Again?
Javon felt the coincidence was a little too strange.
If the raid on The Eye of Gumo had happened after the magician’s theft of the Iron Crown, he would have suspected that, unable to find Javon Yuggs, the God of Suffering had deliberately gone after Javon’s friends out of spite—so Bruce’s school was attacked as a result.
But the timeline was the opposite.
Which meant it clearly wasn’t that.
What they were doing carried a strong sense of purpose.
“Does The Eye of Gumo have some feud with the Cult of Desire?” he thought for a moment, then asked.
“I don’t know…”
A lost, bewildered look surfaced on Bruce’s face. “I only just joined the school. I don’t know those hidden histories… and besides, some ancient cults have a habit of changing their names in secret chronicles, so it’s hard to untangle this kind of thing.”
He sounded genuinely helpless.
“Either way, we must retaliate,” Cornelius said solemnly. “Vengeance… is also part of nature! We must make our enemies feel nature’s wrath!”
Javon nodded in agreement. “I’m interested in the Cult of Desire as well. As far as I know, they usually hide inside the vast congregation of the Holy Spirit Church—and recently they even directed the magician Lucivar to steal the Iron Crown. Do you have any impression of that item?”
“The Sun King’s Iron Crown? Without holding it in my hands and examining it properly, I can’t draw conclusions,” Bruce replied with a wry smile.
“They say it’s just an ordinary antique,” Cornelius added. “As for Cult of Desire leads—I’ll look into them. It’s just that the Holy Spirit Church has too many believers. No—more accurately, nearly every citizen of the kingdom is a casual believer, so that line is difficult to trace. Unless… we go straight for the top brass at the church headquarters, even Pope Feret himself. Any other direction?”
“There’s also Baron Jacques. That baron is connected to The Blood of Decay, but he also seems tangled up with the Cult of Desire…”
Javon briefly explained what had happened before, along with a few of his suspicions. “I even suspect the Blood Robe Club was involved as well. They’re a pack of fallen cultists—when they gather, it’s not going to be for world peace.”
“Baron Jacques?” Cornelius considered it, then nodded. “By what you said earlier, once he’s already suspicious, trying to approach or investigate him by various means will easily attract attention—maybe even land you in a trap. But it is a new direction, at least.”
“I want to commission you for two things,” Javon said, mentioning Bruce politely—but looking mainly at Cornelius.
The Oak Circle had been rooted in Wynchester for years. They clearly had contacts.
“Go ahead. I owe you a favor,” Cornelius said directly, not waiting for Bruce to answer.
“Two things. First, find me a Fourth Sephiroth legacy item of the Tower!”
“Second, I want a false identity—one that can get close enough to Baron Jacques’s social circle to investigate. Of course… not too close to the inner core. The outskirts will do.”
Against the Cult of Desire, whose desire for retaliation ran strong, Javon had no intention of letting go.
They’d caused an uproar in his bar—and in the end even triggered an explosion.
That had thoroughly angered him.
“Once I’m in contact with the school, I’ll move on both,” Cornelius promised readily. “That’s not hard.”
“And me? What about me?” Bruce pointed at himself, eyes bright with expectation.
“Keep lying low. Don’t expose yourself—that’s the biggest help you can give us,” Cornelius said bluntly.
Thronehall of Wessex.
Outside the gates of the ancient, magnificent palace, an opulently decorated carriage rolled to a stop.
A man in his thirties—wearing a platinum-and-white priestly robe, tall and lean, strikingly handsome, with a head of golden curls and an intensely masculine charisma—stepped down with the support of a white-haired butler in a black tailcoat.
In his hand, he held a papal staff inlaid with gemstones of every color, its design heavy with religious symbolism—an emblem of the Holy Spirit Church’s supreme authority!
This was Feret, Supreme Shepherd of the Holy Spirit Church, the Pope rumored to have an affair with King Arthur VI.
He radiated masculine charm. Like a lion in his prime, he carried not the slightest trace of softness.
There were even rumors that, in his relationship with the king, he played the “male” role…
Led by a court attendant, Feret entered the hall. His brows twitched—he’d seen someone he didn’t like.
“Your Majesty.”
Without sound, Feret smiled. He first bowed to King Arthur VI—a slightly shorter man wearing a crown, with a rather delicate face and what looked like powder on his cheeks—then straightened and, in a light tone, addressed Xistos, who wore plain white robes.
“Lord Xistos, I hear the Bureau has botched yet another case. The bandits in the Black Queen District seem rather bold these days.”
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Xistos’s expression did not change.
The Bureau’s raid on Havier’s castle had been highly successful at first—but at the final moment, Havier still escaped.
As for how?
In the post-action review, they concluded that Havier, driven into a corner, had deliberately triggered the negative side effect of the castle’s random teleportation.
In truth, he had been suppressing that negative effect by various means. But once he faced death, he stopped suppressing it—the castle’s teleportation range surged, broke through the Bureau’s cordon, and threw him somewhere unknown.
“Pope The Crowned One,” Xistos said, drawing out the last two words with heavy emphasis, the meaning unmistakable. “Did you rush into the palace because you knew I was speaking against you before His Majesty—so you’re trying to provoke me with other cases and divert my attention?”
“Your Majesty…”
Feret bowed to Arthur VI, and there was even a hint of grievance in his voice. “I have no idea what Lord Xistos is talking about…”
“Enough, Chancellor Xistos. Feret didn’t mean it,” Arthur VI said, as expected, taking his former lover’s side without effort.
“Your Majesty, since Pope The Crowned One is here, I believe he must explain the recent miracles manifesting across Holy Spirit Church sites. Why is he entangled with the Cult of Desire? And the Bureau has received reliable intelligence that this evil organization is plotting a conspiracy that will bring a tremendous disaster upon all of Wynchester!”
Xistos spoke with righteous severity.
Feret only chuckled softly. “What Cult of Desire? I only saw that name in the case file for the Mary Street church. Poor lambs—misled by evil infiltrators within the Holy Spirit Church. Their souls should receive salvation and purification!”
“So our Pope The Crowned One intends not to admit anything?” Xistos narrowed his eyes slightly. “Then how do you explain the frequent miracles appearing in churches lately? The Bureau already holds sufficient evidence!”
“On that point, I was just about to deliver a report to His Majesty.”
Feret smiled faintly. “We all know that since the ancient Earl of Greenforest crawled out of his grave—and was confirmed as an Immortal—the world has become different!”
Xistos’s expression changed. He snapped his head up in shock.
The emergence of an Immortal should have been a top-level state secret. Even many Bureau directors didn’t know!
He glanced at Arthur VI and saw the king’s slightly apologetic smile. At once, he understood: His Majesty had leaked it.
He could only sigh inwardly—nothing leaks faster than pillow talk—and yet there was nothing he could do.
“That is a sign,” Feret declared, sweeping his arm for emphasis. “A sign that the Gate of Immortality has opened! The old methods Inves used to handle the occult are outdated!”
Xistos’s face twitched. The “old methods” meant… the Bureau.
“The occult is dangerous. The occult should be hidden. That is why we have the Bureau—why we have the Cleaners.”
“But as the spiritual tide returns and Transcendents grow stronger, one day the truth will no longer be containable. Therefore, rather than being exposed passively later and losing the kingdom’s credibility, we should expose it proactively—while also providing a layer of presentation and packaging.”
Feret spoke with soaring conviction.
His little tongue always pleased the king—Xistos thought, venomously.
If not for the palace’s powerful guards, and the certainty that the Pope carried potent arcane artifact protections, Xistos feared he might not be able to restrain himself from striking—throwing a brainstorm straight at him.
“So?” Arthur VI asked, as if genuinely interested, listening attentively.
“Therefore, let us begin with the Holy Spirit Church. Let us acknowledge the existence of gods and supernatural phenomena. Let us proclaim that all mystery is divine art—that all the occult is a treasure granted to mortals by The Holy Spirit!”
Feret bowed again. “And the great, revered, exalted King—Your Majesty—will be the earthly ruler crowned by divine will. From this day onward, the Sodoma crown will bear an additional layer of sacred radiance—an honor the purple-eyed ones of the Fabri dynasty could never hope to reach!”
“What outrageous ambition,” Xistos roared. “Do you intend to crown the king? To let religious authority stand above royal authority?”
“Of course not. I am forever your most humble servant, my king,” Feret said quickly, bowing.
“I will consider this proposal and submit it to the Upper House for discussion,” Arthur VI replied noncommittally, yet he seemed faintly tempted.
Xistos’s face darkened like stormwater. He turned and left.
With his back to them, his expression turned oddly subtle.
The Upper House would never pass such an absurd proposal.
Even if, by some miracle, it did pass—they would never allow Feret to remain as Pope.
Because once the Holy Spirit Church was publicly elevated, it would possess believers, hold vast numbers of Transcendents, and control discourse.
It would become a colossal entity—larger and more terrifying than the Bureau was today.
Feret’s ambition was too great.
In the end, he might be lifting a stone only to smash his own foot.
After all, the kingdom was not ruled by the Sodoma royal family alone.
February 22, Monday.
Blackgold District, 97 Woking Street.
A typical wealthy villa: three stories, expansive interior space, and a lovely garden and fountain out front.
Javon had changed faces again—now a handsome man in his early twenties.
His hair was long and platinum-blond, falling smoothly over his shoulders. He wore a black wool coat and a black top hat, and he held a brown book in hand, looking every bit the scholarly gentleman.
He stepped up and rang the bell.
Not long after, a maid arrived. Looking at the handsome young man, a flicker of something passed through her eyes before she asked respectfully, “Sir, may I ask who you are?”
“I’m Elric Augustus,” Javon said. “Recommended by the Wildlife Enthusiasts’ Association to apply for the position of family tutor. This is my card.”
He handed over a freshly printed calling card.
She took it—an unavoidable brush of skin. Her cheeks reddened slightly.
“Madam instructed us this morning. Please follow me to the sitting room and wait.”
“Thank you.”
Javon passed through the opened iron gate, walked by the riot of flowers in the garden, and entered a lavishly decorated sitting room.
The leather sofa looked soft and comfortable.
Art objects filled the corners. The floor-to-ceiling windows were wide and bright. The curtains were vivid and smooth.
Mounted on the walls were enormous trophy heads—a moose, and a wolf.
As he sipped the coffee the maid brought, Javon quietly reviewed the file on this household.
Knox Stass. A merchant by trade. Holds 40% of the Lightning Club*, and is also involved in gambling…*
The Lightning Club was a horse-racing club. The name sounded familiar.
Javon had read a newspaper feature on it before: they’d sold a superstar racehorse, Lightning Storm, to the Crown Club—for a full forty thousand pounds.
Inves’s obsession with racing and wagering ran from top to bottom, and the culture of betting on horses was rampant.
Regardless of whether gamblers won or lost, the house always profited—and Mr. Stass was one of the people who profited the most.
He had a wife, an unknown number of mistresses, and only one son.
At the same time, the Stass family maintained decent ties with Baron Jacques’s household—making this a conveniently chosen direction for investigation.
This identity—Elric Augustus, complete with academic credentials—had been forged for him through Cornelius and his school’s influence.
Mr. Stass liked hunting, wilderness expeditions, and natural history.
He belonged to the Wildlife Enthusiasts’ Association—and by coincidence, the association was backed by The Oak Circle.
So at a gathering, when they learned Mr. Stass was struggling to find a tutor for his child, a “recommendation” naturally followed.
Before long, a beautiful madam entered the sitting room.
She was curvy, with long golden hair—around thirty, perhaps. Time seemed unable to leave the slightest trace on her: her hair was still silky, her skin as smooth as the finest milk.
Only her delicate features carried a practiced arrogance and sharpness—an effortful imitation of the nobility that looked slightly affected.
At her side, she held the hand of a boy of seven or eight.
He wore a white shirt and a black vest, lips pursed, face full of stubborn reluctance.
Looks like another little brat.
Javon looked at the scene and sighed silently to himself.
