The Vastness of Magical Destiny

Like two silent statues, two ash-gray figures stood quietly in the crystalline corridor outside the chapel, as if they had been in place for hundreds of years. The activities within the chapel did not escape the perception of their mystical sight. The unfathomable divine might of the Great Prophecy Spell brought about various strange phenomena, which were enough to make both, who had not felt such sensations in over a decade, sigh inwardly with admiration. When might they reach this freewheeling state of mind where intention moves with heart? Not now, but it did not mean never. The Pope had but experience, and that should not be a problem. Surge after surge of power heralded the nearing end of the spellcasting within the chapel. Almost simultaneously, the two figures locked gazes once more, each noting a hint of surprise laced with faint joy in the other’s eyes. Given the duration of the previous two sessions of spellcasting by His Holiness the Pope, the Great Prophecy Spell should not have concluded so swiftly. A single execution of the spell would almost entirely drain the caster’s energies and might even cause damage to their very essence. Therefore, each session should be prolonged as much as possible to gain deeper insights into the unknown realms. Such an abrupt ending could only mean that either the Pope’s body could no longer sustain a lengthy duration, or an issue had occurred during the casting, with the former seeming more likely. Whatever the case, these signs appeared to foretell something.

"Sir, His Holiness the Pope requests your presence," announced a monk in white clothes, gently pulling open the door of the chapel and respectfully gesturing them inside.

Inside the Coughni Chapel, waves of residual Holy Power still rippled through the air. After a brief moment of deference, it was the Gray-robed mage who stepped in first, followed closely by the White cleric.

Resting on the wheelchair like a withered leaf, the body of His Holiness the Pope appeared significantly weaker. However, to the surprise of both beholders, his face did not show much fatigue. Instead, his expression seemed contemplative, as if he was ruminating over something before making an important decision. The sunbeams streaming through the dome shifted hues under the influence of the residual energy field, casting a spectrum of colors onto the face of the statue of Saint Theresa. To some, the expression on Saint Theresa’s visage seemed to betray a longing for the nourishment of love, but of course, such interpretations were mere slander from those who maligned the Church of Light.

"Your Holiness," they greeted.

A silent hand gesture beckoned the two visitors to take their seats. Even in the presence of this frail, seemingly terminally ill elder, the two Archbishops, who could command the awe of millions of believers, showed utmost respect. It seemed that Julius was not entirely pleased with the performance of his two successors. A playful glint flashed in Julius’s eyes. He recalled a rather tactless but truthful saying: The more respectful someone is to your face, the faster they sharpen the knife behind your back. He wondered if his successors were doing just that. But right now, it didn’t much matter. The grand mission of the Church of Light must be carried on, and he would commend any who could spread the blessings of the Bright Holy Teaching across the Continent, even if it meant they had to step over his own body.

Seeing that His Holiness remained silent as if waiting for something, both Vazinsky and Frenster appeared quite calm. The Great Prophecy Spell could pierce through the mysteries of destiny, but it couldn’t ascertain the future. Perhaps His Holiness desired a more definitive answer.