Promotion in sequence....
Galad paused, recalling what this word meant in the context of mysticism advancing one's Sequence by consuming higher-level potions.
For example, Dunn was a Sequence 7 Nightmare of the Sleepless Pathway. This meant he had successfully advanced twice.
By all logic, promotion should be a good thing. It brought greater abilities and heightened spirituality. So why was Dunn treating it like a curse?
The Captain soon gave his explanation.
"For most Sequences, promotion carries both risks and opportunities. As long as a Nighthawk meets the requirements, accumulates enough merit, and passes the assessment, they can consume the corresponding potion to advance. But the Secret Prayer Pathway is different."
His hands clasped together, his right thumb slowly rubbing over his left. His deep, calm voice carried a rare edge of heaviness.
"According to our internal records, Sequence 8 of your Pathway is known as the Listener. Such individuals can directly hear the whispers of hidden existences, granting them twisted but powerful abilities. The price, however, is cruel if a Listener does not advance within five years, they will die. Inevitably. And always tragically."
"So that's how it is, Captain," Galad murmured, his face tightening. "It does sound dangerous."
"It's far worse than that," Dunn replied. "The whispers reshape your mind, twist your faith, and drive you to worship the True Creator. Every Listener, without exception, becomes a lunatic. And if one appears sane then he's simply a lunatic skilled at hiding it."
Galad inhaled sharply.
"So… this Pathway, aside from Sequence 9, is basically a chain of fanatical evil-god believers?"
As expected of an evil god truly merciless to even his followers.
"That's right."
Dunn's gray eyes hardened, their calm depths leaving no room for compromise.
"I will not allow a believer of the True Creator to appear in my team. If one day you stray… if you dare to seek promotion and fall into that madness, I will fulfill my duty as Captain and personally purify you. These words may sound harsh, but I must make them clear from the beginning. Galad , do you understand?"
The seriousness in his gaze was heavy enough to pin a man down.
Galad straightened instinctively.
"I understand, Captain. I won't seek promotion."
"It's good that you can say that." Dunn gave a slow nod. "There's one more matter. Because you have a history of mental illness, you'll need to provide a rehabilitation certificate from a mental hospital once you officially start work."
"Easy enough," Galad quipped darkly. "I'm practically a regular there."
He then asked, "Captain, since I've joined officially, what's next for me?"
"You've had no exposure to mysticism before. Your next step will be training personally taught by Old Neil, the team's most senior assistant. Klein is also attending his classes, so you can study together."
"Understood."
No matter where you went, rookies always had to start with training. Galad tucked away the contract, stood, and said, "Then I'll take my leave, Captain."
"Wait."
Dunn's voice stopped him.
"You'll also need to pick up a revolver from Old Neil and collect thirty bullets every day. We have a shooting range on the street. Practice whenever you can."
As he spoke, he quickly signed a slip and stamped it before handing it over.
A revolver and free bullets?
Galad 's eyes lit up as he accepted the note. The benefits of being a Nighthawk weren't bad at all.
He had just turned to go when Dunn's voice sounded again.
"…Wait."
Galad paused, a rueful smile tugging at his lips.
The Captain's memory really wasn't great. No wonder Klein and Leonard always looked so weary.
"Captain, anything else?"
"Old Neil holds his classes in the armory. If you don't know the way, ask Rosanne to show you."
"Got it."
This time, Galad didn't move immediately. He lingered for a few seconds, waiting carefully, before finally deciding Dunn had nothing left to add. Only then did he push open the door and leave.
—
Back in the hall, Klein was gone likely already at class while Rosanne remained at the front desk. The moment her eyes landed on Galad , she bolted upright. In her haste, her leg smacked the chair with a thump, and she nearly teared up from the pain.
"Is… is there something you need?" she asked, rubbing her leg nervously.
"The Captain asked me to find Mr. Neil in the armory. Could you show me the way?"
"Ah… no problem."
Her reluctance was obvious, but she still led the way with a stiff smile.
They passed through the partition into a corridor. Rosanne kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, one leg limping faintly.
…Maybe I should've just asked for directions. Now I really do look like some shady villain.
They walked in silence until reaching the end of the corridor. Rosanne opened a door that revealed a spiral staircase leading downwards. Gas lamps lined the walls, their flames steady against the oppressive darkness.
"We still need to go down," she said, pointing at the steps.
Their footsteps echoed as they descended, the enclosed stairwell amplifying every sound. After what felt like two floors, the stairs leveled out into a narrow underground passage. Gas lamps alternated with emblems of the Goddess, their light steady and cold. Despite it being summer, the air here was chill.
So deep underground… Well, not surprising. Things like this can't be exposed to the public.
"Walk straight to the crossroads. To the left is St. Selena Church, straight ahead is Charnes Gate, and to the right are the armory and archives," Rosanne explained.
"Alright. I can take it from here. Thank you, Miss Rosanne."
The moment she heard this, Rosanne nearly sagged in relief. She spun on her heel and hurried back upstairs, her footsteps echoing like fleeing prey.
No need to run like that…
Galad shook his head and continued forward.
He turned right at the crossroads, soon spotting two iron doors at the passage's end. One led to the archives; the other, the armory where the mysticism lessons were held.
He knocked.
"Come in," an aged, muffled voice replied from within.
Galad pushed open the door.
Inside, Klein was already seated, listening to a lecture. Behind the table stood an old man in a black classical robe, his hair snow-white, his wrinkles etched deep.
And floating in the air behind him...
A pair of transparent, lashless eyes.
Boom!
The instant Galad saw them, his head roared violently. Blood spurted from his nose and eyes in a sudden gush.