The Purple Saint
Isaac von Goethe spent the next few days holed up in the inn, bracing for Raphael's retaliation. Having already revealed his identity, simply fleeing the Pope's Domain wouldn't resolve anything. If anything, it might paint him as a fugitive and put him at a disadvantage.
He penned a confession spanning dozens of pages. Naturally, it was written in the ancient language, demonstrating his profound grasp of patristic philosophy. He even delved deeply into experiences of revelations he'd never personally undergone. Filled solely with content that would bolster the Church's authority, it was impossible for the Papal Court to view it unfavorably. And if they acknowledged light magic as holy power—if they accepted that magic was a form of divine authority—not even the Inquisition could touch him.
The royals wouldn't dare either. The kingdom was a vassal of the empire, and the emperor's legitimacy stemmed from the Pope. With the Papal Court at his back, Isaac would be untouchable.
It's a mixed bag, but what choice is there?
If it came to that, Isaac could use that power to avert war with Botmer. But it wasn't the ideal outcome. Relying on the Papal Court would bind him to them, and Goethe's claims to independence and autonomy might suffer as a result. The best solution was for Goethe to crush Botmer on its own. Yet all these worries proved unfounded.
Why hasn't he come?
Isaac had expected Raphael to arrive with inquisitors or papal troops to arrest him. But a day passed, then two, with no notable visitors to the inn. It remained bustling with pilgrims and devotees, their conversations inevitably circling the inferno at Lorenzzio Cathedral.
"I'm telling you, it's true. I didn't see it myself, but my brother-in-law's a monk, and he was in the choir that day. That man didn't burn at all. He just knelt there calmly, praying."
"So he's still alive?"
"No, not like that. His body didn't remain. But the monastery says it wasn't death—he ascended."
"Given his merits, that's not wrong."
"Oh, I heard something too. In the crypt at Uhtark Monastery, where no one's supposed to be, his praying voice echoes."
"I heard that on the day the cathedral burned, a leper on the brink of death stood up perfectly fine."
"What else could it be but a miracle? Flames that huge, and not a single soul burned to death. Just the cardinal and the cathedral went up."
"I've never seen fire like that in my life."
It caught Isaac off guard. Cardinal Vincenzio's reputation had always been sky-high. Despite the purple flames that had incinerated corrupt priests time and again, most patrons in the inn spoke of the cathedral blaze not as divine judgment, but as a miracle.
Unlike the other victims, Vincenzio hadn't flailed or screamed. He'd simply prayed in silence until he turned to ash. Without the life he'd led before, though, he wouldn't have earned such reverence. From mere eavesdropping, Isaac had gleaned an immense list of the cardinal's saintly deeds: merciless yet just as Grand Inquisitor, pure and pious as a cleric. He'd emptied his coffers to support monasteries and churches, founded orphanages and taught there himself. As a theologian, he'd never lost a debate with heretics. He'd exorcised possessed souls, visited villages ravaged by magical beasts to deliver salvation. And beyond that—staunching the blood of criminals, restoring sight to the blind, banishing manifested demons. Miracles aplenty.
On the third day, as Isaac finished his confession, word of Raphael reached his ears.
"They say the new Grand Inquisitor is Inquisitor Raphael. A man who's stained his hands with rivers of blood."
"Sinners' blood, no doubt. Heretics tremble at his name alone. Makes sense—he was the only one who stayed by his side in the flames to the end."
"He delivered Cardinal Vincenzio's final words to His Holiness. No more will burn in purple flame."
"Keep this between us, but word is they're canonizing Cardinal Vincenzio as a saint."
The voices dropped low and secretive.
"What? That takes five years after death, doesn't it? Investigating the life, theologians and clerics reviewing it—that's ages."
"The miracles are too blatant. His virtues are beyond dispute. And right now, nothing could quell this chaos better."
"Never heard of a canonization petition in three days."
"Probably a one-time thing."
From his second-floor room, Isaac caught the words with the senses of the Wolf King and let out a wry chuckle. Vincenzio's name meant "conqueror" or "victor through faith."
Has it come true, then?
With that, Isaac slipped into meditation. He'd held back dozens of times while writing the confession. Now was the moment to use the Light of Atonement.
Zeke von Goethe had realized he couldn't weave circles like other mages due to his unique constitution. From then on, he began acquiring rare relics from across the continent. The Goethe ducal house's coffers dwindled rapidly. Yet no one could point fingers at his eccentricity—he was, undeniably, the continent's greatest mage. Even famed imperial wizards trekked to the capital seeking his tutelage, including some from across the seas or mystical sorcerers.
They said Zeke always carried a jangling array of relics on his person. At first, Isaac thought they were buffers to stem mana overflow and prevent vessel rupture. Inspired by Zeke's oddity, he'd developed rune stones that intentionally damaged mana circuits to form multiple circulation paths.
But time after regression revealed the truth: Zeke hadn't collected relics to tame rampant mana, shattered vessels, or explosions. His real fear was vessels stabilizing too much, halting further magical growth.
That was the wall Isaac now faced. His rune stones induced intentional damage to form multiple paths, but they were artificial mana circuit inducers. Once circuits stabilized beyond a point, the stimulus faded. His paths would cap at six.
What he needed was an object deeply imprinted with will—a relic steeped in a lifetime of magical sense and intent. In magical terms, an organic residual circuit. Holy relics fit perfectly. The Light of Atonement especially came from a fallen saint who, from high mage in life to his dying breath as a monk, never ceased prayer, contemplation, meditation, and practice of power. His will and mana lingered intact within the worn cross.
Now I see why Zeke von Goethe collected this necklace first.
The relic's alien circuit invaded Isaac's, sparking interference, then collision and resonance. Existing circuit boundaries blurred; new mana flows emerged. Unlike rune stones, it shook his vessel autonomously, as if possessed of its own will.
The necklace feels alive.
The mana from the Light of Atonement prowled like a beast. Invisible, intangible, yet palpably sensed. It slithered through his circuits, rummaging wildly—exploring new territory, wary, repelled by this alien will or world.
To Isaac, it was utterly foreign. Like an animal pouring out emotion wordlessly. Cold yet hot, soft yet sharp, it ranged freely through his vessel.
Keeeeen—
His circulation paths resonated one by one to defend their realm. Mana from differing intelligences doesn't blend—it clashes. The fiercer, the greater the clash. Within one vessel, two wills collided—worlds apart.
Sweat beaded on Isaac's brow. It felt like ceaseless lightning storms inside his vessel. He couldn't see it, but in his mind's eye, sparks flew endlessly from each path. The alien mana whipped his innards into chaos, pressing him toward unconsciousness.
Memories, convictions, guilt, confessions and prayers, regrets... The fallen saint's lifetime of defined emotions and concepts seeped into circuit gaps, testing Isaac's core.
The relic's centuries of sensation revived within him.
Boom—
No actual explosion sounded. Yet Isaac heard it.
"Urgh—"
Clutching his pounding head, he staggered up.
"You alright?"
It was night. Moonlight streamed through the window into the room. Raphael savored it while draining a jug of wine without a cup.
"What brings you here?"
Isaac scanned the room. No other inquisitors or papal soldiers. Just Raphael and him.
"Why didn't you leave?"
"No reason to. Aren't you here to arrest me?"
"Why? Committed a crime worthy of the Inquisition?"
"Haven't I?"
Isaac shot back. His mind fogged. Hard to tell reality from dream. It felt like a scene from before—yet not. Fortunately, not a dream.
"It wasn't the baron who bore His Eminence aloft—it was His Eminence himself. Or perhaps... the flame I've awaited."
Raphael's voice trailed off, less address than musing to empty air.
"I have a request. Testify to that miracle where His Eminence ascended."
Thousands packed the square. The charred cathedral lay in ruins, jagged gray stone walls glinting with surviving glass shards in the sun. The sanctuary ceiling had collapsed, the cross toppled, but the makeshift altar evoked another holy war.
Papal cardinals and archbishops, lined-up guards, delegates from north, south, and east, noble envoys and knight orders, thousands of kneeling faithful and monks filled the plaza.
The clouded sky had cleared of snow, sunlight piercing through now and then. Papal banners and red flags whipped atop the podium, the Pope in golden-embroidered vestments and tiara ascending with serene resolve. Frail he seemed, yet upheld by divine grace.
"We stand atop a ruined sanctuary."
His voice rang across the square.
"In flames, one man burned himself. He interrogated more than any, beheld more sins than any, and at last embraced them, immolating himself. Through his pyre, we survived."
A bishop ascended with a crystal reliquary.
"Thus, as God's vicar, I declare: Cardinal Vincenzio is this land's atoner, great redeemer, saint of our order. He is the Saint of Purple, to be called Atoning Vincenzio. From the day the flames died, his altar shall be the 'Hall of Repentance'."
As the Pope finished, monks placed purple candles on the wooden altar. Artificial hue or not, none objected—overwhelmed by the sacred aura.
Mantled, Isaac wove through the crowd and out of the square. Mana flowed along his seventh circulation path.
Now, it was time to go home.