The sky had already darkened, marked by a cold and dim atmosphere. Blue lanterns were beginning to be lit throughout the church grounds.
As an ordained priest, I had several duties. The main ones were concentrated on two things: listening and providing guidance to those who wished to confess their sins, and copying the Holy Scriptures.
Of course, this was separate from the primary duty of a priest, which was to offer enlightenment and possibly deliver sermons to the faithful.
For new priests, the second task was usually their primary activity. However, surprisingly, Anne had given me the order to handle the confessions of the congregation.
And here I was, sitting on a wooden chair, wearing a white robe adorned with golden ornaments. The only difference this time was that I wasn't wearing a hat. Hats were only worn during certain events.
"I think I've lost my way..."
The person behind the thin wall began voicing his worries.
His voice was hoarse and filled with regret. I listened in silence, occasionally giving small responses to show that I was paying attention.
The speaker seemed to be a middle-aged man from the lower class.
Speaking of which, even though some of the priests here were corrupt, they still performed their duties. How else would they build a reputation for wisdom if they didn't?
However, it was common for the nobility and the lower class to be treated differently.
As I listened, I also observed a book floating in the air. Now, two red lines had merged on its last page.
"It wasn't my intention, but she tempted me..."
The man behind the thin wall spoke.
What's the issue?
I was slightly distracted and had to recall his problem.
Right, he slept with his sister-in-law without his wife's knowledge... and now he was here to confess?
To me, it sounded like a spice of hypocrisy. In the lower class, that was supposed to be normal. Their lives were far from elegant, and everyone knew that. So what was the problem?
Did he feel guilty toward his wife?
His problem would be solved if he simply kept quiet.
As I thought about that, I let out a short sigh.
"There is always a second chance. You should be honest with them. God is all-forgiving, and so are His creations."
I said.
"Will that solve the problem? Will she forgive me? Will my sin be forgiven before Him?"
He kept asking, as if trying to confirm further.
"Yes."
A simple answer, yet it easily moved his heart.
Now that I thought about it, a priest's words were so easily accepted. What would happen if I led them down the wrong path?
No.
I would become more like them if I did that.
"Thank you, Father."
His voice was filled with relief. It seemed the haze in his mind had started to clear.
Calling a twenty-year-old 'Father' at your age... feels off, somehow...
"Of course. May the All-Seeing One guide you on a bright path."
...
There wasn't much I could do in this cage called "Church."
Aside from meeting with the congregation, copying the Holy Scriptures, and assisting with minor tasks, I hardly did anything else.
The way I gathered information useful to me was usually by listening to conversations among the priests. In some cases, I even joined their discussions just to learn what was happening in the outside world.
I had been in this place for over twelve years. Other than the congregation and the priests with responsibilities, I had never seen the outside world—how people lived and what was happening around them.
The main reason was my status as a prisoner.
I lifted my bangs slightly, tracing the burn scar in the shape of a cross left there.
This was the mark of the mystical power "Prison," used by the bishop to ensure I wouldn't escape. In short, it was a seal that bound me to a single place, and in my case, that place was this church.
Theoretically, I couldn't leave the church unless the one who placed the seal released the "Prison" bound to me.
However, that didn't stop me. I was a "Veir" of the Hume family. A middle name that signified I was the third son of the Hume family head at the time. And that made me the youngest child, the symbol of hope.
Yes, the hope of my family.
After drinking the Imaginer potion when I was five, many people considered me useless.
That I was a failure in the family.
Of course, not everyone thought that way. My father and older sister placed their hopes on me.
Usually, when someone consumed a potion from one of the mystical paths, they would gain a random mystical power based on their potential.
In some cases, it became a source of pride among the nobility.
I remember my older sister being praised as the Jewel of Hume because of her mystical power, "Abstract Painting." According to the World Library's records, that power ranked among the top one hundred in terms of strength.
As for me, "Author" was something that had never appeared before.
And usually, anything undocumented or unrecorded in the World Library was of such a low level that it wasn't even worth listing.
I leaned back in my chair, reaching for the floating book, pulling it closer to me.
I flipped to the first page.
"The slumber of Ralph Veir Hume will be the bell that awakens another self of his, one with limitless potential, at the Hume estate."
That sentence was inscribed in a red ink darker than any other. That was because it had been written with my own blood.
This was the power of "Author."
Integrating a story into the world.
A creation that rewrote facts without directly altering them.
This was tied to the limitations of "Author" itself.
The story being integrated couldn't directly change the past, present, or future.
However, it could influence all three as a consequence of the story manifesting.
Simply put, I couldn't create a story that changed someone's fate or a past event. For example, I couldn't write, "The Massacre of the Hume and Heinrich families never happened," because that would violate the rules.
Right now, I was integrating the story:
"The slumber of Ralph Veir Hume will be the bell that awakens another self of his, one with limitless potential, at the Hume estate."
A simple plot that didn't diverge from reality.
Yet, despite its simplicity, this plot made anything created from it limitless.
The problem with this power was the duration of the integration process.
It had been twelve years since I began integrating this story. That was a long time for something so simple.
That was normal, considering I was trapped inside the church without ever seeing the outside world again.
If I had physically integrated the story—if I had been at the ruins of the Hume estate—the process would have been much faster.
Perhaps it would have only taken two months or even less.
Right now, I estimated it would take another two to three weeks for the integration to be fully completed.
A short time for me.
Even now, as I sat back in my wooden chair, I imagined what would happen when that day arrived. With the lack of detail I had written in the "Author's Book," the possibilities were endless. The problem was, if I wrote a more detailed plot, the integration process would take much longer.
I didn't want to wait another ten years...
The lack of knowledge regarding the mystical power "Author" was my greatest weapon at the moment.
So far, the Empire and the Church didn't consider "Author" to be anything special. Their precautions regarding my mystical power felt lax.
If a priest from the "Sealer" path had sealed my mystical power, that would have been a different event. That might have been my death flag.
I stood up after taking a deep breath, letting the "Author's Book" resume its work.
I looked out the window of my room. Outside, it was dark, and all I could see were the tall walls surrounding the church. It felt quiet, yet calming.
I took off my priest's robe, letting it hang by the window, then let myself fall onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
...
Normal days passed.
A week went by quickly.
And then another.
I was in the church library, seated on a wooden chair, a quill in my hand. I dragged the feathered pen across the paper, creating unique golden inscriptions.
Then, a voice I faintly recognized caught my attention.
"Send the Blue Bell to handle it."
A soft yet unstable voice carried through the still air of the library. There was tension in it, a slight tremor betraying the speaker's unease.
I halted my writing, my quill hovering just above the sacred parchment.
Blue Bell...
A name that would forever be burned into my memory.
The Church's militant division, its chosen executioners for mystical threats. They were the ones sent when force was deemed necessary—when words and sermons no longer sufficed.
They were also the ones who slaughtered my family.
I let out a slow breath, keeping my expression neutral. It had been years since the last time the Blue Bell was deployed—the most recent case being the eradication of the Sinner Worshippers four years ago.
Most mystical disturbances within the Empire were handled by special task forces, particularly those from the Intelligence Academy. The Blue Bell was rarely sent out.
Unless…
This was about heresy.