Chapter 125: Failure
The Deepest Sanctum of the Holy Cathedral, The Subterranean Hall.
The gargantuan circular array, once vibrant with the shimmer of silver mana, was now a dull, lightless husk. In the exact center of the geometry, the crystal that had hovered there let out a sharp, dry snap.
Crack.
A microscopic fissure snaked through the heart of the gem. Then a second. A third. Like a spiderweb spinning itself in an instant, the fractures raced across the crystalline surface.
A white-robed priest responsible for the array's maintenance let out a frantic cry.
"Cardinal Hal!"
"The crystal... it's shattering!"
Cardinal Hal rushed to the edge of the circle, his balance nearly failing him in his haste. He stared, wide-eyed, at the gem. This was the captured Authority of Time they had wrestled from a temporal rift—their singular, final hope to rewrite the tragedy of the East.
And now, that hope was covered in cracks.
Before the eyes of the gathered clergy, the crystal disintegrated. There was no explosion of energy, no violent discharge of mana. It simply collapsed into a pile of fine, snow-white powder, cascading from the air and scattering across the cold stone floor.
Hal reached out instinctively, his fingers clawing at the empty air as if he could catch the falling dust. But his hand fell limp, trembling at his side.
"The link to those two souls... it has been severed completely."
He closed his eyes.
Failure. Absolute, irredeemable failure.
All that remained was a heap of worthless silt. The Evernight Empire still sat like a leaden weight upon the continent, and its shadow would only continue to grow.
Hal slowly opened his eyes, scanning the ashen faces of the priests around him. He waved a hand, his voice thick with a fatigue that felt like physical pain.
"Return to your quarters. All of you."
The priests, looking as though they had just been pardoned from the gallows, offered quick bows and fled the hall. Soon, only Hal remained. He stood alone in the cavernous, hollow silence, staring at the white powder on the floor.
After a long time, he let out a shuddering sigh.
The Pope's Private Study.
The room held none of the austere, crushing weight of the Theocracy's center of power. Instead, it was vibrant, pulsing with the scent of green growth. The setting sun bled through the arched windows, illuminating dust motes that danced in the quiet air.
Along the windowsills and in the corners sat rows of ornate flower stands. Rare, nameless flora stretched their leaves under the orange light.
Pope Hupert (Hupert-kyōhō) held a pair of delicate silver shears, methodically pruning the redundant leaves of a blue orchid. Clad in simple white robes, his hair fastidiously combed, he looked less like the leader of a religion and more like a grandfather tending to his garden.
Cardinal Hal knelt on the carpet in the center of the room, his head bowed low.
"Your Holiness."
"The project... has failed."
"The captured Temporal Mana has been exhausted. We have lost all contact with the two adventurers sent into the past."
"And yet... the Evernight Empire remains."
Hal forced the words out in a single breath, then remained frozen, waiting for the judgment to fall.
The room remained quiet. The only sound was the rhythmic snip-snip of the silver shears. Seconds bled into minutes. It took so long that Hal's knees began to go numb before the Pope finally spoke.
"I see."
A single syllable. A sound devoid of any discernible emotion.
Hal blinked, cautiously lifting his head. The Pope remained with his back turned, his entire focus remained on his flowers. It was as if the report he had just heard was nothing more than a casual remark about the weather.
"Your Holiness... we..."
Hal stammered, unsure of how to proceed.
Hupert finally turned around. He set the shears down and took up a square of white linen, meticulously wiping each of his fingers.
"It is of no consequence," the Pope said. His face was a placid lake, his voice so calm it was unnerving. "Return to your duties. It was merely... a trial."
A trial?
The Church had gambled its future on this madness. How could the man at the helm dismiss it as a mere trial? Hal opened his mouth to protest, but when he met the Pope's eyes—eyes as deep and unchanging as ancient wells—the words died in his throat.
"Yes, Your Holiness."
Hal rose slowly, offered a stiff bow, and retreated from the room with mechanical steps.
Left alone, Pope Hupert picked up the silver shears once more.
With a sharp click, he severed the most beautiful, vibrant blossom from the blue orchid. He brought the ghostly blue petals to his nose, inhaling the scent for a fleeting second. Then, holding the flower, he walked out of his study.
Night had claimed the city. The Grand Cathedral, which hummed with the songs of the faithful by day, was now a vast, empty shell. Pale moonlight pierced through the stained-glass dome, casting fractured, colorful shadows across the polished floor.
Hupert walked alone through the sanctuary. His footsteps were light, yet they produced a haunting echo in the hollow space.
Step by step.
He walked until he reached the innermost sanctum. There, towering above him, stood the gargantuan statue of the Great Spirit Rostarn.
The statue's face was a mask of cold compassion. Its gaze was lowered, looking down upon the tiny, insignificant world at its feet. In one hand, it held the scepter of divine right; in the other, the Holy Codex of Light. Bathed in the silver moonlight, the stone was so perfect it seemed as though it might breathe at any moment—as if it might finally speak and unleash a judgment to purge the world of its sins.
Hupert stood at the base of the pedestal. He looked up, staring into that flawless, eternal face. He stood motionless for a long time.
The night wind whistled through the high gaps in the windows, making a low, mournful sound like a distant weeping.
The Pope's mind drifted.
He remembered a winter one hundred and thirty years ago. He was a mere child then, and it was the first time he had been permitted to enter this hall. The snow had been heavy that day, blanketing the Holy City in white. The cathedral had been freezing; the stone floor had made his toes go numb. He had stood in this exact spot, staring up at the statue. Back then, that stone face was his entire universe.
"Child, what do you see?"
A withered voice had asked from behind him. Young Hupert turned to see the Old Pope, whose beard and hair were whiter than the snow outside.
"Your Holiness, I am looking at Lord Rostarn," the boy had replied in a high, clear voice. "Do you think he is looking back at me?"
The Old Pope walked to his side, looking up as well. "Of course. He watches over every one of us. In his sight, we are all his children."
"Then why doesn't he talk to me?"
"Because," the Old Pope had whispered, "the Spirits protect the world through their Silence."
The young Hupert had nodded, not quite understanding. But he had memorized the words.
The Spirits protect the world through silence.
The memory dissolved. Hupert was still at the statue's feet. One hundred and twenty years had passed, and the stone had not shifted by a single grain. The silence remained unbroken.
But the world was no longer the world of his youth.
Hupert looked down at the blue orchid in his hand. The scent brought him back sixty years. He was a Cardinal then, the right hand of the Church. A plague known as the Black Throat had swept through the southern provinces. It was a cruel death; the throat would swell until the victim could no longer swallow, ending in a slow, agonizing suffocation.
Hupert had led the relief efforts in the infected zone. He had seen hell. The villages were forests of fresh graves. The wheat rotted in the fields because there were no hands left to harvest. He had erected a temporary temple, leading the priests in prayer day and night. Holy water was poured onto the soil until the ground was mud. They sang the hymns until their voices were raspy and broken.
But the people kept dying.
A young priest had broken under the pressure. He had lunged at Hupert, seizing his robes and screaming, "Cardinal! Why?! We pray with every fiber of our souls! Why won't the Spirits grant us a miracle?! What did these people do to deserve this?!"
Hupert remembered pushing the man away. He had answered with the words of the Codex: "This is a trial for the world. We must endure and keep our faith."
"A trial?!" the young man had laughed, a sound of pure despair. "I see only indifference! He doesn't care if we live or rot!"
The priest had stripped off his white robes that day and vanished into the world.
As Hupert left the plague zone, he had spotted these blue orchids. they bloomed beside the trenches filled with corpses and among the ash of burned villages. In that place of absolute hopelessness, only this flower continued to strive.
Hupert had brought the flowers back and planted them in his study. He told himself it was a sign of hope left by the Spirits—the final mercy after a trial.
But now, looking at the flower, Hupert wondered if he had been wrong.
Perhaps it wasn't hope at all. Perhaps it was just life—blind, stubborn, and primal. It had nothing to do with God. It had nothing to do with Faith. It was just existence.
The rise of the Evernight Empire. The failure of the Divine Punishment. The collapse of the temporal voyage.
He had prayed. He had toiled. He had exhausted every resource at his disposal.
And yet, the Silence remained.
After an eternity, a voice whispered in the hall where only a God was supposed to be worshipped.
"Lord Rostarn..."
"Do you truly exist?"
The hall remained terrifyingly quiet. Only the sighing wind and the indifferent moon answered him. The statue remained a statue, staring down with its cold, compassionate eyes at the tiny believer at its feet.
Hupert let out a sudden, short laugh. It was a sharp, jarring sound in the empty cathedral.
He reached out and placed the blue orchid gently onto the base of the statue. Then, the Pope turned his back. He did not look over his shoulder.
Step by rhythmic step, he walked out of the temple he had guarded for a lifetime. He pushed open the heavy main doors and stepped into the night. The moonlight stretched his shadow long across the stones.
He did not return to his bedchamber. He walked through the empty, silent streets of the Holy City until he reached a nondescript tower on the city's edge. It was the Observatory, abandoned by the Church decades ago.
Hupert pushed open the dust-laden door and climbed the spiral stone stairs to the summit. There was no roof here, only a massive, rusted astrolabe pointing at the heavens.
Hupert stood by the instrument, looking up at the night sky. The sea of stars glittered in the velvet blackness. Once, he had looked at them and seen the eyes of the Spirits, the lamps of Heaven.
Tonight, he saw only burning, distant memories.
So, this is the true face of the world, he thought.
Hupert found a clean patch of stone and sat down. He watched the stars from midnight until the first blush of dawn.
When the first sliver of light touched the horizon, Pope Hupert stood up, dusting off his robes. It was time for him to do what a Pope was meant to do.
Not for God.
But for Man.
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