The arrival of Grand Cleric Hong Bo was like a massive stone dropped into still water. His face wore a smile fitting his station—benevolent yet authoritative. He first surveyed the bustling hall of the Angel's Descent, then raised a hand, his voice resonant and magnetic as he offered a greeting and blessing to all present:

  "May the light of our Lord shield this place. May the ceremony in two days proceed smoothly and reach completion. May our Church grow ever stronger, spreading the God's grace across these desolate borderlands."

  His voice seemed to carry a strange power, echoing within the grand space, momentarily overwhelming the low hum of the energy shaft. All the brothers and lower-tier Clerics stopped their work, bowing deeply in unison: "May the God's grace endure!"

  Hong Bo nodded slightly in satisfaction, gesturing for them to continue. Then, with measured steps, he walked directly toward Wolfgang and Erika.

  His gaze seemed casual, yet it was like a precise probe, instantly locking onto Erika. Before Wolfgang could introduce him, Hong Bo was already smiling, extending his hands toward Erika. The Grand Cleric's smile didn't waver a millimeter, mimicking a kindly elder's comfort, but the moment their skin met, an undeniable, suffocating pressure pinned Erika in place.

  Hong Bo's well-maintained hands firmly grasped his. It felt as if two currents of icy, hyper-condensed electricity shot from the points of contact, violently sinking into his nervous system and crashing straight toward the Marks on his arms. It wasn't an attack; it was a brutal, unilateral dissection. Erika felt entirely stripped of all defenses. The erratic flow of energy within him, the raw architecture of his new Marks, even that indescribable ancient aura hidden deep within the primitive Mark—all of it was laid bare, weighed, and measured under those smiling, bottomless eyes.

  Unable to break free, his lungs burning for air, Erika could only stand rigidly, enduring this terrifying spiritual violation.

  It felt both interminable and instantaneous.

  The smile on Hong Bo's face deepened a fraction, a flicker of hard-to-catch satisfaction in his eyes. He slowly released Erika's hands, as if he had merely completed a simple greeting. He turned to Wolfgang, who had remained throughout in a respectful posture, eyes downcast, his tone carrying undisguised praise:

  "Good, Wolfgang." His voice wasn't loud, but it was clear enough for those nearby. "This talent… perhaps surpasses even the one we previously focused on." He didn't specify who "the one" was, but this vague comparison was enough to stir waves in the minds of those who knew.

  Then he looked back at the shaken Erika, his gaze becoming meaningful, even holding a trace of… anticipation?

  "Prepare well, child. For the ceremony in two days," he leaned in slightly, lowering his voice with an almost hypnotic affability, "be sure to… enjoy yourself to the fullest. After all, there aren't many 'participants' this time. Hahaha…"

  He chuckled a few times, the meaning unclear, said no more, and turned to walk toward the statue of the Saint with the obscured face, beginning devout prayers as if nothing had happened.

  Wolfgang only straightened up slowly after Hong Bo had moved away. He didn't immediately explain anything to Erika, merely signaled with his eyes for him to follow, then silently led him out of the Angel's Descent hall.

  The departure of the Grand Cleric was like the removal of an invisible mountain, allowing the stagnant air in the hall to circulate again. The brothers returned to their work, though their movements seemed even more cautious.

  The journey back felt drawn out. The light within the Sanctum remained grand and cold, reflecting off the polished floors and pillars with an impersonal brilliance. Erika's mind, however, was anything but calm. Hong Bo's seemingly gentle yet unyielding inspection, and the comment about his talent potentially being "superior," swirled in his mind like ghosts. Who was "the one"? Anna? Balthasar? Or some unknown entity? This "praise" brought not joy, but a burning unease, as if he'd been placed on a spit.

  As they passed the area where they'd encountered the children earlier, the "playing Cleric" game was still ongoing, but the content had become more… specific, even tinged with a disturbing fervor.

  An older boy, brandishing a stick he'd found somewhere, was pointing it at another boy, imitating the exaggerated, solemn tone of a Cleric's sermon:

  "Apostate! You who turned from the Circuit's light! You are unworthy to bask in the God's glory with us! Accept purification! Yaaah!" He charged forward with his 'scepter.'

  The boy playing the "apostate" cackled with a "Heh heh heh!", spreading his arms as if embracing darkness. "What's wrong with craving power?! You hypocrites understand nothing of true strength!"

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  Other children clapped and cheered on the sidelines: "Go! Go! Defeat him, Cleric!"

  Watching them, Erika recalled Wolfgang's words: "Cherish these days, boy," and a complex, bitter feeling rose in his chest.

  Wolfgang paid them no mind, striding straight through this childish "battlefield" without a pause.

  They finally returned to Wolfgang's office, deep within the priory. Unlike the grand, cold main Sanctum, this place felt more like a functional, slightly messy outpost. The room was small, with mottled stone walls. Floor-to-ceiling shelves stood against them, crammed with leather-bound, worn-edged files and books. The air smelled of old paper, leather, and a faint, cold scent often associated with Wolfgang.

  The only narrow window looked out onto a corner of the priory's inner courtyard, revealing a small, walled-in, lifeless garden where a few hardy shrubs shivered in the early winter breeze.

  And currently, the office already had an occupant.

  Morrison, the usually hyper-energetic scholar whose eyes always sparkled with research mania, now sat slumped in an armchair opposite Wolfgang's large, paper-strewn old desk, looking like a marionette with its strings cut.

  He wasn't fiddling with his instruments or notepad as usual. He just sat there, staring blankly, his hands trembling slightly on the armrests. His messy white hair was wild, his thick glasses sat askew on his face. His face, usually flushed with the excitement of discovery, was pale and twitching. He looked entirely consumed by a massive, catastrophic failure.

  He didn't even notice Wolfgang and Erika enter, a stark contrast to the office's usual atmosphere of severity or veiled tension.

  Wolfgang closed the door, shutting out the outside world. He glanced at the despondent Morrison, his brow furrowing almost imperceptibly, but he didn't ask immediately. He first walked to the window, pushing the narrow pane open a crack to let in the cool, earthy air from the courtyard, diluting the room's stagnant smell.

  Then he turned to Morrison, his voice steady yet carrying undeniable weight:

  "Morrison."

  "What's wrong?"

  Wolfgang's question broke the office's silence. Morrison gasped as if hauled from deep water, his scattered gaze struggling to focus on Wolfgang. He lifted a trembling hand, pointing weakly in a certain direction—roughly toward where Loren was.

  "What else could it be…" Morrison's voice was hoarse and haggard, vibrating with an almost hysterical panic. "It's my prized pupil... Loren... he... he still refuses to come out! He's completely isolated his senses!"

  He dug his hands into his already-disheveled white hair, pulling fiercely at the roots until his knuckles turned pale. His thick glasses slipped further down his nose, a picture of absolute, feverish wretchedness.

  "The ceremony is in two days! The absolute peak of the energy influx! How can he adjust his state like this? How can he achieve resonance in this fragmented psychological state?!" He looked up, his eyes wide and vacant, staring at the desk as if confronted by the collapse of his life's work. "Ah! Did we... did we push the exposure too far that night? Was the threshold too high?! The vessel is cracking, Wolfgang!"

  His words were full of frantic self-reproach, but it wasn't the guilt of a mentor—it was the despair of a mad scholar watching his magnum opus destabilize just before the final exhibition.

  Wolfgang walked to the desk, pouring himself a cup of water. His movements were still calm, but his eyes swept sharply over Morrison. "It was for his own good." His voice was low, but held an icy, unshakable certainty. "You know the consequences of a failed ceremony, Morrison. Not everyone can—"

  He stopped abruptly here, his gaze flickering almost imperceptibly toward Erika standing to the side, swallowing the words that might have detailed the specific consequences. But the cruelty implied in that unfinished sentence was enough to send a chill down Erika's spine.

  "We'll go see him shortly as well," Wolfgang decided, draining his cup. "He can't miss it, with such an important day approaching."

  Erika seized the opportunity to interject, recalling his earlier, interrupted question. "Instructor, you still haven't told me what my specific task is for the ceremony in two days…"

  Wolfgang set down his cup, looking at Erika. His eyes were deep, unreadable, stripping away any pretense of Sanctum holiness. He didn't answer directly, instead using a tone that was almost dismissive, yet laced with a dark, cynical implication.

  "Don't overthink it. For you, when the time comes… it will just be a matter of taking a share of the spoils."

  Taking a share of the spoils?

  Erika's mind was filled with doubts, but Wolfgang clearly had no intention of explaining the mechanics of this slaughterhouse now.

  Without further delay, Wolfgang headed for the door first. Morrison hauled himself out of the chair with ragged sighs, following reluctantly, with Erika close behind.

  The three of them moved through the priory's quiet, somewhat oppressive cloisters, arriving at the door of Loren de Witt's secluded contemplation cell.

  The sight that met them made Erika gasp.

  Loren's door was shut, but the once-smooth, dark wood was now marred by horrifying marks—not impacts or scratches, but deep, crisscrossing grooves carved brutally into the very grain of the wood.

  These grooves were sharp, clean-edged, clearly made by an extremely sharp blade. Crucially, every single groove originated from inside the door, slashing outward with desperate force. Some were so deep they nearly pierced the thick planks, as if some trapped beast behind the door had used the sharpest thing it could find to frantically, hopelessly try to claw its way out, to escape its confinement.

  The air itself seemed to retain the echo of that silent, hysterical frenzy.

  Seeing these marks, Morrison squeezed his eyes shut in pain, his lips trembling. "You see… I knew it… the structural integrity of his mind… it's completely fragmented."

  Wolfgang's face also darkened instantly, as if covered by a layer of frost. He stepped forward, not knocking immediately, but reached out a finger to gently trace the deepest groove, feeling its rough, vicious texture. His expression grew profoundly grave.

  This door, and the once-proud noble youth behind it, seemed to silently declare that the aftermath of that night's "test" in the wilderness was far more severe, and far darker, than they had anticipated.