Chapter 51 : Chapter 51
Chapter 51: The Mad Archbishop: Your Vision Is Too Small
The journey from Eagle’s Nest City to the City of Holy Light was long and perilous.
Father Philip did not dare take the main road. There were too many eyes and ears there.
He changed into the plainest ascetic’s rough robe, mounted an utterly unremarkable mule, and blended into a group of pilgrims heading south along the rugged side paths.
Along the way, he saw far too many of the Empire’s scars.
Villages burned to the ground by clashes between nobles. Displaced peasants gnawed on grass roots by the roadside.
Bandits armed with rusted weapons lurked in the forests, eyeing every passing traveler like hungry wolves.
The closer he drew to the heart of the Empire, the greater the Church’s power became.
At the center of every town stood a church grander than the local lord’s manor.
Priests in white robes and Church guards clad in chainmail had replaced the nobles’ patrols, maintaining a kind of “order” under crushing pressure.
The air no longer carried the scent of ale and bread, but instead the heavy fragrance of holy water and incense, mixed with an unsettling fanaticism.
A week later, when the outline of the City of Holy Light appeared on the horizon, even Father Philip could not help but suck in a cold breath.
It was a city built entirely from pristine white marble, radiating a sacred and majestic brilliance beneath the morning light.
Countless towering spires pierced the heavens as if reaching for the Father God’s divine kingdom.
The magnificent city walls bore not the slightest flaw. Only the enormous emblems of the scales and sword gleamed beneath the sunlight.
This was the center of faith, and the embodiment of power.
Philip did not enter through the main gate.
Instead, in a dilapidated stable outside the city, he made contact with a man dressed in the same ascetic robes.
After exchanging a code phrase known only to members of the Guardian Alliance, he was led through a foul, mold-scented sewer tunnel and into the shadows of the holy city.
Half a day later, he was finally brought beneath the Tower of Judgment.
This was the most heavily guarded of the Church’s twelve great towers.
Pitch-black from top to bottom, it stood in stark contrast to the surrounding white buildings, like a giant sword driven upside down into the earth, radiating a chill that made the heart tremble.
At the top of the tower, inside a prayer chamber devoid of all unnecessary decoration—eerily empty, almost deathly cold—
A figure clad in a snow-white archbishop’s robe trimmed with gold stood with his back to the door, silently gazing at a massive mural depicting the Final Judgment.
He wore no bishop’s crown, revealing a rare head of silver hair as pure as moonlight.
His tall, perfectly proportioned figure gave the impression of a flawless sculpture, yet carried an inhuman coldness.
“Knock, knock, knock.”
A knock sounded at the door.
“Enter.”
The bishop’s voice was exactly like the man himself—calm, clear, and utterly devoid of warmth, like the purest winter crystal.
A Temple Knight clad in heavy armor, with the scales-and-sword emblem engraved upon his chestplate, entered soundlessly and dropped to one knee.
“Your Grace, Father Philip has arrived and brought a personal letter from Count Otto.”
“Present it.”
The knight raised the letter, sealed with an ouroboros wax crest, high above his head with both hands.
Cyril the Silver Hand slowly turned around.
He looked no older than thirty.
His features were so handsome they bordered on the unnatural, and his ice-blue eyes were so pure they seemed untouched by the slightest impurity, yet so deep they appeared capable of perceiving every sin in the world.
On his left hand was a beautifully crafted mithril gauntlet, elegant in form yet radiating a cold killing intent. This was the source of his title, Silver Hand.
He took the letter, opened it, and quickly read through it.
Inside the vast prayer chamber, the only sound was the rustling of parchment.
Cyril’s expression did not change in the slightest.
As if the undead catastrophe, the fall of a Grand Knight, and all the other horrifying news in the letter were nothing more than an ordinary diocesan report.
When he finished reading, he casually held the parchment over the candle flame.
With a soft whoosh, it ignited and quickly turned to ash in the bright fire.
He lingered over the final words appended to the letter, those repeated by the gray-robed mage Martin from the mouth of the undead leader.
“An interesting soul, full of rage and unwillingness… Such a sacrifice must not be wasted.”
“So they escaped… Good. Let them carry my lord’s blessing and bring this despair and terror back to your ridiculous city.”
At last, the corner of Cyril’s lips curved into an almost imperceptible, icy smile.
As though appraising an amusing work of art, he murmured softly, his voice laced with amusement and utter contempt.
“‘My lord’s’ blessing?”
“Upon this land illuminated by the Father God’s radiance, since when has it become another ‘lord’s’ turn to spread His ‘blessing’?”
A cold mockery flashed through his ice-blue eyes.
【Your vision is too small.】
He looked at the Temple Knight still kneeling below.
“Count Otto of the Eastern Territory is willing to offer one-tenth of ten years’ worth of tax revenue and open his lands to welcome the descent of the Holy Light.”
The Temple Knight’s body trembled slightly, but he remained silent.
“A perfectly timed plague, and a noble who willingly opens the gates.”
Cyril walked to the window and looked down upon the City of Holy Light spread below like a chessboard. A sharp predatory gleam flashed in his ice-blue eyes.
The Eastern Territory—that iron fortress the Sebastian family had maintained for nearly a thousand years—had finally cracked open because of one foolish country noble and another count’s “wisdom.”
What a… blessing from the Father God.
“Transmit my order.”
His voice echoed through the empty chamber with unquestionable authority.
“Summon the First and Third Knight Orders of the Blade of Purification. Order Cardinal Inquisitor Augustus to depart immediately and lead the army to Eagle’s Nest City in the Eastern Territory.”
“Tell them the Father God is enraged by the corruption and the spread of heresy in the East.”
“And we shall go as His will, His wrath, His blade… to purify that polluted land.”
He paused, his cold gaze falling upon the ashes of the letter on the floor, before adding the final line.
“As for Count Otto’s ‘donation’… tell him the Father God is pleased with his devotion.”
“But one-tenth is not enough.”