Chapter 76
Chapter 76
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 76
Chapter Title: Funeral Sacrament
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That day, it rained. Thick, gloomy raindrops blanketed the Dragonsting Mountains, to the point where even from the tallest spire of Inquisition Keep, the long, straight mountain road was no longer visible.
Fernandez rose early in the morning, washed himself clean, and donned his monastic robes. Due to the fasting decree, there was no breakfast that day, nor were there the usual Religiosa Demonica morning exercises. A hush of solemnity hung over the halls of the Demonica.
-Creak.
With his rosary wrapped around one arm, Fernandez carefully opened the weathered door. Dragonsting's spring was cold and heavy. All the more so on this rainy morning.
The rain pattered against the coniferous forests, carrying a clear, damp, and weighty scent. The Demonica's senses picked up the incense wafting through the entire fortress. He gazed out the wooden window frame at the monks walking in the rain.
Each held a rosary or censer in hand, making their way to the courtyard. To the Keyblade Sanctuary. A sanctuary that was never opened except in the most exceptional circumstances.
Those exceptional circumstances meant the return of an inquisitor whose remains had been recovered. All inquisitors made the darkest and most dangerous places in the world their battlefields, and thus most inquisitors' remains were never recovered.
Today was a day of fasting.
A day when emotions were permitted to the inquisitors, who should have none.
A day for the dead brothers.
Today was the day of the funeral.
*
The raindrops were growing thicker. In the chilling downpour before the Keyblade Sanctuary, the inquisitors stood motionless like rocks, gazing at the altar.
Atop the altar of the Keyblade Sanctuary stood massive fragments of a keyblade, surrounded by unquenchable small lamps radiating light. Rosaries hung from every lamp. Rosaries engraved with the names of the fallen brothers.
Directly before the upright keyblade lay a brazier large enough for one person. Wooden logs slick with lamp oil glistened in the rain. A single corpse, neatly wrapped in canvas, lay atop it.
Parchments densely inscribed with prayers surrounded the body. Beorn stood before them, silent for a moment.
"We shall burn the devils, the heretics, the witches."
"For Beitasser's glory."
The inquisitors whispered in unison at Beorn's words.
"We stand with feet in the mire, brothers. We bury ourselves in the abyss, ever yearning for our ideals. We wander gladly in the places farthest from peace, hoping that peace may finally come to us all."
"For Beitasser's glory."
Beorn removed his monocle and tucked it into his bosom. He dipped his thumb in holy oil and let drops fall onto the canvas-wrapped corpse, anointing the forehead, cheeks, and shoulders.
"We shall find no rest. For we do not seek it. Our path is paved with blood, flesh, and the bodies and deaths of brothers. We only hope that path has an end, that at its end at least one good soul stands whole. That when the Lord acts, our names stand intact nearest to Him."
"For Beitasser's glory."
Fernandez closed his eyes and whispered along with the other monks. He could not empathize, but neither could he scorn the prayer. His purpose lay elsewhere entirely.
-What inspiring words he picks.
Feizashi sneered. Fernandez kept his eyes shut without a word. He prayed fervently. That at the end of this path, built upon the bodies of brothers like stepping stones, his purpose might stand whole.
"Here lies our brother. Brothers, let us not pray for him. Let us only bless him. He closed his eyes in our stead, for all our futures. May we too become the path of our brothers."
"For Beitasser's glory."
Beorn extended his arm. The attendant bowed at his side swiftly produced a torch and handed it to him. Beorn took the torch and stood over the brazier. With blazing eyes, he gazed at the prayers encircling the remains.
"We shall burn the heretics, the witches, the devils. Brother, our epitaph has always been the same. 'Courage and sacrifice.' The ashes left behind shall testify that we once shone."
"For Beitasser's glory."
The ancient Geilic script on the canvas draped over the massive crossguard of the keyblade fluttered. [Pectus], [Incessum]. Courage, and sacrifice.
"So now, rest in ashes. Brother. Surely there's a place for us in heaven too."
"Macto."
"Macto supelau do."
With those final words, the eulogy ended. Beorn tossed the blazing torch into the brazier. The rain-soaked wood belched black smoke as it ignited. Soon, massive flames roared upward.
Beorn knelt right beside the brazier, in the spot where embers flew. After the brief commemoration, they dispersed in small groups.
*
Beorn sat in his office chair, kneading his weary shoulders. He longed for a sip of tea. During the fasting period, monks could drink only water.
He reached for the file cabinet, then clenched his fist and tapped the desk—tap, tap. His scarred, sturdy fist trembled slightly.
-Knock knock.
"Who is it?"
"Abbot. Archduchess Angela."
". . . Ah. Angela. Let her in."
The door soon opened. A woman with striking red hair and sharp features entered, her deep green eyes sparkling with vitality and mischief.
She gave Beorn a slight bow in greeting, then strode forward and perched on the chair opposite him. Her form was brazenly revealed through her tightly fitted leather attire. Beorn frowned at the sight.
"This is a monastery, Archduchess Angela."
"A no-smoking zone, you mean?"
"Is that how you ask for favors?"
"Favors? Heh, favors."
Angela slowly crossed her long, slender legs and smirked. She brushed back her stole adorned with lavish marten fur, then leaned forward, placing her hand on Beorn's desk.
"More like a recommendation. Sharing intelligence, sharing manpower. Come now, Abbot Shieldbane. We both know the score. We're useful to each other."
"We need no aid from the secular world. Rather, the secular world needs ours . . ."
"I'm not here for stale rhetoric. Something you'd be interested in."
Beorn scowled. His fox-like sharp eyes twitched. Forged over decades as a Heretica, his expression was cold, keen, and intimidating, but Angela smiled softly.
"I hear the Shiled Church is quite displeased. For the time being, the Beitasser Church reaching directly into the Dane Kingdom would carry diplomatic burdens. But aren't you curious? You must be."
Angela chuckled and drew an ancient disc from her bosom. Bronze-made, etched with bizarre runes. Beorn instinctively recoiled at the foul stench of mana emanating from the relic.
"Daring to bring such a corrupted item into the monastery?"
"Corruption can be a useful tool, depending on how you use it. Abbot Shieldbane. Why look at the trees when you could see the forest?"
"What do you want?"
"Ah, the terms of trade."
Angela's smile deepened. Her laughter carried the opulent scent of a blooming rose.
"Necropolis. That damned lair of legendary specters—aren't you curious? You can't let those tiresome boogeymen giggle under beds and in wardrobes forever."
"You're requesting a heathen purge?"
"Support my heathen purge. I'll let you take a bite from the table I've set. Abbot Beorn. My special task force will gladly share what we've found."
Angela placed the bronze disc on the table and spun it idly. She extended a smooth finger to manipulate one corner.
-Click.
The disc opened, revealing intricate clockwork. The mechanisms whirred to life on their own, agitating a thin needle. The needle soon fixed on one direction. Angela lightly touched its sharp tip with her index finger.
"A compass pointing to the Necropolis entrance. They say . . . a great devil slumbers within. A great devil. Heh, no era has a record of slaying one. Our time will write the legend."
"We do not act for honor."
"Do you know why Kirzart—that damned bastard—and the Empire clash?"
"Resources?"
"And what's buried thick beneath those blood-soaked battlefields?"
"Mana stones, presumably."
"Where are those?"
". . ."
Angela giggled. She pointed to the massive map hanging on the wall behind Beorn.
"That's where the mana stones cluster, screaming to be used. Right where the Necropolis bastards slumber. Beitasser Church? Honor and fame? Heretic cleansing? Take it all. The Empire will take the secular prizes."
"What support do you want from us?"
"That treasure of yours."
Angela rolled her lustrous green eyes softly. She nibbled one corner of her red lips and spoke in a sticky voice.
"That great saint of yours who single-handedly smashed the Necropolis Conclave. Saint of Beitasser and Shiled. The king's viceroy on earth. Whatever the truth. One of my task force's cute recruits was 'deeply impressed' by him."
"How much do you know?"
"Lebainte Ironhide knows no secrets this world holds."
Angela burst into laughter.
*
-Knock knock.
"Brother Fernandez. Come in."
"You guessed it like a ghost."
The wooden door opened, and Fernandez entered Zephys's private quarters. The eerie sight remained unchanged. The stark inquisitor's room brimmed with all manner of torture tools and experimental devices, reports and references strewn about.
"Sit."
"This won't collapse if I sit here?"
"Probably not."
Fernandez cautiously cleared the stack of papers from the chair and sat. The old wooden chair creaked. Zephys watched him, arms crossed, sitting for a moment.
"Brother, may I ask a few personal questions?"
". . .? As you wish."
"If the Cerned Barony burned, what would you think?"
Fernandez fell silent for a moment. He quietly met Zephys's eyes. Zephys's gaze was spotless, upright.
Soon, breaking the silence, Fernandez spoke.
"How many could I save?"
". . .What?"
"For you to say that to me means assuming I've abandoned the burning Cerned Barony for deployment elsewhere. So, how many would my mission save?"
". . .Heh."
Zephys marveled at his words. How many live. In that instant, Fernandez weighed his homeland—the barony he had so desperately wanted, having killed his uncle and cousin—against the lives of strangers with no ties.
Zephys's eyes grew heavy. Cold calculation. Precise, icy calculation.
"When I held the lordship, the Cerned Barony's population was 258 baptized souls and five unbaptized children. A year has passed, so allowing for fluctuations, around 300."
". . .And?"
"If I must merely watch my barony burn, that time must be spent on far more valuable deeds. So, how many would I save in exchange?"
"How old are you?"
At Zephys's question, Fernandez paused. Zephys slowly opened the report before him, visible to Fernandez as well.
It was Fernandez Cerned's personal dossier. Meticulously investigated: birth year, education, life history.
"Seventeen."
"Truly?"
Zephys's eyes sharpened. What strategic thinking could someone that age possess? At that age, Zephys had only thought of smashing morningstars into heretics' skulls better.
Genius? Could it be described that way? It wasn't mere talent—it stemmed from absolute experience, judgment honed thereby, and a life actively wielding it.
Fernandez narrowed his eyes and said,
"You're doubting me."
"How could I doubt a saint."
"Not the saint. Me."
"The Cerned baron's actions are . . . somewhat extraordinary."
"What of me? Heresy trial?"
"We can't crucify a saint. And personally, I wouldn't want to do that to a brother. No whiff of devil on you, brother. I'm just personally curious. About your true nature."
Fernandez pushed back his chair and crossed his arms. The old wood creaked loudly.
"If I say I can't tell you now?"
"Just confirm one thing."
Zephys eyed Fernandez with fatigue-laden eyes. He feared Fernandez. What if he were a heretic? A devil's pawn? Wearing Demonica flesh, bearing stigmata, resolving all recent incidents.
And this young inquisitor with political and diplomatic acumen orchestrating those events meticulously. If that talent turned against civilized society?
If this young man grew another ten, twenty years? Who could stop him?
"Do you share our purpose?"
"No."
Zephys's fist clenched at Fernandez's reply. Fernandez smirked at the sight.
"I have a far more intricate, certain goal. Brother Zephys. Not exterminating heretics, but saving the world."
After crushing the five great devils and their myriad schemes, finally rewriting history so no heretic could gain foothold in this civilized world.
Not for grand causes or justice. For himself. For his son.