Once we entered the cathedral, I could take off the oxygen mask and let it hang around my neck like a collar. But the thing that left the deepest impression on me wasn't the grandeur, solemnity, or airy sanctity you'd expect from a cathedral or temple.
It was… candles.
My God. Candles everywhere.
Tens of thousands of them, maybe even hundreds of thousands, stuck into wall niches, mounted on candelabra, set before statues, stretching from the floor all the way up to the vaulted ceiling dozens of meters overhead. Countless flames pooled together into something like a river of light, a waterfall, washing the vast space in a dim yellow glow.
The air was saturated with a thick, inescapable stench of melted wax mixed with incense. Watching the wax tears run and spill over the stands and across the floor, piling up into layered "stalactites," I had only one thought:
This is obscene.
Fire safety in here had to be literal hell-tier.
And there was something else I saw here, too.
A… thing.
It looked like a baby a few months old. Smooth-skinned, naked, but with a pair of fluttering mechanical wings bolted to its back. Bits of metal components and tubing were embedded in its face and limbs. They flitted above our heads, some replacing candles that were burning down, others wiping statues, busy as a swarm of diligent bees.
To be honest, they made me feel extremely, extremely bad.
They reminded me of all the sci-fi and fantasy horror games I'd played back in the day. That dead infant face, sometimes twisted by mechanical distortion, sent a prickling chill straight up from the bottom of my spine.
What was weird was this: the skulls—those servo-skulls they used for chores, also flying around with various ornaments and augmetics—felt almost comically "black-humor" to me. But these flying, cybernetically modified babies made me physically nauseous. And by extension, I felt an extra surge of disgust toward this church that used so many "bio-tools."
Lady Inquisitor had several of her attendants wait in the cathedral's outer hall. I followed behind her, deeper inside, guided by a line of white-robed clergy.
We walked on a carpet so thick it was ridiculous, deep crimson underfoot. The texture was so soft it felt like stepping on snow, nothing like those thin red carpets you see at grand openings. We passed through archway after archway, each one tall enough for a giraffe to do parkour. The doors themselves were each as thick as a bank vault. I had no doubt they were bulletproof.
The incense pouring from gigantic hanging censers grew heavier and heavier. That sweet, cloying, unnatural scent, for some reason, reminded me of the cheap air fresheners used in public toilets. It made my stomach turn.
As we left behind the huge windows that still admitted a hint of daylight, the space around us grew darker and more oppressive. The only light left was the sickly yellow of candle flames. The air was nothing but suffocating perfume. Our footsteps vanished into the carpet. The silence was so complete that all I could hear was cloth rubbing against cloth and the faint, distant singing of a choir.
This place made me deeply uncomfortable now.
Like the throat of a giant beast.
And we were voluntarily walking into its stomach.
Lady Inquisitor beside me, though, seemed perfectly at ease. More than that, she even looked… comfortable.
Yes. Comfortable.
Her refined face, usually held tight by seriousness and vigilance, had softened noticeably. It was like a white-collar workaholic who'd been on business trips forever, worn down by constant travel, finally returning to a warm, familiar home.
Except this time she'd also brought a guest.
Me.
Today she wasn't wearing that oppressive ivory power armour. Instead, she'd changed into a very formal outfit. The core was a porcelain-white, fitted half-suit of armour, essentially the same set she'd worn fighting in Donigaton, but now scrubbed clean, polished, and repaired as much as possible, with the damage carefully concealed.
Over the plate she wore a festive red surcoat with a shoulder cape and long tails, thick fabric, with delicate Inquisitorial "I" motifs embroidered in gold thread at the collar and hem.
Most eye-catching of all was the absurdly thick gold chain hanging on her chest, the kind that would make even a hip-hop rapper feel inadequate. At the end of it hung a massive golden "I" sigil. Beyond that, there were countless little trinkets and odds and ends all over her.
It was clearly a very high-tier, ceremonial dress uniform.
A gallant lady knight, through and through. I couldn't help thinking, quietly and uncharitably, that if those boots had another ten centimeters of heel, she'd be absolutely perfect.
We finally stopped in a room about the size of a small conference room. The walls were covered with ornate wallpaper and vellum sheets printed with scripture, and along the walls stood lifelike statues of various figures.
The floor was also laid with a thick, deep-red carpet woven with intricate decorative patterns. In the center sat an enormous sofa set and a low table, like a formal reception room. Farther in, firelight roared in a fireplace. And a gaunt old man in a similarly heavy red robe stood slightly hunched behind a massive desk piled with documents and parchment scrolls, watching us.
Even at this distance, I could see his eyes catching the firelight, bright and gleaming like an owl's in the dark.
He was the person we'd come to see: the highest authority of the Ecclesiarchy on Grandtale, Archbishop Azorion.
To be honest, this meeting made me uncomfortable from the very beginning. My nerves stayed taut the whole time. Maybe it was the oppressive architecture. Maybe it was the grotesque decor. Or maybe it was the pressure coming off that stern old man who looked like a disciplinary dean.
No. It wasn't the kind of aura you see on TV from real top-tier leaders.
From my experience in dead-end jobs, the more powerful someone truly is, the more friendly and approachable they usually are.
They rarely get angry, let alone walk around with a permanent scowl. It's the middling small officials—the ones stuck in that awkward layer—like school disciplinarians, office directors, inspection-team leads, who keep a funeral face all day, nitpick everything, make your skin crawl, and keep you on edge.
Just like this archbishop.
I felt like I was sitting on needles, but I couldn't run. So I sat stiffly on the sofa while a crowd of robed zealots in gaudy ceremonial garments surrounded me and stared, evaluating me like an exhibit.
From time to time they threw out questions that sounded less like inquiry and more like interrogation, making me feel like a criminal awaiting judgment, or a schoolkid getting chewed out in an office.
Lady Inquisitor beside me, meanwhile, looked entirely at home. If anything, she looked energized. A few stray strands of pale-gold hair that had slipped free from her tied-up bun seemed to bounce and sway with her movements, almost excited.
She spoke smoothly, laying out everything that had happened in Donigaton so far. She firmly blocked the pressure and pointed questioning from the clergy, and she delivered our request clearly and forcefully.
In short: we wanted to leverage the church's immense influence here to publicize me and build momentum. They would package me into something like a "saint" or "icon," expanding our influence among the common populace and making our follow-up investigation easier.
Me debuting as an idol celebrity?
Honestly, I had mixed feelings. I couldn't even decide whether to be happy or to complain.
I'd never truly believed in any religion. I didn't even believe in friendship and magic. (That said, it never stopped me from calling on whatever gods were convenient when I needed to express certain emotions.)
So I didn't understand why Lady Inquisitor trusted this church so strongly. From my perspective—at least so far—they were very good at packaging, publicity, and putting on airs, but the gloomy, oppressive atmosphere made me instinctively recoil.
When I snapped out of my wandering thoughts, I only caught the old man's final words.
"…Therefore, Lady Inquisitor Ireya," the archbishop said, first looking down on me with an eye like he was assessing merchandise, "I have no intention of questioning your account of this…" He paused, as if choosing his words. "…this person. However…" His voice was low and slightly hoarse, his pace unhurried, his diction unnaturally precise, as though he were savoring every sentence like a delicacy. "This matter is of great consequence, and far too implausible. I must witness it with my own eyes."
He turned those deep-set, razor-bright eyes from me to the Inquisitor.
"I will take him now to see the 'Corrupt Star.'"
"If everything you have said is true," he pulled his mouth into a stiff smile, "then there should be no risk."
The instant those words fell, the expression on Lady Inquisitor's face changed in a flash.
(End of Chapter)
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