Chapter 77
Chapter 77
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 77
Chapter Title: An Inquisitor's Day
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*
The outdoor hymn hall of the Religiosa Demonica was bustling with Demonica monks from early morning. They had come with simple snacks and were lounging on the grass.
“Oh, there he is. He's out, brothers!”
“Ooooh!!! Do it again! One more time!!”
“Ah, damn it. Get lost!!”
Fernandez held his two-handed greatsword in an overhead stance, then quickly relaxed it with a grumble. Kirhas burst into laughter at the sight. She stepped back slightly and assumed a defensive posture.
“Benefactor, why not show us one more time?”
“A warrior practicing a secret technique, and you're all just gawking like this?”
“What a knightly thing to say, brother! Haha, we're clerics!”
Fabiano laughed heartily while gulping water from his canteen. He and the other Demonica monks were dressed in exercise priest robes—which meant they were practically in their undergarments.
*Are we seriously afraid of these guys in our past life?*
*Because they're a pain to kill?*
In his past life—back in Feizashi's prime—fields where Demonica joined the fray always meant fallback and delaying tactics as the basic strategy. The other inquisitors they brought along could be dealt with somehow, but Demonica were nearly impossible to kill.
Fernandez sighed inwardly, bearing the full weight of their annoying stares. What could he do? He was one of them now.
Just do it. Gently enough not to get hurt. Fernandez gripped the hilt tightly with a reluctant expression. Silence fell over the field as they watched.
“Kirhas. Don't block—just dodge.”
“Oh! There it is again!!”
“He'll get it this time, right? If he fails again, oh brother, I won't have the face to attend the funeral rites for a brother dead of shame!!”
“Pectus, Inkenosum (Courage, Sacrifice)!”
“Macto!”
“Macto superlaudo!”
Fernandez gritted his teeth, ignoring the inquisitors' cackling. Ever since slaying the giant, King Dane's spirit essence was gradually fading within his soul. Not disappearing, but melting away.
The king's experiences and karma were mixing into his blood, sinking into the depths of his unconscious. He wielded the sword daily to reclaim those techniques, but all he'd achieved was—
*Crack... Crunch!!*
“Again!! It broke!!!”
“Uahaha, my victory. Brothers! Who bet on it?”
“Brother Sergio bet on success again!”
“Damn it! Four days of fasting for me!”
The training sword ground through space before shattering mid-air. The black line it traced vanished rapidly, iron dust and blade fragments raining down.
Fernandez eyed the hilt-only sword with regret at the elusive sensation. One step off. No, two steps. From King Dane's strike.
“Benefactor, here.”
“Ah, thanks.”
Kirhas approached and handed him a canteen. Fernandez took a sip and picked up another iron sword she brought.
“Remember the name of that technique?”
“Wasn't it Secret Greatsword Cleave?”
“...You reading that stuff lately? Brother, a monk reading market romance novels?”
“The scriptures are one book, but martial hero romances get new editions yearly. Ever so edifying. Want to borrow one?”
“Very rational. Blessed by Perlon (God of Wisdom), Brother Sergio.”
“Macto.”
“Macto superlaudo.”
Fernandez sighed at the Demonica banter and raised his sword again. Ignore them, ignore them. One more try. This time it'll work. Tension built in his forearms.
Just then, an Enmagicka dragged his robe over. He frowned at the scattered hilts, then spoke quietly to Fernandez.
“Enough wasting swords, brother. The abbot seeks you.”
“...Oh, next mission already?”
A bit soon, but time was finite. Fernandez shrugged and returned the sword to Kirhas.
*
The corridor to the abbot's office was long and austere. Fernandez passed praying monks, walking slowly. The sky was clear and bright, unbelievably after last night's rain.
Dragonspine Mountains' weather was fickle. Fernandez gazed at the ridges outside the window, strolling leisurely.
“Hey, young man there.”
“...Young man?”
First time hearing that in the monastery? Fernandez halted at the playful voice.
Sunset-red hair fluttered in the spring breeze from the window. A flashy woman in a tight leather jacket leaned on the sill, arms crossed.
Her sparkling green eyes raked over Fernandez boldly as she smiled. The thick, sticky gaze gave him chills.
“Who... are you?”
“Call me Angela. For now.”
“Angela. Huh.”
*Imperial Iron Side?*
*What's the Inquisition's secret police doing here?*
No one else used code names and speech like that. Fernandez halted warily.
Angela licked her plump lips and grinned.
“Better looking than the rumors. My type.”
“Seducting a monk...?”
“Oh, sorry. I spoke my thoughts.”
Angela shrugged and uncrossed her arms. She approached with clicking heels, standing before him. A head shorter, she looked up. Heavy, dizzying rose scent wafted.
She extended a gloved hand. Fernandez pondered the meaning.
“First handshake? I'm an Imperial Iron Side, commanding a Gray Circle company. Be honored.”
“Inquisitors hold bishop authority, and I'm Rank 2.”
“Ha! That's how men should be!”
Angela laughed merrily, slapping his shoulder. Her green eyes sparkled with delight.
“Lately the young ones are all gutless softies. Love a man talking back.”
“What's the business?”
“Let's get along. That's all.”
Angela smirked, stroking her shawl. She drew a long pipe elegantly from her bosom.
“Monastery's no-smoking.”
“Oh, forgot. Sorry.”
No remorse in her apology, just a thick smile. Angela waved lazily and walked off slowly. Heels clicked down the hall. Rose scent lingered.
“See you, Albert.”
*Trouble's latched on.*
*Empire's involved—Central Continent issue.*
*Necropolis?*
*Likely.*
Fernandez frowned at Angela's retreating figure. Something off. How did the Empire know about the Necropolis now?
*Necropolis seal fully breaks in 40 years. With Pertus dead, no one to unseal it?*
*Empire must've tried before.*
*And failed.*
Fernandez shook his head and headed to the abbot's office.
*
Beorn leaned back in his chair, staring at the massive wall map. He didn't turn when Fernandez opened the door.
“...Abbot?”
“Yes. Sit.”
Beorn spoke gruffly, fingering his rosary. As Fernandez sat, he suddenly spoke.
“What think of the Fifty Years' War?”
“A tragedy that must stop... I suppose.”
“Sentimental. Be frank.”
“Pointless resource waste.”
Beorn swiveled to face him at that. Fatigue blackened his eyes. He removed his monocle, wiping it carefully with a dry cloth.
“Right. War costs exceed maximum victory gains. Church scholars say civilization's economy regressed a decade. How much longer till it ends?”
“Another fifty years.”
“...Why?”
“Too many resources sunk in.”
Beorn's brow furrowed. Fernandez eyed the map behind: Levine Tear, Kirzat, Western Wastes, warlords, southwest nomads.
Even victors gain less than invested. Losers?
If it ends decisively, can the loser remain a nation?
Massive human/material losses, huge reparations. Decades of colonization, economic/cultural invasion. Who withdraws easily from such risk?
Empire or Kirzat. Not pride as most think. Whatever sparked it, now it's survival.
“Winner takes all sounds funny, but one of Empire or Kirzat falls the instant war ends as another's win.”
“Good. Who wins?”
“Demons.”
“...Hah.”
Beorn's gaze deepened. Fernandez shrugged.
“Too much blood spilled. Defeated aside, victors take ages regaining glory. When giants fall, demons cheer most.”
“Yes. You're right. So it's our business too.”
“Stop the war?”
Beorn chuckled at the bold words. Seventeen—age for knight romances, swordplay, hero worship, legends, or booze and women wasting life.
Yet this kid always spouted idealistic nonsense with startling strategic coldness. Beorn liked him. Competence and courage.
Born twenty years earlier, as a fresh recruit in Beorn's frontline days? He'd have backed him fully. But now Inquisition chief.
Leaders can't favor. Members are just manpower for right spots. Beorn regretted his position.
“God's work, not ours. Ours is revealing His will. Take this, Brother Fernandez. Gather max resources. Long mission.”
Beorn handed a yellow-waxed envelope. Levine Tear Empire seal. Fernandez caught faint rose scent.
*
*Knock knock.*
“No one's home.”
“Abel, coming in.”
“No one home!”
*Creeeak.*
Fernandez ignored and entered. Sticky heat hit. In the center, Abel handstood on one finger.
“Look like Demonica now?”
“...Hoo.”
*Snap.*
Abel flicked, launched, spun, landed softly. She frowned at him.
“Finally time to talk?”
“Not unwilling before. No chance till now.”
“You rascal.”
Altbert pact with Vicente king, rushed back from Beitasser Papacy on Inquisition orders. Rode eight days straight, arrived for funeral.
No alone time with Abel. She sharpened post-Altbert. Lately avoided talks.
Uncomfortable for her too. No acquaintances here but Kirhas. She glared sullenly, sighed.
“Fine. I lose again. Sit.”
“Thanks. What were you doing?”
“Testing this body's limits. Not dragon form.”
Abel wiped sweaty brow, smiled. Fernandez blushed at glimpsed skin through loose clothes, looked away.
*Damn. Again.*
*Haha, you fool. Mind your age.*
*Not my fault. This is.*
Dane's soul whispered to wipe Abel's neck sweat. Absent in sword practice, why react so to her...
Not just filial piety. More... complex. Fernandez frowned, avoiding her eyes.