Holy Works (1)
“As expected, it was you.”
Vincenzio withdrew his purple flame. Though he had summoned it only briefly, his hair was soaked with sweat. His ash-gray eyes stared fixedly at the flames Isaac had conjured.
“The divine power Raphael spoke of must have been yours as well.”
“Yes.”
Isaac also drew back his flames. In stark contrast to the exhausted cardinal, he showed no sign of strain. With the senses of the Wolf King, six multiple circulation paths, and ceaseless imagination, he had already extracted peak efficiency from flames bloomed in purple.
“I wondered as much. That girl mage didn’t have mana capable of kindling such flames. How did you reach this level at your age?”
“What reason could there be? It’s in the blood.”
Isaac replied. Of course, that wasn’t the whole story. Each time he fell into a mage’s melancholy, what surfaced in his mind was life’s impermanence—and boundless imagination toward magic. It was something gained through decades sealed underground. In a situation where he could neither see nor hear the outside world, his inner realm and the landscapes he painted in his head grew impossibly vivid and intricate. Repeating manifestations countless times with imagination rivaling reality turned fantasy into fact. Just as a seasoned artist, having envisioned a masterpiece thousands of times in their heart, completes it with a single brushstroke.
The light magic from before had felt familiar too, as if cast thousands of times despite never having tried it. Let alone flames he had already kindled once—what more was there to say?
“How did you know it was me?”
Vincenzio asked. He was inquiring how Isaac had learned he was the one burning the priests.
“The path opened when I prayed.”
“It would have, naturally. But I’m quite curious what that path looked like.”
“I didn’t know. I just thought the corruption of those sacrificed priests was being exposed too quickly. As if they’d been waiting for that very moment.”
“Then when did you realize?”
“When you came in person. If Your Eminence had no hand in the incidents, you wouldn’t have come yourself—you’d have dragged Enet and me to the torture chamber. You’d heard Bishop Alquin’s testimony about the purple flames. But you didn’t.”
Isaac outlined his reasoning in broad strokes. He couldn’t very well say he’d read it in future history books.
“……So it was you holding my lifeline, not the other way around.”
“No need to worry. I have what I want, so I’ve no reason to harm Your Eminence.”
“I appreciate that.”
Vincenzio smiled faintly. Isaac felt it every time, but it was a smile that disarmed anyone who saw it.
“I’ve looked into you as much as I could. Called a prodigy until age ten, you could have entered the Royal Academy as the youngest ever—until your unique constitution manifested, turning you into a pariah.”
“A wastrel, yeah.”
“Fascinating. Who’d have thought that unique constitution was the same as Zeke von Goethe’s.”
“I’m flattered by Your Eminence’s interest in a humble vassal house.”
“Humble? Anyone seriously attuned to divine power has heard of Goethe at least once. It almost feels like the Lord sent you to me.”
“If that’s what makes it easier for you.”
“I have a mountain of questions about why a genius like you is treated as refuse, but first—let’s pray.”
The cardinal entered the prayer room with slow steps. The stone chamber, built for prayer, felt a touch cramped for two. Vincenzio knelt first on the prie-dieu, and Isaac followed, settling beside him.
“Ask the Lord for what you desire. He shall grant it.”
Vincenzio spoke in a low, intimate voice, eyes closed and hands clasped. It almost sounded like a murmured prayer.
“I ask the Lord to save our house from wicked hands.”
Isaac whispered, hands clasped and eyes shut.
“The Lord heard your prayer and sent me.”
“What do you ask of the Lord, Your Eminence?”
“I ask Him to purify this holy land. Until now, I’ve done that sacred work with my own hands, but the wicked obstruct me and cast doubts.”
“The Lord heard Your Eminence’s prayer and sent me.”
“The wicked hands reaching for your house are deeply tied to the Church. It’ll only buy time.”
“That’s enough. Three purifications will occur. Give me three names.”
“The wicked grow more vigilant by the day. Is it possible?”
“That part is my trial and mission. Just grant what I ask.”
“Prayers are best when specific.”
“When the first purification happens, let the wicked face judgment—and accept offerings to absolve his sins.”
“And the second?”
“Grant the Light of Atonement.”
“……!?”
Vincenzio opened his eyes.
“It’s a Grade 2 holy relic.”
A Grade 2 relic was an item used by a saint. The Light of Atonement was a worn necklace from a fallen saint.
“It’s a holy relic—fitting for holy works, isn’t it?”
Isaac replied.
“……Is that all?”
“One more thing.”
The deal between Cardinal Vincenzio and Isaac was clear-cut. Vincenzio was under suspicion from the imperial faction and conservative priests. With every move watched, he could scarcely act freely. If no further victims appeared, suspicions against him would only grow. In his stead, Isaac would burn corrupt priests with purple flames. In return, Vincenzio promised to check Botmer and provide a holy relic. And one thing he granted immediately.
On the northern outskirts of the Pope’s Domain, a boy unloaded from a carriage finally removed his blindfold and beheld the light. He squinted fiercely until his eyes adjusted.
“……Who are you?”
Beltran eyed the man and woman before him with bewilderment.
“Isaac. A baron like you.”
“Enet. You saw me at the tournament, right?”
“……”
Beltran averted his gaze from Enet. In less than ten days, he was a wreck. Gaunt to the bone, with the eyes of the dead. A rotten stench wafted from his body.
“……Gonna kill me here?”
“Would you prefer that?”
“Kill me if you want. No excuses.”
Beltran squeezed his eyes shut. He had nothing left. Valdak, who led the rebellion, and the house’s key figures had all died in the carriage ambush. Waiting for him were his brother, who hated him and burned to kill him, and the retainers who followed. Better to die here than be hunted in terror by them. No fifteen-year-old could bear it.
“Boatmer Viscount will cut you loose to save his line. The inquisitor attack becomes your solo act. They’ll pin some motive on you.”
“……?”
Clink.
Beltran felt his wrists lighten. The thick dimegtrium shackles thudded to the carriage floor. Isaac had freed him.
“Staying in the Inquisition would’ve meant the pyre for sure. Guilty or not, they’d heap it all on you.”
“……What are you doing?”
“This carriage heads straight northeast from here. To dodge any pursuit, it’ll loop around—ten days at least.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Destination’s Binvelt. Lodging and meals en route are prepaid.”
“Why would you……”
“Stay aboard, and you’re no longer Baron of Buechtner or the late baron’s second son. No noble, obviously. Shed your old identity and start over in Binvelt.”
Beltran blinked at Isaac’s words.
“If you don’t want it, get off and go where you please.”
“……Why go this far?”
“No time or reason to explain. Beltran von Buechtner escaped the Inquisition, and inquisitors will hunt you. Your only job now is choose. Let’s go, Enet.”
“Yes.”
Isaac and Enet stepped from the carriage.
“You’re not going?”
“Still got business here. You riding or not?”
“……”
Beltran stared blankly at the distant landscape beyond the carriage. Gray skies and air, plains and pastures in ash and brown. Amid it stood a lone oak, nearly bare, its stark branches protruding.
“Doesn’t look like I have options.”
“Good thinking.”
Isaac handed the coachman a cloth pouch with a few silver coins.
“Take care of him.”
The coachman was a menial handling the Inquisition’s secret tasks. Sent by the cardinal, he was trustworthy. The carriage lurched into motion.
“What do we do now?”
Enet asked, watching it recede.
“Wash up and buy some clothes.”
Isaac walked the opposite way. Beyond the plains loomed the grand buildings of the Pope’s Domain’s metropolis.
“This feels awful.”
Isaac muttered under his breath. He wore a doublet of velvet embroidered with gold thread, its collar choking him.
“Can’t breathe right.”
Enet, in her first corset and full-skirted dress, couldn’t draw deep breaths from the cinched waist.
“Bear with it a bit.”
The four-horse carriage they boarded headed for the Farnese family’s grand mansion. A social ball was set for tonight. Not that attending was their goal.
“I am Jule de Saint-Esprit.”
Armed papal guards stood at the mansion’s entrance. Isaac presented the invitation under the identity Vincenzio had prepared.
The guards eyed his youthful face and voice suspiciously, but the invitation and seal were genuine. Isaac’s noble bearing and looks, Enet’s ladylike attire—all rang true. The dragon’s saliva perfume wafting from them was a luxury no pretender could touch. Seasoned mansion guards let him pass without much fuss.
Passing a grand fountain garden, they entered the mansion to a marble hall gilded in gold. Despite the evening hour, it blazed with light. Chandelier flames and magelights danced off the gleaming marble walls. Crystal goblets brimming with heavy-scented wine clinked purely everywhere.
Count Farnese, the ball’s host, lounged in a chair on the dais, his obese frame buried, swirling his goblet.
“Glory to the Lord who grants abundance!”
A court quintet played on, and the count tapped his fingers, savoring it.
“To shun this is to defy His will, isn’t it, Father?”
He asked the young priest beside him.
“Quite right.”
“Bishop Lauren’s too ascetic for his own good. That flame nonsense—fooled by heretics, he shuns the Lord’s graces and holes up in some mountain monastery.”
The count cackled. The young priest smiled politely.
“Understand him. At his age, he fears heaven’s gates. Well, that fear sells indulgences like hotcakes. Lucky for us.”
“Speaking of which, how about raising indulgences prices a bit more?”
“Haha, as a matter of fact……”
Crash!
The count’s goblet slipped and shattered. Whoosh—his body burned hot as if aflame. But it wasn’t him burning. Purple flames engulfed the young priest’s face first. His throat melted away, and he burned silently amid violent convulsions.