Chapter 455 - 419: Making Contact

Chapter 455: Chapter 419: Making Contact

The gray morning mist had yet to disperse when an unremarkable black carriage stopped at the side gate of the Silent Villa. It bore no family crest, had no entourage, and was entirely concealed by the damp, cold air.

Velin was already waiting by the carriage. The door opened, and Prince Willandar, dressed in a brown trench coat, stepped out. He pulled back his hood, revealing a somewhat weary face. The long-term pressure of being at the center of a political vortex had already frosted his temples with white.

They looked at each other through the thin mist, neither speaking first, but both saw a deep, hidden worry for the future in the other’s eyes.

After a moment of silence, they walked one after the other into the depths of the villa.

Inside the study, the light was dim. Heavy velvet curtains blocked out the morning light from outside.

Willandar sat behind the mahogany desk, holding the glass vial containing the pale golden liquid. He wore no gloves, his fingers caressing the glass surface. Several sheets of parchment were spread across the desk—the "Holy Water Composition Analysis Report" that Velin had rushed to complete overnight.

"Are you saying," the Prince’s voice was soft, betraying no emotion, yet it was colder than the mist outside, "that half the paupers in Zelheim are incubating this thing inside them?"

"Yes."

CLACK.

The Prince had brought the glass vial in his hand down hard on the desk.

For a moment, the chest of "the Silent One," a man known for his composure, heaved violently.

"These lunatics." Willandar squeezed the words through his teeth. "Are they trying to turn the Royal Capital into a hive?"

"Obviously." Velin tossed a stick of sealing wax into the air and caught it. "Your Highness, this is not the time for anger. We need to sever this chain of transmission. But I’ve heard the Royal Party’s reach doesn’t extend into the Lower City District?"

Willandar fell silent for a moment, rubbing his temples wearily.

"That’s the Church’s private domain. The Templar Order has it locked down like an iron fortress. If my Hidden Guards are caught, they’ll be secretly executed. And that bunch of old fossils in the Noble Council only cares about tax revenue from the upper canals. They couldn’t care less what those ’rats’ downstream are eating."

"Since a direct, overt approach won’t work, have you considered another way?"

Velin sat up straight. He pulled a crude iron badge from his coat and slid it across the desk to the Prince.

The badge spun on the polished wood surface before coming to a stop.

Twisted wire, a downward-facing drop.

Willandar glanced at it, and his pupils contracted sharply.

"True Origin?" The Prince snapped his head up to stare at Velin. "Are you insane? The Holy See has designated them the number one heretical cult! If the Judicial Court finds out you’re involved with them, not even I could protect you."

"Heresy?" Velin smiled, lightly pressing his finger on the badge to stop it from spinning. "Your Highness, in this dog-eat-dog world, whoever sits on the divine throne is the one who defines orthodoxy."

He stood and walked to the curtains. He didn’t pull them open, but rather felt the false morning light through the heavy velvet.

"Have you ever considered what would happen if we really cut off the Church’s influence and drove the Templar Order out of the Lower City District?"

Velin turned around, his back to the window, his face shrouded in shadow. "Those desperate, starving, sickness-ridden paupers—who would they turn to? If they have no god to kneel before, they’ll descend into total anarchy, or... even knowing it’s poison, they’ll cry and beg for the Church to return."

Willandar’s brow furrowed, his fingers drumming unconsciously on the desk. "You mean..."

"The people cannot live without faith, Your Highness. As long as they fear death and starvation, they will need something to believe in. It’s a gaping void, and you can’t just plug it."

Velin walked back to the desk, his jet-black eyes glittering with a chilling, unsettling light.

"To drive out an old god, the only way is to create a new one."

He slowly pushed the wire badge toward the Prince.

"The True Origin Sect is the ’new god’ I’ve prepared for you. Rather than let the people believe in some random, wild deity, or be exploited by other factions, it’s better to have them believe in a god that has at least some conscience and is willing to cooperate with us."

"We need shepherds who understand the common folk better than the Church does. We need a holy see that doesn’t covet our kingdom," Velin said, his voice low and sincere. "And I have already built this new altar for you."

Willandar stared at the young man’s back, then looked again at the badge on the desk. This time, the shock in his eyes had faded, replaced by deep apprehension and contemplation.

After a long silence, the Prince spoke.

"...The Hidden Guards will be waiting for you at the back gate." He snatched up the badge, not to throw it back, but to clench it tightly in his palm as if it were a symbol of authority. "Don’t let this new blade cut our own hands."

...

Beneath Zelheim was another world.

If the canals on the surface were the city’s veins, then the sewers down here were its intestines.

Rotten, damp, and foul-smelling.

Velin’s boots made a SQUELCHING sound as he stepped on slimy green moss. Xiaolan stuck close behind him, her dagger never returning to its sheath. Two of the Prince’s Hidden Guards led the way, carrying special windproof lanterns whose dim light only illuminated three feet ahead.

"We’re here."

One of the Hidden Guards stopped before a filth-stained stone wall and knocked rhythmically three times.

"Who seeks the Origin?" a muffled voice came from behind the wall.

Velin stepped forward and pressed the wire badge into a recess in the stone wall.

"The bloodline attests."

K-K-KRRRR—

The sound of grinding mechanisms echoed as the stone wall slowly pivoted inward, revealing a pitch-black opening.

A wave of heat, thick with the smell of cheap incense and sweat, washed over them.

It was an abandoned underground cistern, now converted into a temporary meeting hall. Hundreds of candles were stuck into the surrounding stone walls, their flickering flames illuminating a simple altar in the center.

Dozens of people knelt before the altar.

They were dressed in rags. Some were missing limbs, others had faces covered in festering sores. But at this moment, they all maintained a strange silence, praying to the large anvil symbol above the altar.

A fat man stood beside the altar.

He wore a leather apron stained with ink, and a pair of broken glasses, tied together with string, sat on the bridge of his nose. He looked like a butcher who slaughtered pigs, or perhaps a down-on-his-luck printer.

Simon.

The head of the True Origin Sect in the Royal Capital, and the "Spider" who wove a web of intelligence in the underworld.

Seeing Velin enter, Simon’s greasy face showed no sign of alarm.

He pushed up his glasses, and a fanatical light flashed in his small eyes, which were squeezed into slits by his fleshy cheeks.

"I knew it."

Simon hurried down from the altar, his bulk quivering with each step.

He stopped three paces from Velin and then dropped heavily to his knees.

THUD!

His forehead hit the sewage-covered floor tiles with a dull thud.

"Greetings, Lord Velin." Simon’s voice trembled with excitement. "Brother Seras has already sent word. You sheltered our followers in the White Tower Territory, allowing the seeds of the True Origin to sprout in the sunlight. You are our benefactor, the guide to the ’Origin’."

Following his lead, the dozens of followers around them turned in unison and knelt before Velin.

There was no clamor, only piety.

Xiaolan was startled by the spectacle and instinctively stepped in front of Velin.

Velin patted Xiaolan’s shoulder, signaling for her to step back.

He stepped forward and bent down to help Simon up.

"I don’t care for these formalities, Simon," Velin said, looking at the fat man. "Stand up and speak. The True Origin Sect preaches ’the holy law is within the heart,’ not being kowtowing sycophants."

Simon allowed himself to be helped up, his fat face plastered with an obsequious smile, but his small eyes revealed a shrewd cunning.

"One must not abandon propriety, my lord. After hiding in this hellhole for so long, when you see true light, you have to bow."

"Light?"

Velin pulled the glass vial from his coat and waved it in front of Simon’s eyes.

"If this is the kind of light you mean, I’d rather do without."

The smile on Simon’s face froze.

He stared at the vial, his Adam’s apple bobbing. "Is this... the Church’s ’Holy Water’? My lord, what are you..."

"Have any of your people drunk this stuff?"

"No." Simon shook his head repeatedly. "The holy law teaches us to revere the Origin. We never touch things from unknown sources like this. But... the poor souls outside are fighting crazily over it."

"Good."

Velin handed the vial to Simon.

"Open it and see. Use your ’Origin’ to sense what’s inside."

Simon took the vial cautiously and pulled out the cork stopper.

He closed his eyes, and a faint but tenacious aura flowed out from his body, probing into the vial.

The next second.

SMASH!

The vial fell to the ground, shattering to pieces.

Simon’s eyes flew open, his face deathly pale, as if he had touched something utterly filthy and profane. He clutched his chest, bent over, and dry-heaved violently, as though trying to vomit out the sensation he had just perceived.

"What... What the hell is this stuff..."

He was trembling all over, a revulsion that stemmed from the depths of his soul and a physical disgust.

"Something’s wrong. This is definitely not right!" Simon looked up, staring with shock and suspicion at the wet stain on the ground. "My Spiritual Power was repelled the moment it probed inside... It’s full of restlessness, greed, and a kind of cloying malice! I couldn’t see it clearly, but this is absolutely not Holy Water... It felt... it felt alive!"

"They’re desecrating life! They’re using human bodies as incubators!" Simon gritted his teeth, fire practically shooting from his eyes. "What do they take people for?! Those bastards!"

He took a deep breath, forcibly suppressing the nausea churning within him. "No, we can’t let them keep distributing this stuff. Lord Velin, we have to act immediately! We need to organize our people to intercept their supply lines, or expose them directly at the distribution points! Those paupers are still in the dark. Drinking this is a death sentence. We have to save them!"

The surrounding followers also grew agitated. Their expressions turned grim as they tightened their grips on their weapons. It was clear that they would rush out to save people without hesitation at Simon’s command.

"Calm down."

Velin grabbed Simon’s arm.

"Rush out and expose them now? How?" Velin glanced at him, his gaze sweeping over the seemingly harmless puddle on the floor. "What makes you think those paupers—who are already addicted and see this as a divine gift—will believe you? With just your words?"

"In their eyes, that’s a divine medicine that can cure illness and save lives, and you’re just a thug trying to shatter their hope. If you go now, you won’t save anyone. You’ll only make us a public enemy."