At the exact moment the Spark Festival's Great Blackout ceremony arrived on schedule.
While the events in the cemetery were spiraling toward an uncontrollable abyss like a raging fire.
North District, Hope County.
Deep within the dark and damp sewers.
Ms. Cecil and Branch Manager Guardian were leading an elite squad through the hall of the so-called "Temple of Slaughter."
Though they were walking, every step was taken as if on thin ice.
Along the way.
The nerves of these experienced Seventh Agency investigators were stretched to their limits.
Relying on keen supernatural intuition and alchemical mine-detection equipment.
They had neutralized an unknown number of vicious traps capable of instantly melting a person or turning them into mincemeat.
Hidden crossbows, necromantic trigger arrays.
To deal with lethal attacks that could pounce from the shadows at any moment.
The group was divided into three echelons.
Their tactical formation was tight.
Among them.
The assault team, led by the two high-combat powerhouses, Cecil and Guardian, was the smallest.
As the sharpest point of the blade, they took the lead at the very front.
The second team was of moderate size, responsible for coordination and fire support, following closely behind.
The third team, staying at the very rear to guard the retreat and the defensive line, was the largest.
The formation could be described as watertight.
However.
After officially stepping into the depths of this Temple of Slaughter.
Everything they saw was completely unexpected to these two high-ranking members of the Seventh Agency.
It was even a bit comical.
First.
The interior of this temple, which the cultists had hyped up as something divine and miraculous, was utterly empty.
They didn't see any of the crazed, bloodthirsty Slayers they had initially expected.
Not even a ghostly shadow was in sight.
Besides the stale scent of blood in the air, there was only a deathly silence.
Second.
Not to mention encountering any of those elusive members of the Mist Veil Society.
It was as if.
The Mist Veil Society cultists they had encountered and easily dealt with on the outskirts of the sewers earlier.
Were all just idly wandering about with nothing better to do.
Cecil still vividly remembered the results of those interrogations.
Those low-level fanatics all insisted they were only there to carry out routine patrol missions.
Most importantly.
After professional thought detection.
The conclusion was actually: no discrepancies!
Lie detectors and mind-reading techniques proved that those low-level cannon fodder actually weren't lying!
Cecil stepped on the slippery floor tiles and let out a cold sneer in her heart.
Now it seemed.
There was only one truth.
The high-ranking members of the Mist Veil Society had played a beautiful hand of professional deception.
They had even kept their own people in the dark.
They issued fake patrol schedules.
All just to make these stupid cultists obediently come to these sewers to serve as cannon fodder to stall for time.
If that was the case.
Cecil's brow furrowed tightly.
What exactly did they want to do with that relic from the Fortville family?
Going to such great lengths, not hesitating to sacrifice their own grassroots employees.
It could never be just to take it back and worship it as a family heirloom.
Right after the containment object was stolen.
The Seventh Agency's intelligence department had immediately submitted an application to the Storm Inquisition.
They obtained top-secret information regarding this relic.
According to those surviving files.
It seemed to be an eerie relic deeply related to the soul.
As for its specific functions and trigger conditions.
The most critical pages of those files had mysteriously vanished during John Baker's farcical theft.
The clues were cut off there.
It made one gnash their teeth in frustration.
However.
What was certain.
Some supplementary materials obtained from the Dawn Church could indirectly attest to this object's terrifying foundation.
The history of this relic was quite ancient.
Ancient enough to be traced back to the Era of Gods, which only existed in ancient texts.
It had been closely related to an ancient war from an unknown number of years ago.
It was a war capable of destroying heaven and earth.
This war directly led to the fall of several Saints on the spot.
Holy blood soaked the earth.
And it was after that catastrophe.
The old Era of Gods completely ended.
The current belief system with the Seven Orthodox Gods as the primary deities was only then reconstructed upon the ruins.
And among those fallen Saints.
There was not only a Storm Judge.
But also an alchemical craftsman.
At this thought.
Cecil couldn't help but take a deep breath of cold air.
Just as Cecil was conducting a frantic brainstorm, trying to piece all the fragments together.
The group's footsteps came to a halt.
Their field of vision suddenly opened up.
They had arrived at the core altar of the Temple of Slaughter.
This was a massive circular arena.
Surrounding it were tiers upon tiers of stepped seating, forming a funnel-shaped enclosure.
On the cold stone bricks, dark red bloodstains had already seeped into the textures.
It seemed to be a place where those twisted Slayers usually held bloody rituals or cruel executions.
And at this moment.
In the center of this arena that should have been filled with the scent of slaughter.
There was not a soul.
Only a rough, long wooden table.
A stack of worn parchment sat starkly upon it.
"This is...?"
Guardian stopped in his tracks, a dangerous cold glint flashing in his remaining eye.
On his weathered face, his brow furrowed deeply.
As a battle-hardened branch manager.
He already had a strong, tooth-aching premonition of ill omen.
This time.
Bringing so many people and charging in here with such fanfare.
Perhaps they had been completely played by some bastard hiding behind the scenes!
An Empty City Ruse!
Guardian gritted his molars.
But regardless, the Temple of Slaughter had carried out such a large-scale illegal construction beneath Hope County.
He would certainly report this matter in its entirety to his superiors.
He had to demand an explanation from the Inquisition.
The one-eyed man suppressed the anger in his heart.
He raised his hand slightly, signaling his subordinates to wait in place and remain on alert.
Then.
He turned his head and gave Cecil a look that only old partners could understand.
The two of them understood each other perfectly.
They did not rashly step forward.
First, they turned back and ordered the people behind them.
Immediately use the holy emblems they carried to pray to the Goddess and obtain the divine blessing.
A faint holy light glowed on the investigators, dispelling the surrounding chill.
Following that.
Cecil and Guardian extremely cautiously added a thick layer of arcane protection to themselves.
Various auras were layered over them.
Just in case some vicious necromantic curse or hidden trigger spell was laid around that table.
Preparations were complete.
Then.
Cecil raised her right hand.
Spirituality surged within her.
A Mage's Hand spell was instantly cast.
A translucent, shimmering blue mana palm condensed out of thin air.
It slowly flew toward that table in the center of the altar.
The air seemed to freeze.
When the shimmering blue Mage's Hand was only inches away from the table.
There was no expected explosion or poison gas.
Instead, it was as if some extremely precise arcane mechanism had been instantly activated.
A slight energy hum echoed in the empty altar.
Immediately after, a phantom image woven from light and shadow began to appear on the wide, high-backed chair behind the table.
It gradually took shape.
The light and shadow stabilized quickly, outlining the silhouette of a person.
It was a man wearing a wide black trench coat.
On his head, a top hat was perched squarely.
His entire being was shrouded in shadow, his specific features indistinguishable.
"Hello, friends from the Seventh Agency."
The phantom image spoke.
The voice, transmitted through magic, carried a hint of distorted metallic quality.
Yet it also held a sense of unhurried elegance.
His gaze.
Slowly swept from beneath the lowered brim of his hat, finally projecting toward the people of the Seventh Agency standing on the steps.
"Inviting you all here was not my original intention."
The man spread his hands, his tone carrying a touch of well-placed apology.
"It's just that the object you want..."
He paused intentionally.
"Regrettably."
"Is not in my hands."
"Who are you?"
Cecil frowned, not letting herself be led astray by the other's polite words, and spoke coldly.
Her fingers were already poised in a spellcasting gesture.
"Me?"
The man pointed to himself, as if he had heard an interesting question.
The phantom image shifted into a comfortable sitting position on the chair.
"Just an opportunist of the era."
He gave an ambiguous answer.
"Are you a deacon of the Mist Veil Society?"
Guardian finally couldn't help but speak.
His lone eye stared fixedly at the phantom image, his voice low like thunder.
"Deacon?"
When the man heard this title, he actually couldn't help but let out a soft chuckle.
The laughter was filled with disdain.
"You shouldn't think I'm related to them just because I'm dressed similarly, right?"
He patted the phantom of the wide trench coat he was wearing.
"Besides..."
He drew out his words, his tone becoming meaningful.
"This is just one of my identities."
"Don't mind it."
Having said that, he seemed to lose interest in continuing the conversation.
The illusory arm was raised.
He pointed to the stack of worn parchment sitting on the rough long table in front of him.
The phantom image began to flicker; the spell's energy was about to be exhausted.
"What you should care about most right now is this great gift I've left for you."
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