CHAPTER 72: Sanctuary of Smiles
The moment Zodac stepped inside the High Chapel, his breath caught.
His jaw slackened as his eyes slowly traveled across the vast interior, struggling to reconcile what he saw with the structure's exterior. The building had been imposing from the outside, yes—but this… this was something else entirely.
The space was impossibly large.
A cathedral of silence stretched before him, its ceiling rising so high it vanished into shadows and faint candlelight. Massive pillars of polished white marble lined the hall in perfect symmetry, each one etched with delicate carvings of saints, symbols, and prayers written in ancient script. The marble floor beneath his boots gleamed like still water, reflecting the soft glow of hanging chandeliers that floated above like constellations trapped indoors.
Rows upon rows of interlocked chairs filled the hall, all facing forward toward an elevated altar. Zodac could tell at a glance that they were made from the finest wood—dark, polished, painstakingly carved by master craftsmen. Not a single chair was out of alignment. Not a single speck of dust marred the surface.
Perfect
Clean.
Quiet.
Too quiet.
The stillness pressed against his ears until it felt almost deafening.
"Wow," Zodac muttered.
His voice echoed unnaturally, rolling across the hall and bouncing back at him in softened fragments. The sound alone made him feel smaller.
His gaze shifted.
To the right, a wide staircase spiraled upward, its banister carved with flowing patterns that resembled wind caught in stone. To the left, another staircase mirrored it exactly, both disappearing into higher levels unseen from the ground floor.
"The second floor," he thought.
His instincts stirred uneasily.
Before he could take another step, the sound of shoes clicking sharply against marble reached his ears.
Measured. Unhurried.
Zodac turned.
An old nun approached him from deeper within the chapel. She was dressed entirely in white, her robes immaculate, not a crease out of place. Her hair was hidden beneath her veil, and her posture was rigid—unnaturally so for someone of her apparent age.
Her face bore no warmth.
No curiosity.
Only polite emptiness.
"Hello, sir," she greeted.
"Hello," Zodac replied.
His voice was flat, cold, detached. There was no attempt at courtesy. No effort to soften his tone. He did not care to.
For a brief moment, they studied one another.
Neither smiled.
"What are you seeking here, young man?" the nun asked.
"Holy water," Zodac answered plainly.
No embellishment. No explanation.
The woman's eyes narrowed slightly.
"There are other places in the capital where holy water can be obtained," she said, her tone carefully neutral—yet unmistakably dismissive.
She was telling him to leave.
"Then why come here?" she continued, her gaze sharpening as it locked onto his face. "Why the High Chapel?"
This was a challenge.
Zodac felt it immediately.
The silence between them thickened, stretching until it felt like a taut wire ready to snap. He could not read her—her face was a practiced mask. But neither could she read him.
The corner of Zodac's lips curved upward into a faint grin.
"Isn't this," he said slowly, "the one place in all of Sundara where one can obtain the purest form of holy water?"
For a fraction of a second, the nun's composure cracked.
Her eyes widened.
Just barely.
Then she smoothed her expression as though nothing had happened.
"Only members are allowed to make such requests," she said stiffly.
Arrogance crept into her voice like rot beneath polished wood.
"Or," Zodac continued calmly, "is the High Chapel denying the needs of the people?"
The words hung in the air like a blade.
Before she could respond—
"What is this I see?"
A male voice cut through the tension.
Both Zodac and the nun lifted their heads.
Descending from the staircase above was a man dressed in white ceremonial garments. Red markings ran from one shoulder across his upper back to the other, forming intricate symbols that pulsed faintly in the candlelight. Upon his head sat a tall, elaborate hat—unnatural in shape—with a single eye symbol emblazoned at its center.
The man appeared to be in his early fifties. Thin-framed glasses rested upon his nose, and his expression bore a wide, welcoming smile that never quite reached his eyes.
Behind him followed three other nuns.
Two carried stone tablets etched with scripture.
The third held a transparent bottle—old, its surface worn smooth with age.
The old nun stiffened and bowed deeply.
"Father," she said.
Zodac's gaze sharpened.
" Pope," he thought.
The attire was unmistakable—yet different from the one from his world. That eye symbol on the hat unsettled him.
The man descended the final steps and stopped a short distance away.
" The Wood Elemental Hero in our midst,"the pope said warmly.
"He knows who I am" Zodac said inwardly,
The nun lifted her head and smiled, her earlier hostility vanishing as though it had never existed.
"I was just attending to him, sir," she said.
"Bunch of pretenders," Zodac thought.
The pope approached, his presence filling the space with a subtle pressure—something heavier than authority.
"What brings you to the chapel?" he asked.
"I came seeking something," Zodac replied, turning slightly toward the nun. "But it seems one of the Lord's disciples believes I am unworthy."
He met the pope's gaze.
"Are all not welcome before the Lord?"
The pope turned slowly to the nun.
She began to sweat.
His smile never faltered—but his eyes changed. Something cold flickered within them.
"What do you need?" the pope asked, turning back to Zodac.
The smile made Zodac's skin crawl.
"Holy water," Zodac said. "The purest form."
Without another word, the nun hurried away, her shoes scraping hurriedly against the marble floor.
Silence returned.
Only Zodac and the pope remained.
The smile.
It didn't fade.
"What's wrong with this man?"Zodac wondered.
The longer he stared, the more irritated he became. That smile—too perfect, too assured. Like a promise that everything was already under control.
" It enrages me," Zodac realized.
" The way he smiles like all is well… like all will be well."
"Only he and his god know what hides behind that smile."
The nun returned quickly, holding a silver-white vial upon a tray. She bowed deeply as she presented it.
Zodac reached out—
Then stopped.
"Wait."
His hand froze midair.
"She refused me before. I need to be sure."
He pulled his hand back.
The pope's gaze sharpened slightly.
: Holy Water
: Lowest form
Zodac's eyes darkened.
"Six gold coins," the nun said quickly.
The air changed.
"What is this?" Zodac asked.
His voice was low. Cold. Heavy with restrained fury.
The nun shivered.
"I asked for holy water in its purest form," Zodac continued. "Not this."
Her knees nearly buckled.
The pope turned to her.
His eyes glowed gold.
The warmth vanished.
"You acted out of selfishness," he said, his voice suddenly sharp, resonant, terrifying. "You have committed theft."
The chapel seemed to tremble.
He turned to Zodac.
"I apologize on her behalf," the pope said smoothly. "For her crime, you may do with her as you please."
The nun's head snapped up.
Tears filled her eyes.
"She has brought shame upon us and herself," the pope continued, unblinking. "She is no longer worthy to serve the Almighty."
"Get what I asked for," Zodac said.
He did not look at her.
Not once.