The sunlight spilled like molten gold through the vast arched windows of the Imperial Palace, painting the white marble floors with soft fire.

Crystal chandeliers swayed gently above, their chains silent despite the distant tremors in the wind.

The vast hall, cold and majestic, stood still.

At the far end, seated on a black-and-gold throne, was Emperor Francis.

He stood now, tall and still, one gloved hand resting lightly on the hilt of a greatsword sheathed at his side.

His face was pale—paler than usual, and beneath his striking blond hair, a thin scar cut across his temple, just above the eye.

A scar that hadn’t been there a week ago.

And also, a remnant from his fight against the unknown attacker who had promised to come and take his life.

He stared into the empty air.

Thinking.

Recalling.

That boy’s eyes.

“I’ll find you… fucker.”

His whisper evaporated into the wind.

Just then—

Clack—Clack—Clack—!

Footsteps.

A soldier in polished armor rushed down the crimson carpet, dropping to one knee the moment he reached the dais.

“Your Majesty!”

Francis didn’t move.

His eyes barely flicked toward the man.

The soldier lowered his head even further, voice tight.

“The Holy Father has arrived. He is… awaiting your presence in the Divine Hall.”

Silence followed.

Tense and heavy.

Francis’s eyes flickered once—just once, and then slowly, he turned his gaze toward the west-facing stained glass.

The window showed an ancient tale—the Divine Hero, piercing a dragon with a spear of light.

“…Tsh.”

He gripped the hilt of his greatsword. After Aestrea dealt a great amount of damage to him, Francis started hanging around with a greatsword for protection.

“…He has finally arrived,” he muttered under his breath.

He stepped down from the throne platform. The soldier instinctively flinched at his presence, not out of fear, but reverence.

Or maybe both.

The emperor’s voice rang calm and cold:

“Prepare the Divine Hall.”

“And summon the Inquisitors. All of them.”

The soldier’s eyes widened slightly.

“…Even the Red Fang…?”

Francis paused.

Then, a cruel smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“Especially him.”

The hall trembled as the emperor walked past, heading towards the so-called Divine Hall. A part of the imperial palace which… wasn’t exactly his.

It was built in reverence to the Celestials, its walls were carved entirely of moonstone, etched with sacred prayers in an ancient language.

The ceilings were impossibly high, lost in clouds of incense smoke. And at the end of the aisle… was a throne of white ivory and gold.

It was not the Emperor’s.

It belonged to the Pope.

And today, it was filled.

Step… step…

Heavy footsteps echoed as Emperor Francis entered. His imperial cloak, black and deep crimson, trailed behind him like a war banner.

He did not bow.

But he stopped exactly seven steps from the altar.

The man seated on the throne wore simple white robes with no excessive ornaments—only a single golden key around his neck, resting over his heart.

His face was veiled in silk.

And yet… his presence was suffocating.

The Pope of the Holy Church.

Pontifex Regulus IX.

The one whispered to be the closest man to the Celestials. The one who blessed heroes and burned heretics without an ounce of guilt.

And also the one who could be considered equal to himself.

The Pope raised a hand, lazily, as if brushing away dust.

“You look pale, Your Majesty,” he spoke, voice neither young nor old. “Are the nights in the palace growing colder?”

Francis’s lip twitched faintly.

“You didn’t come all this way to speak about the weather, did you, Your Holiness?”

At the Emperor’s words, the Pope slowly stood.

And even though his body looked frail beneath the robes, the room tensed.

He slowly turned, facing the massive stained-glass mural depicting the Celestial War—the fall of demons, and the rise of kings.

“The stars have spoken,” Regulus whispered.

Francis didn’t answer.

So the Pope continued.

“In the twilight of the Third Age, when the moon bleeds and the sun weeps, a child of the cursed line shall awaken.

Neither beast nor man, neither saint nor demon. With blood not written in fate, and a heart devoured by two hungers: Power, and Freedom.

He shall walk where the divine may not tread. Break where no blade should cut. Live where no soul may remain.

His left eye shall see beyond death. His right shall weep with ice.

And in his hands…

A sword stolen from the stars.”

Regulus slowly looked toward Francis.

“He will not kneel. Not to you. Not to me. Not to heaven.”

Francis’s jaw clenched.

“…and what name does this heretic bear?” he asked coldly.

The Pope’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“…Luntheris.”

The name seemed to ripple through the room like an invisible quake.

Francis blinked.

Once.

Then narrowed his eyes.

“That name does not exist in any of the nation’s archives.”

Regulus chuckled beneath the veil.

“Because it is not a name. It is a title. Given to the one who should never have been born.”

His hand lifted slowly.

And for the first time… Francis felt cold.

Not from the air.

But from something older.

Bigger.

As if some eye in the sky had turned, watching this moment.

“He bears many masks,” Regulus said.

“But beneath all of them, one truth remains.

He will end the era of the gods.

He will erase kingdoms.

He will break the world to build a new one.

…And in that new world, there will be no Emperor.

No Pope.

Only the winter’s ice.”

Francis’s hand moved to the hilt of his blade.

But didn’t draw.

“…And if this ‘Luntheris’ stands in our way?” he asked.

The Pope smiled.

Not warmly.

Not kindly.

He smiled like a wolf seeing a broken lamb.

“Then I shall anoint the flames myself.”

The Emperor remained still upon hearing him.

One hand on the hilt of his greatsword, the other clenched behind his back.

Regulus raised his hand again.

“The prophecy of Luntheris is not mere scripture, you can’t take it lightly.” The Pope advised.

Francis took a slow step forward.

“And what would the Holy Church have me do?”

The Pope turned his head slowly, that golden key around his neck pulsing faintly.

“You misunderstand, Your Majesty,” he said, almost gently.

“We do not ask for your permission.”

Then he raised his hand again, and the golden key floated upward, shining like a second sun.

In that moment, dozens of black-robed clerics stepped out from the pillars.

Silent.

Masked.

Each one radiated power that twisted the air around them.

Cardinals of the Inquisition.

Agents of the High Synod.

Executors of Divine Correction.

One by one, they knelt behind the Pope, their heads bowed in solemn reverence.

Regulus continued:

“Luntheris must be found.

Before the month bleeds dry.

Before he masters the blade that kills gods.

Before the final seal cracks.

If he cannot be saved—He must be broken.

His soul must be shattered.

His name is stricken.

And his body offered as a sacrifice to the Pyrelight.”

Francis’s eyes narrowed.

“…You’re declaring a Holy Hunt.”

Regulus said nothing.

He didn’t need to.

The air answered for him.

CRACKLE!

Lightning cracked across the windows, though no storm stirred outside.

The Imperial Palace seemed to groan under the weight of prophecy.

Francis finally turned away.

“If the boy truly bears the Luntheris name…” he muttered, “then your Inquisition may not be enough.”

The Pope’s veil fluttered for a moment.

Then—softly, like rain tapping on glass—he answered.

“That is why we are sending someone else.”

Francis looked back, frowning.

Regulus lowered his hand.

“We are sending the Saint of Ashes.”

The flames in the sconces suddenly flickered as soon as the Pope uttered those words.

And then…

There was complete silence.

A silence deeper than death.

Even the Emperor, an iron-hearted sovereign, paused for a moment.

“…You would wake her?”

Regulus’s voice turned colder, a cruel smile settled on his lips.

“She was never asleep.”

Francis’s eyes darkened.

He did not speak for a few moments.

And before he could actually do so, the Pope intervened.

“I also received another prophecy… related to the Demon Kingdom.”

Francis’s eyes narrowed as he looked at Regulus.

“The Demons.

They, who wait in the shadows.

They, who whisper in dreams.

Their Lord shall be reborn in a sea of flames.

A child they cast away shall return with a blade that remembers.

Not to rule.

Not to lead.

But to end them.

For demons cannot survive in a world without hate.

…And she shall take it all.”

Silence fell.

The candles flickered, though no wind stirred.

The Pope finally lowered his arms.

“…We need to find her,” Francis muttered, but unfortunately, the Pope didn’t seem to agree with his words.

His hood shifted slightly as a colder voice came out.

“A sacrifice is needed.”

The Emperor immediately understood his words, and then frowned slightly, thinking about what could be given as a sacrifice.

But then, he smiled deeply.

“The weakest academy… the Silverleaf Academy.”

His smile couldn’t help but grow deeper.

A deep, ugly thing.

“Destroy it to pieces.”

At the Emperor’s words, the Pope matched his smile, grinning widely.

“Then let it be done. Silverleaf Academy will be offered.”

They said it together, like priests at a funeral.

“For the greater good.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep