Chapter 86 – Little Angel
Main World — Privet Drive Residence
After leaving the world of A Song of Ice and Fire, the first thing to greet him was neither servants nor a steward, but the stifling air itself.
Inside the narrow mahogany storage room, the ritual altar burned quietly. To prevent any draft from slipping in, the door and glass windows behind him were tightly shut. Standing there, a heavy sense of oppression naturally crept in.
Fortunately, Charles had long since grown used to it. After all, for ten straight days—aside from eating, drinking, and relieving himself—he had spent nearly all his time here. Anyone would adapt eventually.
At his side lay a thick tome titled A General History of the World, something he usually read to pass the time. Further away, near the edge of the table, a silver flintlock pistol rested silently.
He had bought the gun together with a crossbow at the clockmaker's shop. Initially, Charles had planned to use the pistol to deal with a certain problem, but after some thought, he found flintlocks cumbersome to reload and unimpressive in stopping power. Compared to that, the crossbow was far more practical.
So in the end, it was the crossbow he had taken with him.
"If only revolvers existed already… unfortunately, technology hasn't reached that point yet."
Muttering to himself, Charles lowered his gaze to his empty palm.
He let out a quiet sigh.
As expected, the scepter could not be brought into the real world.
He had anticipated this before leaving. Deep down, he sensed that the object was profoundly tied to the Ice and Fire world itself.
Or rather, it was something that belonged exclusively to that world—after all, there was no Faith of the Seven in the main world.
Still, while it was understandable that the scepter couldn't be taken out, the fact that even the strange mark in his palm failed to appear was deeply frustrating. The scepter was ultimately an external object—but the Seven-God sigil had been etched onto his very body.
Shaking his head, Charles forced himself to stop dwelling on it.
---
Back in the Ice and Fire world, the long march had resumed.
Eddard insisted they had to reach the North before Moat Cailin fell, otherwise things would become extremely troublesome. Charles offered no comment. Instead, his thoughts returned to the question that had occupied his mind before leaving.
"So-called 'human truth'… is it massive death?"
"The second traversal gate is one-third unlocked…"
"What about the remaining two-thirds?"
Charles carefully replayed the memories of the TV series, vague guesses beginning to form.
"Dragons?"
"The White Walkers?"
"Or something else entirely?"
"The scepter is labeled as man-made… so who created it?"
"Most of its abilities only work on followers of the Seven. Then what about the Death Authority derived from it? Does it share the same limitation—effective only within its own domain?"
"Some kind of territorial dominance?"
"Damn it… the Eye of Reality still isn't fully charged. I can't see clearly yet."
Sitting cross-legged in the storage room, he continued pondering these questions—especially the issue of the traversal gate's progress. Charles felt it was time to stop waiting passively and start acting.
Historical records had been destroyed; understanding the scepter itself seemed hopeless. But dragons, White Walkers, or other supernatural entities—those were still within reach.
As long as he was willing to approach them.
Lost in thought, summarizing and digesting his newly transformed power, the night slipped by unnoticed.
---
The next day—the eleventh since the altar had been set up—Charles was debating whether he should visit the church to inquire about a certain matter when, just after breakfast, Brother Worsie arrived with company.
Charles immediately arranged for a servant to stand guard in his stead, then hurried out to receive them.
It had been some time, but the priest still wore the same gentle smile. As soon as they met, the man seated on the sofa rose and introduced the others beside him.
"This is Brother Zachary," Worsie said. "A specialist sent by the Church to escort Bishop Charles."
As he spoke, the priest gave Charles a meaningful wink.
Charles understood at once. He shook hands with the man—who looked no different from an ordinary middle-aged gentleman in his forties.
"Pleasure to meet you, Brother Zachary. I'm Charles Cranston."
The priest smiled faintly.
"I knew your father."
Charles froze.
Before he could respond, Worsie had already begun introducing the last person present, forcing Charles to suppress his confusion for the moment.
"And this," Worsie continued, "is Miss Connie—Brother Zachary's assistant."
Charles greeted the young woman—who appeared only a few years older than himself—and after everyone was seated, he turned toward the kindly-looking priest.
"You mentioned my father just now?"
"Indeed," Zachary replied with a smile. "That crafty old fox caused no small number of headaches in his time."
Charles felt momentarily at a loss.
In the original owner's memories, his so-called father was little more than a source of scoldings and meddling—nothing more.
After a few pleasantries, seeing that neither of them spoke up first, Charles tactfully asked, "You're here about the notebook?"
"Yes," Worsie nodded. "I told Brother Zachary about your situation, and he suggested coming to see you personally. He has a few questions regarding that notebook."
"No rush," Zachary said calmly. "I heard you needed help. Take me to see it first."
Straight to the point.
Charles rose at once.
Worsie and Connie showed no intention of going upstairs, so Charles led Zachary alone.
"I heard you hired a fire mage to steal life fire?" Zachary asked as they walked.
"He did call it life fire," Charles replied carefully. "But I'm not certain what it actually is. He mentioned something about a Crimson Furnace, and a twelve-day limit."
"Soul-stealing magic," Zachary said thoughtfully. "Not many dare to practice it—and even fewer succeed. Your caster must have had quite the nerve."
"He certainly seemed bold," Charles said. "But I didn't know him well. I hired him through a trading exchange in Pita City."
Zachary said nothing further.
Entering the storage room, he looked around briefly, then nodded. "Dangerous magic. But effective."
With a flick of his sleeve, he extinguished the crimson candles. A faint inhaling sound followed—but nothing else occurred.
Without prompting, Zachary turned and headed toward the girl's bedroom.
Charles followed closely, quietly impressed.
"Tracking? Through spiritual perception?"
They reached the door within moments. Inside, Annie lay asleep.
Since the spell took effect, she had remained in a deep slumber—needing no food, no waste elimination. Like a doll.
Yet her steady breathing and occasional murmured dreams reassured Charles: she was alive—just asleep. Deeply.
Curtains fluttered in the breeze, and the scent of daffodils drifted softly through the room, soothing the mind.
Zachary approached the bed, observed briefly, then pricked his thumb and pressed it gently to the girl's forehead.
A blood-red fingerprint appeared.
When he lifted his thumb, the blood gathered on its own, forming a thorned cross that glowed white before vanishing.
Zachary turned to Charles.
"All right. She's safe for now. Let's handle the real matter."
"That's it?" Charles asked, baffled.
Could a single fingerprint really replace a soul-stealing spell?
Zachary smiled and gestured toward the girl.
Charles turned—and froze.
Hovering above her forehead was a tiny figure.
Barely the size of a fingernail.
A delicate, doll-like face. A pure white robe. Bare feet. And behind it—glowing wings.
It floated gently, shedding specks of white light from its wings that continuously merged into the girl's body, gradually restoring color to her pale face.
"An… angel?"
Charles stared, mouth slightly open.
The tiny being turned to look at him, blinking its large, round blue eyes—small as sesame seeds yet impossibly expressive.
After a moment, it fluttered its wings…
…and stuck out its tongue at him.
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