Chapter 15: The Inquisitor's Despair
The arrival of a High Inquisitor was always marked by the ringing of the Sanctum Bells, a sound meant to purify the air and strike fear into the hearts of sinners. But as High Inquisitor Malachi stepped through the gates of the Imperial Zenith Academy, the bells sounded hollow, their resonance swallowed by an invisible, dampening field.
Malachi was a man carved from cold stone and unwavering faith. Wrapped in heavy, white robes embroidered with golden scripture, and carrying a staff topped with a Sun-Crystal, he was one of the Church's most feared "Cleaners." His eyes, sharp and judgmental, scanned the courtyard. To any normal priest, the academy looked peaceful. To Malachi, who could sense the subtle vibrations of mana, the entire place felt like a rotting corpse covered in expensive perfume.
"The resonance is off," Malachi whispered to his two subordinates, who clutched their silver crosses nervously. "The light here doesn't shine; it reflects. Something has hollowed out this sanctuary."
Waiting for him at the entrance to the Cathedral was Servina. She looked every bit the Saintess—serene, pale, and divine. But as Malachi approached, he noticed the slight, rhythmic twitch in her fingers.
"High Inquisitor," Servina said, bowing her head. "The Heavens welcome your guidance."
Malachi didn't return the bow. He thrust his staff forward, the Sun-Crystal pulsing with a blinding radiance. "Save the pleasantries, Servina. The Holy See detected a massive surge of Abyssal energy during a 'duel' here. Explain why the Golden Prince is currently a vegetable in the infirmary and why the mana ley lines of this academy are bleeding black."
Servina didn't flinch. Her training under Cyan had been brutal. "It was a Divine Trial, Malachi. The Prince was tested by the Shadow of the Old Gods. He survived, but his soul is undergoing a painful purification. What you sense as 'corruption' is merely the byproduct of the light burning away the dross."
"A Divine Trial?" Malachi narrowed his eyes. "I will be the judge of that. Take me to the boy who caused this. Take me to Cyan Valerian."
Cyan was not in his room. He was waiting in the Academy's underground vault—a place where the most dangerous magical artifacts were kept. The air here was freezing, the stone walls damp with ancient enchantments.
As Malachi, Servina, and the guards descended into the vault, the Inquisitor's Sun-Crystal began to hiss violently.
"Stop!" Malachi barked, raising his staff. "The corruption here is thick enough to touch. Who goes there?"
From the darkness, Cyan stepped into the faint circle of light. He wasn't armed. He wasn't even in a defensive stance. He looked like a scholar lost in thought.
"You must be the Inquisitor," Cyan said, his voice echoing with a haunting clarity. "I was told you were coming to 'clean' me. I must say, I expected someone... brighter."
"Blasphemous cur!" one of Malachi's subordinates shouted, drawing a consecrated sword. "Kneel before the High Inquisitor!"
Malachi raised a hand to silence his guard. He stepped forward, his staff illuminating Cyan's face. For the first time in his thirty years of service, Malachi felt a cold shiver of genuine doubt. Cyan's purple eye wasn't just a color; it was a window into a void that seemed to be laughing at him.
"You carry a heavy burden, Malachi," Cyan said, tilting his head. "Thirty years of 'purifying' others. How many innocent lives have you burned at the stake to keep your 'Light' shining? Do you ever hear their screams when you close your eyes?"
"Silence, spawn of the Abyss!" Malachi roared, his staff erupting in a pillar of holy fire. "I am the hammer of the Gods! I do not listen to the whispers of demons!"
"Then look," Cyan whispered.
Suddenly, the torches in the vault turned black. The ground beneath Malachi's feet vanished, replaced by a sea of reaching, spectral hands.
[System Skill Activated: Mirror of Guilt.]
Malachi gasped as the shadows around him transformed into the people he had executed in the name of the Church. Women, children, old scholars—all of them charred, their eyes hollow sockets of ash. They swarmed him, not with physical strength, but with the weight of his own sins.
"This is an illusion!" Malachi screamed, swinging his staff wildly. "Servina! Aid me!"
He turned to the Saintess, but what he saw broke his mind. Servina was standing beside Cyan, her hand resting on his shoulder. Her white dress was slowly turning black, and a crown of purple thorns was visible upon her brow. She wasn't a victim; she was a participant.
"The Light is a lie, Malachi," Servina said, her voice distorted, echoing with Cyan's own tone. "It is a mask for the weak. Join us, and you will finally see the world as it truly is—vibrant, raw, and beautifully corrupted."
"NO!" Malachi plunged his staff into the ground, unleashing a massive shockwave of holy energy. For a second, the shadows retreated. But then, a new figure appeared from the ceiling.
Elara descended like a silent predator. Before Malachi could react, her daggers danced across his wrists and ankles, severing his tendons with surgical precision. The Inquisitor fell to his knees, his staff clattering away into the darkness.
Cyan walked over and picked up the Sun-Crystal staff. He squeezed it. The holy crystal groaned and then shattered, the light within being absorbed into Cyan's palm.
"Your God is silent, Malachi," Cyan said, kneeling in front of the broken man. "But my System is very... talkative. It says your soul is worth a thousand normal priests. It says you would make an excellent 'Grand Executioner' for my new order."
Cyan pressed his thumb against Malachi's forehead.
[System Skill Activated: Inquisitorial Corruption - Absolute Submission.]
Malachi's screams filled the vault, a harrowing sound that lasted for minutes before turning into a low, guttural growl. His golden eyes bled out, replaced by a dark, swirling violet. The scripture on his robes began to rewrite itself, the holy words turning into ancient, forbidden runes of the Abyss.
"Rise, Malachi," Cyan commanded.
The man who was once the Church's greatest hammer stood up. He picked up his shattered staff, which now radiated a cold, dark energy. He knelt before Cyan, his forehead touching the damp floor.
"My soul... belongs to the Sin," Malachi croaked.
Cyan looked at his growing circle of subordinates—the Duchess, the Saintess, the Prince, and now the Inquisitor. The pillars of the Empire were falling one by one, replaced by foundations of shadow.
"The Church will expect a report, Malachi," Cyan said, a cold smile on his face. "Tell them the Academy is 'blessed.' Tell them the Saintess is performing miracles. And tell them... that they should send more Inquisitors. I'm starting to get hungry."
[System Notification: High-Level Subordinate Acquired: 'The Corrupted Inquisitor'.]
[Corruption Progress: 28% - The Capital is now within reach.]
Cyan walked out of the vault, his followers trailing behind him like the harbingers of an apocalypse. The Zenith Academy was no longer a school; it was the capital of a new, dark kingdom.