Chapter 467: A man of God

Solenne stopped in the center of the enormous cathedral.

Behind her, ten paladins came to a halt as one.

They were powerful beings in silver armor, as tall as giants, wielding long swords and shields that looked capable of withstanding the charge of an elephant.

The heavy thud of their footsteps was still echoing off the columns when silence fell over the hall once again.

Solenne was already a small woman. Surrounded by warriors like those, she seemed even smaller, a slender figure in white between walls of steel.

The air inside was cold and heavy with incense, but there was another scent mixed in with it—something far too sweet, almost sickening.

Her eyes moved slowly, following a group of women slipping out of the cathedral the moment she entered. They walked quickly, heads bowed, without looking back.

Their clothing was not fit for a sacred place. Little fabric, a lot of skin. And they smelled not only of sin, but of the bishop himself.

For a moment, Solenne’s beautiful, curious face twisted in disgust.

She swallowed the feeling at once, turning her eyes to the man seated at the far end of the hall.

In the Kingdom of Burning Ice, there were two legendary figures, respected by everyone from the most destitute commoner to the wealthiest patriarch of a noble family.

The first was the current eldest ancestor of the Royal Family, a sixth-stage warrior, the eternal protector of the kingdom.

Whenever he took action, even the greatest crises were resolved as easily as a breath snuffing out a candle.

No one really knew who that ancestor was.

Many claimed he was the founder of the Vorhn Family, a great king of the past, or an expert bound to the kingdom by a vow of honor.

Even his appearance was known only to a handful of the kingdom’s highest-ranking figures.

The second figure was even more mysterious.

The Immortal Crystal Bishop, Archbishop of the Diamond Cathedral, the primary religious center of the Kingdom of Burning Ice.

His age was still a matter of debate for many, but most believed he was over ten thousand years old.

In theory, that should have been impossible, even for a sixth-stage expert.

At that level, it was not uncommon for a human to live two thousand, maybe two thousand five hundred years. But ten thousand?

That old bishop was older than the Kingdom of Burning Ice itself.

It was he who had led the crusades that ripped those wild lands from the barbarian tribes living there.

With the great plains pacified in the name of Justiciar, he advanced toward the Eternal Mountain with one hundred thousand soldiers, ready to overthrow the kingdom of night creatures that ruled that place.

There, at the hands of the Blood Empress, he died. His head was torn from his shoulders.

His army returned defeated and leaderless, leaving tens of thousands of dead in the snow behind them.

Everyone believed the great Crystal Bishop had fallen for good. Until, one day, he returned.

Across his neck ran a crack, like molten glass pulled from a furnace and left to cool.

In his eyes, now pure gold, he bore the mark of Justiciar.

On that day, he earned the title of Immortal Crystal Bishop.

Solenne gazed into the bishop’s eyes—golden like her own—and let her gaze drift down to his neck, partially hidden by his beard and a thin, tight white cloth.

Even through the fabric, she could make out the cracks in his skin, like a crystal one tap away from shattering.

“Saint Knight Solenne… Forgive this old man his familiarity, but might I call you Little Sol?” The bishop offered a gentle smile between thin, dry lips.

His face was friendly, warm even, but the saint did not move a centimeter.

Technically, she—a saint—was not subordinate to a bishop in the Church’s hierarchy.

In practice, she was a combat unit. A knight.

Her physical power was immense, as was her prestige, but in matters of politics, she was nothing more than a soldier.

“As Your Holiness wishes.” Solenne bowed her head slightly, her golden eyes never leaving him.

The bishop rose from his seat. Soft cracking sounds echoed through the hall, sounding more like glass splintering than the joints of an old man moving.

He descended the steps slowly, leaning his weight on a luxurious scepter he used as a cane. Each tap of its tip on the marble rang out dry and clear.

“And how fares His Holiness the Pope? It has been so many years since these feet last touched the Holy City…” he asked, motioning for Solenne to walk at his side.

She nodded. The paladins behind her parted with a metallic creak, and the two passed between them like water through a gate of steel.

“The Pope is well, Your Holiness… Ill-tempered, as ever, but well,” she replied.

She walked beside the bishop with a cold expression on her face. But paired with her large eyes and rounded cheeks, that coldness came across as more adorable than anything else.

“Hahaha, he has always been like that… More than a hundred years have passed since I last saw him. These days we exchange only letters. And still, I never forget that old man’s face.” The bishop sighed, shaking his head slowly.

“When one grows old… years become decades, and decades become centuries in the blink of an eye. Cherish your youth, my child. A life devoted solely to blind battle will bring you neither long years nor happy ones.”

The old man reached out, his wrinkled fingers moving to touch Solenne’s hand.

She refused without so much as a glance, clasping her hands behind her back as if the gesture had never happened.

“And how may a man of God, who devotes himself to things other than God, call himself a true servant of the God-King?” Solenne’s voice echoed coldly off the columns.

“I am a warrior of the Nine and of Justiciar, the God-King. A happy life is a life spent in His service. Nothing more, Your Holiness.”

She wanted to say more. Her hands tightened behind her back, nails pressing into her palms.

She wanted to question the presence of whores in the holy cathedral. She wanted to ask about the loans with their crushing interest, loans that dragged commoners who could not pay into debt and then into chains. She wanted to lay the accusations before him, one by one.

But in the end, she could only remain silent.

The Church was sick. She, a holy knight, was not the one responsible for its healing.

Her responsibility was to punish heretics and follow the will of the Nine. She too, was a slave.