Chapter 113: Inspection
This was a sealed cabin deep within the ship.
There were no windows on any side. Overhead, an unusual magical light radiated a steady brilliance, bright and cold like an incandescent lamp.
Charles was confined inside an iron cage.
The cage itself was forged from silvered metal, its bars densely engraved with intricate runes. When he grasped them, he could clearly feel the distinct warmth coursing through the metal.
He was certain that even if he attempted to cast necromantic magic here, it was unlikely to manifest at all—and even if it did, it would be extinguished instantly.
[Mithril Prison Cage infused with sacred power — extremely durable]
[Completely suppresses all dark forces]
The guidance of the Eye of Reality was as reliable as ever.
Turning his head, Charles saw Connie confined in an identical cage not far away. She sat curled up, hugging her knees, staring blankly beyond the bars.
He couldn't help asking,
"What was that thing?"
"Probably some kind of undead entity," Connie replied distractedly. Her voice was subdued, clearly shaken by having fallen under suspicion.
Charles, on the other hand, didn't find their detention particularly alarming. What truly troubled him was what he had seen on the island.
"An undead creature with demonic horns?"
"Perhaps a demon that was enslaved after death," Connie replied.
"Enslaved…" Charles muttered, recalling the gray-black monstrosity that had crawled out of the collapsing house. Even now, the memory sent a chill through him.
A humanoid body with goat hooves and a pig's tail.
A single twisted horn spiraled upward from its head.
Its height exceeded a hundred meters.
Seen up close, it resembled a living skyscraper of flesh, its vast shadow blotting out the sky itself.
The priests had reacted with grave seriousness, but Charles never witnessed the actual battle. At the moment the creature appeared, both he and Connie had already been escorted away.
All they felt was the violent rocking of the steamship and faint, distant shrieks echoing through the hull.
That situation lasted for several hours.
However, no one came to see them, and as for what exactly was happening outside, neither of them had any idea.
"How long do you think it'll take?" Charles asked again.
"Who knows," Connie replied. "Maybe soon. Maybe a long time. It depends on where we are."
She sighed softly.
"I just hope that day comes sooner rather than later."
When one was considered an insider, the Church's attitude was usually gentle, even considerate. But now, once suspicion of being an "enemy" had been attached to them, even the simplest questions went unanswered. They were locked away and simply ignored.
If it had only been Charles, that would have made sense—after all, he hadn't been in the Church for long. But Connie was different. She clearly had connections within the Church, yet she was treated the same way.
That surprised him.
"Even if you're under suspicion, Zachary wouldn't help you… but at least they should've treated you better, right?"
"Before this, I was their fellow believer," Connie said helplessly. "Now, I'm just a criminal suspected of contamination. That's how the Church works."
Charles fell silent.
The priests suspected that the necromancer had tampered with the two of them, so they dared not take any risks. Not long after their reunion, they were sealed inside these cages.
After all, it was impossible that a necromancer would abduct two people and do nothing. Anyone with half a brain would assume there was a trap.
In truth, their guess wasn't wrong—just not in the way they imagined.
Charles wanted to say that the outcome was very different from what they thought, but even if he did, no one would believe him.
Or rather, they hadn't given him any chance to explain at all.
---
The ship sailed on.
Imprisoned in the cargo hold cages, cut off from daylight, they had no room to move beyond eating, drinking, and relieving themselves. Occasionally they exchanged a few words; more often, they simply stared into space.
Apart from the constant rumbling of the engine and the ship's swaying, they felt nothing else.
Charles managed better—thanks to the Eye of Reality, he could at least perceive the passage of time.
Connie could not.
The lights never changed. After sailing for so long, she seemed to lose all sense of time. Yet she remained relatively calm, likely because she was confident she was innocent.
Charles might have been calm too, if not for his past.
Once disguise magic was learned, it couldn't simply be "taken off."
And if this so-called inspection uncovered everything…
Every time he thought of that possibility, unease gnawed at him. But no matter how much he worried, his fate seemed sealed.
With his current strength, resistance was impossible. Escape was even more unrealistic. With the Church's tracking spells, unless he hid behind the Gate forever, where could he possibly run?
---
Days repeated themselves.
Again and again.
Finally, on the forty-fifth day since their "rescue," something changed.
One day, as Charles stared blankly upward, the steamship suddenly shuddered and came to a halt.
In their excited yet uneasy gazes, Zachary finally appeared again—this time accompanied by a group of unfamiliar priests dressed in black robes.
Unlike the black trench-coated enforcers on the island, these priests wore long clerical robes. They looked scholarly, refined—clearly not frontline combatants.
The moment Connie saw them, her face changed dramatically, as though she had recognized someone terrifying.
Before she could react, one of the black-robed priests pressed a hand against her forehead.
She passed out instantly.
Charles lasted only a fraction of a second longer.
He wasn't given a chance to speak either. The last thing he saw was a pale hand covered in countless glowing runes passing through the bars and descending toward his head.
Then darkness swallowed him.
---
"Phoenix has quite the eye, doesn't he?"
The black-robed female priest chuckled softly as she examined the young man in the cage, her hand resting on his forehead.
"This one looks like he'd be popular with girls."
"He's old Cranston's son," Zachary replied flatly, clearly accustomed to her irreverence.
"The man was quite eye-catching in Dulin—and even in Savin—in his youth."
"Hmm, old Cranston…" The priestess stroked her chin.
"Let's hope the son is innocent. Otherwise, this will be troublesome."
"The chances are low," another black-robed priest said quietly—the same one who had knocked Connie unconscious.
"Even if something went wrong, Phoenix wouldn't have spared them so easily unless he had already used them in a descent ritual."
"We don't need to worry about Cranston," Zachary said hesitantly. "But Henry…"
"He'll understand."
Zachary said nothing more.
---
The group carried the unconscious pair out of the ship.
Once ashore, an island came into view.
Unlike the necromancer's lair, this island was far larger. There were no forests—only white buildings scattered across the landscape.
It looked like a settlement.
They passed through a silent harbor, walked by rows of low white houses, and occasionally encountered others dressed in black coats or priestly robes. They merely nodded to each other without speaking.
As though everyone here were mute.
At last, they arrived at the center of the island and entered an open-air cathedral.
There was no roof. White pillars encircled the space in a broad ring. At the far end stood a massive Thorned Cross statue, and before it lay a pristine white pool filled with water.
An elderly priest in black stood waiting beside it.
"Brother White," Zachary greeted him.
The old priest nodded, wasted no words, and looked at the two unconscious figures.
"Put them in."
Charles and Connie were lowered into the pool.
From heel to crown, they sank completely beneath the surface—even their drifting hair vanished under the water.
Strangely, neither of them showed any sign of distress. They remained motionless, as though merely sleeping.
Then the change began.
Dark-gold chains shot out from the pool's inner walls, splashing through the water and wrapping tightly around their bodies.
Zachary took a deep breath.
White's expression remained unchanged as he began the next step.
He directed the priests to cast various strange substances into the pool.
Powders. Leaves. Liquids. Crystals. Even bones.
The once-clear water grew cloudy, its colors blending into a murky swirl. The two figures beneath became increasingly obscured, until they were completely hidden.
If Charles had been conscious, he might have noticed how similar this was to the "bath" he once used while practicing disguise magic.
But unlike then, no runes were inscribed.
Instead, the old priest simply began chanting.
The incantation was grand—sacred, vast, distant.
As it echoed, the murky water began to churn. Heat rose. Steam spread outward.
The pool began to boil.
Bubbles surged endlessly, as though something deep within was being refined.
When the chanting ended, the water slowly calmed. Its color faded.
Finally, it returned to perfect clarity.
Looking down into the pool, everything was visible once more.
Connie appeared unchanged—still in her jacket and gray riding pants, floating peacefully, eyes closed, as if asleep.
No abnormalities.
But Charles Cranston—
Bound by dark-gold chains, suspended upright beneath the surface, his body radiated a distinctive golden light. A mysterious seven-pointed star flickered upon his forehead, exuding unmistakable divinity.
The scrutinizing expressions around the pool shifted.
The priests exchanged uneasy glances.
"If I'm not mistaken, this is…"