At the summit of the Holy Mountain.
The prayer hall of the Holy Light Cathedral is grand and spacious, giving anyone within an overwhelming sense of their own insignificance.
On all sides of the hall stand statues of sword-wielding angels, their cold and stern expressions filling all those who regard them with awe.
The morning sunlight shines through the glass dome, bathing everything within the hall in a golden hue, filled with a sacred aura.
Pope Gregory presides over this prayer ceremony from the high podium himself.
In the hall, over a hundred aristocrats who have made a special trip here kneel on one knee, singing praises to the supreme Lord of Glory, who has granted them this miraculous victory.
After the ceremony, Pope Gregory was about to leave when he was stopped by a man.
"Marquis Garcia, is there something you need?" Pope Gregory's smile appeared slightly forced.
