Chapter 229
Following Anna’s message, Leon went alone to the outskirts of the city, accompanied by no one.
There wasn’t a trace of life, and the reason was rather simple; outside the camps of the Ferma army, the Revolutionary forces, and the Holy Church, not a single survivor remained. The air was oppressively still, and the wind that slipped through the empty buildings sounded like ghosts wailing through the ruins.
He occasionally sensed the distant presence of patrols, but none among them had the skill to see through hundreds of meters of darkness to notice him.
After walking for several minutes, Leon finally saw a familiar figure with golden hair that seemed to glow faintly even under the night sky.
“Lyon,” Leon called.
Turning around at the voice, Lyon responded, “Leon.”
Leon halted, taken aback by Lyon’s unexpected appearance.
What happened to him? He looks terrible.
The only thing unchanged was his radiant blond hair and blue eyes. The vigor and sharpness that should have marked a warrior were gone, and his gaze drifted hollowly into space. Even if he had been exhausted from the siege, there had been plenty of time to rest. His face, though, looked like someone who hadn’t slept in days.
Noticing Leon’s eyes on him, Lyon forced a faint smile and said, “I’m sorry. I asked for this meeting, but I don’t exactly look presentable.”
However, they were long past needing formalities.
“That’s all good, but... Were you badly hurt? If you haven’t received proper treatment, I can call for one of the Cardinals or Elahan—”
Lyon cut him off, “No. I’m fine, really. I’m not injured, just... tired.”
“Is that so?”
After refusing Leon’s concern several times, Lyon fell silent for a moment, then finally said what he came to say.
“Leon, you probably already know why I asked to meet like this.”
“I have an idea.”
Even without political expertise, anyone could guess. The rift between Clyde and Ferma was far too deep to close easily. Even when cooperation was the rational choice, too many refused to accept it. Ferma’s de facto commander, Valter, was no exception.
“So, you’re asking me to mediate? I guess even Valter wouldn’t dare act rashly in front of the Church.”
“Something like that. Without the Holy Church’s cooperation, what I’m trying to do is impossible to even try.”
“Something that’s impossible to even try...?”
“Yes,” Lyon nodded and continued. “As you may already know, my bloodline allows me to bypass the White Peak Palace’s security system. The problem is, when that method is used, only a few people can accompany me.”
“What? There’s a limit to the number of people?” Leon asked, surprise evident on his face.
“It was a safeguard against internal rebellion. I never imagined it would become such an obstacle now.”
It was a factor no one—not even Irexana—had anticipated. Lyon could have been lying, but Leon’s instincts told him that he was telling the truth.
This changed everything. Even if they passed through the security system, the troops inside the White Peak Palace would still be active. They’d need at least a few knight orders to break through properly, numbering a few hundred individual knights.
“How many people can go with you?” Leon asked.
“Six, not counting me.”
“We can barely take all of our Masters, then.”
“Which is why we’ll have to infiltrate with a small team and destroy the Palace’s barrier control chamber from within. That would allow us to bring in reinforcements from outside.”
Lyon hesitated before continuing, his eyes meeting Leon’s.
“But that means asking you and your companions to take on the risk.”
“Risk?”
“Yes. To form a six-man infiltration team, we’ll need you and your companions.”
Leon thought through the possible lineup and frowned when he realized something didn’t fit.
“That would be me, Karen, and Elahan—three. Who are the others?”
“On my side, Gilbert and Cedric. From Ferma, I intend to request that Marquis Valter himself accompany us. I can’t risk leaving a potential enemy commander behind.”
“Then Her Eminence Anna would stay behind... Ah, I see. You’re having her hold the line between the two armies.”
“Even without commanders, the Ferma army still outnumbers the Revolutionary forces. There’s always a chance of betrayal.”
It was simple, once explained. Just as Valter didn’t trust Lyon, Lyon didn’t trust Valter.
Distrust was the sharpest of blades. It could stab oneself as easily as it could an enemy.
In this case, they were breaking each other’s blades to eliminate the risk of betrayal. Without a single Master left, no one could stand against the Holy Iron Inquisitors led directly by a Cardinal. Every member of that order was, at minimum, an Expert-level warrior or higher, veterans of countless battles.
“Wait a minute,” Leon said, interrupting him. “If I go along with this, it’ll look like the Church is siding with the Revolutionary Army. Doesn’t that violate the principle of neutrality?”
“It would—if the Church were to make this decision on its own.”
“You’re implying it wouldn’t matter if the order came from me.”
“That’s right. The Hero holds full authority within the Holy Church but isn’t bound by its rules. The principle of neutrality exists to prevent the Goddess’s will from being distorted, but if her own chosen representative gives the command, that principle becomes meaningless.”
He was right. Lyon had once sought to reclaim his throne by becoming a Hero precisely because he understood that authority.
If neutrality bound even the Hero, the Church’s power could never be used. Without the ten Cardinals and the Holy Iron Inquisitors, the Holy Church’s military might was nonexistent.
Leon smirked and said, “So that’s why you called me out here alone. If Her Eminence Anna or Elahan had heard you say that, they’d have been furious.”
“I expected that much... but I didn’t think you’d actually come by yourself. You still trust too easily.”
Lyon’s tone was half reproach, half amusement. Leon only shrugged.
“The Lyon I know doesn’t play cheap tricks. I trust you that much, at least.”
“I see...”
For some reason, Lyon fell silent, his expression unreadable, but Leon didn’t think much of it. After a moment’s hesitation, he turned away.
“I’ll discuss it with the others and give you an answer. Can you wait a day?” he asked.
“Of course.”
“Then get some rest. You look crazy exhausted. Chloe would worry if she saw you like this.”
With those parting words, Leon walked away. Lyon watched his back for a while, then let out a quiet, bitter laugh. The sense of defeat that washed over him was heavier than when he had lost their duel.
Every time he saw Leon, he was reminded—again and again—why he could never be the Hero.
***
The White Peak Palace.
Even surrounded by tens of thousands of troops, the grand palace stood in tranquil splendor. Its interior was just as vast and extravagant as its gleaming exterior.
It was said that even with a thousand maids cleaning day and night, dust would still gather. Most members of the royal family didn’t even know how many rooms or how many floors the White Peak Palace had. And the underground section was even more so.
Lamps powered by magic lined the walls at even intervals. The staircase that should have been pitch-dark glowed faintly under their light.
A man descended those stairs, his footsteps alone echoing. A strange figure—if one could even call him that.
No two people who had seen his face described it the same way. If one were asked to draw it, they would only fill the page with question marks.
Morse, Bishop of the Evil Order, was chaos incarnate.
The hollow echo of his footsteps filled the corridor, each one sinking deeper into an unseen abyss. But he walked on, unaffected by the dread that seemed to cling to the air.
“I have never feared night or darkness. The time when one cannot find the path... Such a time is salvation for those who could not see the way even in the light,” Morse muttered to himself, unaffected by the fact that there was no one to hear him. “By chance, I passed the crossroads of good and evil, yet now I face a new question. I will seek the answer beyond this world, and if no answer is found, then I shall take the void itself as my answer.”
At some point, the staircase ended. Without stopping, Morse stepped into a vast underground chamber beneath the White Peak Palace.
A faint scent of alcohol tickled his nose. Perhaps it had once been a wine cellar.
This had once been a place where fine vintages were stored—wines so rare that even a whiff of their aroma could drive connoisseurs into bliss. But Morse, who could not enjoy food nor drink, had emptied the cellar long ago and turned it into his base of operations.
“Hm.”
He stopped in the center of the room. It was impossible not to.
In front of him, a mirror of black crystal—one of the Evil Order’s communication artifacts—burned with an eerie, unnatural light. An ordinary person would go mad or die the moment they looked into it.
There was only one bishop capable of using the forbidden shard of power known as the Flame of Madness. Morse approached the mirror cautiously and raised his hand toward it.
Then, he said, “It has been a long time, Archbishop.”
He spoke to the greatest villain in history. A being whose name and power were both mysteries, and an enemy of the entire world. The progenitor of all Nine Hell Bishops, both their teacher and their father. The monster is responsible for hundreds of calamities across the continent.
For centuries, his name had never once fallen from the very top of the Holy Church’s most-wanted list. He was, in essence, the Evil Order itself.
From beyond the black crystal mirror, that incomprehensible being spoke.
“Morse. Why did you act without my permission?”
Just hearing that voice shook the body and soul. Even Morse, whose madness had carried him past the realm of Masters and tainted his spirit beyond repair, began to bleed from his eyes and ears as the Archbishop’s fury bled through the mirror.
The backlash alone had injured him, but Morse’s tone remained calm.
“You taught me to be Chaos.”
Chaos could not be defined. It could not be ordered, nor could it be predicted.
Because nothing could be known and no one could know it, it was called Chaos. Because it could become anything and do anything, it was called Chaos. By acting beyond the Archbishop’s expectations, Morse had fulfilled his very nature.
“I see. So you wish to slip from my grasp, Morse?” the Archbishop asked.
“Yes.”
With that answer, the Archbishop fully understood Morse’s desire, and his anger subsided at once. He knew that Morse was not one to undo a decision once made. So, he sought to find value in it—to make use of it as best he could.
From beyond the mirror, the voice of pure malice spoke again.
“You intend to open the Gate?”
“Yes.”
“And what guarantee do you have that the Emperor will act as you plan?”
“None.”
“The Holy Sword El-Cid is near you. If you wish to see your goal realized, avoid its strike at all costs.”
“Yes, Archbishop.”
Despite Morse’s recklessness, the Archbishop did not scold him further. Rather, he encouraged him, offering information, as if pushing a disciple forward on his chosen path.
Why?
Morse wondered briefly but then dismissed the thought. There was no answer to be found, and wasting time on the meaningless was something his long life had already proven futile.
“I will keep your advice in mind, Archbishop.”
“Good. Then this is farewell.”
“Yes. Thank you for your guidance.”
Leaving those dry parting words, Morse turned away from the mirror still burning with unnatural fire.
He would never return to this place again. No one would ever come here after him.
“This is it,” the Archbishop muttered.
As if to see him off, a sharp crack split across the black crystal mirror.
woo: We love a supportive boss...?
