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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 6
Chapter Title: Becoming a Priest
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Fernandez barely managed to comprehend Beitasser's words. It was a most cunning trap, one that would catch the demons off guard in their moment of victory.
And it was profoundly cruel. It meant erasing all the souls from the failed timeline of dimensions. That was tantamount to...
[No single being can bear overlapping souls. The souls of the main timeline will be replaced by those of this world, and the world will reclaim its peace.]
"You're insane! The God of Justice, of all beings, about to commit such an atrocity...? Wiping out an entire dimension's souls? Not content with defeat in war, now resorting to mass slaughter? If you had the power for that, why not attempt it sooner?"
[The power of my daughters. And the full spiritual might of the Holy Pantheon of Good Gods, once its seal is completely broken. You will be our dagger. We shall tear the world's fabric and weave it anew. Thus, save my four daughters. Harvest faith from the material world and unseal the Holy Pantheon of Good Gods. Do so, and the souls of you and your son will be redeemed.]
Beitasser spoke with the seductive whisper of a demon, laced with intense temptation. Fernandez fell into deep thought. It was possible.
If all the gods of the Holy Pantheon pooled their power, sacrificing the embryos of demigods scattered across this world. And if he served as the catalyst.
From a magical perspective, it was hard to deem impossible. He wavered in contemplation—and an even greater yearning beyond it.
My son. My poor boy, cruelly sacrificed.
"...What happened to your four champions?"
[They renounced their demigod status and fell to the earth. Bereft of the immense power that once surpassed even lesser gods, they now endure mortal suffering on the surface.]
"So I must save them?"
[Indeed. Redeem my daughters, scattered across the world. Even stripped of their true power, they possess rare talents in the material realm. Thus, my daughters are the first aid I grant you.]
"That's not enough. If this is a horizontal world, it's already rotten to the core."
A deal. Fernandez thought with a smile. He was infamous for never striking unequal pacts even with the most wicked demons.
Maestro of demon contracts. If anyone were to author a grimoire on demon summoning, he would undoubtedly be the first.
No good god could outmaneuver him in deals and contract terms. Or so Fernandez believed—yet Beitasser still wore that insidious smile.
'Fucking bastard.'
[Speak your desires.]
"Power. My magic. Even after forsaking black magic, it must suffice to convince the faithful."
[You shall have it.]
"Authority. To pursue my goals. And yours, without interference."
[So it shall be.]
"Divine authority. As your agent in name, I deserve some proof, don't I?"
[I have descended upon you, however briefly—this is the first authority I bestow. My daughters shall aid you; that is the second.]
"This god, seriously. Trying to slip one by? Let's not confuse ends and means, shall we?"
Beitasser laughed at his words, drew his spear, and hurled it straight at him. Before Fernandez could react, the spear pierced his heart.
[You shall neither fall, nor rest your body, nor find solace until your mission is fully complete. This is the first authority I grant you.]
The searing heat from the burning spear made his soul ignite and wither—a vivid torment. Fernandez dropped to his knees and wailed.
"Gaaahhh!!!"
-Squelch!
Another spear materialized, plunging into his lower back. On his knees, screaming, Fernandez clawed at the ground.
[I have descended upon you, and through this, you become my proxy—and that of the Holy Pantheon of Good Gods. You shall neither crumble, nor compromise, nor stagnate. This is the second authority I grant you.]
Amid the agony, Fernandez grasped his meaning. It was an appointment as champion of the Holy Pantheon of Good Gods—sacrificing his own stature for their cause. As an apostle.
He bit his lip, swallowing his screams. Every time he opened his mouth, he felt his soul's structure unravel and scatter.
[The deal is struck. As you desired.]
'Appoint me an apostle? Dare infuse divinity into my soul embryo?! Can you even handle it?!'
"Grrrrraaahhh!!!!"
[Indeed. We stake the Holy Pantheon's hope on you. I eagerly anticipate your exploits.]
"Gaaarghhh!!!!"
Fernandez clutched the dirt, biting it to stifle his screams. He couldn't sink lower. Amid the wrenching pain of his soul's reconfiguration, he repeated inwardly.
Beitasser could read his thoughts anyway. No need to voice it. Opening his mouth felt like it would suck his soul out.
'To wager your daughters and my son—how vulgar...!'
As he muttered that in his mind, Beitasser chuckled heartily and waved his hand.
In that instant, Fernandez's soul plummeted into an endless abyss. Gazing down, Beitasser smiled and said,
[Take up arms, Fernandez. You are free of Feizashi's shadow.]
*
Marco was a veteran Inquisitor who had burned or executed countless demons, heretics, and witches. As a Religiosa Enmagicka, he had witnessed miracles and sorceries beyond belief with his own eyes wide open.
"O... oh..."
Yet, as a priest of Beitasser, Marco could not stem the hot tears and exclamations overflowing.
For over thirty years since the Holy Pantheon of Good Gods abruptly sealed itself. In this era where ties between the good gods' pantheon and the material world were severed, demons and pagans rampant.
An age where goodness was trampled, evil prevailed, and the masses fell to false prophets' demagoguery!
With the radiant glory of the Holy Pantheon, a saint was being born!
"Oh... Lord!"
Marco gazed at the young boy praying before him. An overwhelming, immense spiritual fullness filled the entire room.
From the boy's back and chest, unmistakable brilliant light poured forth, embedding stigmata that seared into his flesh.
The boy grimaced in pain but never ceased his noble prayer.
"The Lord is present; our chains are finally broken. We are all saved. Macto Supelau do (Praise with all your heart)!"
Marco knelt before the boy, Fernandez, repeatedly crossing himself in prayer. Until the light slowly faded and the spiritual fullness proving divine presence receded.
-Thud.
When the boy finally ended his prayer and collapsed unconscious, Marco contemplated his report to headquarters, staring at the sweat-drenched side of the boy's face.
*
Your Holiness the Pope.
In a rural village on the outskirts of Dane Kingdom, I have been graced to witness the Lord's direct presence.
Forgive sending this letter first. In my trembling hands of joy and fullness, it has been arduous to compose how to report this boy surely sent by You to the Church.
In this profane age of apostasy, You have clearly begun to unseal and descend, bringing the will of the Holy Pantheon of Good Gods to our world.
Thus, I intend to return to the Church with this boy. The nearest trustworthy monastery is St. Bartholomew Monastery, so I request convening the canonization advisory council.
...
Religiosa Enmagicka, Marco Sundail.
*
Marco calmed his heaving chest, stamped the seal, and neatly folded the letter. With careful hands, he lit the censer.
-Whoosh.
Beitasser's divine spell, the spirit messenger, appeared. Blue spirit smoke intertwined in the air, forming a dove that clutched the letter and flew out the window.
Marco watched it go, quietly crossing himself. As if blessing him, the sunlight outside shone brilliantly.
*
The messenger flew straight to the Inquisition headquarters, arriving the next day on the desk in Abbot Beorn Shieldbane's office at St. Bartholomew Monastery.
"What nonsense is this...?"
Beorn pushed up his monocle, frowning. Already swamped with recent heresy incidents, he couldn't fathom what this mad old fool was babbling.
But Marco was an Inquisitor of high rank and authority. Beorn sighed deeply and drafted a letter to the Papal Court.
Of course, after ruthlessly stripping all flowery rhetoric. Sticking to bare facts as much as possible.
*
Recipient: Pope Paul IV.
Priority: Near Top Class.
Handling: Urgent Decree Equivalent.
Summary: Report of the Lord's presence in Cerned Barony, Dane Kingdom. (Reporter: Religiosa Enmagicka Marco Sundail). Request to convene canonization advisory council. Blessed Fernandez Cerned en route to monastery.
We shall burn demons, heretics, witches.
Final Approver: Abbot of St. Bartholomew Monastery, Beorn Shieldbane.
*
The Pope and canonization advisory council arrived at St. Bartholomew Monastery—Inquisition headquarters—fifteen days later.
Nearly a month after Fernandez lost consciousness.
Amid headache, hunger, stomach cramps, and weakness, Fernandez slowly opened his eyes.
*
By instinct embedded—not in his body, but his soul—Fernandez assessed his condition before opening his eyes.
Mana remained bone-dry, muscles limp throughout.
'How much time has passed?'
His throat parched, he cautiously opened his eyes. By feel, it seemed a bed, but he prayed this wasn't hell or a dungeon.
-You're awake.
Damn. Someone had been watching. He was in a stark stone building. A modest room with impressively solid masonry walls.
An old man with wickedly twisted eyes looked down at him. A gaunt man with glassy, emotionless eyes.
And a man he knew.
"What is this?"
-I see you can see me. Intriguing.
Feizashi Wildcast... the arch-black mage Feizashi. An impossibility in this timeline. Moreover, wasn't that 'himself'?
How am I looking at myself?
Fernandez slowly sat up, taking a sip from the bedside cup.
Cool water wetted his throat, reason gradually returning. Assuming Feizashi's presence wasn't hallucination.
The most plausible—and despairing—hypothesis was this:
Q1. Is Feizashi a separate entity from me?
Q2. Am I a pitiful test subject, deluded into thinking I'm 'Feizashi' by his experiment?
Fernandez glared sharply at Feizashi and said,
-Aren't you Fernandez?
"No."
A2. No.
"Aren't you Feizashi?"
-That, too, no.
A1. Feizashi and Fernandez are distinct.
"Hmm."
Feizashi and Fernandez. Beyond being wicked and brilliant, they shared a love for posing and solving riddles.
A common trait among mages, really. Fernandez eyed Feizashi like a logic exam in advanced magecraft.
Glassy eyes betraying no emotion. Yet he sensed 'interest' within. Feizashi seemed equally intrigued by the situation.
"One of soul or spirit, then."
-Indeed.
"I'd prefer it be the soul that's split. A drop in spiritual stature is harder to recover from."
-I hoped the same. As expected of 'me.' Excellent.
Feizashi smirked. Fernandez smiled back, stroking his chin.
The human mind consists of four components. One could delve deeper, but modern magecraft simply classifies as [Soul (Hon)], [Spirit (Yeong)], [Po (Vital Soul)], [Seong (Nature)].
[Soul (Hon)] is the foundational energy of the mind, the independent mental core granted at birth.
[Spirit (Yeong)] is the stature forged by the mind's experiences in life.
[Po (Vital Soul)] is the totality of experiences, memories, and emotions across life's span.
[Seong (Nature)] is the personality, temperament, and unique traits acquired in life.
Fernandez summarized succinctly and looked at Feizashi.
By his guess, he was now split: the soul of his past self and present self divided.
Cause? Schizophrenia, or Beitasser's meddling.
"If only the soul split, you couldn't converse with me."
-Exactly. He tampered with Po and Seong too. Couldn't check since you wouldn't wake. Care to recall?"
Fernandez frowned, retracing his past. From Cerned exile to black mage Wildcast.
Gathering demon cultists into a pagan group, summoning demons to poison heroes, toppling nations, sacrificing populace as tribute—all past life memories.
Memories intact. But the 'emotions' that should accompany them? Absent.
Fierce moments, vengeful triumphs. His entire history read as mere sterile facts. Not a good sign.
"Memories fine. But no emotional resonance."
-Po duplicated, only Seong split. My memories intact too, emotions included. Damn enviable, Fernandez.
"Not sure if this is good or bad."
Fernandez and Feizashi fell silent, lost in thought.
With identical information, their logic converged. They shared memories and thought processes.
The split was Beitasser's doing. Ripping out the 'wicked' parts of his mind by force.
Then, a knock, and the door opened.
"Heard voices, so I came. Young brother."
Three entered. Fernandez knew them: Inquisitor Marco, an old man, and a middle-aged one.
The old man, kindly and gentle, wore simple monastic robes—a priest.
The middle-aged man was massive, his Inquisitor uniform straining at the seams.
"Who were you talking to?"
"I mutter to myself when organizing thoughts."
The sharp-eyed middle-aged man scanned Fernandez up and down. He glared briefly, then shook his head.
"No whiff of demon."
"Contemplation is a fine hobby. No need for suspicion, brothers. This child is the one upon whom Lord Beitasser descended."
"Always suspect. First line on the Inquisition's charter."
"Your diligent example inspires us all, brothers."
The old man chuckled softly, shaking his head, and turned to Fernandez. His eyes brimmed with goodwill.
A gaze Fernandez had rarely received in past or present life. Wariness surged within him.
Unaware or not, the old man leaned in and said,
"Child. Blessed child. Feeling better?"
"With the Lord descended, my mind is clearer than ever."
Fernandez's thoughts raced. He didn't know the old man's identity, but the face was familiar.
Familiar meant a major figure in past history.
'At sixteen, an old man with Marco: Delphia, Lacune, Orkys, Paul...'
Among those transcendents, the one Marco deferred to like a superior: only one!
'Pope Paul IV of Beitasser... Not a bad start.'
Fernandez smiled. The most devout, innocent smile imaginable.
"Father. If the Church accepts me, I wish to become a priest."
"Macto (Praise)!"
-Grasp.
The old man seized Fernandez's hand with trembling fingers. He recited prayers, gazing into the pure, faithful boy's eyes.
Ah, such a long era. Thirty years since the Holy Pantheon of Good Gods sealed itself, humanity's civilization slowly tainted by heresy...
As vanguard of human civilization, guardian of reason and doctrine, the old man was weary, aged.
"Praise the Lord's holiness..."
Hearing the old man's prayer, a deeper smile curved Fernandez's lips. Pope, Inquisition, world of seventy years past...
Strategies, schemes, plans, tactics, intrigues, traps swirled in his mind. Life as Wildcast the wanderer-mage was ever ruthless, frugal.
Until eighty. Life was a single, life-or-death chess gambit, move by move.
Canonized as saint and ordained priest under the Pope's auspices. This would be the first button of his grand strategy. His way to save the world.