Greg didn't go over to greet them.
For one, they were about to set off soon, and for another, he felt there wasn't much to say right now anyway.
Since they were traveling together, they would have plenty of time on the way.
He scanned the rest of the group.
There were ten representatives from each of the first, second, and third-year classes. Combined with their mentors and the academy administrators leading the delegation, the entire group numbered around sixty.
Although the delegation was small, every single member was an elite selected through rigorous trials, representing the peak strength of Glory Cael Magic Academy.
It was also worth noting that Greg didn't see Catherine among the second-year representatives.
This wasn't surprising, as Catherine didn't participate in the Hundred Academy Exchange during Act Three of the original game's plot.
It wasn't because she failed to qualify, but rather because managing her chamber of commerce was far more important to her than attending some academic exchange. Thus, she had voluntarily given up her spot.
Still, she wouldn't miss out on the subsequent Five Academy Tournament in Act Four.
Dragons were naturally greedy and obsessed with wealth, and Catherine's family maintained close ties with the Grand Duchess of the Dragon Duchy. When the time came, she would travel there to watch the tournament as an honored guest.
While Greg was lost in thought, two figures finally rushed over to the gathering point.
Victoria had changed into a clean academy uniform, her long gray hair combed neatly. Though a trace of exhaustion still lingered on her face, it did nothing to diminish her delicate beauty.
Alice had changed into a brand-new professor's robe. Though it was still rather oversized, it fit her significantly better than her old one.
She still seemed a bit nervous, her hands restlessly smoothing down her cuffs and hem, but her eyes shimmered with anticipation.
With their arrival, everyone was finally assembled.
The clamor in the square gradually died down, and all eyes turned toward the figure standing in front of the airship—Headmistress Olivia.
Though she was still dressed in her signature fiery cowgirl outfit, she had draped a dark robe over it—likely at the insistence of the other professors. At the very least, it made her look somewhat respectable.
She swept her gaze across the assembled crowd, then spoke in a clear, resonant voice:
“I won't waste my breath on useless platitudes. I only have one requirement for you all.”
She raised her right hand and flipped them the bird. “Go kick some serious ass!”
Greg: ?
The surrounding students roared, “YEAAAAAH!!!”
Greg: ???
Listening to the students' wild cheers, Olivia's lips curled into a fiercely aggressive grin.
“And with that—I declare our departure!”
...
In the Imperial Capital's Cathedral of Light, in a small reception room adjacent to the confessional...
The room was small, but its furnishings were exceptionally refined. Milky-white Holy Light Stones were embedded in the walls, casting a soft, gentle glow.
A massive icon of the Goddess of Light, Serafina, hung in the center of the room. The Goddess was depicted with a generous bosom, holding a set of scales and a longsword, her gaze both compassionate and majestic.
On the candelabra below the icon, three rows of white candles burned silently, their flickering flames casting dancing shadows across the Goddess's face.
Bishop Bernard, clad in white, stood by the window with his hands clasped in front of him, staring out at the darkening sky.
Though well over fifty with silvering hair at his temples, his posture remained perfectly upright. His white bishop's robes were meticulously pressed, and the holy crest resting on his chest gleamed with a golden luster in the candlelight.
A few paces behind him stood a middle-aged man clad in dark blue vestments. This was Reinhardt, the Deputy Director of the Inquisition.
He possessed a far sturdier build than Bernard, with a sharp jawline, prominent brow, and gray eyes that held a razor-sharp edge honed by years of interrogating heretics.
As a high-ranking cleric responsible for intelligence gathering and heresy trials within the Holy Church, he commanded an information network that spanned the entire Imperial Capital.
“Lord Bernard,”
Reinhardt said, lowering his voice.
“Recently, abnormal mana fluctuations have indeed been detected in the depths of the Imperial Capital Dungeon. According to reports from our scouts, the behavior of the monsters inside has changed significantly. It's highly likely that something in the deeper layers is influencing them.”
“At present, this information is strictly contained within our ranks; the royal family is still entirely in the dark. Should I dispatch a team to infiltrate the dungeon and conduct a preliminary investigation?”
Bernard did not answer immediately.
He remained silent for a brief moment, tapping his fingers twice against the windowsill before slowly shaking his head. “No need. The Archbishop has already made arrangements.”
Reinhardt frowned slightly. “Arrangements?”
“The Archbishop has sent word to the Holy City, requesting the Saintess to travel to the Imperial Capital under the pretext of observing the Hundred Academy Exchange.”
Bernard turned around, the candlelight dancing across his weathered face.
“Her Holiness should be arriving soon. Once she is here, the matters regarding the dungeon will naturally be handed over to her. We only need to prepare for her arrival.”
Reinhardt nodded, his tense expression relaxing slightly.
Having the Saintess handle this personally was indeed far safer than them blindly sending forces into the dungeon's depths.
He paused for a moment as another thought crossed his mind.
“Speaking of the Hundred Academy Exchange... Candidate Saintess Silvia will also be arriving with the delegation from Glory Cael Magic Academy, correct?”
The moment that name left his lips, the air in the room seemed to freeze.
Bernard's expression darkened, a flicker of complex emotion passing through eyes that had seen decades of service within the Holy Church.
He remained silent for several seconds before speaking, his voice noticeably hushed.
“Neither the Archbishop nor the current Saintess are particularly fond of her. The Archbishop believes that although Lady Silvia holds the title of Candidate Saintess, her faith in the Goddess of Light is severely lacking in devotion.”
He paused, then added, “Therefore, it would be best if we do not initiate any contact with her.”
Reinhardt's brow furrowed deeper. He hesitated, weighing his words, but ultimately couldn't help but speak up.
“But... Lord Bernard, Lady Silvia's status as a Candidate Saintess was not decided by internal church consensus. It was decreed by the Goddess of Light, Lady Serafina, herself through a divine oracle. If we treat her like this, are we truly not risking the Goddess's wrath?”
The question was like a fine needle, pricking straight into Bernard's heart.
He fell silent for a long time, so long that even the candle flames on the stand flickered.
Finally, he let out a soft, heavy sigh that echoed wearily through the quiet room.
“Reinhardt,”
he began slowly, his voice laced with the exhaustion of a man who had seen too much.
“The Goddess has not descended for a very... very long time. Has it been a century? Two centuries? Or perhaps even longer? In today's Holy Church, the Archbishop's word carries far more weight.”
“While the members of the choir might whisper their grievances, none of them are foolish enough to openly oppose the Archbishop for the sake of a mere candidate.”
He turned back around, staring out the window once more.
Night had fallen completely. The city lights flickered on one by one, resembling a reflection of the starry sky upon the earth.
His gaze drifted past the city lights, settling on the distant horizon. When he spoke again, his voice was barely a whisper, as if speaking only to himself:
“If Lady Serafina were to descend at this very moment and see what has become of her Holy Church... she would be terribly disappointed.”
The candlelight flickered, and in the shifting shadows, the eyes of the Goddess's icon seemed to carry an indescribable, profound sorrow.
Rate on N.U.
