Chapter 45 — A Simple Assignment
"Two days ago there was a murder in a small town north of Pita City called Vensay. The scene shows signs of ritual—sacrificial marks. Our preliminary assessment points to a demon apostle. I plan to give this case to you."
Back at the church, Charles met Brother Worsie and got straight to the point without small talk.
"Any concrete intelligence?" he asked.
"None," Worsie answered. "You'll need to question the local constabulary when you arrive. Whether you serve as an official witch-hunter or an external operative, you must learn to act independently. The Church will only provide logistics support."
Charles nodded. He had expected as much.
Worsie smiled kindly at his calmness, then rose and pulled a blue-bound notebook from a shelf. He handed it to Charles.
"This is a field journal I kept years ago," he said. "It records traits, behaviors, and countermeasures for demon apostles. Read it when you have time."
"Be cautious," he added. "Some cults anticipate the Church's movements and set traps. Think carefully and observe a lot on this mission."
"You're going out for the first time—don't be rash. Work with local law enforcement where possible. Don't assume that learning a few spells makes you better at investigation than those whose trade it is. Except for very special magics, finding people is their business, not yours."
He continued lecturing patiently; Charles kept nodding along. Finally the middle-aged priest grew serious again.
"Do not show these demon apostles mercy," Worsie said. "They do not deserve it. Let one go and you will live to regret it."
"What did he do?" Charles asked when he heard this, curiosity cutting through the formal warnings.
"He killed his wife and two children," the monk said, voice steady but with a cold edge. "Then he gouged out their hearts and cooked them."
Charles fell silent.
Cruelty is a virtue, and the best way to please a demon, the thought slipped through his mind—one of those lines you read in the wrong book and never forget.
After saying his goodbyes to Worsie, Charles did not linger. He hired a carriage while the day was still young and left at once.
Vensay lay north of Pita City and was only a half-day's ride from Charles's own hold, Canyon Town. He spent the first night in Canyon, and by noon the next day his carriage rolled into Vensay.
He had expected a messy, time-consuming assignment—the kind of thing that would let him show off and do something grand. Instead, when he found the official in charge, he was told the so-called demon apostle had already been captured.
"Captured?" Charles blinked. He'd ridden all that way expecting to act, to intervene, to be the savior. Instead he looked a little deflated.
"Trus got unlucky," explained the dust-streaked constable. "He ran into a trap the old hunter Madden set ages ago. By the way, Master Madden's our best tracker—he once fought a boar alone…"
Charles listened to the middle-aged officer talk. The idea of a fabled demon apostle being nabbed in a long-forgotten hunter's pit by a local seemed almost comical. He'd pictured grand confrontation; now it looked like he'd been reduced to an extra in a hush of practical folk business. The disappointment passed quickly—better to avoid unnecessary trouble than to seek a showy fight.
Under the leadership of Mayor Winters, they went to the town's "police station."
"Station" was generous. It was more of a wooden house on stilts at the edge of the wood, shaded by trees. Inside there were only two officers, bored and reading the paper. They rose politely when the mayor and his party entered.
"This is the Church's demon-purifier, Sir Cranston," Mayor Winters introduced.
"Ah—welcome, sir!" the two policemen called in unison. They were a touch surprised by Charles's youthful appearance but otherwise pleased.
"You finally came. Since Trus's arrest he's been howling and making awful noises every night—purely terrifying. If guns could kill him, we'd have blasted his head long ago…"
They led Charles down into the station's "cell," which was really just a basement with wooden stairs.
At the bottom, curled on the floor and reeking, lay a man covered in grime. Close up, the man's face was ordinary—arguably handsome—but a faint layer of blackish fuzz twined over his skin. The sight alone unclenched any romanticized notion Charles might have entertained.
The bound man rolled and snarled, venom in his eyes. The moment he opened his mouth, Charles reconsidered his first impression.
"I gave them life," the man screamed. "I raised them! I took them back because they are mine—everything is mine! You meddling pests—this is mine!"
The man writhed and spat the words like acid. His black hair seemed to thicken as his fury rose.
Charles' mind drew a line to what he'd read: skin dusted with dark fuzz marks a low-grade apostle. These creatures often come from crude rituals or contagion—barely tainted by hellfire, but tainted enough.
Low tier as they were, demon apostles shared a terrible trait: un-death.
Weapons could wound them, but could not truly kill them. Destroy the skull, crush the heart—so long as a rough body outline remained, true death wouldn't follow.
That was why ordinary townsfolk's efforts often failed or required unusual methods. Charles understood now why the Church warned him: a successful operation was rarely a neat, clean thing.
Of course, if you hacked a demon apostle into minced meat or burned them to ash, their so-called "immortality" would no longer apply.
But that introduced another problem — the infectious nature of their flesh and blood.
It was a curse in every sense of the word.
The evidence was clear enough that there was no possibility of wrongful judgment.
Charles didn't need to interrogate or waste words.
He took one final look at the man writhing on the ground, then ignored his roaring curses. Slowly, he unclasped the thorned cross hanging around his neck and gripped it firmly in his hand.
Under the reverent gazes of the two policemen — and the growing terror in the prisoner's eyes — the young man raised his right hand.
The silver cross swung slightly in the dim underground light. Then, in a voice calm but heavy with command, Charles began to recite a sacred incantation.
The air vibrated.
A blinding cross of light bloomed above his palm.
It spun, pulsed, and released waves of searing heat.
The temperature in the basement surged — from warm, to stifling, to an unbearable furnace.
The demon screamed.
"AAAAAHHHH—!!"
The sound tore through the narrow chamber, raw and feral. His body twisted, contorted, his skin blistering like meat on an open flame.
The shrieks grew weaker and weaker until finally—
A flash.
The light expanded into a cocoon of white radiance, then burst apart with a sound like shattering glass. The heat warped the air, and when it faded, all that remained was a small heap of black ash on the floor.
"...It's over," one of the policemen muttered, half in awe, half in disbelief.
For days, their bullets and clubs had done nothing to the creature. Yet this young man had merely spoken a few words — and reduced the unkillable to dust.
In the face of such power, mortals could only stand aside and watch.
Their hands were too small for the work of gods.
And yet… it was a hell of a show.
---
After they climbed back upstairs, Charles gave a brief report and was preparing to leave when one of the officers called out to him.
"Wait, Sir! We found something strange during Trus's arrest. You should take a look."
He handed Charles a sealed letter.
Charles frowned and unfolded it.
The handwriting was jagged, the ink uneven — but the contents made him pause.
It was a correspondence addressed to a city official in the capital, written by none other than Trus — the man who now existed only as ash.
The letter referenced "the matter being handled" and "awaiting further instruction."
No details, no background, no explanation — just the tone of a man reporting to his superior.
But that was enough to reveal one thing.
Someone in the capital — an officer of the crown — was in league with a demon apostle.
Or worse, perhaps at the time of writing, Trus had not yet become a demon at all.
"...Is the kingdom rotting from the inside?" Charles muttered under his breath, brow furrowed.
The implications were vast — too vast.
If the letter was genuine, it meant corruption ran deep enough to stain the highest levels of government.
But it could also be nothing more than a madman's delusion.
He sighed and folded the letter.
"Better hand it over to the Church. Whether it's true or not, this isn't something a small-time hunter like me should meddle in. And honestly—why would a capital official be corresponding with some nameless villager in the middle of nowhere?"
With that thought, he bid farewell to the mayor and the two grateful officers, then set off immediately.
By the next morning, he was back in Pita City.
---
"You return quickly," remarked Brother Worsie as Charles stepped into the church.
Two days apart, the priest looked exactly as serene as ever.
"How did it go? Smoothly?"
"Couldn't have gone smoother," Charles replied with a faint shrug. "By the time I arrived, the local police had already caught the culprit. All I did was handle the purification."
The priest nodded approvingly.
"That's often how these missions go. Mortal weapons cannot truly harm apostles — only the Lord's radiance can cleanse such evil."
He turned toward the chapel's altar and bowed reverently to the statue.
Charles, being notably less devout, decided this was the right time to hand over the letter.
"This might be important," he said. "Something hidden, maybe."
"Hidden?" Worsie took the envelope and read through it, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. But he showed no outward emotion. With a small nod, he tucked the letter into his sleeve.
Then, from that same sleeve, he produced another envelope and offered it to Charles.
Charles blinked. "Another letter? What is this, divine correspondence hour?"
The priest's smile deepened. "No, child. This is your path of growth."
"My… what?"
"Open it at home," Worsie said, waving a hand. "Consider it a surprise. But keep it secret. Show it to no one."
Charles resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Right. Sure. A big mystery."
He nodded politely, left the church — and tore open the envelope the moment he was outside.
Inside was a single sheet of parchment.
A list.
He scanned it, eyebrows raising higher with each line.
Illumination — 5 tasks
Healing — 10 tasks
Banishment — 20 tasks
Blessing — 25 tasks
Judgment — 60 tasks
Divine Grace — 120 tasks
Resurrection — 300 tasks
The column stretched endlessly downward, a catalog of holy spells, each followed by a required "contribution count."
He let out a low whistle.
"Five missions for a flashlight spell, and three hundred for resurrection… Are they kidding me?"
He quickly did the math in his head.
A calendar year in Arkavia had ten months. One mission a month meant… thirty years for the most expensive spell.
"Yeah, no," he muttered, folding the list and tucking it away. "Guess I'll stick to necromancy for now."
---
Later, as he walked home, something else caught his attention.
He glanced down and summoned his status window — and to his surprise, it had changed.
---
[Name]: Charles Cranston
[Age]: 16
[Condition]: Vibrant and healthy
[Skills Mastered]
Eye of Insight (Passive)
Bone Ressurection (99/100%)
Curse of Agony (30/100%)
Purification (3/100%)
Touch of Fatigue (15/100%)
Blood for Blood (0/100%)
[Portal Gate Recharge Complete]: 431.12.37.45
---
He closed the window, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"Step by step," he murmured to himself. "If I'm going to survive this world — and both of them — I'd better start collecting more than just spells."