The Royal Academy of Light was anchored to a nexus of ley lines, a geological scar where the 'Breath of the Heavens' was said to bleed into the physical world as water. This was the Holy Spring a frigid, crystalline pool nestled in the center of the Sanctuary Garden. It was surrounded by white weeping willows that dipped their branches into the water like mourners, and statues of the First Saints, their stone faces eroded by centuries of rain into expressions of blank, terrifying indifference. To the average student, it was a place of simpering prayer; to Dorian, it was merely a battery requiring maintenance.
He walked through the garden at an hour when even the most pious were surrendered to sleep. The silver moon cast long, jagged shadows across the manicured grass, and the air was heavy with the cloying, sweet scent of lilies that masked the underlying metallic tang of raw mana. Dorian's chest felt as if it were being crushed by a cold vice a rhythmic, demanding throb where the 'Tears of the First Saint' had fused with his marrow. He needed to gorge on resonance to soothe the ache of his own ascension.
At the gate of the inner sanctuary, a Rank 3 'Purification Barrier' hummed with a low frequency electrical whine. Dorian didn't reach for a priest's token. He simply pressed his palm against the wrought iron, his **[Holy Eyes of Truth]** stripping the golden weave of the spell down to its crude, mechanical components.
"Amateurish," he whispered to the silence. He found the minute flaw in the mana flow a junction where the energy rippled like a snag in silk and pulsed a jagged shard of his own resonance into it. The barrier groaned, yielding an opening just wide enough for him to slip through before snapping back into place with the sound of a closing tomb.
As he neared the pool, however, Dorian halted. His sapphire eyes narrowed. The water, which should have been a brilliant, bioluminescent blue, was fouled. Beneath the surface, swirling around the white marble tiles, were thin, oily ribbons of grey. They moved with a serpentine intelligence, almost invisible to the naked eye but glaringly obvious to a man who had spent a lifetime studying the rot of empires.
"Corruption," Dorian stated, the word a sharp blade in the stillness. "Right under the noses of those who preach purity."
*Ding!*
**[Urgent Saint Quest: The Purity of the Source.]**
**[Objective: Identify and remove the source of the corruption.]**
**[Reward: +50 Faith Points / +1 Holy Resonance.]**
He turned his gaze toward the Pump House, a squat stone building at the garden's edge. Slumped on a bench outside was Brother Thomas, a lay servant whose primary function was to watch the filters. He was currently failing that function, a half empty bottle of cheap, sour wine clutched in his hand as he snored, his breath a rhythmic, wet rattle.
Above the man's head, the System displayed the ledger of his negligence: *Sold the purification salts to pay off gambling debts.*
Dorian's lip curled. The foundations of the Church were not built on faith, but on the small, pathetic vices of men like Thomas. He entered the Pump House, where the air was thick with rust and the heavy, sweet smell of stagnant mana. The 'Filtering Stones' in the central glass cylinders were no longer white; they were a bruised, sickly grey, coated in a layer of 'Miasma' that leached poison back into the Academy's life blood.
Dorian reached into the main cylinder. The moment his skin touched the stones, a jolt of cold, negative energy shot up his arm a psychic poison that fed on regret. In his previous life, he had devoured the life force of entire battalions. This sliver of miasma was merely a bitter spice.
"You want to feed?" Dorian's eyes flared with a crystalline light. "Then choke on the Light you claim to serve."
He didn't use a flashy spell. He began to pull the corruption *into* his own mana circuits, using the 'Tears' in his chest as a furnace. His face turned the color of ash, a single bead of sweat tracking down his temple as the grey filth flooded his veins. The pain was extraordinary sharp, like iron needles being driven into his bone but he did not flinch. He channeled the miasma into the 'Sin Debt' of his own soul, forcing the System to act as a containment vessel for the rot.
*Ding!*
**[Saint Quest: COMPLETED!]**
**[Faith Points Received: +50]**
**[Stat Increase: Holy Resonance +1]**
**[Current FP: (9,999,240 points deducted)]**
An hour later, Dorian emerged from the Pump House, his breathing a silver steam in the cold air. He felt sharper, the resonance vibrating in his marrow with a vibrant, aggressive hum. He walked over to the snoring Brother Thomas and seized him by the collar, hoisting him off the bench with a strength that felt like iron.
"Wha Master Valerius?" Thomas stammered, his eyes glazed with wine and terror.
"The stones are clean," Dorian said, his voice a low, terrifying promise. "But if you sell the salts again, I will toss you into that spring and watch how long it takes for the 'Pure Water' to boil the filth from your skin. Buy the salts with your own coin. Use your gambling winnings, or I'll take the difference out of your hide."
Thomas scrambled into the darkness, leaving his wine behind.
Dorian stood by the edge of the spring, watching the blue water ripple in the moonlight. He felt the new resonance in his blood, a cold fire ready for the Whispering Woods. Tomorrow, the Academy would post the mission. Tomorrow, he would lead a team into a slaughter.
"Ghouls," he whispered, a thin, cruel smile touching his lips. "I hope they're hungry. I intend to provide a feast they will never forget."
***
**Author's Note:** The Academy's water is pure once more, but the woods are calling. If you're enjoying Dorian's cold blooded approach to "Good Deeds," please support the novel with your **Power Stones**! Your votes keep the Emperor's path lit. Are you ready for the Ghoul outbreak in **Chapter 10**? Let us know!