Chapter 112 – The Church Arrives
After successfully surviving the full twenty-four hours, Charles finally allowed himself to relax and returned to the dungeon.
Waking Connie, however, proved far more difficult than he had expected.
Compared to his own earlier condition, she had clearly received special treatment.
No matter how hard he shook her, how loudly he shouted, or even how forcefully he slapped her face, the woman lying unconscious on the straw pile showed no reaction whatsoever. Even her breathing remained perfectly steady, unchanged in the slightest.
If he still had access to the books, he might have been able to identify what kind of spell she had fallen under and find a solution. Unfortunately, all of those books were now stored beyond the gate.
"Do I really have to wait until tomorrow?"
Bathed in torchlight, Charles stared at Connie's reddened cheek, frowning deeply.
Not long ago, he had been hoping she would sleep for a few more days. Now, however, he desperately wanted her to wake up.
It was a textbook case of circumstances dictating mindset—but more importantly, Charles's overwhelming desire to grab the loot and leave was kicking in.
After all, if something unexpected happened—say, another necromancer paid a visit, or one of the horrors inside that house escaped—he would be completely screwed.
"Her body shows no response at all… which means her spirituality is probably isolated."
As he analyzed her condition, a rough hypothesis began to take shape.
If her spiritual state were stimulated, would she wake up?
But how?
Charles didn't know—but it was clearly not something that could be achieved through physical means.
Which meant…
Thinking of the abilities he possessed, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a pendant.
The Thorned Cross Pendant.
If he wanted to stimulate her spirituality, a curse would certainly do the job—but unless he had completely lost his mind, he wasn't about to use one on someone who was an ally rather than an enemy of the Church.
Who knew whether she was truly unconscious or still capable of sensing what was happening around her?
There were simply too many unknowns.
That left only one option.
Purification magic.
If he recited the incantation, would it produce some kind of resonance?
It seemed he had no other choice.
Once the thought took root, he acted immediately.
Crouching in front of her, Charles extended the hand wrapped with the pendant toward Connie.
Under the dim, yellowish torchlight, shadows swayed uneasily. Moisture seeped constantly from the dungeon walls, the air heavy with dampness and rot, giving the place a profoundly sinister feel.
Yet the moment the sacred incantation was spoken, that oppressive gloom was swept away.
Milky-white light gathered in the air and condensed upon Connie's forehead, forming a thorned cross woven entirely of luminous energy.
Had she been an evil creature, she would already have begun to burn from within. But she was not. After flickering briefly, the cross faded and vanished.
Nothing happened.
Charles did not lose heart. He began the chant again.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Seven times…
The spellcasting system of the prime world imposed no strict limits on magical endurance. Prolonged casting caused fatigue, but it did not impede action.
And so, when Charles's throat had grown dry from endless repetition, Connie finally reacted.
Her eyelids twitched—just barely.
Charles let out a quiet breath of relief and continued chanting.
It was as if some unseen valve had been loosened. Beneath the steady rhythm of the incantation, the girl's sluggish eyes finally opened.
She stared blankly at the young man crouching beside her, then glanced around at the gloomy surroundings, confusion written all over her face.
"Where's the Midsummer?" she asked.
Charles, now completely relaxed, raised an eyebrow.
So you really don't know anything, huh?
A second-ring church operative should've been more perceptive than this.
Rolling his eyes internally, he gave her a concise explanation of everything that had happened. Only then did Connie grasp their situation. She immediately scanned the surroundings warily.
"He captured us and did nothing at all? That guy must be plotting something."
"Who knows," Charles replied evenly.
"Did you ever see him?"
"He never showed up. Just a dog."
With the mask in place, Charles's lies were flawless—expression, tone, even heartbeat and pulse were perfectly controlled. Connie, far greener than he was, noticed nothing amiss and accepted the answer without question.
---
The island offered no escape. Endless ocean surrounded them, and attempting a reckless getaway would have been suicide.
Thus, for the next half month, the two of them lived like savages on the island. When thirsty or hungry, they survived on wild fruit and whatever little the island provided.
Apart from monkeys, there were hardly any animals at all—nothing truly edible. Life was miserable in the extreme.
Although he technically could, Charles dared not bring food from the Ice and Fire world. Doing so risked exposing himself.
Tracking spells in the prime world generally relied on spiritual signatures. He couldn't afford to be careless.
Plants, too, possessed spirituality—and unlike flesh, their spiritual residue lingered far longer. Who knew whether a loaf of bread or some other food might betray an anomaly?
"Don't lose heart. They'll find us soon," Connie once tried to comfort him.
But half a month passed, and no one came.
During those fifteen days, Charles never once returned to the world beyond the gate. He remained entirely in the prime world.
Though the spellbooks tempted him, time could be accumulated. Whether he entered sooner or later made no real difference.
Besides, even if he did enter, it wasn't as though he could immediately master anything.
During the book transfer, Charles had already skimmed through nearly all the spellbooks—and arrived at a deeply frustrating realization:
He couldn't learn ninety percent of them.
His "level" was too low. The elements he could command were severely limited.
Though he appeared godlike in another world, that was only surface-level authority. In truth, his physical body and spiritual core were still fundamentally ordinary.
The mask empowered by the Scepter of Authority was anything but ordinary—but it was meant for disguise and defense, not casting spells directly. Trying to channel magic through it would be pure delusion.
Mask and staff merely clothed him in a divine shell. Inside, he was still human.
And the necromantic spells he had obtained were never meant for ordinary humans to use.
Which made sense. A veteran necromancer like the Bandaged Man would never collect beginner-tier spells. What Charles had acquired was a private collection—not a beginner's encyclopedia.
Only by finding a proper stepping stone and truly entering the path of necromancy could he make use of his gains.
But where could such a stepping stone be found?
With the Church dominating the prime world, searching here would be extremely inconvenient. That left the worlds beyond the gate.
His thoughts drifted toward what he was already doing—but this was a long road. There was no need to rush.
In truth, he didn't even know how to use a stepping stone yet.
---
Even without entering another world, Charles gained much during this time.
Though Connie refused to teach spellcraft, she freely spoke about the Church's inner workings, the structure of spellcaster society, and the shifting political landscape of the Arkavia Continent.
All of it, revealed casually through conversation, proved invaluable.
But this calm did not last long.
On the twenty-third day after Charles's return from beyond the gate, a ship finally appeared along the perfectly flat shoreline.
A steamship belched thick smoke, its thunderous engines audible long before it came into view.
Both of them were thrilled, eyes fixed on the approaching steel vessel, filled with the relief of having endured until dawn finally broke.
Yet as the ship docked and its passengers disembarked, their excitement faded rapidly.
The ship was sent by the Church.
Leading the group was even someone they knew—Brother Zachary.
Unfortunately, his first reaction was neither concern nor reassurance.
Instead, without even turning his head, he raised a hand.
In the stunned gaze of Charles and Connie, a group of men in black coats surrounded them.
"Brother… you—" Connie exclaimed.
"We know the Black Rat well," Zachary said calmly, patting her shoulder. "And he knows us just as well. I'm sorry, child."
Then he glanced at Charles.
"You both need to undergo strict inspection."
---
While Zachary was speaking with Charles, several of the black-coated operatives split up to search the island.
Two headed toward the dungeon.
Two others approached the house.
"Through the front door? Are you insane?" one long-faced operative hissed, grabbing his partner.
"Then—"
"We'll go around the back."
With no objection, they circled toward the rear of the building.
Broken glass littered the ground. In the grass lay a pitiful, unconscious creature.
"That unlucky monkey," one muttered, glancing up at the shattered attic window. Seeing the main group nearby, they decided to enter through the opening.
Necromancers' lairs were dangerous—but they often contained intelligence or useful artifacts. Before destruction, investigation was mandatory.
This was no exception.
They climbed skillfully upward and peered through the window. The first thing that caught their attention was a faintly fragrant flower on the desk.
"A Death Tulip. You brought spirit-cat powder?"
"Yes."
Reassured, the long-faced operative turned his gaze to the rough sketches scattered across the desk.
"Sealed entities. Be careful—don't touch them."
After a long scan, he grabbed the window frame and carefully slipped inside, deliberately avoiding the desk.
But the attic window was narrow, and the jump was awkward. Upon landing, he stumbled slightly and instinctively braced himself against the desk corner.
Nothing seemed to be there.
But the moment he touched it, a wisp of gray smoke burst forth, coiling up his arm and plunging straight into his mouth and nose.
Dizziness hit instantly. His legs buckled, and his arm pressed down onto one of the sketches.
The black-and-white serpent drawn there suddenly came alive.
Color flooded its body as it writhed, then sprang from the page, striking at the operative.
The companion outside reacted instantly, grabbing the snake by the tail mid-lunge.
But the creature thrashed violently, its head smashing into the ink bottle on the desk.
The bottle shattered. Its loose lid flew off.
Black ink spilled across the floor—along with a thick cloud of gray smoke.
At first glance, it was horrifying.
But upon recognizing it, the operative instinctively relaxed.
"Just a wraith."
Unfortunately, that relief was premature.
The wraith triggered something unseen.
A drum-like beat thundered from the roof.
The house activated.
A horrific wail erupted from the second floor as violent tremors shook the structure. The entire building began to quake.
The companion felt the urge to retreat—but the long-faced operative was trapped by the triggered mechanisms, unable to move.
That moment of hesitation was fatal.
The gray wraith lunged and wrapped itself around him.
---
In the distance—
The thunderous noise reached the group restraining Charles and Connie.
They turned to see the gray-white house collapsing inward at a terrifying speed.
With a deafening roar, dust billowed skyward—
And a shrill, piercing laughter echoed through the air.