475 - Regressor of the Fallen Family
**Chapter 475: The Central Temple of Nobiense, Heart of the Holy City** In the expansive Central Temple of Nobiense, the lowly priest, DeGol, devoted himself to his daily tasks, cleaning the sacred space and retiring to his quarters. As always, he didn't skip the prayers to Anima, the god of fire and sustenance whom he venerated devoutly. That night, an unusual feeling washed over him after his prayers, as if something extraordinary were about to occur. And indeed, that night he was visited by an extraordinary dream. In his dream, a massive, flame-spirited giant with red skin stretched its hand toward him. Its appearance was reminiscent of an orc, a monstrous race now only found in the southern mountain range, magnified to an overwhelming scale. Oddly enough, though such a scenario would normally evoke fear, DeGol felt no fear in his dream. "It's the work of a traitor. There's no choice. It must be you, even if it results in more losses." These words, echoing in his soul, were incomprehensible, yet tears of inexplicable gratitude streamed down his face. Instinctively, he realized the giant was none other than Anima, the god he served. The unfamiliar appearance of the god took a backseat to the overwhelming emotion that filled him, leaving him no room for doubt or hesitation. "Will you accept me?" The god's voice reverberated once more as a small, red sacred relic shaped like a staff—Flamma—appeared before him. How could he refuse? Even in a dream, DeGol welcomed divinity, nodding vigorously with a neck-breaking enthusiasm, hoping the god would recognize his joy. Slowly, he extended his hand toward Flamma. The moment DeGol clasped the relic, agony beyond imagination surged through him, consuming his very being. After a harrowing interval: "The resistance is weaker than expected. Tsk." DeGol rose from his bed, now manifesting an unsettling voice. "This body is too frail. Humans, really..." With a cacophonous sound, his skeleton restructured dramatically and a surge of red energy engulfed him. What appeared next was a towering figure approaching two meters in height, covered in robust muscles. Gone was the elderly DeGol, replaced by a behemoth with glossy red skin and brown hair. The being inspecting its transformed body with mild curiosity wasn't DeGol any longer, but the avatar of Anima. "...It seems Adaga descended first. Why can't I sense him? Strange." As the powerful, youthful voice resonated, a telepathic message reached him from afar. [Anima, have you descended upon the temple?] "Indeed, Aion. I will move the Sacred Nation as planned and join you." [I await your arrival.] Upon concluding his communication with his companion who had descended first, Anima's avatar burst through the roof of his quarters, soaring above the temple. Then: [Hear me! The will of the god has descended upon this land! Let the god’s servants heed it!] The divine voice reverberated across the sky and earth of Nobiense, a call that no human, especially not a priest, could ignore. * * * In the midst of her uneasy slumber, Ilia, the high priestess, clearly heard Anima's profound voice resonating in her mind. Though with a sense of trepidation, she understood exactly what this intense sensation signified. "Dear heavens…!" The worst conceivable scenario had come to pass. Despite having confined two of the most likely candidates for apostleship, an apostle had descended in another part of the temple. ‘Out of all the temples and priests in the world, why here…?’ Though she sighed deeply, Ilia had already braced herself for such an outcome. ‘There's no running now.’ Resolute, she bit her lip and rose from her bed. She had lived in her ceremonial robes, so there was no need to change. ‘Is this the end for me?’ She had no intention of fleeing. Her one aim was to prevent the central temple from falling wholly into the apostle's hands. After all, it was comedic to think one could oppose a god and survive unscathed. ‘Forgive me, Your Majesty Logan. Please persevere in my stead, Sir Harmon.’ Unrealized acts lingered in her mind with a sense of regret. As a somber smile shadowed her pensive face, a sudden flash of memory brought Victor’s cheerful visage vividly into focus. ‘I'm sorry, Sir Victor.’ Recognizing the profound sorrow etched in her heart, she surprised herself. – Your Holiness! An apostle has descended! Anima's priests are all testifying! Words meant to elicit awe from the pope struck like a death sentence. But for Ilia, there were no other choices left. Quickly, she wiped away the tears that had slipped down her cheeks and responded with a forced calm. “I see. I will be out shortly.” – Yes, Your Holiness. With unwilling steps, Ilia slowly left her chamber. * * * – By the name of the god, I proclaim: Logan McLine is an enemy of the divine! Eradicate him and erase all he has achieved! The apostle's proclamation reeked of bloodlust. But before fear could take hold, a profound question seized the priests who heard it. Naturally, all eyes turned to Ilia, who had just begun to emerge through the central temple’s entrance. It was she, as both pope and saint, who had declared Logan McLine a hero sent by the gods. “Your Holiness, what is the meaning of this!?” “Please explain. The apostle’s words and your command contradict each other completely!” “Pope Ilia!” Legends held that upon an apostle’s descent, all priests would heed their will unquestioningly, to fulfill the divine mandate. If that were so, the priests’ behavior, seeking Ilia’s opinion after hearing the apostle’s voice, was an extraordinary exception. The gaze of Austin, formerly the high priest and once a candidate for apostleship, bore the most intensity. “Your Holiness, what is going on?” Amidst the clergy's confusion, Ilia closed her eyes tightly. The situation arose from her great renown, but the dire circumstances left her little room for sentimental appreciation. ‘...It’s a death that was destined anyway, just a bit earlier than anticipated.’ Given the situation, Ilia resolved to reveal the hidden truths and valiantly face her demise. “The truth is...!” Just as Ilia steeled her heart to speak, the situation took an unexpected turn. [You, the apostate of Amunda. Surrender and follow my will. Then you might be forgiven.] “...!?” The apostle’s voice echoed solely in her mind. The unexpected proposition made Ilia’s eyes widen. Forgiveness? [I will reassess your unworthiness through the results of the Holy War. Obey my will, and a path to redemption will open to you.] Nonsense! ‘Redemption? More like the consumption of my soul.’ Ilia’s inner derision veered sharply inward as she remembered: if King Logan could read minds, surely the gods could too. Yet, the apostle's expression remained unchanged. [What will it be? Will you burn here as an apostate, or follow my will?] ‘Did he not read my mind?’ She dismissed the notion of divine leniency, too familiar was she with the fiery temper of gods. Could it be...? ‘I cannot be read. Is it that gods can't do it? ...Impossible. Unless... my soul's been tainted by Amunda?’ With clarity, Ilia pieced together the possibilities and swiftly reached a conclusion. ‘Regardless, this is a chance.’ The gods clearly read Amunda’s emotions. They’ve undoubtedly suffered significant losses from this incident. ‘If the gods are truly pressed for time... could they be desperate?’ In such circumstances, not punishing her immediately made sense. Changing the pope would inevitably delay any holy war. Having reached a decision, Ilia slowly kneeled, suppressing the overwhelming disgust that surged within her. She swallowed her pride. “I sincerely apologize, Apostle. It was my negligence that caused an error in conveying the god's will. I commit to giving my utmost to the sacred war.” Concealing her true feelings, Ilia spoke words that she detested. ‘Not everything will go according to your plan.’ For an instant, she thought she saw a cold smirk flicker across the apostle’s face from afar, but she remained resolute, grinding her teeth. Just then, [Very well.] “Gah!” As the apostle's reply echoed, a searing sensation spread over the back of her hand. The flame-like symbol—once familiar, now hideously twisted—etched itself onto her skin. – The new pope has accepted my will, hence I leave a new holy mark upon them. “Uwaaah!” The apostle’s proclamation was followed by the joyous cheers of priests watching Ilia. A situation thus far regarded as unbelievable—the pope, a saint of one god, receiving the recognition of another. Witnessing such a historic moment was overwhelmingly moving, reducing them to tears of awe. Yet the voice resonating within Ilia’s head was starkly different from what the priests presumed. [Defy my will, and your soul shall endure the torment of being burned.] [Remember, you are a sinner.] [It is only through the holy war that your sin may be cleansed.] Damnable gods. Ilia bit her lip hard. – Listen. With the apostle's voice once again audible to all present, the fervent gaze on Ilia shifted back to the skies. – Inform all who follow the gods. Obligations are to eliminate Logan McLine and dismantle all he has established. Especially eradicate the forsaken ones. It is the decree of the Nine Gods! With those words, the apostle disappeared, leaving behind a monumental shift. – Not the Empire, but the subjugation of McLine! The Holy Legion, initially gathered for the conquest of the Empire and the tower of Cassel, now altered its course. The apostle’s hasty departure led to unintended consequences. “What does ‘the forsaken ones’ refer to?” “You know, those who the holy power doesn’t affect.” “Do such people exist?” “There have been some, but they’ve reportedly surged in the eastern continent recently. Apparently, their numbers have grown significantly…” “So we’re supposed to kill them?” “I... think that’s the idea?” “...It doesn’t sit right with me.” “But it’s the god’s command.” “Even so, I’m a bit...” The abrupt change spurred unease that wasn’t easily dispelled. Thus, when Ilia began critiquing the inadequacies within the Holy Legion, seeking to delay their departure, the priestly opposition was milder than she anticipated. “What? Again?” “I heard the provisions aren’t fully prepared. Let's postpone the departure by three more days until everything is complete.” As she spoke, a searing pain erupted within her, as if her soul was being scorched by invisible flames. ‘Damn the gods...’ But Ilia's spirit, once fully eroded and then revived, endured the fiery torment with practiced poise. “But Your Holiness, the apostle...” “The apostle did not specify a date, correct?” “...True enough.” As Austin backed off with a hesitant expression, Ilia continued with a firm voice. “It’s a holy war, after all. We must prepare thoroughly, don’t we?” “...Indeed.” “Then proceed as planned.” “...Understood. Also, shouldn’t we proclaim that King Logan is a heretic to the world? Although rumors are already spreading...” “...Suppress that.” “Pardon?” “If the rumors spread, they’ll prepare. The later the enemy learns, the better.” At that moment, the burning pain flared, twisting Ilia's expression with discomfort. “Ugh!” “Your Holiness!? Are you alright?” “No, it’s nothing. I’m just weary.” “...Oh, yes. That’s understandable.” “We delay the proclamation. Any objections?” “No, understood.” Though Austin nodded, his suspicions lingered. Had the pope not already received another god's holy mark? For him, who believed the Nine Gods to be infallible, the realization of error remained elusive. As Ilia watched Austin turn away, she gritted her teeth in determination. ‘I still have more excuses to delay the holy war.’ For now, it was provisions; next, it would be weaponry, and after that, the soldiers' training conditions... But she knew stalling for more than a month would be nearly impossible. Even if she endured until her soul was entirely consumed by the flames each time she opposed the apostle's will. ‘Your Majesty Logan, forgive me, but this is the best I can do.’ Hiding the turmoil that threatened to consume her, Ilia fervently, desperately prayed for Logan. Logan McLine, the revered hero of McLine—she hoped beyond hope that he would find a way to prevail.