The attendant knelt before the gathered priests, forehead pressed to the cold, mosaic floor.
Beads of sweat rolled down his temples, leaving faint trails as he trembled in the silence. His whispered plea for forgiveness hung in the air, met only with an oppressive stillness.
A single drop of water echoed as it fell from one of the marble statues, amplifying the tension.
The chamber, with its towering pillars carved from gleaming white stone and inlaid with veins of shimmering gold, seemed to close in around them.
The holy relics, cast in the radiant glow of candles perched in iron candelabras, watched with unseeing eyes. The silence felt calculated, unnatural. It was a silence that threatened to reveal hidden motives.
Alastor's sharp gaze darted from the attendant to the vice bishop, who stood at the forefront, his robes of deep crimson marked with symbols of authority and power.
The vice bishop's thin, angular face bore a controlled expression, but there was a gleam in his eyes that betrayed something far more sinister—a plan taking root and unfurling like a dark vine.
'Uagh, I want to smack that old man's face, but I have to hold it in.' Rational Alastor's voice, though calm and inward, seethed with a deep annoyance. Yet he held his composure, his body perfectly still, the mask of serenity intact.
Turning his head slowly, Alastor's eyes locked with those of the vice bishop, and in that instant, a flicker of realisation swept across the bishop's face. The older man's already pale skin seemed to drain of colour, becoming almost ashen under the heavy light of the chamber.
"This is the last bottle of holy water," the vice bishop announced, lifting the porcelain vessel high as if it were a relic of judgement. Its pure white surface glistened with droplets that caught the light and shimmered like stars.
His voice, though polite, carried a sharp undercurrent of finality. "The monsters that resist the power of light and manage to parasitize a priest are all above the level of an emperor.
Even the combined power of the bishop and myself would be insufficient to discern such a creature. To prove your innocence, Yeshua, you must enter the trial pool behind the main hall."
"No!" The bishop's denial rasped through the hall like an unexpected clap of thunder. His voice, usually so composed, now cracked with a tone that bordered on desperation.
The wrinkles lining his face deepened, casting harsh shadows that mirrored his internal struggle.
Centuries ago, the trial pool had been a place of reverence, a sacred basin brimming with waters that glowed a soft, ethereal gold.
Its gentle, rippling surface held the promise of divine strength, a gift that tempered body and soul, infusing the faithful with light so pure it could reshape the fabric of their being.
The priests of yore emerged with the power to move mountains and call forth the tides. Their prayers were hymns that resonated with the heavens, making them living conduits of God's will.
But over time, something had changed. The pool's once-inviting waters darkened with a molten, volcanic heat, bubbling as if stirred by an unseen hand. Now, stepping into it meant risking unimaginable pain.
Those whose souls harbored even the smallest impurity found themselves engulfed by a searing agony that turned flesh to ash. The air in the room chilled as the memory of past trials—the hollow echoes of screams, the scent of burnt offerings—cloaked the hall like a shroud.
It was said in hushed voices that only the gods, beings of unparalleled purity, could withstand the trial now. For mortals, even the most devout, selfishness was an inescapable trait buried deep within the soul.
The bishop swallowed hard, the weight of responsibility pressing down on him like a mountain.
The vice bishop's insistence was a veiled strike, a gambit not only to remove Yeshua from contention but to assert his own power.
The realization clawed at the bishop, but he could find no escape from the iron grip of duty. His voice, when he spoke again, trembled with the burden of it. "Yeshua, my child, understand that this is not by choice. It is my duty as bishop of the Zayda Empire to safeguard our order. I cannot spare any risk, not even if it means placing a beloved priest in danger."
Alastor's response was steady, unwavering. "I understand, my lord. As you wish." He bowed low, a graceful bend that belied the turmoil in the hall, before straightening and walking toward the passage leading to the trial pool.
A murmur swept through the gathered priests and warriors, their expressions tense, a blend of awe and fear.
His silhouette, framed by the tall archway, seemed both fragile and unyielding under the glow of the chandeliers. Each step he took echoed solemnly, a sound that resonated through the cathedral's vast nave.
The trial pool awaited at the end of a corridor adorned with mosaics of angels and demons locked in eternal battle.
Their eyes, made of polished gems, seemed to glimmer with an uncanny awareness as Alastor passed. He felt the weight of divine eyes on him, a chilling reminder of the stakes.
He shed his shoes and his heavy ceremonial robes, leaving only a thin, silk tunic that clung to his skin. The cool air raised goosebumps on his arms, but he did not waver.
His heart thudded, but not from fear. He knew what the others did not: that his soul had been tempered in ways no priest before him could fathom.
If he didn't use the energy from the system to temper his soul, he might still be worried, but now he doesn't take the so-called trial pool into his eyes at all.
He knows that his soul is very pure and can resist the erosion of the pool water, and after deep hypnosis, apart from his crazy love for the God of Light, he does not have the slightest distraction.
His love for the God of Light makes him afraid even when he thinks of it.
He took off his shoes and robe, and walked slowly into the trial pool wearing only a thin silk tunic.
He took a deep breath, the steam enveloping him like an embrace, and stepped into the searing liquid.
The water in the pool is pure black, with bubbling bubbles, and it exudes an extremely cold chill. When unclean dirt is found, it will immediately boil and turn red like blood. Speaking of mortals, I am afraid that even gods can devour them.