The Beginning of the Ritual

Inside the villa at 35 Elysian Avenue in the South River District, the atmosphere was deathly silent.

The midday sun was firmly blocked out by heavy velvet curtains, with only a few stubborn rays squeezing through the gaps, casting dim beams of light into the air, which was thick with strange incense that smelled uncomfortably like the cloying scent of Roland.

In the center of the living room, a long table covered with a plain white cloth served as the altar for the ritual about to take place.

Sacia observed the prepared altar.

It held only a few offerings: delicate pastries, essential oils with a unique fragrance, flowers picked at dawn still glistening with dew... and some very exquisite ornaments.

Two candles were placed on either side of the altar, and she found it difficult to understand why the altar had to be arranged this way for the upcoming ritual; it was quite different from the ritual formats of the church she had known in the past.

"What, is there a problem?" Malcolm, serving as a cleric for the order, asked as he watched Sacia's expression.

"It differs from the church ritual arrangements I'm familiar with. Why is the altar set up like this?" Sacia said to him. "Is there something wrong with the translated manuscript?"

She wasn't sure if there was an issue with the content of the manuscript, but the priest had told them personally last night that the High Priest had confirmed the content was correct.

"The High Priest is someone who can truly communicate with the Great Existence; he can even see Oterian. So, if the High Priest has confirmed the translated manuscript is correct, then there won't be any problems," Malcolm said to her with a tone of absolute certainty.

Sacia took a deep breath and said nothing more. The church's faith originated from the legendary sacred mountain of Oterian, where the gods resided.

The magnificent Pantheon Temple was built atop Oterian, and it was said that those chosen by the gods could enter and exit Oterian at will, their consciousness reaching that sacred land—where human flesh could never go—in a mere instant.

But these were only legends within the church.

She turned her head to see Malcolm take out a Fenso coin, toss it into the air, and catch it with his hand. She asked directly, "What are you doing?"

"Wanting to know if the High Priest will succeed in the ritual later." Malcolm moved his hand away, revealing the heads side facing up on the back of his hand.

Sacia asked, feeling quite confused, "I've noticed you've been using coins lately to... check probabilities, but you should understand that the probability of a coin toss is always fifty percent."

Her words made Malcolm pause briefly, and then he said quite stubbornly, "But... the Goddess of Luck is often on my side... and... I..."

His words were intermittent; it seemed he couldn't even explain why he had developed the habit of tossing a coin to check probabilities before doing something lately.

At this moment, the priest who had appeared last night followed respectfully behind an old man dressed in the red robes of a High Priest.

"High Priest."

"High Priest."

Malcolm and Sacia bowed slightly to him at the same time, and Malcolm also performed a church salute to the High Priest.

"You have both done very well this time," the High Priest said to them gently.

He then walked straight toward the prepared altar, stood before it, and closed his eyes slightly.

He held the translated manuscript in his hands, his fingertips gently stroking the document. The keen perception of a Psionic allowed him to clearly capture the trace of Psionic fluctuation remaining on the paper—peaceful, profound, and carrying an indescribable sense of vastness.

This was completely different from any extraordinary items he had encountered in the past; there were no insane whispers, no twisted temptations, only a near-cold, sacred majesty.

It was this unique residue of Spirituality that made him firmly believe in the authenticity of the ritual, even filling him with awe.

He believed that when the translator worked on the notes, the special spiritual fluctuations from the notes had transferred a portion onto this manuscript. What this manuscript pointed to was by no means an ordinary existence, but a truly sacred being that transcended the mundane.

"The time has come." The High Priest slowly opened his eyes, a flash of silver Psionic light gathering in his pupils.

His voice was low and solemn as he began to chant the opening of the altered ritual: "Between the rift of reality and falsehood, knock upon the door..."

Almost the exact moment his words fell—

"BOOM!!!"

The villa's sturdy oak front door was blown open by a precise, directional explosion from the outside!

Wood chips and dust flew into the air as several black figures charged through the breach like ghosts!

Clovin's men had arrived, moving with lightning speed and the cold efficiency of the empire's machine of violence.

"Cease resistance!" Sharp shouts and the sound of gunfire erupted simultaneously!

Malcolm reacted quickly, pulling his own gun to attempt a counterattack, but the Clovin agents were far better trained than he had imagined.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

The three shots were all aimed at Malcolm. One bullet precisely shattered his wrist bone, while the other two buried themselves deep into his chest and abdomen.

He stumbled backward, hitting the wall. Blood quickly stained his shirt, his eyes filled with resentment and shock. He slid down the wall, his revolver still clutched in his hand, only to be kicked away by a Clovin agent.

Malcolm slumped to the floor. He felt blood flooding into his lungs, a suffocating sensation like drowning. He tried to cough violently, but only faint wheezing escaped his blood-foamed lips.

He stared with wide eyes at the person who had shot him. The man was cold, standing there like an iron tower.

He wore a pair of thin black leather gloves, and on the wrist of the gloves was an emblem of an interlocking sword and shield, with a black iron cross star on the hilt of the sword.

It's Clovin! That was Malcolm's final thought before he collapsed, his life force extinguished.

This sudden, bloody scene left Sacia frozen in place. She watched as Clovin's men shot Malcolm dead, then gunned down the priest who had been shouting and trying to rush forward in resistance.

Several other armed church clerics rushed out from other parts of the villa, but they were unable to form any effective resistance against Clovin's assault.

Furthermore, there were simply too few of their own people in the villa, and they were completely suppressed by Clovin's frontal force.

Before she could even react, a pair of hands pressed her firmly to the floor, and cold handcuffs locked her wrists behind her back.

Her body trembled violently, consumed by despair. She pressed her face against the floor, as if that could help her escape reality.

However, the High Priest's reaction was completely different!

The explosions and gunfire rang out like a final death knell, shattering every last shred of his wishful thinking.

In the depths of despair, a sense of near-maniacal resolve began to burn within him!

The power of the Empire had crushed its way to his doorstep; his life's pursuit and the hope of the Church were about to vanish into thin air! No! He absolutely could not fail here!

Just as a high-ranking Clovin investigator at the front of the charge noticed the abnormally violent Psionic fluctuations radiating from the High Priest and shouted, "Stop him!" while leveling his weapon—

The High Priest made the most insane decision of his life.

Ignoring the death threat looming inches away, he poured every ounce of his Psionic power, his willpower, and even his life force into chanting the prayer directed at the "Holy True Lord," sacrificing his very self in a soul-tearing act of devotion!