Treatment

Radiant Court.

Deep within the Grand Cathedral, in a sealed chamber guarded by layers of Holy Light barriers and the elite “Saintly Guard,” the air was heavy—dense with an almost suffocating sacred presence.

The pure vitality of the Holy Light here was so concentrated it became tangible, flowing like molten radiance through the room.

At the center of the chamber stood a treatment altar, sculpted entirely from a single block of priceless “Saintly Healing Crystal.”

Thick currents of Holy Light coiled and pulsed upon its surface.

Upon that altar lay the broken body of Saint Son Charles—

—or what remained of him.

His skin was pale as death, his lips bloodless, his breath so faint it barely stirred the air.

The gaping wound cleaving him nearly in half had been sealed only temporarily with layers of luminous gel and rare holy herbs, which stemmed further deterioration but not recovery.

Yet from the charred edges of that wound, streaks of stubborn darkness still writhed and flickered—threads of malignant, corrosive energy rejecting the light that sought to heal them.

A venomous curse, feeding upon every spark of renewal.

His right wrist was entirely severed.

Over the stump, a shimmering layer of living light crawled sluggishly, trying—and failing—to regrow flesh and bone.

Around the altar, several clerics in white and gold-trimmed robes labored without pause, their faces drawn and damp with sweat.

They were not ordinary healers.

These were archbishops and cardinals—masters of divine thaumaturgy whose commands shaped life itself.

Yet even they faltered, straining as vast torrents of pure Holy Light poured from their hands into Charles’s mangled form, waging a slow and losing war against the demonic corrosion eating him from within.

Flasks of shimmering holy water, vials of purified oil, and powdered sacred crystals littered the floor.

The air was thick with an odd amalgam of sanctity and dread, holiness tinged with the sour burn of desperation.

After all, Charles was a “Holy Son”—a paragon of the new generation, uniquely blessed with the ability to perform high-level Invocation Arts such as the summoning of [Lucia’s Retribution].

His talent in combative [Holy Arts] made him the shining spearhead of the Rhine Holy Church’s militant reformists.

Such a prodigy could not be allowed to fall.

A short distance from the treatment platform, two clergymen knelt side by side upon prayer mats, heads bowed in silent supplication.

Their hands pressed solemnly against their hearts, voices barely a whisper in endless incantations.

One was Archbishop Morandi—his features polished, his eyes deep with intelligence.

The other was Bishop Lester, the same cautious man who, during the Ashen frontier campaign, had shown visible unease at the manifestation of “blasphemous powers” surrounding Charles.

Their lips moved soundlessly, mouthing the ancient litanies.

Their faces projected the perfect masks of grief and devotion, brows furrowed with pious sorrow for the “critically wounded Saint Son.”

Yet, if anyone were to look beyond their lowered lashes—

—into the fleeting glances they traded—

One would find no faith at all.

Only calculation.

And the glint of mutual understanding born of politics, not prayer.

“…What’s his current state?”

Lester’s voice was lowered to a murmur, nearly lost in the low hum of healing magic.

His gaze lingered on the bloody, half-healed wreck upon the altar.

Deep in his eyes flashed something faint and sharp—a hint of grim satisfaction mixed with wary concern.

Satisfaction, that the reformists’ “rising star” had been struck down.

Concern, that if this particular star survived, his return would burn brighter—and more dangerous—than before.

“Not good.”

Morandi’s lips barely moved, his voice reaching Lester’s ear through a current of restrained whisper-magic.

“The power used by those three Demon Lords—especially the final strike from the Demon Lord of Evernight—was far worse than we anticipated.

The corruption reached into his life essence itself… and the connection point of that power is almost completely fractured.

The most critical relic he was bound to—the ‘sacred cadaver’—was also lost.

The damage is catastrophic.”

He paused.

Then added quietly, “Some of the senior cardinals have already convened in secret. They believe this might… be our best chance.”

The meaning beneath his words was unmistakable.

Lester’s eyes narrowed slightly.

Their best chance.

To let Charles “return to the embrace of the Light” naturally—that is, to die.

The notion unsettled him.

The risks were immense.

The reformists would never take such “heavenly will” for granted.

And should the truth ever surface… the price would be unbearable.

“He can’t die here,” Lester muttered after a long silence.

“Not like this. Not now. Not… so inconveniently.”

He exhaled through his nose, voice low and measured.

“There are too many eyes upon us.

Different factions or not, on the surface he’s still one of the Rhine’s blessed.

So we’ll show what must be shown.

We will appear more desperate than any of them to save him.

The rest…”

He lowered his voice further, “…we’ll leave to the will of the Lord.”

A pause.

Lester’s mouth curled faintly, humorless.

“Pity about the assassination, though. The Demon Lords came so close.

As for the lost [Rhine Ten Commandments] ring… hmph. That was their relic, not ours.

As long as it hasn’t fallen into heretical hands, the Church can tolerate the loss.”

His tone dripped with cold irony—sharp enough that Morandi’s thoughts immediately aligned with his own.

“Yes… a performance,” the vice-archbishop murmured.

“We’ll portray devout loyalty, exhibit relentless effort—then let the divine decide.

In the meantime, our eyes stay open.

And we… prepare.”

To the Rhine hierarchy, the loss of the [Holy Ring] was a blow.

But in the quiet war between reformists and conservatives, it was also an advantage.

The fewer trump cards the radicals possessed, the better their rivals’ position would become.

And should Charles somehow recover, the conservatives would lose nothing—earning praise for their zeal and devotion.

If not… then it was “divine will.”

And even if he lived, he would never again be whole.

“I understand.”

Morandi nodded faintly, folding his hands more tightly, his voice rising a notch in hollow prayer.

Grief deepened upon his face, sincerity sharpened by artful precision.

But before the false hymns could settle—

A low hum tore through the chamber.

“Vmm—!”

An overwhelming force fell upon the room—nothing like the sanctified calm of Holy Light.

This was raw, explosive.

A presence of judgment, thunder, and violent, unyielding righteousness.

A pressure like the wrath of the heavens.

Every Holy Light barrier in the room rippled violently, their resonance filling the air with a teeth-rattling droning.

The healing bishops nearly faltered mid-rite, gasping as arcs of unstable holy energy snapped around them.

Both Morandi and Lester snapped their heads up, masks of pious grief shattering instantly into genuine shock.

The heavy sanctum doors had been pushed open without a sound.

A figure stood silhouetted in the entryway—still, silent, radiating awe.

He wore a deep blue robe embroidered with lines of golden lightning.

The high collar of the garment shadowed half his face, leaving only a pair of eagle-sharp eyes visible.

Within their depths, light crackled like a brewing storm as his gaze swept, cold and deliberate, across the assembled clergy of the Rhine Holy Church.