The Weight of the Wavebreaker

To hear such words coming directly from a high priest, one of the most prominent authorities in the holy temple...

As I stared at him in stunned bewilderment, High Priest Ilian maintained his calm, unbothered cadence.

"It is not that I lack faith in God. God unquestionably exists in this world and watches over humankind. However, I do not believe the power to heal was bestowed upon us because our piety made us 'chosen.' Rather, it was granted so that we might serve others. Whether it is the strength to slay a demonic beast or the grace to mend a wound, both exist for the exact same purpose: protecting life."

Ilian let out a hearty chuckle.

"Which is precisely why I can never view those priests who covet worldly power while cloistered in the temple—those steeped in the smug vanity of being 'the chosen few'—as my colleagues. How could someone who wields the power of salvation like a weapon ever be called a faithful servant of God?"

"I... I see."

I swallowed dryly and nodded.

I had intended to corner the temple eventually, but stumbling into critical intelligence this way felt entirely unexpected. Was it good fortune? Or perhaps not? My feelings turned thoroughly tangled.

"Well, I have run on for too long. In any case, that is why I doubt Chief Priest Cronen will ever take the Offering Festival seriously. Since nothing has ever gone wrong before, he assumes nothing ever will."

I had heard that exact line of thinking far too many times. This little shortcut won't hurt; skipping that rule won't matter... People cut corners and ignored the manual until catastrophe inevitably struck.

Only when staring down utter ruin did they weep and mutter, I shouldn't have done that.

The ones who made the blunders were almost never the ones who had to pay for them. That held all the truer when the matter at hand was a factional squabble over wealth and influence, with the safety of the entire empire hanging in the balance.

Listen here, fools: if the barrier collapses, we all die together! You're only complacent because the Castrein family has been butchering demonic beasts so efficiently, but the very land you live on, the empire you rule, the mansions you sleep in—everything will be wiped out!

My tongue had itched to scream those exact words more times than I could count. Yet my biological father, the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠reigning Emperor himself, regarded the Castreins as a thorn in his side, leaving me with no simple way to knock sense into anyone.

"The Castrein family has served as far too sturdy a wavebreaker," Ilian noted gently. "Because the droplets that splashed against the court were so few and fleeting, the nobility underestimates the crushing weight of the tides that the barrier holds back. It is almost natural that they fail to grasp the gravity of the Offering Festival. Not that their ignorance excuses them, of course."

"Even so, I have no intention of standing by while other bastards throw rocks at our breakwater."

"Haha! Her Highness possesses a remarkably profound heart."

"Not particularly. I simply believe in repaying anyone who picks a fight with me first. By laying a hand on Young Count Phlux, their schemes spilled over through the temple and inconvenienced me directly."

"Is that so?"

High Priest Ilian smiled warmly, looking at me the way an elder might look at a precocious child who had done something praiseworthy. What was with that expression? Not long ago, the Empress had given me that exact same ambiguous look.

"So," I said, drawing a small, steadying breath. "...if the chief priest of the Southern Temple, a man thoroughly soaked in unearned privilege whom you never considered a colleague anyway, happens to trip over his own misdeeds and crash into ruin... you wouldn't mind, High Priest Ilian?"

"Not in the slightest!"

"Will you lend me a hand?"

"Haha! Why, that sounds like it might triple my bonus. It will be nice to treat my young subordinates to a hearty meat dinner for once."

"..."

An imaginary chime seemed to ring merrily in the back of my mind.

"I seeee. So my big brother ended up going there after all, hmm~?"

Bibi's face, reflected in the floating, circular communication screen, carried a distinctly subtle expression.

Raymon, who usually managed at least a faint, somewhat stiff smile whenever he faced Bibi, looked noticeably unsettled.

"Right, right. Here I thought a small, elite strike force would just scoop High Priest Ilian onto someone's back and go zoom! But my oldest brother personally sprinted down there himself... riding hard enough to abandon anyone who couldn't keep up..."

"...Bibi."

"No, no! I'm not blaming you at all, brother! Even if you acted like you were going to guard the capital for ten thousand years! Even if you acted like you'd obey Papa's every command without a second thought, secretly fretting all the while! Even if you took off without saying a single word to me! Bibi is totally fine!"

"I apologize for leaving without telling you beforehand."

Bibi puffed her cheeks out into a round pout. Her bright blue eyes shone with mild indignation.

"If I'd known you were going, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠you should have taken me with you! I should've been there! I wanted to see my sister, and my brothers, and...!"

"Out of the question. It is far too dangerous."

The Southern Temple had been reduced to an absolute shambles.

Holding the Offering Festival on schedule was now practically an impossibility. Chief Priest Cronen, his face cycling between furious shades of red and blue, had scrambled desperately to patch the temple together, but there was ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠only so much one man could conceal. The storage warehouse packed with ceremonial supplies had burned to ashes, and the inner sanctum housing the sacred Holy Relic lay damaged, making extensive repairs unavoidable.

Under such circumstances, pressuring the imperial princess to follow a rigid schedule—demanding that she soak in the Water of Purification or observe tedious rituals—was entirely out of the question.

When her quarters and bath had gone up in flames, nearly killing her, her gallant fiancé had swept in to carry her away. What priest could dare lodge a formal complaint against that?

Public sentiment among the local citizenry was far from forgiving, either.

Naturally, most people assumed an outside culprit was responsible. To brazenly set fire to the temple, steal the princess's famed divine blade, and sabotage the Offering Festival—whoever had done it needed to be hunted down by any means necessary.

Yet regardless of who pulled the strings in the shadows, public opinion held Chief Priest Cronen and Sir Gregory equally accountable for the debacle.

Cronen had spent years presenting himself as a serene, modest clergyman who cared nothing for worldly luxury. But the cracks in a cultivated image always showed far more clearly in how a man treated others than in how he carried himself.

Because Princess Titania had long suffered from an unsavory reputation, people began whispering that the rigid, self-righteous priest had deliberately locked her away within the temple to suppress her, isolating her from anyone who might defend her.

On top of that, the dashing young duke personally rescuing his imperiled fiancée added an irresistible layer of romance, making the rumors spread like wildfire.

When Count Cortez's son, Young Count Phlux—who had remained secluded from high society for weeks—publicly sided with Titania and sharply rebuked the temple, the town's suspicious murmurs solidified into absolute certainty. She is an imperial princess, after all. Just how terribly did the priesthood mistreat her?

Cronen did not take the blows lying down. He launched his own counter-rumors, claiming that the culprit had not merely attacked the temple, but had specifically targeted the sword capable of slaying demonic beasts, suggesting that the entire region was under threat from an unseen menace.

Unfortunately for him, there was one fatal flaw in that narrative: the renowned Young Duke of Castrein was currently in town.

The citizenry reasoned simply: Well, if Young Duke Raymon is here, nothing truly catastrophic can happen.

Cronen looked ready to collapse from sheer apoplexy.

As for Sir Gregory, he had thrown a tantrum out of Lisianthus's earshot, screaming that he would challenge the insolent second son to a duel, only calming down after his subordinates practically wrestled him to his chair. Claiming that Princess Titania would be perfectly safe at the Castrein Southern Villa, Gregory used the hunt for the arsonist as an excuse to linger around the temple and oversee its reconstruction.

To any observer, his ulterior motives were glaringly obvious. Yet Raymon made no move to restrain him. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Titania intended to bring judgment upon them with her own hands.

Bibi spoke again, her voice unusually subdued for a girl her age.

"Well, I know that much. Papa confirmed it for me. ...It really does seem like a truly, truly sinister 'enemy' has appeared in that city."

"..."

Raymon's golden eyes sank into a grim shadow.

The Castrein family had never lacked enemies. But this was not the familiar brand of foe—not the greedy nobles sniffing around for a taste of Castrein's authority, military prowess, or vast wealth. This was an unsettling, poisonous presence.

There were suspicious factions actively hunting those who carried Castrein blood. People who did not hesitate to engage in human trafficking, an atrocity strictly outlawed by the Empire. The fact that they operated right under Castrein's nose, coveting their very bloodline, proved their intelligence network and backers were formidable.

Moreover, the method used against Young Count Phlux, along with the immaculate cleanup that followed, matched the signature of this hidden enemy all too well.

They had initially sought to uncover the culprit who supplied the illicit goods to Imperial Consort Cleo. Yet that trail, too, had gone cold with terrifying swiftness.

What was their ultimate goal?

Did they seek to usurp House Castrein's standing altogether? The fact that the enemy remained an amorphous silhouette in the dark made them all the more perilous.

Duke Ortho had once been celebrated as the mightiest warrior in the entire empire, but his strength waned with every passing day. That was the tragic toll every Castrein patriarch was forced to pay for guarding the frontier.

"Which means," Raymon murmured, his voice dropping to a low, chilling register, "if things go wrong, Her Highness could be in grave danger."