The Thunder Church

The newcomer was not particularly tall.

Yet standing there, he emanated a presence so immense it pressed upon the air itself—like a storm about to break, a mountain heavy with thunderclouds.

Every breath seemed to vibrate with a restrained, electric tension.

In his hand, he held a staff of ancient design, its top adorned with a living blue-white crystal that pulsed rhythmically with bottled lightning.

Behind him, twin wings wrought of pure thunder arced open and crackled faintly.

There was no mistaking it—this man was a high envoy of the Church of Thunder.

Judging from the color of his robe and the crest upon his staff, he was at least of [Bishop of Thunderclap] rank.

The relationship between the Rhine Holy Church and the Church of Thunder was… notoriously delicate.

After all, the god of Holy Light, honored by the Rhine, was not the only [God of Order] in this world, nor was the Rhine Church the sole holder of divine authority.

The Church of Thunder worshiped the god Sigmar, Lord of Storms and Judgement.

While the Holy Light embodied mercy and compassion, Sigmar’s doctrine exalted justice, courage, and retribution.

They were the twin pillars of the human faith—the two great churches of mankind.

Beyond them were minor orders: the [Arcane Society] devoted to the goddess of magic, and other lesser sects scattered across the realm.

But in terms of global influence, only the Light and the Thunder ruled side by side.

Yet though both belonged to the human camp, though both fought the Demon Clan and their dark kin, the two institutions had competed for centuries.

Doctrine clashed, influence collided, and when diplomacy failed, blood was spilled.

Where the Rhine Church prided itself on gentleness and order, the Church of Thunder reveled in strength, destruction, and divine judgement.

That a Thunder emissary of such rank would burst, uninvited, into the sacred heart of the Rhine Church’s domain—

—it was shocking, even sacrilegious.

“A member of the Church of Thunder?!”

Deputy Archbishop Morandi’s composure shattered.

His voice trembled with disbelief and outrage.

“How dare he force his way in here?!”

Factional rivalries were one thing—

But for a rival faith to intrude upon the sanctum itself was another matter entirely.

“Calm yourself,” murmured Bishop Lester, lowering his voice as he placed a hand beside Morandi’s arm.

“His purpose is anything but benign. Let’s hear what he intends.”

The Thunder Bishop’s gaze drifted slowly across the chamber before settling on Charles’s broken form upon the altar.

A flicker of something—amusement, perhaps—passed beneath the shadow of his high collar, the barest twitch of his lips unseen to most.

“How unfortunate,” he said at last.

His voice was low, gravel rubbed by thunder, each word vibrating faintly in the air.

“I seem to have arrived at a poor time.”

He inclined his head slightly in a mock gesture of politeness.

“I was told your Church’s Saint Son has suffered a… grave misfortune. My Lord, in His mercy, commanded me to visit and convey His concern—and to offer whatever modest assistance our faith might provide.”

His tone followed the trappings of courtesy, yet within it rang a thread of sharp arrogance, the faintest crackle of superiority.

Assistance?

Everyone in the room understood such “assistance” could mean anything but pure intention.

The Thunder Church’s magicks ran contrary to those of the Rhine; their offer reeked of hidden motives, veiled mockery, or worse—a bid for influence.

A white-haired Cardinal, chief among the healers presiding over the ritual, shot to his feet.

His expression hardened into stone, anger pressed down beneath the weight of discipline.

“We thank you for your good will, Bishop of Thunder,” he said icily.

“But Saint Son Charles is receiving the highest level of treatment the Holy Light can bestow. This is sacred ground; disturbances are not permitted.

Please take your leave.”

“Oh?”

The Bishop’s amber eyes glinted faintly as he looked down at Charles’s still-corrupted wound.

“Your highest treatment, you say? Yet the results, I fear, leave something to be desired.”

Lightning flared faintly in his gaze.

“Did I hear that the assailants were Demon Lords?

How insolent. To dare strike within the very heart of the Holy See—what blasphemous audacity!

This is not merely an affront to you, but to all that is human and divine!”

His voice rose in sudden righteous thunder, turning his rebuke into sermon-like cadence.

“At such a time of peril and shared enemy, we, the faithful of the human gods, should stand together in unity!

My Church is willing to share certain records—research into demonic corruption and countermeasures.

Perhaps… they could aid in saving your Saint Son?”

“Share research?”

None present missed the snare hidden behind the honeyed words.

What the Thunder Church sought was not cooperation—it was a foothold.

A doorway into the Rhine’s guarded secrets.

A chance to extend its influence under a veil of alliance.

Lester and Morandi exchanged a glance, silent alarm flashing between them.

The sharks had smelled blood.

Thunder had come to feed.

The healers’ expressions hardened.

The white-haired Cardinal’s voice dropped low and cold.

“Your grace’s ‘kindness’ is noted.”

He deliberately stressed the word, his tone sharp as a blade.

“But the Saint Son’s affliction involves divine mysteries of the Holy Light far beyond external comprehension.

We have methods honed across millennia of our sacred lineage.

There is no need for your church to trouble itself.”

The meaning behind his words struck clear as silver.

Their Holy Church was the true bearer of divine tradition.

The Church of Thunder was, by contrast, a rash, younger creed meddling beyond its depth.

The truth, though unsaid aloud, was unmistakable—and the sting of it hit hard.

The Thunder Bishop’s jaw shifted faintly under his collar.

For a heartbeat, lightning flickered once more in his eyes—a warning spark barely contained.

But he mastered it quickly.

When his lips parted again, his smile was almost imperceptibly curved.

“Heh… very well.”

“I shan’t overstep.”

“But I would hope—for your sake—that your Holy Church knows what it’s doing.”

His tone remained level, but the chill that ran beneath his words was unmistakable.

“The Saint Son’s fate, after all, concerns every soul in the human cause.

If his death were caused by arrogance… or stubborn pride…”

He paused, his voice lowering into a murmur that thunder itself might have envied.

“It would be… regrettable.”

The veiled threat hung thick in the air.

Few missed the implication: if the Saint died, the blame would be squarely theirs.

“You—!”

Several of the reformist cardinals snapped, fury flashing like sparks, ready to retort—

“Enough.”

The white-haired Cardinal raised a single hand.

His aged face betrayed no emotion, but his eyes cut