Chapter 35 – Quite the Tiger Skin
Charles wasn't foolish enough to ask, 'And what if I refuse all of them?' The priest had been nothing but courteous so far, but there was an unmistakable edge beneath that gentleness. Best not to test how sharp it was.
Brother Worsie didn't seem surprised by the choice. He nodded approvingly.
"Very well. As an external member, you won't wear the Church's uniform, but you'll receive an official Witch-Hunter's Certificate, stamped with the seal of Dulin Cathedral. It's valid across all kingdoms. With it, you can requisition aid from local law enforcement when needed—though each request must first be reported to the central diocese for approval."
He spoke in that calm, measured tone unique to those who'd spent a lifetime preaching rules.
"Each month, new externals are assigned one mission," he continued. "You must always be ready. We never know when the forces of darkness may awaken. In time, once your certificate arrives, we'll share with you more about the Church's higher doctrines—and the opportunities they offer."
Charles nodded along, though inwardly he rolled his eyes.
No room to refuse. No freedom. Mediocre benefits.
It all sounded suspiciously like being drafted into a holy pyramid scheme.
Brother Worsie, oblivious to the young man's thoughts, carried on his long lecture about sacred laws and spiritual obedience. His droning voice was enough to make even the candles flicker from boredom.
Finally, as if remembering something important, he added, "Ah, one more thing. Regardless of rank, attacking a servant of the Church is considered a grave sin. Should you find yourself in trouble, you may reveal your true affiliation for protection."
He fixed Charles with a stern gaze. "But remember—privilege comes with obligation. Break the Church's laws, and not even the gods will shield you."
"Understood," Charles replied, nodding sincerely. This part, at least, sounded useful.
But then came the statement that truly caught his attention.
"Your future," said the old priest, "depends on how far you can ascend. You're not yet seventeen—you have remarkable potential."
"Ascend?" Charles raised a brow. "You mean… a higher rank?"
"Something greater than that," Worsie said cryptically. "Those who walk the path of righteousness need not seek miracles—the gods walk beside them already. You'll understand, in time."
Charles wasn't sure if that was wisdom or nonsense, but he smiled politely and took his leave.
As his footsteps faded, another robed figure approached from the shadows. An elderly monk, thin and pale, peered after the retreating youth and murmured, "I didn't think he'd survive the Voice of Ulm. I thought he'd break—or fail entirely."
Charles would've recognized him as the same priest who'd helped interrogate him during his first encounter with the Church.
Brother Worsie sighed. "Nor did I. But it's a good sign. Enduring the Voice proves he can be trusted."
The elder priest hesitated, then lowered his tone. "About his aunt's case… I think he might be the key. That notebook—"
He never finished.
Because at that moment, the tent flap flew open again. Charles returned, his expression calm but his grip tight around the collar of a struggling, thin man in a blue coat.
Brother Worsie frowned. "Child, that's hardly a polite way to treat someone."
Charles dropped the man unceremoniously to the ground. "He attacked me," he said simply.
That single word froze the priests.
"Attacked?" Worsie's brows knit. He turned to the blue-clad stranger, whose eyes darted between them, panicked.
Meanwhile, the elder priest let out a quiet sigh, shaking his head.
He's only been with us a day… and already he's brought trouble to our door.
"Who instructed you to attack Mr. Cranston?"
Though Brother Worsie's voice was as calm and gentle as ever—warm as spring sunlight—his eyes were cold enough to freeze bone.
Charles had only just joined the Church, and already someone had dared to ambush him—right under the Church's shadow, no less. An insult, plain and simple.
"I–I'm with the Grey Rat Gang," stammered the blue-clad errand boy. "Our boss told us to rough him up a little… just a little lesson, nothing more!"
The two other clerics standing beside Worsie frowned in disgust.
The Church despised anything born of darkness, and street gangs were no exception. Still, they tolerated such organizations at times—they were a necessary evil, occasionally more effective than the authorities themselves.
Brother Worsie turned to Charles, his tone light and polite again.
"The Church won't interfere in such trivial matters. However, I'm sure the police will give you a proper explanation."
His voice was kind, almost reassuring—but Charles vividly remembered the look on this same man's face during the Purification Rite: how he'd smiled, almost blissfully, as that creature burned alive.
If that ever happens to me… Charles thought uneasily. I'm dead.
Outwardly, he kept his expression calm and nodded respectfully.
He assumed the matter would end there, but Brother Worsie apparently had other plans. With quiet efficiency, he sat down and penned a formal letter on the spot. When finished, he handed it to a nearby cleric and instructed him to escort the captured thug straight to the police.
Perhaps it was just a gesture to win favor, but still—Charles had to admit, the man got things done. His impression of Worsie improved slightly.
Since his involvement was no longer needed, Charles decided to wait for the outcome at home. After a courteous farewell to the clerics, he stepped into a black carriage and rode back through the city.
But to his surprise, the result was already waiting for him when he arrived.
"Good afternoon, Sir Cranston."
The bald police chief—Wyler Rosen himself, the same man who had once strutted into his home full of arrogance—now stood up from the sofa in the sitting room with an awkward smile plastered across his face.
"What is it this time?" Charles said flatly, taking off his coat and hanging it neatly by the door. "Here to give me trouble again?"
"Not at all, not at all," Rosen said quickly. "I'm here to apologize."
Charles froze mid-motion, then slowly turned his head toward him. Behind the sofa, half-hidden from view, knelt a large man with his arms bound behind his back.
The man was burly, his features square but his beady eyes twitchy and nervous. He looked up at Charles with a forced, pitiful smile.
"Grey Rat Gang, I presume?" Charles asked.
The man nodded frantically.
Charles blinked, momentarily dazed. He looked between the bound thug and the uneasy police chief standing beside him, and couldn't help but feel a strange sense of déjà vu.
He already knew the Grey Rat Gang had ties to Rosen—Detective Zoe had uncovered as much during her investigation, which was precisely how she'd gotten into trouble. Charles had simply been dragged into it afterward.
But this? To see Police Chief Wyler Rosen personally escorting his own associate to "beg forgiveness"? That was… unexpected.
Was it more shocking that the Church's influence reached this far—or that a city's chief of police had such cozy relations with the underworld?
Suppressing his thoughts, Charles said casually, "Well, since the culprit's been caught, just go through proper trial procedures. Why come to me?"
"The Commissioner insists we must follow your wishes," Rosen replied humbly, bowing slightly. His expression was docile, but his eyes flickered with resentment.
A week ago, this man had thought Charles was as good as dead—and now, suddenly, the same "nobody" had the Church behind him.
Life really did have a dark sense of humor.
Charles smirked. "Oh, come now. I'm just a small fry myself. I haven't even inherited my title yet."
The words made Rosen's face tighten. "It's only a matter of time, Sir," he said quickly.
"That's true," Charles mused aloud, tapping his chin. "But tell me—wasn't it you who once said, 'Let's wait until you inherit the title, then we'll talk'? Remind me again—who said that?"
"I…" Rosen faltered, sweat forming on his brow.
"So," Charles continued lazily, "do you think it'd be better for me to inherit the title sooner, or not at all?"
The police chief's mouth opened, then closed again. He had no answer.
Charles sighed theatrically and sank into the sofa across from him, crossing one leg over the other. "You know," he said, "you're far too ugly for me to enjoy talking to you. But tell me who ordered the attack, and we can call it even."
"N-no one ordered it!" Rosen stammered. "We just got a report…"
"Heh."
"Your butler filed it—he's the one who gave us the lead—"
"Ah, I see," Charles interrupted smoothly. "So you're still clinging to that same old attitude—'wait until he inherits the title, then we'll talk.' In that case, I guess we have nothing more to say. Though, honestly, I don't know why you're so nervous. I'm just a penniless noble, after all."
"You have great prospects, sir," Rosen said through gritted teeth, still smiling. "I wouldn't dare compare myself to you. I was only doing my duty."
Duty, my ass, he cursed silently, forcing his face to stay pleasant.
Charles merely shrugged and started inspecting his fingernails, glancing idly at the bound thug on the floor.
Seeing this, Rosen clenched his jaw. If words wouldn't help, perhaps a little misdirection would.
"To be honest, sir, I didn't even know what they wanted from you. Last time I came here, it wasn't personal. The Commissioner told me to… gauge your background."
"So you provoked me on purpose?" Charles asked sharply, his gaze shifting.
"I… I had no choice."
"No choice?" Charles tilted his head. "To the point you'd manipulate an innocent girl just to do it?"
Rosen's face turned pale. "That—"
He faltered.
Charles let him squirm a bit longer before suddenly straightening his posture. The mockery vanished from his tone.
"All right," he said quietly. "I believe you've shown enough sincerity. How about this—help me with something, and we'll call it even."
"My cousin…" Rosen began, nodding toward the bound man beside him.
"Since we're friends now," Charles interrupted, "then there's no need to hold grudges, right?"
Rosen's jaw tightened. In truth, he despised the idea of helping this smug little brat—but the Commissioner's order had been clear: either make peace, or watch the Grey Rat Gang's leader rot in prison.
Jail time wasn't the worst fate, but losing control of the gang would ruin years of work—and profits.
So, here he was, groveling.
For a cousin, no less.
"Of course," Rosen said, forcing a grin. "Whatever you need done, we'll see it through."
He prayed silently that Charles wouldn't ask for anything unreasonable.
Unfortunately for him, that prayer went unanswered.
"It's simple," Charles said lightly. "Tomorrow, I'm heading to Canyon Town. I'd like you to send a team of officers to accompany me. It'd be awfully pitiful for a 'nobleman' to travel alone, don't you think?"
Hearing Charles's request, Chief Rosen's face darkened and brightened by turns.
On the surface, it wasn't a difficult favor—but the implications behind it… those were another story.
After a long pause, he clenched his jaw and forced a smile.
"I think you're absolutely right, my lord. A baron of your standing ought to have a proper escort and some show of dignity."
"Exactly," Charles replied cheerfully. "See? It's a simple matter—no trouble at all. I never make things hard for my friends."
"Heh… heh heh…" Rosen's laugh was dry as sandpaper.
With that, the issue was settled. After a few more perfunctory exchanges, the bald police chief quickly took his leave, dragging along his still-silent cousin, the unfortunate gang leader. Judging by his haste, he was eager to report back and close this embarrassing chapter once and for all.
Charles watched the two retreating figures and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
Joining the Church might have brought its share of inconveniences—and possibly, someday, the risk of burning himself alive—but at the moment… it wasn't without its perks.
After all, that bald man was no small figure. As the chief of police in Pita City, second only to the commissioner and deputy commissioner, Rosen was practically a local overlord—a man who usually inspired fear wherever he went.
Yet just now, he'd been groveling like a servant.
Charles smirked to himself.
"Well, that's quite a tiger skin I've draped over my shoulders."
But almost immediately, his amusement faded, replaced by a flicker of caution.
"Until I finish mastering the full disguise trio," he muttered, "I mustn't use necromancy in the physical world—not unless I want to get caught."
He exhaled in relief at the thought.
Thank heavens for those three spells. Without them, the risk of exposure would be immense—even before worrying about whether the conflicting magics might literally cause him to combust.
Give up? That had never been an option.
Ever since that night—when he'd been locked in confinement and managed to summon Skeleton No.1—his path had already been sealed.
There was no turning back now.
Abandoning necromancy wouldn't erase what he'd already done. His "black history" existed, recorded in the unseen world. If anyone ever found out, the result would be the same: death.
Better, then, to keep walking forward. Keep training. Perhaps, when the day came, that power might actually save his life.
He could only hope his secret would remain hidden for as long as possible.
As for the risk of self-immolation—well, that was only a theory of his own. There wasn't a single text or teacher who'd ever mentioned magic conflict causing spontaneous combustion.
So what was there to hesitate about? He'd simply be careful.
Lost in thought, Charles didn't notice the quiet glances exchanged by the servants nearby.
Everyone in Pita City knew Chief Rosen. He was ruthless, cunning, and unflinchingly efficient. His reputation wasn't exactly bad, but it certainly wasn't good. His rumored dealings with the city's gangs only made him more intimidating—a man no ordinary citizen would dare to offend.
And yet, in front of their young master… that same fearsome man had bowed his head like a chastised apprentice.
"Master Charles isn't even seventeen yet, right?" whispered one maid.
"Not yet—he just came of age," another replied.
"I heard Viscount Russell's second son is about his age," said a third. "Saw him yesterday at Old Jack's gambling hall, clutching his pockets as he left. Must've lost another pile of gold."
The maids exchanged glances, shaking their heads with a sigh.
People really couldn't be compared.
Viscount Russell was one of the wealthiest men in all of Pita City—owner of vineyards, steelworks, and a chain of tailoring shops, with shares even in the Third Bank of Dulin. A true power among nobles.
And yet his sons were both disappointments. The elder served in the Royal Navy for years without distinction, and the younger was infamous for his vices—gambling, whoring, and idleness—a perfect portrait of a degenerate noble, despised by the townsfolk… including the very maids gossiping now.
What they didn't know, however, was that the "young master" they were praising and the "viscount's disgraceful son" they were mocking… were, in fact, drinking companions.
In another life, the old Charles had even borrowed money from him.