Chapter 231 – The Demon Containment Chamber and the Mall Premiere
St. Peter's, Episcopal Residence
"Your performance on this mission was exemplary. You did not disgrace the responsibilities of the clergy."
Archbishop Matthew Ortega sat upright behind his desk, nodding slightly as he spoke.
Wilton drew a cross over his chest.
"The Vatican has already sent a formal notice," he said. "They've invited the person in charge of this commission to Rome for an official debrief. I'll be departing this evening."
He smiled politely.
"It was an honor working alongside Sister Bettice. You've trained an outstanding student."
Bettice quickly dipped into a respectful curtsey.
"You flatter me, Archbishop."
Matthew handed over a sealed letter.
"She still has much to learn… Ah, yes—please deliver this letter to Archbishop Isaac for me. Send him my regards."
Wilton accepted it solemnly.
"I will see to it personally. Then I'll take my leave and begin preparations."
"May the Lord bless you," Matthew said.
Wilton turned and walked toward the door.
As he passed Gideon, he didn't slow his pace in the slightest.
A moment later—
"Gideon, quick—check if he's gone!" Matthew suddenly whispered.
Gideon paused, puzzled, but still went to the door and peeked outside.
"He's already left the residence," he reported.
Matthew immediately let out a long sigh of relief.
He stripped off his ornate outer robes without hesitation and bent down to pull a bottle of liquor from beneath the desk.
"These Rome bureaucrats are stiff as boards," he grumbled. "Obsessed with ceremony. What good is ritual if you can't drink it?"
He shook the bottle cheerfully.
"You two want a glass?"
Bettice covered her face.
"Archbishop Matthew… it's only ten in the morning, and—"
And there's someone else here! Please, have some dignity!
she screamed internally.
Matthew had already poured himself a drink and took a satisfied swig.
Gideon rubbed his nose.
As a mere parish priest, witnessing an archbishop so openly "violating discipline" wasn't exactly comfortable. He immediately prepared to excuse himself.
"What's the rush?" Matthew waved him off.
"You haven't even collected your reward yet."
He opened a drawer and pulled out an envelope.
"Take a look."
Handing it to Gideon, he took another drink for good measure.
Inside the envelope was a single item.
"This is…?"
Gideon examined the bronze-colored badge in his hand. An olive branch was engraved at its center.
"A free-access credential to the Dey Theological Seminary's Demon Containment Chamber," Matthew said, raising his glass.
Gideon's eyebrow lifted slightly.
The Demon Containment Chamber was a facility dedicated to housing unresolved evil.
Nearly every parish—and certainly any church above that rank—maintained such a chamber.
During missions, most forms of evil encountered by clergy were purified outright. However, a small number of exceptionally potent monsters or malicious spirits were instead contained.
Once processed, these entities became evil remains, used as materials for theological study.
Safe, purified remnants were stored in exorcism vaults.
But before that stage, all such entities were first confined within the Demon Containment Chamber—while still technically "alive."
Which made it an extraordinarily dangerous place.
At the same time, because the containment process hadn't yet diluted their essence, the source power of evil there was at its purest.
Studying the Four Theological Disciplines inside such a chamber greatly accelerated progress compared to ordinary environments.
Moreover, the dense accumulation of evil energy made it the ideal location for cultivating Flesh-Vessel Sacred Arts.
Countless clergy coveted access to it.
Yet ordinarily, only bishops and above were granted entry.
For Gideon, this was unquestionably an over-the-limit reward.
"I know you were the one who truly resolved this commission," Matthew said, shaking his head. "But politics is politics…"
He sighed, then waved it off.
"Forget that boring nonsense. I wasn't about to let you walk away empty-handed."
He took another drink, clearly satisfied with his decision.
Matthew patted Gideon on the shoulder.
"Oh, right—based on your current progress in theology, you're allowed to train there three times a month," he added casually.
Beside them, Bettice couldn't hide the envy in her eyes.
Even she—widely regarded as the most gifted cleric at St. Peter's Theological Seminary—had only been granted access to that place once.
"Your generosity leaves me without words," Gideon said solemnly, drawing a cross over his chest.
"May the Lord bless you."
Given the Church's usual practices, there was no way such a reward would have been approved without intervention.
Which meant Archbishop Matthew had clearly pulled strings behind the scenes.
So Gideon's gratitude was genuine.
"Who said I loved you?!"
Matthew suddenly shot him a glare. "Don't get the wrong idea—I'm not some weird archbishop!"
Gideon: ???
Bettice quickly stepped in with a smile. "Archbishop, you've had a bit too much to drink."
Matthew waved her off.
"By the way—do you know where Jolan went?"
Gideon narrowed his eyes, unsure of Matthew's intent, and answered cautiously.
"My apologies, Your Grace, but I don't know Archbishop Jolan's whereabouts."
"Since his departure, Dey Church has lacked proper oversight. I heard a new bishop was appointed recently, but no one's actually seen him."
"If you happen to be in contact with him, Archbishop, please let us know. It would make reporting much easier."
"Cough—cough!"
Matthew nearly choked on his drink and hurriedly straightened up.
"I asked about Jolan, and you went there?"
He cleared his throat and forced a serious expression.
"The interim archbishop of Dey Church is… me."
"Because—because I've been terribly busy, that's all. That's why I haven't gone in person."
Unfortunately, the wine glass in his hand ruined any sense of credibility.
Gideon nodded in sudden understanding.
"So that's how it is. You must be working extremely hard."
The topic was successfully redirected.
Bettice barely held back her laughter.
She was certain Gideon had done it on purpose—and if Matthew actually spent time at Dey Church, he might even drink less.
"Well… I'll head over there to work in a while," Matthew muttered, wiping his mouth.
"As for Jolan—I brought him up because he asked me to pass on a message."
"He said he's fine, nothing happened to him. You don't need to worry. And the upcoming selection will proceed as scheduled."
Gideon inwardly nodded.
Just as he'd suspected.
Bettice looked surprised.
Father Gideon is also participating in the selection?
With his strength, we might even end up on the same team…
She felt a quiet thrill.
"Do you want to know where he went?" Matthew asked enticingly.
Seeing the archbishop's fingers constantly hovering near the bottle, Gideon instantly understood.
"The movements of an archbishop aren't something a cleric of my rank should concern himself with," Gideon replied calmly.
"And since Your Grace will soon be working at Dey Church, I'll make sure all necessary office supplies are prepared in advance."
As he spoke, he deliberately walked over and carefully noted the label on the wine bottle.
Bettice covered her face.
There's no saving him from drinking…
Matthew, however, beamed.
"You little fox—sharp as ever!"
He nodded in satisfaction and finally got to the point.
"Jolan accepted a direct order from the Pope. He's investigating a set of ruins."
"Ruins?"
"They're tied to the Holy War from a thousand years ago. Numerous relics were lost there—possibly even the space itself."
Gideon's gaze sharpened.
"So the recent large-scale redeployments of clergy are related to this?"
"Quick mind—but that's all I can say."
"I understand. Thank you for informing me."
From Matthew's words, Gideon inferred that the ruins likely existed within an alternate space.
Lately, everything seems to involve spatial anomalies…
After bidding them farewell, Gideon began his return journey.
The commission had been risky—but the rewards were substantial.
He had also confirmed a rule regarding [Envoy of Sin]:
progress only increased when emotions were directly triggered in face-to-face interaction.
Back in the second dream layer, he'd influenced the crowd through intermediaries—but those indirect emotional shifts hadn't counted.
Even so, a single gain of over 200 points left him more than satisfied.
He took out the bronze badge again.
"The Demon Containment Chamber should greatly accelerate my Eye and Flesh Vessel training," he mused.
"With things becoming increasingly abnormal—and the cleric selection ahead—I need to push my strength as far as possible."
He decided to take on more commissions.
---
Kingdom Shopping Mall
One of Philadelphia's few cultural and commercial landmarks, famous for hosting film premieres.
Today, it was unusually crowded—long lines had formed even before opening, and traffic was briefly brought to a standstill.
Gideon had no choice but to get out and walk.
"I really should've just jumped across the rooftops…" he muttered, rubbing his temples.
People around him held support banners emblazoned with the logo:
"Magic Poop Poop Poop."
…Apparently a movie.
"So that's the cause of the traffic," he guessed.
"Judy mentioned something like this, didn't she…?"
He shook his head, utterly uninterested, eager to get home and deal with actual evil.
Premiere Backstage Entrance
"Grande! Grande!"
Young fans crowded the entrance, phones raised, shouting a single name—
Grande Alina,
North America's most popular and powerful singer.
Her sweet appearance and exceptional vocals had earned her legions of fans.
Today marked her film debut, and the production team had hyped the event relentlessly.
Moments later, someone appeared at the entrance.
Disappointment flickered through the crowd.
"Oh wow—so many people!"
Brown Scott smiled broadly.
As Grande's manager, he'd orchestrated this entire spectacle.
This wasn't just Grande's leap into a new industry—it was also a major achievement in his career.
He flashed his trademark smile, lifting the corners of his mouth at precisely thirty degrees.
Psychologists said it maximized approachability.
Brown had learned that trick personally.
"Are you all here for Grande?" he asked warmly.
"Yes!!"
The crowd erupted.
"She knows you're here—and she's very grateful."
Then his tone shifted.
"But she hasn't rested properly in days preparing for the premiere."
"So, for her health, the backstage fan meeting will have to be canceled."
A wave of disappointment spread.
"I'm truly sorry," Brown said sincerely.
"To make it up to you, Grande prepared her favorite cookies for everyone."
He clapped his hands, and staff immediately distributed gift bags.
"Ahh! You're the best, Grande!"
"Rest well—we'll always support you!"
Brown subtly gestured to a corner.
Photographers snapped the moment perfectly.
Cheap cookies—priceless publicity.
Yet despite his experience, Brown felt conflicted.
Grande was genuinely hardworking and sincere—rare qualities in his career.
She always met fans personally.
But recently, something had broken her.
Multiple psychiatrists had evaluated her.
The diagnosis wasn't optimistic: PTSD.
She claimed to see a man with a horrifying smile.
No one else ever saw him.
Brown wanted to give her time off—but her career was peaking.
Some sponsors even insisted on waiting for her specifically.
So he pushed her forward.
"Send out some brand freebies later," he told a staff member.
Then he headed backstage.
"Grande, I've taken care of the fans. Have you memorized your speech?"
No response.
His heart sank.
Moments later, he realized the truth—
Grande was missing.
---
Nearby Alley
A petite figure squeezed against the flow of people and slipped into a quiet street.
Dark gray hoodie.
Hood pulled low.
Only when she reached an empty alley did she dare reveal her face.
Delicate features.
Golden hair.
Large almond eyes.
Soft lips.
Grande Alina.
But her eyes held only exhaustion and fear.
"You're Robert's friend?" she asked the tall man, deliberately lowering her voice.
He stared at her for a long moment.
"…You want tranquilizers?" he said finally.
"Yes. How much?"
"Since you know Robert—discount price."
"Two thousand per bottle."
"What?!"
She forgot to disguise her voice.
"They're only five hundred at a pharmacy!"
"So why don't you buy them there?"
She fell silent.
"…Deal."
She handed over cash.
The bottle changed hands.
As she turned to leave—
Her wrist was seized.
"You haven't paid for your freedom, Ms. Grande Alina," the man sneered.
"I'm a huge fan."
Despair filled her eyes.
Then—
A sigh echoed from behind.
"Man… what century are we in, still pulling alleyway harassment?"
They both turned.
At the entrance stood a man in a black priest's robe,
a silver cross hanging from his chest.
---