The Desecrated Chapel

“Sneaking out of the city like this, without even a single Divine Guard, Father will surely worry.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! If we were to openly mobilize the city’s Divine Guards, what if someone took advantage of the opportunity? People are already eyeing the Church’s territory in the outer city like hungry tigers!”

“You’re just afraid of alerting Father and being grounded, aren’t you…?”

All along the way, Westir had been trying to back out, much to Saranya’s growing annoyance.

‘This future bishop is such a coward,’ she thought. ‘It’s a good thing his unruly younger sister, Paresha, is forcing him along, otherwise he’d likely have abandoned us halfway.’

‘Still, a fellow like Westir… he’s perfectly suited to be a puppet.’

The carriage halted, and as everyone stepped out of the coach, a small, half-ruined chapel, overgrown with moss, came into view.

The chapel’s exterior walls, a haphazard mix of brick and wood, were dilapidated and unsightly, giving the impression of having been thrown together without care. A crescent moon emblem, precariously swaying, adorned the steeple, only adding to the building’s desolate appearance.

At the entrance, several vagrants were loudly shouting, seemingly attempting to dislodge the emblem from the steeple with stones, intending to sell it for coin.

“Divine Guards of the Sanctuary! You thieves, stop at once!”

Paresha drew her short sword and cried out sharply. The vagrants exchanged glances, then scattered like startled birds, leaving the area deserted in an instant.

The four approached, stepping onto the dim, yellowish clearing before the chapel.

At their feet lay shards of stone, jutting obliquely from the ground like dilapidated tombstones. Overhead, a flock of red-eyed ravens, their origin unknown, circled silently and eerily, their gazes fixed intently upon the living figures below.

Saranya and Kaelan exchanged a look, then moved closer to Paresha, who was ahead:

“Paresha and I will lead the way.”

“Wait… perhaps Madam Hillburg and I should remain outside?”

“I apologize, Mr. Westir, but Miss Haia cannot act alone, away from me.”

“Less chatter, you rotten old brother! Get behind me and behave!”

****

The iron door groaned heavily, and a foul gust of wind swept out from the cavernous darkness within, carrying the stench of aged decay and a pungent aroma of cheap tobacco.

Inside the building, the stained-glass windows were entirely opaque, allowing no light to penetrate. Only a single, powerful beam of light, piercing through a crack in the door, stretched the four figures’ elongated shadows across the floor.

In the oppressive gloom, a statue of the Pale Moon Goddess stood tilted in the center of the hall, its body cracked and its face indistinct.

Ash, bedding, and the embers of a bonfire—it appeared someone had already beaten them to it. The vagrants outside were merely their lookouts.

“The traces are fresh; these people must have come to steal something!”

“Paresha, wait.”

Paresha was correct; the traces were recent. Yet, why was there no one to be seen in the hall?

Saranya took a step forward, her leather boot crushing a pile of smoking ash. In the dim light, she discerned various sacks and satchels scattered across the floor, and a cast-iron pot, its contents slowly swirling, hung above the bonfire.

The hall was eerily silent.

She inhaled deeply, then exhaled softly.

Saranya took a second step, her boot tip brushing against something viscous. Frowning, she looked down and used her sword tip to lift a segment of oily hemp rope.

“It’s sacred oil…” Westir’s trembling voice echoed from behind her. “They intended to set up a purification ritual, but for some reason, they only completed half of it…”

“A purification ritual? To purify wha—”

A piercing shriek suddenly erupted from outside the window—the ravens. They furiously pecked at the stained glass, beating their wings wildly. Black feathers, carried on a foul wind, shattered the window, sending shards of colorful glass flying inward, sweeping past the goddess’s statue like a cascade of tears.

“Aaaahhh—!”

Westir let out a womanly shriek. Following his gaze, a patch of light streamed in from the shattered window, and at its end, a hunched silhouette was caught—

It was a middle-aged man, his neck twisted at a right angle towards his chest, his bloodshot eyes bulging from their sockets. His mouth hung open, crammed with blackened tobacco residue.

“Above us!!!”

“Westir, don’t run around recklessly! Watch your head!”

The entire chapel suddenly emitted a dying groan, and something began scurrying along the decaying rafters overhead.

‘Let’s hope it’s just rats,’ she thought.

Clutching the book to his chest, Westir sobbed as he bolted towards the pulpit before the statue, leaving the others to grumble and quickly give chase.

“Calm down, Westir! It’s just a corpse!”

“Lunar eclipse… a lunar eclipse… it’s coming… boohoo… Goddess…”

“You useless old brother! Stop right there!”

Paresha forcibly embraced Westir, but he, like a rabid dog, tore free from her grasp and lunged towards a trapdoor behind the pulpit.

“The crypt is behind that door… Goddess above… please, hurry!”

Westir mumbled prayers under his breath, all his words mixed with inexplicable religious rhetoric. Still, he had, at least, fulfilled his duty of guiding them.

Paresha was the first to yank open the trapdoor, light a torch, and dart into the gloomy, unlit crypt. Westir followed close behind, weeping and pleading for Paresha to wait for him.

“I’ll stay here.”

Kaelan’s abrupt declaration made Saranya, who had been about to follow the siblings, halt.

‘What’s going on? Without Kaelan, my confidence is cut in half…’

“What lurks here isn’t some undead creature… there’s another sorcerer.”

“Eh?! Stronger than you?”

“I’m not yet certain of their strength, but this is undoubtedly their domain. Get down there quickly; don’t linger and get in the way!”

Saranya rushed down into the crypt, traversing a stair-lined passage, where she first caught up to a collapsed Westir.

“Boohoo, help me, Miss Haia, my legs are like jelly…”

“You truly are useless, Lord Westir!”

Saranya hoisted Westir onto her shoulder with one hand and swiftly ran through the passage, arriving in the spacious main burial chamber.

Skeletons, coffins, burial urns—everything remained intact. Just as Kaelan had said, there was no undead rampage here.

“Ah!”

“Paresha!”

Directly ahead, iron clashed. Paresha’s upper body was stained crimson with blood, and wielding a short-bladed armed sword, she was encircled by several shadowy figures.

Before Saranya could even assess the situation, three throwing axes suddenly sliced through the air, assailing her in a triangular formation!

Under this sudden assault, Saranya immediately flung Westir into a coffin, then raised her longsword, weaving several shimmering silver arcs before her.

“Clang!”

“Thump!”

The throwing axes collided with her blade, erupting in two dazzling bursts of sparks. One axe grazed Saranya’s ear, burying itself deep into the brick wall beside her.

‘That was close,’ she thought.

Those surrounding Paresha were living people, likely the thieves from upstairs. Their movements were utterly disjointed, their eyes clouded with a ghastly, bluish-gray haze, and their faces were grotesque, clearly under the influence of dark sorcery.

“Die! Die! Die!”

Paresha brandished her short sword with agile grace, darting among her assailants like a cunning young lynx, continually inflicting fresh wounds upon them.

Without even Saranya’s assistance, Paresha single-handedly brought all the enemies to the ground. A sickly-sweet scent of rust began to permeate the air.

‘Who knew this girl was such a formidable fighter?’ she mused.

“Where are you hurt?!”

“I’m fine… *huff… huff*… just a bunch of petty thugs!”

She was right. Judging by their attire, these were city gang members who had undoubtedly come to seize a holy relic, only to stumble upon something far more terrifying.

‘That sorcerer, the one lurking in the shadows,’ she thought.

‘Kaelan is still alone upstairs. She’s so powerful, she’ll probably be fine, right…?’

“Hm?”

A wisp of gray mist materialized in her vision, brushed past Saranya, and shot with incredible speed deeper into the crypt.

“The holy relic! The holy relic! Don’t let that thing desecrate it!!!”

Westir leaped out of the coffin, screaming with his hands clutched to his head, only to trip over a corpse. He scrambled back to his feet, dust-covered and disheveled, and frantically chased after the misty form.

“Westir!”

Saranya was truly speechless. It was still uncertain if his sister was a Divine Official, but her brother Westir was absolutely a divine being of chaos.