In the long-spun history of the world, there had only ever been three great powers.

The first two were well known—Mages and Enforcers. Paths of cultivation etched in blood and wisdom, refined over centuries, both reaching toward the same peak, absolute power. Some even claimed immortality sat at the summit. Their existence was orderly, structured, with steps to ascend and names to remember.

But there was a third.

It wasn’t the Spirit Trainers of Sylvastra, nor the beast-bound clans blessed by dragons or phoenixes. No—this power was older, quieter, and, by the third golden era of magic, nearly extinct.

The Church.

Not the kind that babbled sermons for coins or waved banners for invisible Gods. No, the churches of old had power—real power. Their Gods existed. Beings born from the raw concepts of the world—elementals shaped by virtue, given form by belief, and strength by worship.

Faith, it turned out, was a God’s mana.

The more hearts bent in devotion, the more power the divine could wield. And with that power, they blessed their followers. A bishop’s prayer could mend bones a healer couldn’t. A paladin’s strike could cleave a weaver in half. And while they never ruled a kingdom, it wasn’t because they lacked strength.

It was because they lacked progress.

Unlike a Mage who advanced through knowledge, or an Enforcer through grueling mastery of body, a believer could only go as far as their God willed. Their strength plateaued until the divine saw fit to raise them—and the Gods, distant as they were, often remained silent for centuries.

That, more than anything, limited the church’s reach. Especially in Lancephil.

Here, the dominant temple served the goddess Lumaris—a deity of light and life. While paladins did exist, used to combat weavers and beings the Church openly labeled as demons, the vast majority of the blessed were healers. Gentle hands and closed eyes. No kingdoms were built by those who only mended broken men.

Still, they had their use.

During the fief war, Kai had used the church extensively. His men had bled in battle—and it was within the tall, pale-stoned cathedral he’d erected that many had been saved. His Mages didn’t have the capacity to heal everyone and potions could only be used so much, so he had brought the injured back to the Church. Bishop Maurice had overseen it all, and since then, Kai had left him to his devices, trusting one of Francis’s apprentices to maintain contact.

But now, that silence had gone on long enough.

After the encounter at the wall and the truth of the plague’s roots revealed, Kai knew he had to act fast. Before leaving, he told Viscount Redmont to continue burning any roots they uncovered and prepare a force for the expedition.

“I’ll return in a few days,” Kai said, already preparing the spell to propel into the sky. “With Mages and men. Enough to push into the heart of the plague.”

Redmont wasn’t thrilled. He argued, predictably. “We should wait for Archine Tower. More reinforcements would be better for us.”

Kai’s gaze hardened.

“By then, it’ll be too late. The treant will grow stronger. And if it slips past your walls, it won’t stop at Aegis. It’ll reach the heart of Lancephil itself.”

That shut the Viscount up.

What Kai didn’t say was that he didn’t want Archine Tower’s Mages near the expedition. He trusted none of them. Paranoia, perhaps—but one betrayal in the field could doom them all.

After settling matters in Aegis, Kai didn’t linger. He flew back to Veralt with wind curling at his heel. His landing was quiet, but his presence was immediately noticed. Killian found him first—armor scuffed, eyes sharp.

“Lord Arzan,” he said, following it up with the question: what happened?

Kai gave a short, efficient briefing. The plague. The roots. The treant. Enough to make the man’s jaw tighten with concern. In return, he listened to the updates, particularly about Balen and every project he had been working on. Gear production had advanced—enchanted insulation and anti-corruption linings were being tested, and his army was in the final stages of mustering. Not enough yet. But close.

After confirming the direction of progress, Kai didn’t waste a single second.

He took a carriage toward the Church district accompanied by Gareth, watching from the window as Veralt’s newer streets blurred past. Stone mixed with scaffolding, workers sweating under banners bearing the crest of the goddess.

When he arrived, he stepped out and found himself standing before a building that now towered over its surroundings. The cathedral had grown by a lot in the past few weeks and now was one of the biggest buildings in the city, renovated to fit the current aesthetic of the era.

Smooth white stone carved with delicate motifs of wings and vines stretched towards the sky, sunlight glinting off its high arched windows. From what Kai remembered, the first floor housed the main cathedral hall—already functional. But now the structure has grown taller. Upper floors were being fitted with classrooms to “guide the young,” or so Bishop Maurice had insisted.

Kai didn’t like it.

He’d agreed on one condition, classes only on weekends, and completely optional. He had no desire to raise a generation of children who only knew piety and obedience to doctrine. The Church, at least on paper, had agreed.

Now, with Gareth walking quietly behind him, Kai stepped through the wide double doors. It was the middle of the week, yet the cathedral was far from empty. The soft murmur of whispered prayers echoed off high ceilings. Incense lingered faintly in the air, and the pale light filtering through stained glass painted the stone floor in shifting colors.

Every time someone noticed him, they bowed—low and reverent. Parents nudged their children to mimic the gesture. Some even dropped to one knee.

Kai gave brief nods in return and kept walking.

They walked up the polished stone staircase. On the first floor, a Cleric in pale gold robes turned the corner, nearly walking into them.

He froze, wide-eyed.

“This humble servant of the goddess Lumaris greets you, my lord,” the Cleric said, recovering quickly into a bow. “What can I assist you with?”

“I’m here to speak with Bishop Maurice,” Kai said, already stepping past him.

The man hesitated, his polite mask faltering. “The bishop is currently in his office, my lord. He’s asked that we not disturb him today. He is… engaged in important work.”

Kai raised an eyebrow, voice dry. “I think that restriction was meant for you. I doubt he’d mind a discussion with me. Lead the way.”

The Cleric’s grimace said everything. But there was no real choice. He turned with a muted sigh and led them up another flight of stairs, pausing only when they reached a wooden door marked with delicate golden script.

“He’s inside,” the Cleric said, gesturing toward it. Kai nodded.

“Wait here,” he told Gareth, then raised his hand and knocked twice.

From within came a muffled, irritated voice. “I told you all not to disturb me! I will ask the goddess to burn you where you stand—”

Kai opened the door.

The voice cut off instantly.

Inside, Bishop Maurice stood frozen mid-sentence, a half-eaten slice of strawberry cake hovering above his desk. A steaming cup of tea sat beside a book—its gaudy cover depicting a shirtless man with a dragon tattoo embracing a wide-eyed princess against a flaming sunset.

For a second, they both just stared.

Kai arched his brow. “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said slowly. “But I had something important to discuss. I hope I’m not stealing time from…”

His eyes dropped deliberately to the book. The bishop’s face turned red. He had taste, Kai could give him that.

“…your leisure period.”

Maurice coughed violently, slamming the book shut with a flick of his wrist. “A… just a fictional work! Helps with stress. You know how it is. Please—close the door.”

Kai stepped inside and did as asked, quietly shutting them away from the rest of the Church.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” the bishop said as he waved him to the seat across from his desk. “Had I known, I’d have cleared my schedule.”

“It’s fine,” Kai said, sitting. “I only just returned from Fortress Aegis.”

Maurice leaned forward, fingers laced. “Trouble across the border? I doubt it’s Vanderfall. From the whispers the devotees brought, they aren’t in a good shape.”

“You are right. It’s not their army. It’s the plague. It’s threatening to break containment. If we don’t act, it’ll reach the fortress… and from there, it’ll spread into our lands.”

At that, Bishop Maurice’s face lost its color.

Not subtly. His lips parted slightly, a thin line of sweat already forming at his temple. Kai could practically see the gears turning behind the man’s eyes—already thinking escape routes, fallback cities, plausible deniability. If Maurice had a bag packed beneath his desk, Kai wouldn’t have been surprised.

Too easy to read, Kai thought. The bishop’s face, for all its careful composure in public sermons, betrayed every emotion now. Guilt. Fear. And more importantly—knowledge of what the plague brought with it.

“I know the plague already destroyed most of your churches in Vanderfall.”

Maurice flinched—just a twitch—but that was enough.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

“And I’ve been hearing whispers,” Kai continued. “That people over there are starting to lose their faith in the goddess.”

The bishop said nothing.

“It’s natural,” Kai went on. “Especially when the first ones to flee were the priests. I’ve heard they called the plague the curse of the goddess.”

That snapped the bishop out of silence.

“You need to understand,” he said, voice tight, almost pleading, “our priests had no way to stop the plague. They’re as vulnerable as any common man. Most aren’t fighters. They weren’t abandoning their people—they were trying to survive.”

He straightened, a flash of the old fire returning to his tone.

“Despite that, we’re still doing everything we can. We’re using our divine power wherever possible. Healing. Warding. Blessing food. Anything to help.”

Kai gave a slow nod. “And I do appreciate that. Truly. What the Church is doing is commendable.”

He let the pause stretch, just long enough to make the next part land like a blade.

“But it doesn’t change the truth, does it? The Church is losing its power.”

The words hit like a stone in water. The ripples showed in the bishop’s eyes. He didn’t deny it—just gave a slow, reluctant nod.

“And that means,” Kai said, “the goddess will stop giving out as many blessings.”

This time, the nod wasn’t just reluctant—it was forced. The man stiffened, eyes flicking to the side like a guilty child caught stealing food off the altar. He hadn’t expected Kai to know that much.

But he did know. More than most.

Though it was no longer widely taught, especially outside theological circles, it was once common knowledge that the divine drew their power from an energy called faith. Pure belief. The kind that bent knee in prayer and whispered names to the sky. The less faith a god received, the weaker they became. It wasn’t universal. Some gods—like the old God of war or the Beastmother—had no temples or hymns, yet retained their natural strength. Their power waxed and waned with worldly events. The god of war rose in times of bloodshed, when battle cries echoed across nations. The Beastmother surged when great beasts evolved—when instincts gave way to cunning and command.

But the goddess Lumaris… She was different. Her existence, her very identity, was bound to devotion. Built on belief. Her strength didn’t rise during war or chaos. It withered. And now, with so many churches destroyed and worship crumbling in the west, her power—like her blessings—was beginning to fade.

Maybe Maurice didn’t understand the mechanism. But he felt the symptoms. Fewer worshippers meant weaker blessings. And fewer Clerics and Paladins that could be fielded in battle. Kai could see the weight of that realization setting in across the bishop’s face, and for the first time since entering the office, he felt like he was in full command of the conversation.

So he leaned in.

“I’m sure the Church headquarters in Lancephil is doing what it can,” he said evenly. “Trying to hold things together. Scrambling to respond.”

The bishop sat straighter, trying to recover composure—but he didn’t interrupt. Not anymore.

“That’s why I came here. Because I think we both know that if something isn’t done—now—there won’t be much of a Church left to argue over.”

Bishop Maurice straightened, spine stiffening as if trying to pull himself back into the grace of conviction. “We are trying to find a way to end this plague,” he said, his voice laced with earnestness—perhaps too much of it. “Not for our churches, but for the people of Vanderfall.”

He paused, as if waiting for Kai’s reaction, then added, “I know Lancephil and Vanderfall are at odds, Count Arzan—but the Church does not take sides in political conflict. We care only for the good of the common man.”

Kai smiled, but not with warmth. It was a polite smile. Noncommittal. A smile that said you speak well—not that I believe you.

He had read the bishop well enough by now. Maurice wasn’t a bad man. But he wasn’t a saint either. The idea of him losing sleep over starving villages on the other side of a contested border was laughable. No, his concerns were closer to home—his title, his blessings, the slow erosion of faith creeping toward his doorstep.

“So,” Kai said, “has a solution been found yet? With the plague now pressing into Lancephil,” he added, “I imagine the urgency is growing.”

The bishop’s expression shifted—his lips pressed together for a moment before he gave a reluctant nod. “That’s true. From what I last heard, our headquarters has been organizing mass gatherings. Vigils. Unified prayer.”

His gaze rose to the ceiling as if drawing strength. “We’ve asked the goddess to show us the path forward in this time of darkness. And I believe she will.”

He’d heard that kind of hope before. Delayed hope. The kind that looked upward and waited for rescue rather than acted. The kind that drowned kingdoms.

The gods won’t save you, he thought. Not unless you drag the problem to their main altars and beg loud enough to shake the stars.

They were beings of ego, not empathy. Above mortals, yes—but not beyond need. In the end, even they had perished, just like the rest, when the second golden era’s tide of dead mana swept over the land and the faith in any god had ended. Kai folded his hands together, calmly.

“I don’t doubt the goddess will show us the way,” he said. “But we don’t know when that will be. And as you know, she trusts her followers to resolve the problems before her intervention becomes necessary.”

The bishop sighed. “That may be true. But our abilities are limited, Count. There’s only so much the Church can realistically do—”

“No,” Kai cut his bullshit off right there. “I believe the Church can do a great deal.”

“A… great deal?”

Kai nodded. “The Church can be a central component in solving this plague crisis. Not a support. A pillar.”

That took the bishop by surprise. His mouth opened, but no words came out for a second. Finally, he tilted his head, narrowing his eyes.

“How? Even the Magus of Vanderfall have failed to contain it.”

“That’s true,” Kai agreed. “But every problem has a solution. And while I may not hold the title of Magus yet…”

He met the bishop’s gaze squarely, letting the words land like iron.

“I have the solution to the plague.”

The bishop stared. There was a flicker of disbelief at first, brief but visible in the slight twitch of his brow. But as the silence dragged on and Kai’s expression remained deadly serious—calm, resolute, certain—the bishop’s skepticism faltered.

“You’ve found a cure? A cure for the ones afflicted?”

“No,” he said. “Unfortunately… not a cure. Not at any meaningful scale.” He paused, then added, “But I have found a way to hold the plague in its tracks. To stop it from spreading any farther. No more towns lost. No more roots crawling beneath our feet.”

Maurice leaned back slightly, the tension in his shoulders rising again.

“It won’t require decades of research,” Kai continued. “No esoteric rituals. No divine miracles. Just brute force. And a lot of people willing to march into plague-ridden Vanderfall.”

At that, the realization dawned behind the bishop’s eyes.

“You’re here for our forces,” he said, sitting straighter. “The Church’s men.”

His voice held a note of quiet dismay, as though he’d just seen the size of the monster outside his door.

“You must understand, Count… Most of us can barely function as support in battle. We heal, we protect, we bless. But we don’t… involve ourselves in military conflicts.”

“This isn’t a war between nobles, Bishop. This isn’t a fief war where you can stand on the sidelines and chant neutrality while the dead walk. This is a crisis the Church itself has openly declared its enemy. A ‘curse,’ remember?”

The bishop’s face twitched.

“And as for your people’s capabilities—I know them. I’ve seen what your Clerics can do. Your Paladins. Your wardens. You say they aren’t made for war, but they are made for purpose. Just think about it.”

He said the following words… slowly. “If you’re the one who helped lead the effort to stop the plague. If it’s your name that ends up etched into the sermons, spoken by survivors, praised in every other cathedral from here to the capital… how do you think that’ll affect your standing in the Church?”

Kai smiled inwardly as he watched it happen.

The bishop’s expression shifted—not all at once, but in stages. The confusion faded first. Then the weariness. Then the worry. What replaced it was subtle but unmistakable: the flicker of ambition. A tilt of the head. A slight gleam in the eye. Opportunity.

It had always been there, waiting beneath the surface—Kai just had to carve deep enough to find it. He didn’t press. He didn’t need to. Now, the bishop was thinking for himself.

Exactly as planned.

***

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