Chapter 83: The Church’s inteerest

Deacon Eider and Deacon Seth led Thomas in absolute silence through the dim twilight of the campsite.

None of the instructors or the other students stepped out of their barracks to intercept them. The entire camp area remained completely desolate, the faculty intentionally looking away and pulling their curtains shut to avoid the Church’s gaze. The typical chatter of the hunting teams had vanished entirely, replaced by a suffocating, heavy quiet that hung over the rows of tents. They walked straight toward the isolated administrative stone building at the far edge of the perimeter wall, the heavy iron door swinging open without a single sound in the damp air.

Once inside the bleak stone room, the deacons turned around to face him. The heavy iron door slammed shut behind them with a dull thud, cutting off the distant ambient hum of the camp’s shield dome entirely. The room was lit only by a single flickering oil lamp hanging from a rusted iron chain on the low ceiling, casting long, wavering shadows across the bare gray stone blocks. There were no wooden chairs or desk spaces here, just a cold, dusty space that felt more like a tomb than an administrative office.

Deacon Eider tilted his hooded head, his hands resting inside the folds of his spotless golden cloak. He let out a soft, hollow breath that echoed slightly off the walls, his creepy, ever present smile never wavering behind the shadow of his golden hood.”

The Pope has taken a huge interest in you, Thomas,” Deacon Eider said smoothly, his dual-toned voice breaking the quiet of the room. “He has watched the way your body adapts to the environment and the way you carry yourself against the established hierarchy. He wants you as a member of the Church.”

Thomas kept his posture perfectly level, his face remaining entirely calm. He did not say a word, keeping his mouth shut as his sharp intellect processed the unexpected proposition. He stood firmly on the cold stone floor, his clothes still carrying the faint scent of the western marshlands they had spent the last five days clearing.

“If you accept his grace, the benefits will be massive,” Deacon Eider continued, stepping slightly closer while his voice carried a hypnotic, measured weight. “You will be given resources, bloodline refinement techniques that commoners can only dream of, and a position of authority within the holy ranks. You will be the only lesser to have ever received such a chance in the entire history of Samra. Think about what you are throwing away by clinging to the bottom of the ladder. The outer sectors have nothing to offer you but an early grave in the mud.”

The silence in the stone room stretched out for a long moment, thick and suffocating. Thomas looked at the golden embroidery on the deacon’s collar, his mind calculating every single variable of power, control, and survival. He knew that the Church did not hand out gifts without a price, and a sudden interest from the Pope himself meant his actions in the arena had triggered a ripple far larger than he initially realized.

“And if I say no?” Thomas asked, his voice flat and unyielding.

Deacon Seth, who had stood silently by the left corner of the room, let out a low, raspy chuckle from beneath his hood.

“Then you will die,” Deacon Seth whispered, his voice carrying the exact same dual-toned pitch as his companion. “The light does not allow a potential sickness to wander free once its choice has been laid out in the open. You either become a pillar of our order, or you are completely erased to preserve the stability of the kingdom.”

Before Thomas could even flex his forearm muscles, a sharp shift in the air pressure signaled movement. Deacon Seth popped up directly behind Thomas’s back with a speed that defied normal kinetic vision. A cold, razor-sharp ritual knife was pressed firmly against the skin of his neck. A single drop of warm copper blood welled up instantly where the fine steel grazed his collarbone, the threat completely absolute and immediate.

The coldness of the metal against his skin was sharp, but Thomas did not pull back his stance. He kept his breathing controlled, holding his posture perfectly rigid as the blade held him in place.

Deacon Eider stepped forward, his hidden gaze lingering on Thomas’s unblinking dark eyes. He reached out a pale, gloved hand and tapped the side of Thomas’s cheek lightly through the fabric.

“You have the looks of a high-blood,” one of the deacons said quietly, a note of twisted appreciation in his tone. “The structure of your face, the coldness in your eyes. It is a true pity that your actual birthright is so thoroughly unrefined and empty. You possess the looks of a High-blood, yet you were born a lesser in the dirt.”

Thomas did not flinch against the cold edge of the blade, his right arm secretly pulsing with the weightless hum of his Gaseous Shift talent as his resolve remained hard as stone. He knew he was standing on the absolute razor edge of survival, but his mind was already looking past the knife at his throat. He did not let the panic take over his thoughts, focusing entirely on the deacons’ words and the choice they were trying to force upon him.

…

Meanwhile, miles away from the damp and freezing marshlands, the scene transitioned entirely back to the main gates of Blackspear Academy.

The colossal iron gates of the school stood tall against the stone spires of the Holy City, the white clouds of the upper city drifting lazily between the ancient stone arches. The afternoon sun beat down on the wide cobblestone avenue leading up to the main entrance, reflecting off the polished white bricks that paved the outer courtyards. The bustling movement of the lower city was entirely absent up here, with only a few elite carriage guards patrolling the high granite walls that surrounded the institution’s inner parameters.

Standing right before the outer threshold was a young man who looked to be in his late teens. He was exceptionally handsome, with long, pristine white hair that fell neatly over his shoulders and caught the ambient light like spun silver. His features were sharp and aristocratic, radiating a natural, effortless elegance that immediately drew the eyes of any passing guards. There was no trace of common grime or fatigue on his person, his posture perfectly straight as he stood beneath the shadow of the great arches.

He was dressed in a brilliant set of golden light armor that shimmered under the afternoon sun, the metal intricately carved with ancient solar motifs that completely defied the standard dark uniform of the institution. Every plate was polished to a mirror finish, fitted perfectly to his frame to allow for maximum agility without sacrificing defensive density. Rested securely against his back was a giant steel sword, its massive hilt wrapped in fine white leather and secured with a gold clasp that gleamed against the polished pauldrons of his armor.

The young man stood completely still on the cobblestones, his calm, bright eyes looking up at the sprawling spires of the academy as if he had finally returned to claim his rightful place on the school grounds. The sheer presence he exuded was undeniable, completely detached from the typical arrogance of the average freshmen or the standard students. He took a single, measured step forward, his boots clicking lightly against the stone as the massive iron gates began to slowly grind open before him.

Descending the grand granite staircase from the main hall were Cecilia and Peter, their movements perfectly synchronized as they walked down toward the courtyard. Walking right alongside them was one of the prominent members of the high council, dressed in elaborate ceremonial robes that trailed slightly along the white brick path. Peter’s face remained entirely hidden behind his usual devil mask, his posture rigid as his red armband caught the sunlight, while Cecilia walked with a level, measured stride, though her eyes were locked onto the entrance.

The moment the white-haired young man spotted Cecilia approaching through the gateway, a huge grin immediately appeared on his face. His calm expression shattered into one of genuine delight, and he took a single eager step forward onto the courtyard stones.

SHH.

He blinked completely away from his original position, disappearing from the gate threshold in a fraction of a second without triggering any visible mana dispersion. Before the council member or Peter could even register the movement, the young man materialized instantly directly in front of Cecilia, his sudden arrival cutting off the space between them entirely.

He leaned in slightly, his bright eyes locking onto hers as he whispered, “Hey there, long time no see.”

Cecilia stopped completely, staring right back into his eyes without showing a single ounce of surprise at his sudden displacement. She shook her head smoothly, a small, tired sigh escaping her lips as she crossed her arms over her uniform jacket.

“You surely took your time, Captain,” Cecilia said levelly, her tone entirely casual.

The young man let out a soft laugh, adjusting the massive leather hilt of the giant sword on his back as his grin widened. “I thought we were well past the stage of empty formalities by now, Cecilia.”

“Like I told you before,” Cecilia responded, rolling her eyes as she maintained steady eye contact. “I am betrothed.”