Jaemar fell into silent thought for a moment.
Then he called out to the door, "Tell them to wait for me in the conference room."
"Yes, Your Highness."
As the footsteps faded down the hallway, he casually pulled a pre-matched outfit from the wardrobe—one his maids had laid out for him—and began dressing.
Unlike those pampered nobles who needed assistance just to get dressed, Jaemar, hardened by years of military service, had long gotten used to doing things himself.
He found it quicker, more efficient.
The only downside was that his sense of fashion left much to be desired—something everyone around him had silently agreed on. In the end, he let others choose his clothes in advance to avoid embarrassment.
With a few swift motions, he changed and straightened his appearance. After making sure everything was in order, he stepped out and walked toward the conference room. Along the way, he passed a maid and casually instructed her to send some food over.
Arriving at the door, he paused, took a moment to organize his thoughts, and then gently knocked before walking inside.
The sight that greeted him was a group of six people, all dressed in church vestments, already seated and waiting. Several maids moved quietly around them, pouring tea and serving refreshments.
The man sitting at the center—clearly the eldest and most distinguished among them—was the obvious leader.
An older man, with a stern expression, richly adorned robes, and an aura of quiet authority. He looked to be around sixty, but the defined musculature beneath his robes suggested he was no ordinary cleric. A warrior, no doubt.
And strong warriors, once they reached their prime, often looked far younger than they truly were. It wouldn't be surprising if this man was pushing ninety.
In fact, Jaemar actually knew him.
If memory served, the man was nearing a hundred years old.
Momentarily surprised, Jaemar offered a respectful greeting.
"Bishop Saphir, the last time I saw you was at the banquet hosted by the principality of Tolte a few years ago. You're still as distinguished as ever. What brings you to the principality of Mardain?"
At the same time, a sense of unease began to creep into Jaemar's heart.
He knew what kind of man this old cleric was—Saphir was the Church's chief inquisitor, head of heresy purification, a man whose hands were soaked in blood. Centuries ago, this kind of person would have been labeled a butcher. The type to burn down your entire household without blinking if he thought you were guilty of heresy.
Even after countless Church reforms, these people were hardly saints. The only change was that they no longer looked down on nobles the way they used to.
Saphir's stern expression eased a little at Jaemar's greeting. His weathered face creased into a smile as he replied.
"Prince Jaemar, good day to you. It's been—what—four or five years since we last met? I'm honored you still remember me." Then, his smile faded and he resumed a serious tone. "I've come to the Mardain on an extremely important matter."
Seeing his grave expression, Jaemar mirrored the mood, putting away his smile and asking solemnly, "And what matter would that be?"
Inside, though, he let out a breath of relief.
If Saphir was being this courteous, then it probably didn't have anything to do with the matter of demon summoning being discovered. He had managed to distance himself from that well enough.
Now that he was more at ease, Jaemar was genuinely curious—what could bring one of the Church's top bishops here in person?
After all, a man in charge of rooting out heresy, second in authority only to the Pope himself, wouldn't just leave his post on a whim. Among the Church's high command, only three to five people could even match Saphir's influence. His authority was comparable to that of a king.
And his responsibilities weren't much lighter either.
Which meant—if he was here, something big was happening.
'Come on then,' Jaemar thought with a trace of dark amusement. 'Spill the bad news—let the rest of us have a laugh.'
Other people's disasters were always more enjoyable than one's own. As long as the sky wasn't falling directly on his head, he was perfectly content to enjoy the show.
That was Jaemar's current mindset. Even though he kept a serious expression, part of him just wanted to grab some snacks and sit back to listen.
Unaware of Jaemar's internal sarcasm, Saphir was quite pleased with the prince's respectful attitude. The last thing he wanted was to deal with some brainless noble. Every time he had to, he felt tempted to crack their skulls open with his warhammer just to see what kind of mush was inside.
He took a sip of tea and gave Jaemar a subtle glance.
Jaemar understood immediately and waved the maids out of the room.
Once the door was shut and they were alone, Saphir finally spoke.
"We've received reports that members of the The Profane Covenant have been sighted in the capital of the Mardain."
Jaemar's brow furrowed.
"The Profane Covenant? That heretical group you've been hunting for centuries?"
From what he knew, some cults were labeled "heretical" simply for preaching that gods didn't exist—ideologies that posed little threat to nobles or kingdoms. Apart from the Church, most people couldn't care less.
But others were different—deranged fanatics who worshiped unfathomable entities, conducting blood rituals and causing chaos wherever they went. The Profane Covenant was one of the truly dangerous ones.
They were synonymous with madness. Wherever they appeared, people rose up to exterminate them.
Now, to hear that such a cult had taken root in his territory—and so deeply that even he hadn't noticed—was concerning. And it had drawn the Church's top inquisitor himself.
Clearly, this wasn't something small.
Jaemar groaned inwardly.
"I just finished cleaning up the mess in the Principality of Yharnis…"
"Now this?!"
Seeing Jaemar's reaction, Saphir smiled faintly and asked, "Are you familiar with the history of the Profane Convenant?"
Jaemar shook his head. "Not really…"
Saphir leaned forward slightly. "The cult's history dates back 679 years. Ring any bells? That was the year the Third Demon Cataclysm broke out. I imagine you're starting to piece things together…"
Jaemar's face darkened. "A demon-worshipping cult?"
The Demon Cults—groups of deranged fanatics who believed the world would end and that demons were gods who would lead them into the next one. Their entire purpose was to summon demons into the world.
Utter lunatics.
Saphir nodded gravely. "I'm sure you know what they're trying to accomplish. That makes them a priority target. If they succeed in summoning one of their so-called gods, the principality of Mardain could be wiped off the map."
Jaemar's expression turned sour.
"I thought you already exterminated that group."
Saphir sighed and shrugged. "You know how it is—madmen and megalomaniacs never truly go extinct. That said, we didn't lie. The Demon Cults are fractured into various sects, each worshiping different demons. We eliminated most of them. The Profane Convenant is one of the few that remains…"
And one of the most cunning.
Jaemar groaned and clutched his head. "Why me…?"
Saphir blinked, taken aback by how devastated Jaemar looked.
This was the prince who had just crushed the Principality of Yharnis, a man hailed as the future king of the principality of Mardain—and now he looked like someone had stepped on his tail just by mentioning demons?
This was not how things were supposed to go.
He quickly tried to reassure him. "There's no need to panic. The Church has already taken this matter very seriously. My presence here is proof of that. As long as the summoning hasn't happened yet, the situation is manageable. According to our intelligence, we still have a few days. If we act in time, we can stop them."
Privately, Saphir grumbled: 'Damn, what's up with this guy? I haven't even gotten to the scary part or started negotiating benefits, and he already looks like he's ready to surrender.'
Only a handful of demons had ever caused true Cataclysms in history. If even one of those appeared, the fledgling revival of the Mardain would be snuffed out instantly.
And then there was Orsaga—who'd already been lurking in the capital for months.
Jaemar couldn't even imagine what might happen if two demons met up in his city.
The capital would probably be reduced to ashes on the spot.
Looking at Saphir's reassuring expression, Jaemar mused darkly: 'If he knew there was already a demon camped out in the capital, he'd probably turn around and run.'
But could he even escape, if Orsaga didn't want him to?
With a strained smile, Jaemar said, "It's just a lot to take in. We've only just begun rebuilding our kingdom, and now someone's trying to summon a demon here. It's unforgivable. I swear I'll cut them down myself!"
Saphir's face lit up with approval. "That's the spirit! Prince Jaemar, as the future king, you can't let fear stop you!"
"And of course, the Church won't stand idly by in a time of crisis. We'll help in any way we can." He paused, a hint of awkwardness crossing his face. "However, you understand… the Church has its own…"
Before he could finish, Jaemar grabbed his hands, eyes full of sincerity.
"No need to say more, Bishop Saphir—I understand completely. If the Church has needs, Mardain won't be stingy. As long as it's nothing too outrageous, I'm sure we can come to an agreement."
'Smart lad!' Saphir thought, instantly pleased.
'Old bastard… If things go south, you're dying with me.' Jaemar thought, equally satisfied.
And with that, both parties reached a happy consensus.
_____
T/N:
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