Underground, Holy Praelium Empire

  “Hah… hah…”

  Standing before a colossal gate deep underground, the Herald braced his hands on his knees and steadied his breath. Sweat clung to his temples, dripping down the curve of his jaw. His exposed chest heaved beneath his red coat.

  He brushed his deep shade of red hair up. Herald had run across nearly a thousand kilometers of land to arrive here. His boots were caked with mud, his coat dirtied by dust and harsh wind, and yet his posture still held that innate arrogance that marked his rank.

  The colossal gate towered above him, forged from blackened metal plates hammered together with rivets the size of a man’s skull. Strange inscriptions, twisting like thorned vines, crawled across its surface. Two massive statues flanked the gate, helmeted warriors carved from obsidian stone, gripping spears longer than a horse.

  When the Herald stepped forward, a soldier wearing a bronze half-helm lifted an arm, blocking him from advancing.

  The Herald’s eyebrow twitched upward with irritation.

  “Sir, please present your identi—”

  Before the soldier could finish, another armored soldier rushed over and yanked him aside with both hands, pale with horror.

  “Sir! Please! Please come in!” The second soldier stammered, bowing repeatedly.

  The Herald didn’t spare the fool another glance. He adjusted the strap of the small satchel on his shoulder and strode casually through the gate.

  Behind him, the chastised soldier gaped at his companion, as if demanding an explanation.

  “What did you drag me for?! Why are you stopping me?!”

  The other soldier rubbed his forehead in disbelief. “Are you insane?! Look at his insignia, on his coat, on his helmet! That’s Sir Marcus. A Herald!”

  “So what?” the first soldier muttered with a frown. “Heralds barely reach Optio rank. One rank above us at most. Why should I be afraid of them over our rules?”

  The second soldier stared at him as though witnessing a toddler swallow a live coal.

  “You serious mother of all blockheads, did you completely ignore the handbook when you joined the Order?!”

  “Hah?”

  He hissed, lowering his voice. “The Heralds are not part of our chain of command. They’re ranked separately because they carry the Order’s messages, artifacts, and edicts across continents. They evade the eyes of the churches. They handle what the rest of us aren’t allowed to even know!”

  The blockheaded soldier blinked in confusion.

  The veteran grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “Even if he’s technically an Optio, in normal circumstances, we treat them like Centurions! Do you want to die?!”

  Meanwhile, having overheard every word with perfect clarity, Herald Marcus smirked as he walked deeper into the underground fortress.

  ‘Lucky for you, your friend has a brain, you bastard,’ he thought coldly.

  If the man had delayed him by just another second, Marcus would’ve drawn his blade and sent the rookie’s head rolling immediately.

  Workers in black and red uniforms standing along the stone walls lowered themselves in hurried bows as he passed. From afar, soldiers in black and red armor move in order, their metal boots clicking loudly on the stone floor.

  “As expected, being a Herald is far better than being stuck at Optio.” Marcus thought smugly.

  The indulgence of being treated as a superior rank, despite not having earned it conventionally, filled him with satisfaction. He approached a middle-aged officer giving orders near a wall of command maps.

  “Herald Marcus has returned,” Marcus announced bluntly.

  The officer turned. His gaze dropped to the Herald’s coat, the distinctive insignia gleaming on the shoulder plate, and the man immediately straightened his posture. A deep bow followed, hand pressed over his chest.

  “Praise the Dispute Monarch!”

  “Praise the Dispute Monarch,” Marcus replied out of courtesy.

  Then his expression sobered.

  “I must speak with the Tribunus. Immediately.”

  The officer froze for a second. His eyes flicked upward in hesitation.

  Marcus stepped closer, lowering his voice.

  “Tell him this,” His tone became more serious. “The seed, a Curse… has awakened.”

  —

  114 Whitefriars Street, Cathedral Ward, Easton City.

  “Chief Adjutor.”

  “You have come.”

  A young woman stood beside the tall Gothic window. Chief Adjutor of the Proctor Cross, Julia Crowley, looked out with a serene expression. Her bright yellow hair, tied into a ponytail, shimmered faintly under the morning light.

  Easton City’s skyline stretched beyond the glass. Factories lined the streets like iron giants, their chimneys no longer belching black smoke into the sky. Thin curls of steam drifted upward instead, dissolving harmlessly into the air.

  The air of Easton City was much cleaner than it had been in years. Thanks to Madam’s reform acts, working hours had been shortened, exhaust filters installed, and sanitation laws enforced. Although the smoke is still thick, it is way better than before.

  Julia’s attire reflected her high station. She wore a pristine white suit. A long white coat draped over her shoulders bore intricate gold embroidery twirling down its collar and cuffs. A white glove with a golden cross symbol. Her trousers and leather boots matched the same immaculate palette.

  On her chest gleamed the insignia: a white cross over a silver baton. A symbol of command and judgment. A white cross pendant hung from her neck, catching the light with every subtle movement.

  She turned, her glasses shifting down her nose slightly, her amber eyes narrowed in mild interest as she turned to greet the middle-aged man who had just entered.

  The middle-aged man, dressed in a similar formal ensemble, stood at attention. His long white Ulster coat was embroidered with gold threads that formed a sacred pattern. Draped over his left shoulder hung a ceremonial cape.

  His insignia was different: a white enameled eye over an open book, positioned above a white cross. It was a symbol of vigilance and scrutiny.

  He removed his white fez hat and tucked it under his arm. His neatly combed dark brown hair and angular, ascetic face came into view. He placed his right fist over his chest and bowed deeply to the girl.

  “Praise the White Monarch!”

  The Chief Adjutor nodded, her expression softening slightly.

  “Praise the White Monarch.”

  She gestured toward the chair opposite her desk.

  “Deacon Gregory, please sit down and read the report.”

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  The middle-aged man, Gregory Turner frowned. His gloved hand reached into his inner coat, withdrew a small glass bottle of disinfectant, and sprayed the chair meticulously, one spray across the cushion and two along the armrests.

  Julia tilted her head at his peculiar action.

  “You still haven’t recovered from the side effects of the Curse object?” she asked without seeming offended. It wasn’t the first time he had done this.

  “No, I’m afraid not, Chief Adjutor,” Gregory replied honestly before carefully lowering himself onto the now-sanitized chair.

  “Please call me Julia, Deacon Gregory. It sounds like you are trying to keep a distance between us.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that here, Chief Adjutor,” he replied formally, his eyes fixed on the report.

  Julia pouted her lips for a moment, then a teasing smile played on her face. “Here? Hmm? Would you say that outside?”

  “...”

  Gregory wisely did not answer. Instead, he picked up the report folder with both hands, eyes already scanning the pages.

  Julia let the teasing drop, though a small pout tugged at her lower lip. She seated herself across from him, folding her arms on the desk and exhaling.

  “Those Dispute dogs dared to kidnap Marchioness Augusta’s only daughter, Lady Amelia.” Her tone turned venomous. She slammed her palms onto the desk, rattling the ink bottle.

  “Chief Adjutor, please mind your language,” Gregory said, glancing meaningfully around the church office. Golden latticework framed the room, and a massive mural of the Pope adorned the far wall. “This is consecrated ground.”

  Julia clicked her tongue and adjusted her glasses. Her eyes dropped to a photograph clipped to the report, a small portrait of a young girl with soft, bubbly white hair and bright blue eyes.

  Lady Amelia.

  Julia tapped the photo with her pen.

  “The worst part? Not only did Madam sustain heavy injuries, but even Bishop Connell lost track of them.”

  “So that recent storm…” he murmured, “To escape Your Excellency’s sight, it must have been a Legatus.”

  Julia held her pen and clicked it against her lower lip. She nodded grimly.

  “You are correct. In terms of strength, we cannot compete with a Terminator Legatus. Their thunder alone could reduce half a district to soot, and their flame… it burned straight through Marchioness’s ice prison.”

  “Luckily, we lured him out of the civilization district,” she murmured.

  Gregory turned to another page, his face showing a concerned expression.

  “What is the Holy Court’s verdict?”

  Julia leaned back in her chair, letting the pen rest between her fingers.

  “We must do whatever is necessary to retrieve her daughter.”

  She paused and smiled meaningfully.

  “It is also a great opportunity for us. If we succeed, Marchioness Augusta will owe us a great favor. She is one of the few nobles who remain in the neutral faction.”

  A flicker of political cunning in her eyes. “If we can draw her to our side, the Church will gain leverage to hinder the king’s authority… and expand our influence across the entire kingdom.”

  The gears of political ambition turned behind her amber eyes.

  This was a move on the grand chessboard of power, and they were the pieces tasked with making the next move. Gregory nodded solemnly, he did not speak further. Politics was not his forte.

  “What is the king’s opinion regarding the matter?”

  Julia shook her head in irritation.

  “The royalty has its own problems to deal with. Recently, the third prince was poisoned and is teetering on the edge of death. The royal family has gone into full lockdown. They’re paranoid about an internal assassination.”

  She growled and threw the pen back on the desk.

  “To be honest, that pervert prince should just die already. As expected from those who refuse the Blessing of the White Monarch.”

  “Are these problems related?” Gregory adjusted his gloves and asked in a measured tone.

  “Hardly,” Julia replied. “The divination confirmed it. As ridiculous as it sounds, the poisoning has nothing to do with Lady Amelia’s disappearance. The King and the Church in Alant City have already joined forces to purge the remnants of several secret organizations. They have no spare personnel to send here.”

  She leaned back in her chair, resting her chin on both of her hands.

  “That is why Marchioness Augusta’s case fell to us, the Proctor Cross.”

  Her amber eyes flickered toward the papers in Gregory’s hands.

  “In there is the mission summary. The divination points to the east, specifically toward Winterin Village.”

  Gregory’s eyes widened. “The east? Don’t tell me… the forest?”

  Julia nodded slowly. “Correct. The Holy Court believes the mission will be very dangerous. That’s why you, as an Inspector of the Proctor Cross, will deploy your team first to survey the situation. The Inquisitor will handle the matter afterward.”

  He didn’t bother hiding his alarm. “How can a village survive inside a cursed forest…?”

  Julia shook her head. “Only the Archbishop can answer that question. Unfortunately, he’s busy in Alant City right now.”

  Gregory slid out a specific document from the folder. On it was written:

  [-----FEATUS INSTITUTION REPORT----- ]

  U-02-156: The Winterin Village

  Protocol: Unknown.

  Anomaly Properties:

  >>> Await further investigation.

  Instructions:

  >>> Not enough information. Await further investigation.

  ***

  U-01-006: The [Redacted] Forest

  Protocol: RED - Dangerous / Predictable.

  Anomaly Properties:

  >>> If you are lost inside the forest, you will not survive.

  >>> Must not know the true nature of the forest.

  Instructions:

  >>> Do not wander inside without guidance.

  >>> Do not uncover the forest’s secret.

  >>> Await further investigation.

  [---------------------------------------------]

  Julia reached across her desk, tapping a final page in the folder.

  “As for your guide, we have already found one who can navigate inside the forest. You might know him. He’s rather famous.”

  Gregory turned the page. A flamboyant figure stared back at him.

  This man wore a peach-colored suit, peach coat, and peach top hat, right down to his peach-pink hair.

  Julia said with a half-smile.

  “The Autumn Detective, James Holmes.”

  “Understood.” Gregory closed the folder and stood from his seat. He placed a hand on his chest and clasped the cross pendant there.

  “Praise the White Monarch.”

  The Chief Adjutor followed suit. She also stood up, a hand holding the pendant.

  “Praise the White Monarch.”

  Gregory turned on his heel and walked out of the room.

  “Be safe, Gregory.”

  The door clicked shut, leaving the woman’s small voice and her lingering gaze on the door.

  —

  Near the Forest, Several Hours Later.

  “Are you the Autumn Detective?”

  “Indeed I am!”

  Gregory’s entire team almost staggered back.

  Before them stood a man so blindingly peach-colored he might as well have been a fruit basket personified. His suit was immaculate, every piece of fabric in perfect pastel harmony. His top hat glimmered, matching his soft peach-pink hair that curled flamboyantly at the ends.

  ‘This is going to be painful.’ Gregory rubbed the bridge of his nose.

  He approached with stiff formality and extended his gloved hand to the so-called famous detective. His eyes flashed golden as they shook hands.

  “You won’t join this case personally? Marchioness Augusta may reward you handsomely if you manage to locate Lady Amelia.”

  The detective placed his hand on his chest dramatically.

  “Unfortunately, good sir, I still have several unresolved cases weighing down my docket! But your offer is appreciated, gentleman!”

  “...”

  Gregory flinched slightly. Being called a “gentleman” as a deacon created a very specific cocktail of emotions… It wasn’t offensive, yet it wasn’t pleasant either.

  The Detective adjusted the button on his cuff slightly, then swept his arm outward theatrically.

  “Now then, ladies and gentlemen, please follow me closely! ”

  He smiled dazzlingly.

  “We wouldn’t want any of us going missing, after all.”

  The Holy Praelium Empire is not a fixed name; I only have some lore regarding it. I may change it if it's wrong.

  From now on, the intermission chapter means another POV that’s not the main cast and focuses on the world.

  I just fixed the first chapter (removed the old man's death to give full mystery and stake). Please tell me what you thought about it. Is it better than before? (Somebody mentioned that spoiling the old man's death is not very good, since if he dies, then there is nothing more to read. And the first chapter is hard to grasp.)

  Add chapter 0, some lore regarding Rite of the Moon Maiden. (Yeah, it should be in this chapter, but since Benjamin had already spoiled it in earlier chapters, I thought, why not? The Village Act takes up almost the entire volume anyway.)

  Also, fix the second chapter. (Somehow, I make the original world more interesting, add more tone and lore regarding the MC. Not sure if it's a good or bad thing)