Report on the Fall of Purity (2)

Monasteries were generally not places where just anyone could come and go as they pleased. They were sanctuaries for those who sought not only to believe in God but to become like Him through ascetic practice. But monasteries were still home to living people. They had to eat to survive, and when sick, they needed doctors. So they never completely severed ties with the outside world—unless it was one of those sealed ones.

Otranto Sealed Abbey was precisely that exception. Sealed meant exactly what it sounded like: no one could leave, and no one from outside could enter. Once you set foot inside the designated grounds, you couldn't leave even after growing old and dying. Your body would be buried in the abbey cemetery. You could walk out on your own two feet if you chose to renounce it, but there was no coming back.

That was why sealed abbeys were always built in remote, treacherous places that were hard to find and harder to reach. The one Cain and Lily rode toward was no different—a modest abbey nestled in a rocky basin between sheer cliffs. The wind howled so fiercely that even trees taller than a man were nowhere to be seen. The ground was sheer bedrock, without a patch of moss to cling to. It was a barren mountain, stripped naked.

Which was why Cain, for the first time, felt grateful for the chainmail armor provided by the Security Bureau. It was an outdated model even the imperial army shunned—too thick and heavy, despite its decent balance. Layered over a thin shirt, it was downright uncomfortable. But on this wind-lashed mountain path, that discomfort felt like reassuring stability. Seeing the Mercy Knights' soldiers at the trail's end struggling not to get blown away only doubled his appreciation.

"Halt! Halt! The road ahead is blocked. Turn back!"

"We're from the capital!"

Cain bellowed as he dismounted, shaking a long wooden tube containing the letter from the Church and Anna's verification. The wind was so savage he couldn't even pull out the documents fully—lest they fly off and cause a headache. Instead, he flashed just the papal seal at the end.

The soldiers' eyes widened in astonishment, and they waved him through. The approval was almost anticlimactically swift, but on second thought, it wasn't surprising. The knights would have known they were coming, and verifying identities was all it took.

Passing through the wind-swept rocky plain, a V-shaped gorge appeared. The gale eased slightly, but now it whistled in their ears like a trumpet blast. It seemed reluctant ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠to release its prey. Five minutes, maybe ten. Then the basin came into view.

There was none of the cozy embrace typical of basins. Even an abandoned dog bowl would feel more serene. The soil was red, the mountains bald without a single tree. The stone abbey built there loomed oppressively, yet forlorn.

Still, it had all the essentials. A grand central chapel anchored the layout, flanked by assembly halls and monks' quarters. There was even a rectangular building that looked like a library. Wind-worn but exuding the dull solidity of stone, it felt steadfast. The front courtyard bristled with flapping tents, wooden palisades, tethered horses, and makeshift stables hugging the walls. Knights bustled about—some in full plate, but mostly squires and apprentices. Squires wore hoodless robes, apprentices hooded ones, just as described.

"Looks like a massive construction site," Lily whispered, drawing close to Cain.

The knights seemed harried. They sawed logs, planed them, hammered nails—erecting wooden barriers against the wind. Massive pots bubbled over improvised hearths. It wasn't hard to guess the purpose: diapers. Blood-soaked bandages. Sheets crusted with filth... Passing knights glanced at Cain and Lily but, exhaustion etched deep, said nothing. They were too worn even to eye strangers warily.

"Lily, let's dismount and lead the horses. Too uncomfortable riding."

They reined in their whinnying mounts, dismounted, and geared up. Both wore imperial swords at their left hips, but Cain gripped an ash staff banded with iron in his right hand, while Lily carried a round wooden case with precious documents and seals.

Two steps in, something tumbled into their path—an apprentice knight. Squire or apprentice, their robes were threadbare rags patched desperately. This one clutched his stomach in agony, no different.

A redheaded man burst from between tents. No helmet, but steel-spiked boots and a tunic emblazoned with the Mercy Knights' emblem marked him as a full knight. He kicked the apprentice.

"You fucking retard, slow-ass piece of shit, can't do one goddamn thing right—didn't I tell you to report any changes immediately?"

"You did, sir!"

The apprentice screamed near-ferociously. The man grew angrier.

"And you heard me, you remembered it, you fuck! What the hell gives you the right to embarrass me like this? You! Making ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠me lose face! Block with your arms, shield your gut, you idiot—if you don't wanna piss blood like last time!"

A steel boot slammed into the apprentice's abdomen mercilessly. He clutched desperately. A vile grin twisted the man's face—then crack. He kicked the fallen head. The apprentice's neck snapped back.

"Report! I said report! On the battlefield, that's how you die! Fuck, you really are hopeless. Hear it, forget it! Hear it, forget it! Fine, let's finish this today! I'll carve the lesson into your skull!"

Cain shoved the redhead hard. The knight nearly toppled. "Whoops," Cain said, hooking the knight's leg with his staff. The man sprawled ignobly backward.

"Whoops, sorry! This wind's a beast!"

Pale-faced, Cain grabbed the knight's arm, yanked, then released. The man's skull smacked the ground. "Aaaagh!"

"Oh dear, did you hit your head? Can't get up?"

Flailing on the dirt, the redhead swung wildly. "What the fuck are you?!"

"From the capital. Sorry for the rough introduction on our first meeting. This is my colleague, and I'm..."

Cain and Lily had coordinated ahead: act like equal "colleagues." This case demanded even tighter security than Maxiburg. With the Pope involved, utmost discretion was key. Cain hid his Fourth Division chief status; Lily kept her trainee role secret. No hints on hierarchy to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠delay identity leaks.

So Lily boldly helped the apprentice up. "Pardon, but where do we tether the horses? Could you assist?"

It was less a request than a command. She gripped the reins of both mounts in one hand, dragging the apprentice with the other. The redhead, glaring daggers, hissed through clenched teeth.

"Names?"

Cain bowed politely. "Just call us Agents. Her too. And yours?"

"Ha! 'Agents'? Then call me 'Lord'."

The redhead sneered openly. "Heard agents from the capital were coming. Guess that's you."

"What's going on inside?"

"Nothing shittier than some stranger barreling into you."

The knight spat on the ground. "You in charge? I wanna talk to the commander."

"Command structure's a clusterfuck. Brass changes daily—fucking exhausting."

Spit. This one landed near Cain's boot.

"If you're that curious, follow me to the library. The abbot owns this place—talk to him. It's more heaven than the main hall, which is purgatory at best."

"What's the main hall like?"

"Hell."

The wind howled deafeningly. Lily approached from afar; the apprentice had vanished. The redhead escorted them to the library, muttering about smashing some bastard's skull, then left.

Before entering, Cain nudged Lily with his elbow. "Nice work back there."

"Your technique was slick."

Cain grinned and flung open the library door. Barefoot mendicant monks stared. Among them, an elderly man hunched over a gnarled wooden staff, bent like its twists.

"Who might you be? Strangers."

"From the capital."

That was all Cain said. "We have verification here."

Lily swiftly pulled documents from the case. The old man eyed them greedily, like hunting hidden food—eyes flickering avariciously.

"Come in... I'm Bartholomeo Abbot, abbot of this quiet haven. But recent events have left us in sorry shape. To my room."

The room could pass for a storeroom. A desk over a century old. Backless wooden chairs. For guests, an upturned wooden tub topped with a plank. Cold stone radiated chill; scrolls in the spindly shelves looked as dry as fallen leaves.

"Never seen anything like this in my life," the abbot lamented first. "They dump patients like trash and won't leave. Knights pitch tents in the courtyard unbidden! I've protested endlessly, but they won't listen. They claim papal orders, but I've seen no decree! Otranto Sealed Abbey is holy ground consecrated by God—past popes respected that...!"

His tale: woken by noise, found Mercy Knights swarming with black-shrouded wagons. Unveiling revealed "unspeakable horrors"—astonishingly, human. Citing papal requisition, they smashed chapel pews for cots, hauled furniture from their base when short. They even set up command posts, barracks, a mess hall. Monks were press-ganged into labor. They endured, but refused to serve the knights personally.

"They won't listen. Mail barely gets ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠out from this sealed place. Finally sent a letter via the diocese; only then did the local knight captain pretend to care. Can't command, just yells—rude bastard."

"That redhead who spits?"

"Cursed wretch! Defiling sacred grounds again! Ah, no strength left... Yes, Brother Aldric, Lord of Herburg. Local knight captain."

"Can't you control him, Abbot?"

"Knight captains heed only their thug bosses and the Pope. Not some rural vine like me."

The ancient feud between knights and bishops was infamous—like warriors vs. scholars. Mutual need, mutual opportunism to crush the other.

"Why's he so pissed?"

"Can't play boss anymore."

Bartholomeo chuckled bitterly. "Heretic Inquisitors are coming—your imperial term, inspectors? And his superiors. Awkward for a local captain, demoted here after pissing off Southern Command. So he's stuck changing diapers and cleaning shit."

"Chaotic."

Cain and Lily exchanged glances. The old abbot clasped hands, knuckles bulging white.

"Can you see the inner wards?"

"Do as you like. You're not even Church folk. Just don't barge into quarters—that I'll tolerate. Guido! You out there?"

Guido was another mendicant, distinguished by calf-like, gentle eyes—kind yet fearful brown orbs.

"Escort these honored guests from the capital inside. And folks—whatever you see, I politely ask: if you vomit, aim for the buckets, not the floor."

"Vomit?"

The abbot waved wearily, shooing flies. Guido said, "This way," and led them off.