March 1st, Monday.

  The Stass residence.

  Mr. Knox was having breakfast and reading the newspaper when he suddenly sighed.

  “Darling, what happened?”

  Mrs. Stass asked at once.

  “The Blackwater’s dogs are biting people again…”

  Mr. Knox pressed the newspaper down on the table. The enlarged headline was impossible to miss:

  —The Blackwater arrests multiple Holy Spirit Church priests in succession; suspected cult involvement!

  In the detailed report below were the priests’ names, their churches, and oblique references to rumors of miracles.

  “Inves is a nation of laws. The Blackwater went too far this time…” Mr. Knox said angrily. “The Church has hired several famous senior barristers—they’ll fight this lawsuit to the end!”

  Theodore glanced at his parents’ solemn faces, then lowered his head and focused on his dessert.

  At that moment, a maid entered and bowed. “Mr. Augustus has arrived.”

  Theodore jumped. The silver soup spoon in his hand nearly fell to the floor.

  “Show him in, quickly.”

  Mr. Knox hurriedly finished his coffee and kissed Mrs. Stass goodbye. “Darling, I should be off to work as well…”

  Javon entered the dining room and ran into Mr. Knox. They exchanged a few words.

  He had also seen the news about the Holy Spirit Church priests being arrested.

  Javon understood—the Bureau of Occult Affairs had moved.

  Which meant his earlier probing had worked: the Bureau were not the Cult of Desire’s dogs. What happened last time had been, to a large extent, a matter of being used.

  But this also proves the Cult of Desire has deeply infiltrated the upper strata of the Kingdom… And these arrested priests are tight-lipped—this isn’t mere brainwashing. They must have been bound with high-tier oaths and verbal restraints…

  After parting with Mr. Knox, Javon spotted Mrs. Stass—and Theodore cowering behind her.

  “Mr. Augustus, Theodore is in your hands.”

  Mrs. Stass lifted her chin slightly as she spoke, ignoring Theodore, who looked on the verge of tears.

  “At your service, Mrs. Stass.”

  Police headquarters.

  Jacob watched an investigator emerge from the interrogation room, exhaustion written across his face.

  The man shook his head—no progress.

  Jacob’s expression darkened. He went up to the rooftop.

  At the edge of the roof, an elderly man in a simple robe stood overlooking the streets below, the stream of people moving like a living current.

  “From this angle, the world looks different…”

  Xistos smiled. “Jacob, you should try it more often.”

  “My lord, the priests still won’t confess. They’re people of standing, and we also have the King’s orders… We can’t take them to the National Bureau of Occult Affairs for harsher interrogation.”

  And the ultimate method of verification could only be performed at the Bureau’s own headquarters—under the irradiation of The Spear of the Sun King!

  “To reach this point without getting anything is the greatest problem of all. Do you know?” Xistos said gently. “Jacob, I once used Mind Labyrinth on a priest—he still wouldn’t speak. I have a premonition: the moment I force my way through his mind and read his memories, he will die immediately.”

  “Even you, my lord—Fifth Sephiroth…” Jacob’s breathing roughened. “Is it the power of LAW? Or something inclined toward secrecy and contracts… The God of Suffering truly is terrifying.”

  “This kind of LAW can only be broken by a higher rank. Within the Bureau, only The Spear of the Sun King has that rank and capability. But His Majesty will not allow us to throw ‘innocent’ people into the Bureau, heh…”

  Xistos remained calm, impossible to read.

  “Damn the Holy Spirit Church—damn Feret. He’s definitely implicated!” Jacob ground his teeth.

  “It’s already too late for that. The Upper House vote is in. We are passive—extremely passive…” A faint curl touched Xistos’s lips, as if in self-mockery.

  “The wave of the era has arrived. The secrecy the Bureau insists upon is being questioned more and more. Of course, we all know what hides beneath that banner is still the same tedious power games. One day, they will taste the bitter fruit of their own brewing.”

  “So… nothing can be salvaged?” Jacob stared at the masses below—the overwhelming majority of ordinary people. “Can they… endure the impact of the new era?”

  “The course of history is not something even the wisest Scholar can see clearly.” Xistos sighed.

  Just then, a Bureau agent sprinted onto the rooftop, face taut. “Director—Philosopher. News from Thronehall of Wessex: Pontiff Feret has requested an audience with His Majesty…”

  “What—has that ‘pleasant’ tongue of the Crowned One come to plead for his priests again?” Jacob sneered.

  “No!”

  The agent’s expression turned strange. “Pontiff Feret claims that, to prove his innocence—and his loyalty to the Kingdom—he cannot allow those priests to be taken to the Bureau. But he himself is willing to go to the Bureau headquarters and submit to the highest-level examination beneath The Spear of the Sun King!”

  “What?”

  Even Xistos’s face changed.

  He and Jacob exchanged a look, and the same foreboding rose in both.

  “The decisive battle… is here.”

  The Stass residence.

  “This word is pronounced—”

  Javon pointed at the small blackboard with his cane. Then he yawned, handed Theodore a textbook, and said, “Study on your own. Ask me if you don’t understand.”

  Theodore took the materials and muttered under his breath, “All my previous tutors—”

  He caught Javon’s gaze and immediately corrected himself. “—were never as wise and brilliant as you, sir!”

  “Good. Your etiquette has improved. Significant progress.”

  Javon left the study, intending to sample the lemon cake the household chef had made. To be fair, Stass’s pastry chef was excellent—several delicate sweets suited Javon’s taste.

  As he held a silver tray and ate with a fork, his gaze suddenly shifted toward the front entrance.

  A young lady, dressed with extravagant splendor, entered under the guidance of a maid.

  She had long, lightly curled golden hair; eyes of clear emerald green; lips red and glossy; and around her swan-white throat hung a diamond necklace so fine that the largest stone nearly vanished into the swelling curve of her chest.

  Maturity and youth, wildness and restraint—contradictory, alluring impressions all coexisted within her.

  Several footmen instinctively lowered their heads, not daring to stare at this radiant, highborn girl.

  “Oh—my dearest, dearest Metana, you’ve finally come!”

  Mrs. Stass had been waiting. She greeted her with fervent affection. The two ladies exchanged pleasantries like intimate friends reunited after years apart, and Javon nearly laughed.

  March 6th, Saturday.

  The Latter Light meeting house.

  A plain carriage stopped discreetly by the roadside.

  The curtain lifted. A pair of limpid emerald eyes studied the building with curiosity.

  “Mrs. Stass…” Inside the carriage, Metana lightly fanned herself. The weather wasn’t warm, but among ladies of high society, carrying a hand fan as an accessory was fashionable.

  Metana used the fan to conceal the lower half of her face and lowered her voice. “This is it?”

  “Yes, my dearest, dearest Metana. Latter Light is a most extraordinary gathering. I promise you’ll feel it was worth every penny.”

  Mrs. Stass was so generous she changed openly in front of Metana—into the long robe worn by the members—and donned a silver mask.

  “I only think it feels… strangely thrilling!”

  Metana giggled. Her eyes shone with a little girl’s hunger for adventure, eager and delighted.

  That’s it. That expression—exactly that.

  Mrs. Stass watched like a hunter seeing prey step into a trap, pleasure swelling in her chest.

  You dared flirt with my Theodore. Then sink with me into the abyss.

  Whatever she imagined made her cheeks flush scarlet. Fortunately, the mask hid it.

  “Hm. If you’re already a member, Mrs. Stass, I trust you. So this is the legendary secret gathering? How interesting.”

  Metana smiled as she changed. Her figure was flawless—earning another stab of jealousy from Mrs. Stass, even as she kept assuring her, “Yes. It’s safe here—and you’ll come into contact with true supernatural power.”

  Behind her mask, Metana’s lips curved into a cold, mocking smile.

  Stupid woman. Latter Light? I’d never even heard the name. I hired a private detective and learned it’s a farce run by a con artist.

  To believe a god invented on the spot—Stass’s future is doomed. Still, watching her disgrace herself should be entertaining. This trip will be worth it.

  Metana touched her diamond necklace, confidence overflowing.

  Her understanding of the hidden world and mysticism far exceeded Mrs. Stass’s. She came from a noble family of ancient pedigree—indeed, she was a Transcendent herself.

  And recent events had left her oppressed and heavy-hearted. Mrs. Stass’s invitation gave her an excuse to enjoy a clown’s performance.

  I also heard this “Latter Light” leader likes tricking women into bed.

  Heh… Should I call the police the moment it begins? Let Mrs. Stass become a scandal. Once something like that happens, Mr. Knox might jump off a bridge. How… unfortunate. How thrilling.

  The two women performed a final round of plastic smiles. Then, fully dressed, they descended from the carriage and entered through the rear door.

  Inside the hall—arranged to feel solemn and sacred, steeped in religious ambience—Javon had already donned Lattrell Lyte’s skin and a golden mask, waiting quietly for the show.

  His eyes brightened when he saw the two ladies enter. In a calm voice, he announced:

  “Everyone is here. Let us begin.”

  Javon personally lit the flame, then spoke in a chanted, oracular tone:

  “Latter Light has granted me a sacred mark. I am the chosen of god. I shall guide you, the lost lambs!”

  “Latter Light says: when you face crisis, chant my name. Chant my name in water and you shall not drown; chant my name in fire and you shall not burn… To those who believe, my name is protection. To heretics, my name is a curse!”

  “Praise Latter Light!”

  The ‘faithful’ raised their hands and shouted the name of Latter Light.

  When the fervor had risen, Javon looked toward Mrs. Stass.

  “Today, one of our brethren has brought a newcomer!”

  Mrs. Stass hurried forward and dropped to one knee before Javon. “Great saint—my friend wishes to bathe in the radiance of Latter Light!”

  She turned to Metana—only to find the girl did not kneel. She merely bowed, curiosity in her tone.

  “Honored saint… I… I do not doubt you, only… I feel uneasy.”

  Metana played the part of an ignorant girl flawlessly, applauding herself in silence.

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  “I… I’m curious about mysticism… Do you truly possess… the supernatural power of legend?”

  “That is not ‘supernatural power.’ It is god’s grace!”

  Javon’s reply was solemn. “I chant the name of god, and god protects me—so that I may retrieve gold from boiling oil, so that I may walk upon blades… To doubt god is sin. You are guilty!”

  “Guilty!”

  “Sinner!”

  The hired voices shouted at Metana, isolating her at once.

  In religion, herd conformity is everything. The more voices that condemn, the easier it is to shake the skeptic.

  “I…” Metana looked as if she might burst into tears. “I’m sorry… I only…”

  “Sinner, you must kneel and pray devoutly, and let the saint’s radiance wash over your body and soul!”

  Mrs. Stass barked the words with undisguised relish.

  A sharp light flashed in Metana’s eyes. She sneered inwardly.

  Heh. Since you struck first, don’t blame me. I’m doing you a favor.

  Her pale, delicate hand slipped beneath her robe and closed around her necklace. In a whisper, she chanted in Spirit Language—

  Open.

  It was a Sanguis arcane artifact. Once activated, it would influence everyone nearby, drowning them in desire—each in their own way.

  Metana was certain that once her Eldritcha took effect, every filthy cultist in the hall would become intoxicated and lascivious—perhaps even devolving into some shameless revel. Then she could leave easily and fetch a patrolman to crack a major case.

  The scene would be beautiful.

  Maybe… I should also call a few reporters. Put Mrs. Stass’s humiliation in the papers.

  As Metana waited, Javon felt desire being faintly stirred.

  He noticed Mrs. Stass’s breathing had already grown rough. Across the hall, gazes became hungry—like beasts about to cast aside restraint.

  Hm? Sanguis influence? This Metana is a Transcendent?

  Good thing it’s me. If it were the original Lattrell Lyte, he and Mrs. Stass would be played to death by Metana…

  Metana Jacques was a Transcendent—and connected to Sanguis.

  After the initial surprise, Javon felt the thrill of finally hooking a “fish.”

  He slipped a hand into his robe and crushed an iron-black metal shard etched with complex, twisted patterns—one of his Mortis sigils, crafted with Oclair’s power.

  The Professor’s school spoke of balance. In some respects, it had merit.

  For instance: the dead-calm chill of Mortis could counteract the heated cravings rising from Sanguis.

  In an instant, a cold wind swept through the hall.

  A film of frost formed on cups in the distance.

  The ‘faithful’ all shuddered, as if a bucket of ice water had been poured over their heads. Whatever thoughts they had—evaporated.

  Clack.

  Clack.

  Compared to the others, Metana took a far harsher hit. Her teeth chattered. A dreadful sense of having overplayed her hand crawled up her spine.

  This cult leader isn’t a normal man—he’s a Mortis Transcendent. And he’s far stronger than I am.

  Feeling her body stiffen, Metana’s heart sank into despair.

  “Praise Latter Light! He has spared us the devil’s trial!”

  Javon raised both hands, proclaiming with fervent devotion.

  Then he pointed at Metana. “This woman’s sins are too heavy. Take her to the back room. I will personally purify her!”

  Mrs. Stass led Metana—who could scarcely move—into the room behind.

  While her mind spun, the golden-masked figure spoke.

  “Metana Jacques… do you confess your sins?”

  Metana’s mask was removed. She lifted her chin with difficulty, proud as a swan.

  Mrs. Stass clenched with fresh hatred at the sight.

  She could hardly wait to see those pristine white feathers dragged through mud. Why… why did this girl get to be so arrogant?

  “Let us chant the true name of Latter Light together—chant the name, and drive the devil out of you!”

  Javon began in Spirit Language:

  “Spirit of Null Observance that wanders the unknown—an absolutely neutral Obscured Existence—Silent Observer…”

  Mrs. Stass’s expression went blank.

  She didn’t understand Spirit Language at all. She only heard the saint speak a strange tongue—several short phrases.

  Then she saw Metana’s expression collapse once more.

  “You worship… a true Obscured Existence?”

  Metana trembled violently. “That one who never answers believers—the Spirit of Null Observance?”

  But the person opposite her had already sat down on the bed and did not respond.

  If one drew close, one would see Javon’s body sitting rigid, his eyes unfocused.

  He had left his body—observing his captive through the perspective of the Spirit of Null Observance.

  His gaze seemed to pierce Metana’s flesh, seeing her spirit-body directly—and the chains wrapped around it, chains formed from wordcraft.

  “An oath that powerful—far beyond a secrecy rite. This is LAW?”

  Javon extended his hand and plunged it into Metana’s body.

  Metana screamed.

  She felt an indescribable hand seize her soul—vast, immense, a greatness that crushed thought itself. More terrifying than the strongest false god she had ever encountered in memory.

  No.

  To compare a false god to this existence was an insult.

  A false god was an ant—unworthy of being mentioned in the same breath.

  In the next moment, Javon’s hand closed around the blood-red sigil chains and wrenched.

  Secret Power surged.

  The restraints disintegrated into nothing.

  White light.

  A radiance of salvation washed over Metana’s body and mind.

  “God…”

  Metana wept. Trembling, she dropped to her knees in genuine devotion.

  “My Lord… You are One, and You are All… You have redeemed me. You shall have my body, my heart—everything…”

  Beside her, Mrs. Stass stared, face slack.

  What is happening? Was Metana always this easy to convert? Why is that little slut suddenly more pious than a saint? That’s impossible!

  Javon slowly opened his eyes, a faint smile at the corner of his mouth.

  “Metana, you have felt the greatness of my Lord.”

  “Yes.” Metana looked as if she would kiss his boots. “Pontiff… you are god’s voice upon the earth. You called god down with ease and granted me salvation!”

  Tears still clung to her lashes. Her posture was reverent to the extreme.

  “I beg you—grant the radiance of salvation to my family. They are being deceived by evil. For that, I will offer anything!”

  Mrs. Stass’s lips parted and wouldn’t close.

  What? Metana wants to drag her entire family into the Latter Light Church? Do they already know each other—are they working together to scam me?

  For reasons she couldn’t name, urgency and fear rose in Mrs. Stass’s chest, as though she were about to be replaced.

  And she was.

  “You. Go outside.”

  Javon looked at Mrs. Stass and issued the order.

  “I…” Mrs. Stass stared at the scene like an abandoned dog, sudden tears gathering.

  “This is god’s will!” Javon hardened his tone.

  Mrs. Stass shuddered and could only leave—thoughtfully shutting the door behind her.

  “Now then, Miss Metana…”

  Javon sat on the bed and asked calmly, “You were bound by a false god’s restraints. How did that happen?”

  “It came from an evil society,” Metana said in panic. “They used some method to corrupt my father, my mother, and other family members. Then they forced me to drink blood and enter a contract. Once you drink the blood, you can never speak their secret again!”

  “They forced my father to serve them—to gather information within Thronehall of Wessex. I’m terrified. If anything goes wrong, our entire family will be destroyed.”

  Metana’s voice shook. “Until I met you. This must be fate’s guidance!”

  “That evil society… is it the Cult of Desire?” Javon asked, a glint rising in his eyes.

  “No. It’s the Blood Robe Club.” Metana replied. “My father loves fine food. After an introduction, he entered that club—and gradually became more and more wrong.”

  That’s not right. Forcing people to drink blood, binding them with harsh contracts—this is extremely similar to what William described in the church case. It should be the God of Suffering’s method. Yet it’s the Blood Robe Club?

  Javon’s doubts flickered—then settled into certainty.

  His earlier guess had been correct.

  The Blood Robe Club, The Blood of Decay, and the Cult of Desire had deep ties. This time, they were likely pushing some conspiracy together.

  Metana’s voice continued by his ear.

  “By the time I realized something was wrong, it was too late. After I drank my father’s blood and formed the contract, I couldn’t tell the outside world anything.”

  “I tried countless methods—dangerous rituals, pleading for help from other Transcendents—but nothing worked. Worse, my thinking began to change. I stopped wanting help, stopped wanting to solve it. My subconscious was accepting it. I became less and less like myself.”

  “Only today, after receiving my Lord’s salvation, have I recovered spiritual freedom!”

  Metana wept again, her devotion absolute.

  “You said—your father gave you the blood?” Javon asked.

  “My father is fully sunk into the decadent pleasures of the Blood Robe Club,” Metana said bleakly. “But sometimes, when I look into his eyes, I can tell he’s still struggling—still begging me for help. Those moments are rarer now. He is becoming less and less like himself.”

  “No.” Javon narrowed his focus. “What I mean is: you drank your father’s blood, and that formed the contract?”

  After she confirmed it, Javon’s heart jolted.

  So this is the God of Suffering’s LAW—forming contracts through blood. Unbreakable. It could be named: Blood Pact LAW.

  No wonder so many priests were arrested and not one spoke.

  LAW has a high rank. A contract formed by it—perhaps even a World-Sanctioned Immortal would have to pay a price to escape.

  And whether it was the church before or Baron Jacques now, it’s clear the one binding them was not the God of Suffering itself—only an outer believer. That means LAW can be bestowed upon believers, can radiate outward… and infect without limit, proliferate without limit… even—diffuse without limit.

  A truly horrific force that partially violates rules and cognition.

  Like the Diffusion LAW wound-curse before—if it spread far enough, given time, making an entire city bleed to death… even a nation… wouldn’t be impossible.

  Of course, that was only a theoretical model.

  In reality, once it contaminated even a district, it would likely alarm the Kingdom’s highest ranks, who would then suppress it by any means.

  LAW is powerful, but higher ranks exist above it—and can suppress it. Velthyr and Obscured Existence, Deity-grade Eldritcha…

  A Sixth Sephiroth LAW may be incomplete, but if one advances to a World-Sanctioned Immortal, possessing a broader range of response, greater distance, and more complete rules—what difference would such a Transcendent have from a lesser god?

  Able to answer prayers at scale. Able to unleash the unbelievable…

  In the mortal world, aside from absolute force, a World-Sanctioned Immortal’s “performance” would be scarcely different from a Velthyr.

  Would the Velthyr who stand above all truly permit uncontrolled World-Sanctioned Immortals to be born?

  A heavy question formed in Javon’s heart.

  But he set it aside for now, and asked Metana the most practical question:

  “The Blood Robe Club controls your father and has him probing Thronehall of Wessex. What do they want?”

  This was the true purpose of his investigation through the Stass household.

  What could Baron Jacques possibly possess that justified such elaborate schemes?

  “Documents.” Metana’s voice turned weak. “The Blood Robe Club exploited my father’s position. They made him smuggle out historical records from Inves’s founding—especially the part about Sun King Arthur changing in middle age and going mad in his later years.”

  “At the same time, they demanded my father test His Majesty and members of the Royal House—recording their views on the Sun King and any other information whatsoever…”

  After saying this, Metana looked as if she had suffered a serious illness all at once. She had no strength left.

  “The Sun King?”

  Javon found he wasn’t surprised. “What did your father discover?”

  “Mostly… the mystic side,” Metana said, swallowing hard. “Inves was founded with the support of the Velthyr The Breaking Dawn. It bestowed industrial glory upon Inves. But later, the Sun King broke the agreement and used his spear to strike the Velthyr—staining it with a Velthyr’s blood.”

  “After that, Arthur I went from brilliant to depraved. In his later years, there were even scandals with his niece and his granddaughter—and in the royal secret history, those rumors were true!”

  Metana glanced around nervously. Her pale throat bobbed.

  “According to my father, Arthur VI once mentioned the Sun King may have changed Paths… but that’s impossible, isn’t it?”

  No. It’s entirely possible. You doubt it only because you don’t know enough.

  Javon, preparing to ascend as The Omniforge, understood too well.

  Forged Light originated directly from the Crimson Creator—the source of all mysticism. Therefore, the Essence of Forged Light could be transformed into any Essence.

  And any other Essence could be transformed into Forged Light.

  If the Sun King began with the Breaking Dawn’s support, he may have been a pure Artisan. Then he betrayed his oath and used The Spear of the Sun King to strike The Breaking Dawn—he must have had another Velthyr’s backing, otherwise how could a mortal make a Velthyr bleed? That would be a joke.

  But the outcome was: the Son of The Breaking Dawn died, The Breaking Dawn’s deeper designs upon the mortal world failed—and in that process, Arthur’s own Path changed, from Forged Light to Sanguis…

  Sanguis is the symbol of vitality and propagation… a shift of temperament and strengthened desire would be unsurprising.

  From Forged Light to Sanguis…

  A thoughtful smile surfaced on Javon’s lips.

  Was the one who supported—or tempted—the Sun King into betraying The Breaking Dawn… The Flesh-Mother Tree? No. The Night-Mother, more likely.

  And now, multiple societies tied to The Night-Mother are moving in concert, targeting the Sun King’s life…

  Javon pressed his temple as the scenes since arriving in Wynchester flashed through his mind:

  The Cult of Desire. The God of Suffering. Miracles and preaching. The magician. The Iron Crown.

  The Blood Robe Club. The Blood of Decay. Baron Jacques. Records of the Sun King’s life.

  And the Cult of Desire also attacked The Eye of Gumo and stole its sacred relic!

  His eyes lit sharply.

  “So that’s what you’re planning…”

  The Eye of Gumo’s sacred relic is Gumo’s eyeball. That school is primarily of the Secret Path—best at Historical Reversal. Bruce said Gumo is a powerful Ethereal Realm creature that enlightened the school’s founder; Gumo itself should excel at reversing power from history. Its eyeball likely carries the same effect.

  The Cult of Desire and the Blood Robe Club are cooperating—seeking the Sun King’s life records. They’re verifying the truth of history, gathering the ‘elements’ required for Historical Reversal!

  Javon recalled Clark demonstrating the Historical Reversal ritual: the elements could include time, place, people, event, tool, and so on…

  To replicate the scene of the Sun King’s rebellion against a Velthyr—ambitious. Are they trying to draw that terrifying power out of history?

  He whispered inwardly.

  Back then, Sun King Arthur may have been in a state akin to divine descent. That spear that wounded a Velthyr— even if weakened by imitation—would still be monstrous.

  And because the requirements were so impossibly strict, no one had ever reproduced it. The first to perform the rite would claim the Sun King’s full power.

  With that power, perhaps one could knock open the gate of the Seventh Sephiroth… and earn The Night-Mother’s favor and Sovereignty.

  The Velthyr that supported the Sun King likely was The Night-Mother—and these societies were all tied to The Night-Mother, perhaps with its tacit approval.

  The Night-Mother intended to raise a World-Sanctioned Immortal as a vassal to meet the increasingly complex situation—while the God of Suffering seized the opportunity to qualify for the door of immortality.

  Time. Place. Tool. Event…

  Javon lowered his gaze to Metana, still kneeling.

  “The time of the Sun King’s betrayal of The Breaking Dawn… was late March, in the historical record, correct?”

  “Yes.” Metana was clearly startled, unsure why the Pontiff knew such secrets.

  Because March is the month of The Breaking Dawn—specific timing carries mystic symbolism. Late March implies The Breaking Dawn’s grip on the mortal world turning from peak into decline, carrying the meaning of ending and closure.

  A sense of urgency rose in Javon.

  “It’s March now as well. Fortunately, it’s early in the month. But there’s no doubt we’re running out of time before the God of Suffering acts. And as for the place—I can guess that too.”

  The place where the Sun King Arthur stabbed The Breaking Dawn—Javon had passed it on his way to Wynchester:

  Alice Town.

  Its corresponding projection within the Ethereal Realm.

  There, a Son of The Breaking Dawn—unable to be born into the mortal world—still existed. Its hatred had permanently twisted the region, anchoring reality to Alice Town. The boundary between reality and the Dreamworld there was blurred and fragile; people could slip into the Dreamworld by accident, and strange phenomena appeared from time to time. Because the betrayal was shameful, the town’s name was avoided—many maps didn’t even label it.

  A World-Sanctioned Immortal’s ascension must occur in the Ethereal Realm. The God of Suffering intends to use Historical Reversal in the Ethereal Realm region corresponding to Alice Town to truly kill the Son of The Breaking Dawn—then seize its undying nature and push open the gate of immortality.

  Everything fits.

  Some mysteries remained, but Javon felt he now held most of the truth.

  That’s why the God of Suffering ordered the Magician Lucivar to steal the Iron Crown. The crown is just an ordinary antique, but in the hands of a Secret-path Transcendent, it has boundless value.

  The God of Suffering is ambitious—and very close to success…

  Now only one key item is missing: the weapon the Sun King used when he stabbed the Velthyr—The Spear of the Sun King.

  The God of Suffering’s next target is absolutely the Deity-grade Eldritcha housed at the Bureau headquarters—The Spear of the Sun King.

  Javon’s eyes brightened. He removed the golden mask, revealing a plain, balding middle-aged face.

  “Metana. I can save you, and I can save your family.”

  He reached out and stroked her delicate cheek. “All you need to do… is help me with one thing.”

  “I… will.”

  Metana clenched her teeth. The Pontiff was plain-looking, but not entirely unacceptable.

  Javon’s next words made her expression change violently.

  “What I want you to do is—report me to the Bureau of Occult Affairs.”

  “My lord… believe my loyalty. My life and faith are entrusted to that existence—”

  “I’m not testing you. I want you to report me—report Lattrell Lyte.” Javon pointed at his own face. “For certain reasons, I want to visit the Bureau headquarters. So you’ll be reporting a case involving mysticism, but the perpetrator is a lowly con man who’s greedy and lecherous. That kind of case will be handed to the Bureau.”

  “Yes… and for crimes like that—minor, and the criminal himself not very capable—the usual outcome is being sent to the Bureau headquarters prison, to serve as a researcher for arcane artifacts and a test subject for alchemical potions…” Metana said automatically.

  “Not yet.” Javon said. “When I’m ready, I’ll contact you. That’s when you report.”

  If she reported him now, the Latter Light group would be wiped out in one net. Mrs. Stass might even commit suicide over the disgrace—too tragic, and too explosive.

  Besides, he still had preparations to make—requesting leave from the Stass household, changing his appearance and attire…

  After all, entering the Bureau headquarters in person was still extremely dangerous.

  Javon needed to prepare first.