Purple — elegant, serene, and restrained — adorned the carriage, upon which a family crest was also engraved: at its center stood a powerful armored gauntlet, gripping a silver shield. Surrounding the gauntlet was a ring of vibrant violets, symbols of nobility and grace, and beyond the violets ran a border of fortress-like heraldic lines.
This was the crest of the Vorlite family. Besides the name "Violet," this family also bore the title "Shield of Truth."
The carriage came to a halt before the red carpet stretching into the Sacred Hymn Hall. Guards stood sentinel on either side. The nobles who had already entered the hall now rose from their seats and, led by Baron Hain and Baron Lafati, gathered in the foyer to await the arrival of Duke Vaolet. Meanwhile, Victor, Rhein, Lucian, and the other musicians and performers greeted them from a smaller side foyer at a respectful distance.
The door of the second carriage opened, and a tall woman in an elegant black evening gown stepped out. She had strikingly vivid purple hair, and her eyebrows — thicker than those of most ladies — swept at an angle toward her temples. Paired with her dreamily deep violet irises, they lent her not a rough appearance but rather one of grandeur and vitality. Her straight, well-defined nose and perfectly proportioned pale red lips completed the picture. She was a breathtaking beauty. If Sylvia was like a lily, then this woman was a violet in full, defiant bloom.
She was none other than Countess Violet — Natasha.
The stern, powerful middle-aged woman Lucian had seen before never left Natasha's side, not for a single step.
Natasha was a fifth-level Great Knight. Taller than the vast majority of men by half a head, she strode forward on long, powerful legs, opened the door of the leading carriage for her father, Duke Vaolet, and helped him step down.
Duke Vaolet, too, had purple hair, though his was threaded with silver-white. Past sixty years of age, battered by the successive losses of his wife and eldest son, and lacking the incomparable knightly talent that Natasha possessed, he had only ever reached the level of a Second-level Knight. His strength had been largely forced upward through the Church's and the family's secret potions, so that what remained of his purple was shot through with silver — the pallor of age mingled with an air of scholarly refinement.
He bore a thirty or forty percent resemblance to Natasha. Even at his age, he was the sort of gentleman who could make young girls scream, carrying a mature charm that set him apart from mere youths. But as a devout believer who had poured all his affection into his wife, not a single scandal had touched his name in over a decade.
Back when he was still Count Violet, Duke Vaolet's love story had become a classic legend sung by countless Bards. He had been sent on a diplomatic mission across the Storm Strait to the Holm Kingdom, where he and the king's only daughter fell in love at first sight. They overcame countless obstacles of an almost villainous nature before finally becoming the envy of all.
Leaning on Natasha's support, Duke Vaolet made his way slowly from the carriage toward the red carpet. His eyes took in the Sacred Hymn Hall — sacred and imposing, little changed since he first remembered it — and his thoughts drifted to his own life. As he mused, he turned to glance at his daughter. She was now his only worry and concern: a source of both pride and exasperation, headstrong to a degree that surpassed most men.
The foyer was just ahead. Duke Vaolet gathered his thoughts, maintaining a smile that conveyed authority tempered with warmth. He greeted Baron Hain, Baron Lafati, and the other nobles loyal to his family one by one. Natasha, for her part, wore a constant smile and nodded gracefully — at once perfectly at ease with these social rituals and yet somehow detached from the whole affair, until her eyes fell upon Sylvia in the small side foyer, at which point she unleashed a radiant smile and, in a gentlemanly gesture, placed her right hand over her heart and gave a slight bow.
Seeing this exchange, Lucian suddenly felt a curious sense of oddness. Drawing on the vast array of "knowledge" he had accumulated through his extensive reading, he could only conclude that the scene between Natasha and Sylvia just now was — perhaps, possibly, most likely — such a terrible waste… Though he had never imagined entangling himself with either of them, Lucian couldn't help but feel a twinge of regret on behalf of other gentlemen.
After completing the formal knight's salute to the lord he served, Baron Hain smiled and said, "Your Grace, perhaps we should go in. With old fellows like us hanging about, the younger ones will never be able to relax."
His son, Viscount Harrington — a dashing young man who burned like a flame — was chatting with Princess Natasha. The concert at the Sacred Hymn Hall was indeed important for nobles who loved music, but the socializing before it began was equally vital.
Duke Vaolet glanced at Viscount Harrington with a faint mixture of pity and expectation, then shook his head. "Let us wait a little longer. Cardinal Saer de will also be attending the concert."
Baron Lafati and the others — blond-haired men wearing their skullcaps — fell silent at once. Cardinal Saer de: the Church's chief administrator in the Vorlite Principality, a member of the College of Cardinals, a Holy Spirit Priest who had lived a largely reclusive life — even he would be coming to hear the concert?
Was this matter truly that serious? Had it not been nothing more than some low-level wizards, Black Knights, and heretics stirring up trouble?
Before anyone could voice the question, a plain and unadorned carriage — bearing only the Emblem of Truth engraved upon its side — was drawn up to the entrance of the Sacred Hymn Hall by two knights in full silver armor, their bulky plate seemingly no hindrance to their graceful control of the horses. Then, assisted with a knight's courtesy, an elderly man in an ordinary white robe and a soft white cap emerged. His hair was entirely white. He looked utterly ordinary, the kind and gentle sort who might pass for a kindly grandfather next door.
Watching Cardinal Saer de walk with a steady, unhurried stride, the assembled nobles all shared a single thought: "His Eminence shows not the slightest hint of being a powerhouse over two hundred years old."
Meanwhile, inside the small side foyer, the moment Saer de appeared, Lucian felt a sudden warmth flood through the spiritual power sealed within his body by the Anti-Magic Array — as though bathed in the radiance of holy light.
"His soul has already reached such a terrifying level?!" Lucian murmured in quiet surprise. He knew about the defensive arrangements of the Sacred Hymn Hall. Before coming here, he had hidden the Ice Avenger in his laboratory and had kept his spiritual power suppressed the entire time. He had passed the guards' inspections without difficulty and had experienced firsthand the dread power of the Anti-Magic Array — that utter inability to extend one's spiritual force, that total helplessness of being unable to cast even the simplest spell.
As for Saer de, since he was hardly unknown in Altor, Lucian had heard of him. He knew that the Cardinal was a Holy Spirit Priest — one of the so-called Legendaries of this world, standing at its absolute pinnacle.
Figures of such stature were rare even within the Church of Truth. He had heard that among all the Cardinals, only a dozen or so were Holy Spirit Priests. Even adding in the leaders of the Church's knightly orders, the giants of the Tribunal, the heads of the ascetic monks, and the rest, the total number — by Lucian's estimation based on the rumors he had gathered — could not exceed thirty. And this was for the entire world, including the extradimensional planes: the single most powerful faction in existence.
As Lucian marveled at the magnitude of Cardinal Saer de's power, Rhein — standing at his side — pressed both hands tightly to his body, his eyes narrowing slightly, as though afraid of being scorched by that invisible holy radiance.
To Lucian, who had long suspected something amiss with Rhein, this reaction was unmistakably clear under his careful observation. Just as Lucian was about to look away, Rhein seemed to sense something. His head turned, and his gaze slammed directly into Lucian's.