43 · The Ritual Begins

Inside the villa at 35 Elysée Avenue in the South River District, the atmosphere was utterly silent.

The heavy velvet curtains blocked out the midday sun. Only a few stubborn rays squeezed through the gaps, casting dim beams into the air, which was filled with a strange incense and a cloying scent like Roland's.

At the center of the living room, a long table covered with a plain white cloth had been made into an altar for the ritual that was about to begin.

Sacia studied the altar they had prepared.

Only a few offerings had been placed on it: delicate pastries, fragrant essential oils, fresh flowers picked at dawn with dew still clinging to them... and several exquisitely crafted ornaments.

Two candles had also been placed on either side of the altar. She couldn't understand why it had been arranged this way for the upcoming ritual. It was unlike the rites she knew the Church had performed in the past.

"Is something wrong?" Malcolm, a clergyman of the order, asked as he studied Sacia's expression.

"This setup is different from the Church rituals I know. Why have you arranged the altar this way?" Sacia asked him. "Was there something wrong with the translated text?"

She wasn't sure whether there might be a problem with the text, but the priest had personally told them the previous night that the High Priest had confirmed it was correct.

"The High Priest is someone who can truly communicate with a great being. He can even see 'Oterian.' So if the High Priest has confirmed that the translated text is correct, then it is correct." Malcolm spoke with absolute certainty.

Sacia took a deep breath and said nothing more. The Church's faith originated in the legendary mountain of the gods, "Oterian," where the gods dwelled.

The magnificent Pantheon Temple stood atop Oterian. It was said that those chosen by the gods could enter and leave Oterian at will in spirit, reaching in an instant that sacred place no human body could ever visit.

But that was only a legend within the Church.

She turned her head and saw Malcolm take out a one-Fenso coin. He tossed it into the air and caught it in his hand. She asked him outright, "What are you doing?"

"Trying to find out whether the High Priest's ritual will succeed." Malcolm lifted his hand, revealing the coin's face, with the number side up.

Sacia asked in utter bewilderment, "I've noticed you've been using coins lately to... check the odds. But you do understand that a coin toss always gives you a fifty percent chance."

Her words left Malcolm briefly stunned. Then he stubbornly replied, "But... the Goddess of Fortune is usually on my side... and... I..."

His words came haltingly. Even he seemed unable to explain why, lately, he had taken to tossing a coin before doing anything, as if to check the odds.

Just then, the priest from the previous night entered, respectfully following behind an elderly man dressed in the High Priest's red robes.

"Your Eminence."

"Your Eminence."

Malcolm and Sacia bowed slightly to him at the same time. Malcolm also gave the High Priest the Church's formal salute.

"You have both done very well this time," the High Priest said warmly.

Then he went straight to the prepared altar and stood before it, his eyes half-closed.

He held the translated text in both hands, lightly rubbing its pages with his fingertips. A psionic's keen perception let him clearly sense the faint trace of psionic energy left on the paper—calm, profound, and imbued with an indescribable breadth.

It was unlike any supernatural object he had encountered before. There were no maddening whispers, no twisted temptations—only a near-icy, sacred majesty.

That unique trace of spirituality convinced him that the ritual was genuine, and even filled him with awe.

He believed that as the translator had worked on the notes, some of their unusual spiritual energy had transferred onto the manuscript. Whatever the manuscript pointed to was no ordinary being, but a truly divine existence beyond the mortal world.

"The time has come." The High Priest slowly opened his eyes, a silvery glow of gathered psionic energy flashing in them.

His voice low and solemn, he began reciting the opening of the altered ritual: "Between the cracks of reality and illusion, knock upon the door..."

Almost the instant the words left his mouth—

"BOOM!!!"

The villa's sturdy oak front door exploded inward in a precise, directed blast!

Wood splinters and dust filled the air as several black-clad figures swept through the breach like ghosts!

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

"Give up! Don't resist!" A harsh shout rang out alongside the gunfire!

Malcolm reacted quickly and drew his own gun to fight back, but Clovin's agents were far better trained than he had imagined.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

All three shots were aimed at Malcolm. One bullet precisely shattered his wrist bone, while the other two tore into his chest and abdomen.

He staggered backward and struck the wall. Blood quickly spread across the front of his clothes. His eyes filled with shock and unwillingness as he slid slowly down the wall. He still clutched his revolver in his left hand, until one of Clovin's agents kicked it away.

Malcolm slumped to the floor. He felt blood flooding into his lungs, as if he were drowning. Blood bubbled from his mouth. He wanted to cough violently, but could only manage a faint wheeze.

He stared wide-eyed at the man across from him who had fired the shots. The man stood there, cold and unmoved, like an iron tower.

He wore thin black leather gloves. At the wrist was an insignia of a long sword crossed with a long shield, with a black iron cross on the hilt.

Clovin... That was Malcolm's final thought. He collapsed to the ground, his life extinguished.

Sacia froze at the sudden, bloody scene. She watched Clovin's men shoot Malcolm dead, then gun down the priest as he shouted and tried to charge at them.

Several armed Church clergymen also rushed out from other parts of the villa, but under Clovin's surprise attack, they couldn't mount any effective resistance.

And their side had far too few people in the villa. They could only be overwhelmed by Clovin's frontal assault.

Before she could react, a pair of hands forced her to the ground. Cold handcuffs locked around her wrists, pinning her hands behind her back.

Her body trembled violently. Despairing, she pressed her face against the floor, as if that could help her escape reality.

The High Priest, however, reacted very differently!

The blast and gunshots rang out like a final death knell, shattering any hope he had left.

In his despair, a near-mad resolve began to burn within him!

The Empire's power had already crushed its way to his door. His lifelong pursuit and the Church's hopes were about to turn to ash! No! He could not let it end in failure!

Just as a senior Clovin investigator at the front noticed the violent surge of psionic energy in the High Priest and shouted, "Stop him!" while raising his gun to aim—

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

He ignored the threat of imminent death and poured every last bit of his psionic energy, will, and life force into that prayer invoking the "Holy True Lord." In a manner that tore at his very soul, he sacrificed himself to offer the prayer!