Serin greeted Priest Phelipe at the entrance of the cathedral, Ellis curtsied, and the others bowed politely. The onlookers—mostly members of high society and merchants—stood back and watched curiously as the convoy was escorted in by the famous Priest Phelipe himself.
Of course, seeing the sigil carved into the carriage, no one was surprised by this treatment, as it belonged to the Hainar family.
One pair of knights stayed behind, while the twin Ascendant knights—one named Hymund, the other Symund—followed Serin and the others as they carried the delirious slave with them.
Serin was relieved to have them present. They were his assigned guards during all outings, and naturally, he had grown to rely on them greatly.
Casting a brief glance behind him, Serin wasn't sure what to feel about the cathedral's no weapons allowed policy. However, knowing that the twin brothers were Ascendant knights, he doubted whether it truly mattered.
At the entrance, two men in full ivory armor stood guard solemnly, the crest of an incomplete halo engraved upon their breastplates. Their spines were straight, gazes fixed forward—unwavering.
"Paladins…" Serin recalled from memory.
Shaking away his thoughts, Serin looked ahead and entered. Strangely, despite the cathedral being built entirely of stone, it felt very warm inside—a gentle warmth that seemed to settle into one's soul.
A faint scent of incense filled his breath as low, whisper-like angelic hymns echoed from afar, gradually growing clearer and louder.
Following Priest Phelipe's lead, the cathedral opened into a vast central hall, and Serin halted mid-step, stunned.
Priest Phelipe stopped as well, and everyone followed suit. He glanced back at the awestruck Serin with a soft smile, allowing him a moment to fully take it all in.
The cathedral unfolded before them in a single, overwhelming stretch of space. Long rows of towering stone pillars rose on either side, their arches reaching high into the vaulted ceiling above. The hall felt impossibly vast, almost overwhelming to the senses, as though it stretched endlessly.
The eye was drawn forward along the patterned stone floor, leading straight toward the distant altar. Light spilled in through tall stained-glass windows, washing the interior in soft hues of gold and blue, while warm lamplight glowed along the columns, driving away the shadows. Behind the altar, the image of a veiled goddess shone through the stained glass.
People filled the central aisle—priests in white robes, nobles, merchants, and common folk seated or standing in quiet reverence—but their presence only made the space feel larger. Their voices were muted, swallowed by the vastness above. Even the sound of footsteps seemed to fade the moment they touched the floor.
Serin's breath caught in his throat.
He had seen grand halls before—palaces, castles, even cathedrals on Earth—but this was different.
The sheer scale pressed down on him, reminding him how small he truly was in the face of the greater world. It felt as though the building itself was watching—ancient, unmoving, indifferent to who entered its domain.
Only when Ellis lightly tugged at his sleeve did Serin realize he had been standing there too long.
Serin looked at the priest and nodded, and they began moving forward slowly along the side aisle.
The entrancing hymns softened. Then, an elderly, clean-shaven man in white robes lined with golden thread emerged from the ambulatory behind the altar, stepping into view with calm confidence. He held a ceremonial staff crowned with a large blue gem.
Serin and the others stopped in the aisle, standing behind a pillar, sheltered by its shadow.
Priest Phelipe leaned closer and whispered, "His Eminence, High Priest Velenor Ire—the one you seek, Prince."
Serin nodded, his gaze fixed on the High Priest as the sermon began.
High Priest Velenor's voice rose calmly, carrying through the cathedral with practiced authority. His words flowed smoothly, confident and assured—clearly honed over many years.
"In the beginning, there was only Chaos—endless, formless, without will or meaning."
He lifted one hand slightly.
"From that Chaos, the Creator awoke. He spent trillions of years within the void. Eventually, He sought something greater than himself. And thus, He opened His eyes."
A quiet ripple passed through the listeners.
"He shaped existence from His own being. From His flesh, this world was formed. From His breath, the winds and seas. From His blood, the stars and the fire of the heavens."
The High Priest paused.
"And from His spirit, He created the gods—His children—each bearing a fragment of His power and purpose.
The Holy Mother is His blood, her compassion boundless toward all living beings."
He stretched his arms toward the veiled image of the Goddess behind him.
Candles flickered as the words echoed.
"Together, they ordered the world. Life was born. Mortals were shaped—fragile, yes, but precious. Given will, given growth, given the chance to strive."
His tone lowered slightly.
"But creation is never without cost."
High Priest Velenor lowered his gaze.
"As eons passed, the Creator gazed upon His work and found it… wanting. Where there was change, He desired stillness. Where there was growth, He demanded control. The will that had shaped creation turned inward—and began to rot."
A few listeners held their breath.
"The Creator sought to unmake what He had made."
Velenor's voice hardened.
"But His children would not allow it."
The hall felt heavier.
"The gods rose against their own progenitor—not out of rebellion, but out of duty. To protect the world. To protect us."
He spread his hands.
"The war that followed shattered the heavens. Seas boiled. Lands broke. The world was scarred, and so were the gods themselves."
Then, more softly:
"In the end, order prevailed. The world endured. Mortals endured."
He inclined his head.
"But the price was great. Divinity was diminished. Humanity weakened. The bond between gods and mortals thinned."
The High Priest raised his eyes once more, steady and assured.
"And so, the gods now guide us from afar. Through faith. Through trials. Through sacred paths laid for those who would rise again."
He concluded:
"This is why we endure. This is why we obey. And this is why we give thanks—to the gods who chose creation over their own creator."
Silence followed—heavy, reverent, unquestioning. Then, a soft hum of "We Endure, We Pray" spread through the hall.
The High Priest wore a gentle smile, compassion evident as his gaze swept over the congregation. Briefly, his eyes passed over Serin and the others.
Serin stirred from his thoughts. His gaze shifted to the slave, who had stopped muttering at some point. Tears streamed down the man's face, hands clasped tightly in prayer—yet his eyes remained distant, unfocused.
Serin was startled by the sight.
"Come, Prince," Priest Phelipe said quietly.
Serin was still somewhat absent-minded. This wasn't the first time he had heard the creation myth, yet somehow, it felt different now.
He only fully came back to himself when Ellis tugged at his sleeve and whispered, "I will wait here and pray. Please, go ahead."
With a gentle gesture, Phelipe motioned for Serin and the others to follow. The twin Ascendant knights adjusted their grip on the delirious slave and moved in step, their presence naturally clearing space among the onlookers.
They left the main hall through a narrow side passage beside the pillars, the echoes of the sermon fading behind them. The cathedral's warmth lingered, but here it was quieter—muted footsteps, soft candlelight along the walls, and air heavy with incense.
The passage opened into a smaller chamber beyond the nave, its ceiling lower and stone darker, marked with prayer sigils worn smooth by time. A simple stone table stood at the center, surrounded by benches and brass lamps.
Priest Phelipe stopped and turned to them.
"This is a sanctified chamber," he said evenly. "Please wait here for His Eminence."
Serin nodded, and the group settled quietly.
After a moment, Priest Phelipe spoke again. "You seem to be doing well, Prince."
"You have my gratitude," Serin replied, bowing. "Forgive me—I could not visit earlier to properly thank you for your help."
As he straightened, Serin's gaze drifted to the priest's wrist. His eyes narrowed briefly—then relaxed as he noticed the subtle difference.
The priest noticed and chuckled lightly, glancing at Serin's own wrist hidden beneath a glove.
"Congratulations, Prince Hainar. The gods favor you. My mark merely grants me the status of a spectator—worry not."
Serin smiled warily, his brows twitching.
Then the priest's face lit up, as though recalling something.
"Speaking of the Divine Arena," Priest Phelipe said seriously, "there is an unstoppable force rampaging through the Novice ranks. Not a single loss. This person has defeated every opponent with ease."
"And such a strange name," he added, narrowing his eyes at Serin. "You must have seen him. I believe he is called… Stockfish."
Serin nearly missed a heartbeat, his thoughts spiraling before the Anchor blessing swiftly calmed him.
"Yes," Serin replied evenly. "I've seen him. A strange fellow indeed. Fortunately, I haven't had the displeasure of facing him."
"You must be careful, Prince Hainar," Priest Phelipe warned. "If I'm not mistaken, he will soon be promoted to the Beginner rank. Truly extraordinary."
Serin nodded.
The two knights, Symund and Hymund looked at each other, confused by the conversation earlier. Steward Bartley outwardly wore an expressionless face, but inwardly he was surprised—only he knew why.
Once again, silence followed as everyone settled into their own thoughts, but not for long.
Footsteps soon approached. The door opened. A warm breeze entered the chamber—
—and with it, High Priest Velenor, his ornate staff in hand.