The Reason

By the time the Archbishop stepped out of the vault supported by Alice, his complexion had recovered significantly.

The effects of that golden liquid were better than expected.

His voice still carried a trace of exhaustion. "The seal is only a temporary measure. I need time to study that magic circle and find a way to destroy it completely."

Old Morgan nodded, his gaze falling on the viscount not far away.

The viscount had lost all strength, kneeling on one knee and using his longsword to prop up his body, gasping for air.

His silver armor was full of cracks and dents, his face ashen, but his eyes were surprisingly calm.

"Bring him over," the Archbishop said coldly.

Two Holy Armored Army soldiers stepped forward, hoisted the viscount up, and brought him before Old Morgan and the Archbishop.

"Viscount," the Archbishop’s voice lacked any warmth, "what was that thing in the underground vault?"

The viscount raised his head, looking at the Archbishop and Old Morgan. He remained silent for a moment before letting out a bitter laugh.

"I wanted to advance."

His voice was raspy, but he didn't flinch.

"The third rank... I’ve been stuck at the third rank for too long. A few months ago, someone contacted me as an Imperial secret envoy, saying the Empire had noticed my predicament and was willing to offer help."

The viscount paused and continued:

"He gave me a batch of advancement mediums and told me to use them according to a specific method."

"So you transported those things into the inner city?" Old Morgan said coldly.

"Yes," the viscount did not deny it. "I set up a magic circle in the underground vault and performed the ritual according to the method he gave me. But I didn't expect..."

He looked at the corroded ground on the City Hall square, a flash of lingering fear in his eyes.

"I didn't expect it would tear open a rift."

"And the secret letter?" the Archbishop asked.

"In a hidden compartment in my study," the viscount said frankly. "You can go and get it."

He took a deep breath, his expression becoming complex.

"To tell the truth... that letter was a fake. I knew it all along, and there was no useful information left on it."

"What?" The Archbishop narrowed his eyes.

"I’ve seen the Imperial seal too many times." The viscount wore a bitter smile. "The ink on that letter's seal was wrong; it was a forgery. I realized it the moment the items were delivered."

"Since you knew it was a fake, you still dared to use them?" Old Morgan’s voice turned cold.

"I was taking a gamble." The viscount fell silent for a moment, then raised his head, a flash of self-deprecation in his eyes.

"I thought that even if the letter was fake, those things might not necessarily be problematic. After all... to be able to obtain advancement mediums of this level, the other party must have had their own purposes."

"I figured if I was careful and set up protections, maybe I could take that next step."

"So you set up an isolating magic circle in the vault?" Old Morgan asked.

"Yes." The viscount simply nodded. "I specifically hired three inscription scholars and spent two months setting up multiple layers of protection. I thought those protections would be enough."

He lowered his head, his voice becoming weak.

"But I was wrong. The power of that thing far exceeded my estimates."

Old Morgan and the Archbishop exchanged a glance.

The viscount was no fool.

As a rank 3 transcendent and an Imperial God Chosen, he had his own judgment and had made corresponding preparations.

However, he had underestimated the methods of the Deep Sea Church and overestimated his own abilities.

The obsession with advancement had blinded him.

"Regardless." The viscount took a deep breath and stood straight. Though he was swaying, he maintained the dignity of a noble. "This matter is my fault. Because of my stupidity and greed, I almost killed so many people."

He looked at the Archbishop with a frank expression.

"I am willing to accept any punishment."

The Archbishop remained silent for a moment, just about to speak.

Old Morgan, however, asked first: "By the way, where is Dr. Brin?"

The viscount was slightly startled. "Brin?"

"The doctor who is quite famous in the inner city." Old Morgan stared at him. "Have you seen him recently?"

"No." The viscount frowned. "I haven't seen him for several days, actually. Why?"

The Archbishop looked at Old Morgan. "Is there something wrong with this person?"

"There might be." Old Morgan didn't explain further, turning to the Holy Armored Army soldiers nearby. "Go search Dr. Brin’s clinic and residence. If you find him, bring him to me immediately."

The soldiers took their orders and left.

The Archbishop glanced at Old Morgan but didn't press the matter. He turned back to the viscount:

"You are an Imperial noble and an Imperial God Chosen. According to Imperial regulations, I have no right to judge you. However, you will be placed under house arrest until the Empire’s people arrive to handle this."

He paused and then added, "The defense of the inner city will be taken over by the Church from now on."

The viscount nodded without objection.

"Take him away."

Two Holy Armored Army soldiers hoisted the viscount and led him away.

Old Morgan watched the viscount’s back disappear into the night and pulled out his pipe from his coat.

"What about the outer city?" the Archbishop asked.

"The priest of the Deep Sea Church has been killed." Old Morgan lit his pipe. "My people are clearing out the remnants. Casualties are not small, but it’s within a controllable range."

The Archbishop fell silent for a moment.

"Does this... count as our victory?"

Old Morgan took a deep puff of smoke, his gaze falling toward the distant sea.

The sky had already darkened, and thick dark clouds obscured the moonlight. The waves crashed against the reefs with a low roar.

"On the surface, yes."

He exhaled a cloud of smoke, an imperceptible trace of worry flashing in his clouded eyes.

"But I always feel like something isn't right."

The Archbishop glanced at him. "How so?"

"Think about it." Old Morgan tapped the ash from his pipe. "The Deep Sea Church has operated in Gelimu Port for so many years. They came out in full force tonight, and what happened?"

His gaze deepened.

"The priest in the outer city was killed by us, the anchor in the inner city was sealed by you, and the viscount was caught. All of their arrangements failed completely."

The Archbishop frowned. "You think it was too smooth?"

"Not too smooth." Old Morgan shook his head. "It’s that I haven't figured out what exactly they were trying to do."

He took a deep puff of smoke, his eyes growing profound.

"Look at what they did—contamination, spreading mutation, tearing open rifts... Their mouths cry out for their 'Mother,' but their hands are busy polluting the citizens and destroying the order of Gelimu Port."

"But what is the purpose of this destruction?"

Old Morgan looked at the Archbishop, confusion in his eyes.

"If it was just to kill people, they could have used much more covert methods."

"If it was for a sacrifice, tonight's scale was far from enough. If it was to summon something, that spine could only open a rift at most; it couldn't possibly summon a true entity."

He paused, his voice dropping lower.

"So I’ve been thinking, was this massive commotion tonight their actual goal, or was it... a smokescreen?"

The Archbishop’s expression shifted, clearly sharing a bad premonition.

"You mean tonight might just be a diversion?"

"I’m not sure." Old Morgan sighed. "But your Church should have records on the Deep Sea Church."

"They’ve operated in Gelimu Port for so many years; they couldn't possibly only have these few tricks. If they were wiped out tonight, would they really be content with that?"

The Archbishop did not answer.

He had read the Church’s records many times. The Deep Sea Church had existed for an extraordinarily long time and was defined as a general cult, but the danger they posed now clearly far exceeded the descriptions in those records.

Hopefully, it was just Old Morgan overthinking.

Neither of them spoke. Only the sea breeze whistled past, bringing with it bursts of salty, fishy air.

On the square, the Holy Armored Army began to clear the battlefield.

Soldiers carried away the corpses of the mutants, preparing for a centralized cremation.

Several wounded soldiers were sent to the nearby medical area for treatment, their low groans echoing in the night wind.

Just then, the soldiers who had been sent out earlier returned.

"Report!" the Holy Armored Army soldier said. "Dr. Brin’s clinic is closed, and there is no one at his residence. Neighbors say he hasn't been seen for three days."