Wizard: I Have a Cultivation System

Chapter 420: Chapter 88: Bell

Murphy met his gaze, his tone just as calm. "Kaiden is currently burdened with the affairs of the territory, and Alina is newly pregnant. They are indeed tied down and cannot travel far at the moment. We appreciate Miss Anne’s concern."

He paused briefly. "If Miss Anne is interested, she is always welcome in the Monte Territory. She did visit as a child. Returning to an old place might stir some unique feelings."

Upon hearing this, a subtle light flickered in the Ironspine Duke’s gray-blue eyes.

He didn’t respond immediately. After a moment, he spoke slowly, his tone carrying a distant quality. "Yes... she did go to the Monte Territory as a child. How time flies..."

He shook his head gently, not responding directly to the invitation, and simply concluded with an ambiguous phrase, "There will always be opportunities."

Murphy watched him and didn’t press the matter, saying only, "Let us hope so."

Their voices were not loud, but in this relatively quiet corner, it was enough for anyone nearby paying attention to overhear the gist of their conversation.

On the surface, the conversation seemed mundane—nothing more than the typical pleasantries and polite invitations nobles exchanged about their children.

But to those who understood the political situation in Vilt and the history between the two families, this simple exchange might contain subtle signals about the future of their relations and the balance of power.

The Ironspine Duke also seemed to feel that this brief, public conversation was enough.

He gave Murphy one last look, his gaze deep and inscrutable, before saying, "I wish you a smooth journey. The Holy City has drawn all sorts of people recently, a motley crowd. You would do well to be cautious."

"Thank you for the warning," Murphy replied with equal courtesy.

The Ironspine Duke said no more. With a slight nod, he turned and strode steadily toward another circle of people in the garden, a group composed of several high-ranking Kingdom ministers and senior Church officials.

His arrival immediately caught their attention, sparking a new round of greetings and conversation.

Murphy remained where he was, his figure in the wheelchair half-lit and half-shrouded in the shadow of a pillar, perfectly still.

...

Rosenia Kingdom. Capital of the Grand Shepherd District.

Deep within a magnificent, stone-hewn hall, a colossal throne stood in silence. Its surface was coated in a thin, unmelting layer of hoarfrost.

Metropolitan Bishop Valken stood motionless several paces before the throne, his posture ramrod straight. His ice-blue eyes were fixed on the unknowable void within the throne itself.

He took a deep breath of the bone-chilling air, placed his right hand over his chest, and held his left palm out toward the throne. In the ancient, solemn cadence of a prayer, his deep voice echoed through the vast hall:

"In the true name of the Frozen Wilderness, by the witness of the starry skies of the Northern Lands, and with the authority of the Sundering Pact. Holy Throne, the time of vigilance is over. The promised day is at hand. Heed the call of your faithful servant."

As his words faded, Valken held his position and began to chant a long, obscure Spell in a low voice.

Each syllable he uttered caused the Dimensional Energy that permeated the hall to tremble, resonating with his own sacred power.

As he continued to chant, a halo of purest ice-blue light ignited in the palm of his outstretched left hand.

It coalesced into a slender but intensely solid beam of light that shot directly toward the center of the throne.

The instant the beam touched the surface of the throne, the layer of unmelting hoarfrost seemed to awaken, revealing countless intricate, ancient runes that flickered with a faint light.

The entire throne began to emit a low hum that resonated from deep within.

Valken’s chanting grew faster and faster. Beads of sweat formed on his temples, only to freeze instantly into flecks of ice.

Finally, as the last syllable of the Spell erupted in the hall, it unleashed a visible, expanding ripple of ice.

From the heart of the throne, an endless torrent of shadows poured forth from the ancient runes, moving as if they were alive.

Viscous and heavy, like liquid darkness, they spread rapidly, swallowing the throne and devouring all light. Finally, where the throne once stood, they coalesced into a vast, churning, and writhing silhouette with indistinct borders.

At the same time, an indescribable presence began to emanate from the depths of the shadow.

Ancient. Immense. Frigid.

Even a man of Metropolitan Bishop Valken’s stature felt as insignificant as a speck of dust before this presence.

VMMMM!

In the center of the shadowy silhouette, a pair of eyes slowly opened.

"Valken," a voice spoke. It was neither male nor female, old nor young, like the wind echoing across a snow-capped peak. "The South... is it finally ready?"

"Holy Throne," Valken maintained his deferential posture, "the long vigil is about to end. Our ’eyes’ within the Holy City have confirmed that the resonance of the Morning Star Bell has reached an unprecedented intensity. The coronation for Saint Cyril’s faction is to be held tomorrow. The attention and power of the entire Continent are focused there."

Within the shadow, the two eyes—like starlight in a cold night—seemed to shift, turning their gaze fully toward the South.

"Saint Cyril... so he has finally come this far. Centralization of power, orthodoxy, miracles... quite the performance. Very well. As he wishes, so do we."

"Let us attend Saint Cyril’s coronation. After three hundred years of being apart, it is time... for our brothers in the South to once again hear the voice of the Northern Lands."

...

「The Seventh Day.」

At the crack of dawn, the Holy City was already awake.

No, it was seething.

From the first ray of light that pierced the night’s veil, the entire city was steeped in an atmosphere of grand solemnity.

The streets, cleaned throughout the night, had been strewn with fresh sand. Along both sides, Defender Knights in gleaming silver-white armor stood guard every ten paces, each holding a Long Halberd.