Thick, dark clouds blanketed the sky. The streets, already dimming as evening approached, were filled with hurrying pedestrians eager to get home. Rain was an unpleasant experience in any age, in any era — barring the rare few who welcomed it. Especially in places where medicine was backward or hadn't yet become widespread, catching cold from the rain often meant death.
The passersby all wore similar grayish-white linen robes, with no extra colors or distinctive styles to be seen. Only the occasional patrol squad marching past stood out — their bronze breastplates and greaves, their iron-black sharp swords and keen spe lending them an air of fierce martial prowess.
Wrapped head to toe in a linen robe, Lucian followed closely behind a middle-aged man whose pace kept shifting between fast and slow. The two turned into side alleys and strolled along main streets by turns, appearing no different from any ordinary pedestrians.
The sky grew ever more overcast. A fierce wind began to howl, and a downpour seemed poised to descend at any moment. The patrol soldiers quickened their march, heading back toward the city garrison.
The middle-aged man stopped before a two-story stone building. He glanced warily around him, and only after confirming that no one was paying attention did he lightly knock on the walnut-wood front door — his knocking pattern quite distinctive. First, two knocks at the center of the door, then three knocks on the left side near the hinge, and finally a single knock on the lock. Each produced a distinctly different sound.
Ten seconds of silence passed. Then a small peephole slid open in the door, and a light-brown eye appeared behind it.
The middle-aged man took a step back, allowing the eye to clearly see the gray rose pattern on the hem of his robe.
The pattern was so inconspicuous that no one unfamiliar with it would ever notice.
Lucian also turned slightly, letting the "gray rose" on his own robe hem become visible.
The light-brown eye blinked, then vanished from the doorway. The walnut-wood door swung open slowly, and a hunched, gnome-like man whispered, "The two honored Acolytes of the Ring, the 'Crown' awaits you."
The middle-aged man gave a slight nod, slipping inside while gesturing with his gaze for Lucian to follow.
Unlike his companion, Lucian showed no particular agility or wariness. He simply smiled, pushed the door open, and entered at ease, as though visiting an ordinary friend's home — nothing out of the ordinary at all.
After being forced through the "Gate to Other Worlds" by a Night Watch assassin, and with the gate subsequently destroyed by the self-detonation, the spatial teleportation had gone haywire. Lucian had been dumped in this bewildering city of "Brittain," and because he'd lost the gate's protection in the final phase, his body had suffered severe spatial shock — not only was he gravely injured, but his soul was in a depleted state as well. His strength had dropped to that of an ordinary knight and a mid-tier mage, and his equipment had cracked while helping him resist the spatial storm, requiring repairs before it could be used again.
Still, Lucian's luck hadn't been entirely bad. He hadn't encountered any high-ranking clergy of the Church or any Cardinals, nor had he crossed paths with false gods or monsters. He'd been taken in by a kindly old grandfather named "Norton," and after two months of rest, his arcane magic and knight-level abilities had returned to normal. The only issue was that magical items like the Holy Crown Ring of Holme, which he'd been wearing at the time, needed special materials to repair. Of course, the legendary-grade "Crown of the Sun" and the ninth-tier "Scepter of the Sun" had performed well within their tier and remained undamaged.
Similarly, the "Frost," the "Pale Justice," the "Shapeshifting Mask," and other items in his storage bag were all intact. Even old Norton had only ever seen Lucian in his disguised, ordinary appearance.
During those two months, Lucian hadn't encountered a single mage or any clergy of the True God religion, nor had he heard any news of them. They seemed to be incredibly far from this city — so far that even rumors and stories about them didn't reach here. If not for that strange suppressive aura of spiritual force fields that his teacher Fernando had described, which was omnipresent around him, Lucian might have wondered whether he'd been transported to an entirely different dimension.
From old Norton, Lucian learned the situation in the city of Brittain. It sat on the shore of the Eldo Sea and served as the capital and economic hub of the entire Eldo Peninsula. It had originally been ruled by the indigenous Baelish people, who had established a complete Baelish kingdom and worshipped "Achvando, the God of Flame and Destruction." But over a century ago, the vast Anconoma Empire had crossed the sea and conquered the land. Achvando, the God of Flame and Destruction, had been defeated and banished by "Anatans, the Lord of War," the deity worshipped by the empire.
The empire's divine servants had even proclaimed Achvando completely slain, thereby undermining the faith of the Baelish people.
Because the successive "Governors of Eldo" appointed by the Anconoma Empire had imposed crushing taxes and treated the Baelish as slaves, the peninsula had been wracked by constant rebellion. Periodically, insurgent forces claiming Achvando's favor would rise, along with uprisings that had converted to other gods. But given the Anconoma Empire's overwhelming power and the terrifying might of the Lord of War, every resistance had been — suppressed.
None of this had anything to do with Lucian. He'd been planning to proceed cautiously, gathering information about the surrounding terrain and the kingdom without exposing himself, and to locate traces of the Mage Council — only then would he have any guarantee of safety. That strange suppressive aura of spiritual force fields also disrupted the magnetic telepathy transmission magic. Lucian estimated that beyond ten kilometers, the signal would be too degraded to establish a connection.
Therefore, without reliable intelligence, Lucian didn't dare set out blindly. Who knew whether he might stumble directly into territory controlled by the True God religion or the vampires? The Shapeshifting Mask could deceive ordinary people, but it couldn't fool Cardinals — let alone the Pope and Prince Dracula.
However, old Norton, who was in the final stage of his life, seemed to feel that Lucian's conduct over the past two months had surpassed all the young men, boys, and children he'd taken in over the years. What's more, Lucian could speak fluent Baelish, making him an obviously loyal Baelish native. The Anconoma Empire had forcibly imposed "Ano" as the official language — unless someone had been trained from childhood, or had frequently practiced out of a longing for an independent Baelish kingdom, no young person could speak Baelish this fluently. And so, before his death, old Norton had passed a secret identity on to Lucian.
That identity was that of a high-ranking member of the mysterious organization known as "The Arcanum Conclave" — the seventh disciple of the descending incarnation of Achvando, the God of Flame and Destruction.
Though Lucian privately attributed all of his linguistic ability to the "Comprehend Languages" spell, he recognized that, given his solitary situation, having an organization to provide intelligence was far more convenient than relying on his own inquiries. The city of Brittain, plagued by constant rebellion, existed under the dual oppressive surveillance of the Governor of Eldo and the Temple of War. Pretending to be divine and manipulating memories through disguise was out of the question, and relying on the Shapeshifting Mask to infiltrate the Anconoma colonial elite could only work as a temporary measure — anything beyond a day or so risked exposure.
Indeed, without old Norton's public identity shielding him, Lucian would have been interrogated numerous times. And the Governor of Eldo was rumored to be a half-divine, half-mortal hybrid who could wield "the power of the divine" just like the High Priests of the Temple of War — equivalent to having two ordinary Cardinals, or even ninth-tier Cardinals, garrisoning the area. This world had no mad mages and therefore no Bloodline Knights, but some false gods were known for their frequent dalliances, producing numerous offspring who possessed characteristics similar to those of Bloodline Knights.
Ordinary humans had only one path to advancement: becoming divine servants or priests. The military could only deal with ordinary people and was powerless against the "heroes" of divine blood. The only consolation was that divine-blooded heroes were rare, so soldiers didn't have to worry about losing their jobs entirely. Putting down rebellions — as long as things didn't escalate too far — didn't warrant troubling the noble divine-blooded ones.
Following the fifth disciple, "Anseus," through the hall, Lucian walked to the back of the building and watched him open a hidden door revealing a staircase leading upward. Lucian observed it all as though watching an opera unrelated to himself — detached and indifferent. In his mind, he was weighing whether to find an opportunity to study the descending incarnation of "the God of Flame and Destruction." This would be his first encounter with a "false god's incarnation" — a golden opportunity to gather firsthand data. This was, in fact, one of the main reasons Lucian had joined the Arcanum Conclave.
Beyond the hidden door lay an upward staircase that appeared to lead to the crawlspace between the second floor and the ceiling. But halfway up, Anseus suddenly stopped and activated another concealed door. This time, a downward staircase was revealed.
In silence, the two descended for quite some time before a large bronze door appeared ahead, covered in bizarre, flame-like floral patterns.
Anseus pressed his hand against one of the flame patterns. A red glow suffused his body as he pushed the bronze door open with force. Beyond it lay a vast hall lit by rows of burning fire basins — empty and cavernous, with nothing but stone columns and a single round table set at the center.
The round table was surrounded by thirteen chairs. At the head sat a golden throne encrusted with rubies, currently unoccupied. On either side stood six silver seats, each bearing similar flame patterns.
At present, five people were seated in the silver seats. Leading them was a white-haired elder with a thick beard. He looked at Lucian and spoke: "In accordance with Norton's dying recommendation, the great God of Flame and Destruction has granted a revelation. You, Leviathan, shall become the seventh disciple."
Leviathan was the alias Lucian had adopted, inspired by the great demon lord.
"But you have not yet demonstrated your abilities, nor have you rendered any service to the God. Over the coming year, we will observe and test you. Only when you pass the trial will you be granted the 'Seed of Spirituality' bestowed by the deity — the source of transcendent power."
"Understood." Lucian's curiosity was piqued by the term "Seed of Spirituality." Could this be the key to unlocking the secrets of the Divine Arts? Should he seize one of the other disciples, or perhaps capture the incarnation of the God of Flame and Destruction itself for study?
The elder finished speaking, then regarded Lucian with a measured glance. "Take your seat. The Rite of Flame will be conducted for you shortly. For now, we have matters of greater importance to discuss."
"What matters?" Anseus had thought today was simply the Flame Baptism ceremony for the seventh disciple.
"A discussion of the path forward — the method by which the deity may be fully awakened and restored." The elder — the first disciple, Jacob — spoke in a deep voice. (To be continued)