Chapter 265: The Descent of the Holy Sword (5)
“Well, I did not lose,” Ketal said, as if he were commenting on the weather.
Cretein drew in a tight breath and swallowed it before it could become a sound. He had heard the reports that Ketal had faced Materia and prevailed. Cretein himself stood high among the Transcendents, the sort of knight who could walk into a court anywhere on the continent and never bow his head out of fear. What Ketal had done belonged on a different ledge entirely. The difference felt less like a gap and more like the edge of a cliff.
“Thank you for coming here,” Cretein said, forcing the astonishment out of his voice and replacing it with formal gratitude.
“I am enjoying myself, so that is enough,” Ketal replied, the corner of his mouth lifting in a calm smile. He spun the gold pass once between his fingers and glanced at it. “By the way, mine is a golden pass. Is there a reason for that?”
“There is,” Cretein answered. “It sits far above the silver pass. We give a golden pass only to those whom the entire holy land must honor with every courtesy. You receive one if you are a Hero, or if your influence approaches that weight.”
“Then I suppose I should accept it,” Ketal said.
“I believe that for you, a golden pass is proper,” Cretein said with conviction. “Please, come with me.”
He led the way into the deeper quarter of the holy land, a district closed to the crowds outside. They passed through a quiet garden and entered a large building whose doors opened without a squeak and closed with the soft certainty of well-made things.
“This will be your place,” Cretein said.
Ketal’s eyes brightened. The building did not impress by size alone; inside, the rooms unfolded like a small town that had been folded into a single structure. There were lounges where the light fell like warm water, reading rooms that carried the scent of old paper and polished wood, a bathing hall tiled in soft stone where steam drifted lazily, a practice hall with mats and dummies, and kitchens that smelled faintly of herbs and clean heat.
Every detail felt several steps finer than what lay outside. The whole had the air of a luxury inn translated into the language of a holy place.
“Everything here is free,” Cretein said in a lower voice, the way a host speaks when sharing a courtesy not everyone receives. “Please treat it as your own.”