope had every reason to grow anxious.
But a vast network like that wouldn’t evaporate overnight due to the headquarters’ loss. It had merely halted because the reporting chain was broken.
“Then the Inquisitors may still be isolated, scattered on missions across the nation.”
“How do you find such people? That was only possible when headquarters functioned normally, wasn’t it?”
“There are Inquisitors not affiliated with the St. Bartholomew Monastery headquarters, aren’t there?”
“...Huh?”
“Religiosa Maledica. Sanctuary of the cursed. They’re still fully operational.”
The Inquisition’s three branches—Heretica, Demonica, Enmagicka—likely ceased functioning with the headquarters’ destruction. Finding survivors one by one would be impossible, and even if they’d secretly established a new base, locating it was out of the question.
Fernandez had joined the Inquisition less than three years ago. He’d never learned protocols for emergencies like headquarters’ loss.
Nor was passively waiting for uncertain contact his style.
Time was always the most precious resource, even if he was spending his current leisure on vacation.
Abel shook her head and sighed deeply as he declared they’d resume work immediately.
“Maledica agents don’t report through headquarters. Only through channels permitted to me.”
Fernandez dismounted and murmured softly.
They had reached a secluded mountain path. He scanned the surroundings, confirmed no presence, then splayed his fingers.
“I was looking forward to a nice walk after so long, but you always exceed expectations.”
In the city, church figures abounded, and to the populace, he needed to appear as a Round Table Knight, not a mage. A great and noble knight. Thus, only after trekking to this remote forest path could he attempt the spell.
Whoosh!
His mana circuits heated up, and soon embers ignited atop the piled fallen leaves of winter. Green sparks coiled like serpents, rising and flicking their tongues.
A key-sword with a viper coiling up it. The emblem of Religiosa Maledica burned a long scar into the wood as ash, and a low voice echoed from within.
[Master. Have you been well?]
The dark green flames hissed and writhed continuously. Fernandez crossed his fingers calmly, gazing down with a faint smile.
[Do you have commands for us?]
“I need to incite a heresy incident.”
[State the location and objective. We shall obey.]
“Fairn outskirts, traces of the Crimson Brotherhood, along the northwest ridge—five villages should suffice. Within five days.”
What was the easiest way to find hidden Inquisitors?
To become heretics, naturally.
In that regard, Fernandez could claim to be more of an expert than anyone.