Chapter Sixty-Six

The silver moon in the sky slowly faded away, and the new world entered its most peculiar state: the Temporal Realm.

There was no sun, no moon, no source of light, yet the entire world remained shrouded in a faint, inexplicable visibility.

At this moment, no law or instrument could detect the presence of light in this space.

In the heart of the garden, the summoning ritual was nearing its end. The silver that blanketed the ground glimmered softly, its volume visibly shrinking, while the intricate patterns engraved on its surface vanished.

Aimoea and the Mages’ Guild from the Hunters’ Association were busy with the final checks, inspecting every bar of inferior-grade mithril for any flaws, such as abnormal loss of spiritual energy.

“What a waste, such a terrible waste!” one elderly mage, his hair as white as snow, trembled as he stroked the mithril on the ground, his aged face twisted in a mask of anguish.

“Why couldn’t we have more time? If you’d given us just half a year, we could have transformed all this mithril into genuine, pure mithril!”

Until the ritual began, the mages refused to believe this was truly mithril. Now they were forced to accept the truth—this was indeed mithril! And in their hands, it had been reduced to mere consumables!

The thought alone made everyone’s hearts ache, their faces contorted with pain.

Although the mithril did not belong to them personally, it did not stop them from mourning the loss of such precious material. Mithril’s strict material requirements, elaborate rituals, and lengthy crafting process made it exceedingly rare, typically monopolized by the Church of Radiance and the Church of Night.

Only the chief deities of the blazing sun and silver moon could guarantee the stable production of mithril.

Standing at the center, Aimoea slowly opened her eyes, sweeping a disdainful gaze over the mages still wearing their masks of pain. She sneered, “Is it just a little mithril? Such country bumpkins—you’ve clearly never seen the world.”

The elven lady had evidently forgotten how, not long ago, she herself had worn that same mask of agony while trembling as she forged inferior mithril.

Outside the ritual grounds, Qin Le saw the smooth completion of the summoning and nodded in satisfaction.

Producing a hundred kilograms of mithril in six hours was an impressive feat. With the assistance of the other mages, Aimoea’s burden was markedly lighter, and there had been minimal loss or damage.

This batch of mithril would suffice for domestic research for some time, and the mithril bullets had almost all been expended—any remaining were nearly useless anyway.

Standing nearby, Roy watched the elven woman strut about the grounds with an ever-changing expression.

With the matter resolved, Roy led his mages away from the garden.

Qin Le, accompanied by his twin maids, returned to his chambers to rest, while Aimoea had disappeared long ago. The only ones still toiling were the corps of engineers.

…

At the heart of the royal palace, the King of Dawn sat upon his throne. Below him stood Sir Mark, Captain of the Royal Knights, and the leader of the Shadows, whose face was concealed by an iron mask.

The King of Dawn stared at the shadowy figure. “Do you believe she is the Night Church’s chosen?”

“Your Majesty, that is the only plausible explanation I can offer,” the captain replied in a deep voice. “Each time she teleports, we are unable to detect it. This suggests she is moving through the Otherworld, for only thus could she elude our sight.”

“There are only two kinds of people who can walk the Otherworld: heretics, and members of the Night Church. Since the Sword of Dawn showed no reaction to the elf named Aimoea, she cannot be a heretic. Furthermore, she has just received the Night Goddess’s blessing.”

The King of Dawn fell silent for a moment, then sighed deeply, his face shadowed with bitterness. “The Night Church… If I could avoid entangling with them, I would.”

The Night Church was said to be the most enigmatic order in the world. As one of the greatest orthodox churches, their movements were more elusive than any cult, and it was nearly impossible to contact them through normal means.

Rumor had it their Holy See was hidden deep within the Otherworld, suppressing countless heresies. Wherever the Night Church appeared, cults and horrific abominations were never far behind.

People feared the arrival of the Night Church, yet in times of calamity, they desperately wished for its intervention.

“Legendary High Humanity… the Night’s Chosen… What, in the end, do they want?”

…

Beneath the Sacred Light Cathedral, in a chapel with no visible entrance.

The time-worn stone walls bore indescribable, unseeable images, their surfaces scarred with mad scrawls and claw marks.

Rows of ancient wooden pews stood in solemn order, each occupied by a mysterious figure cloaked in black, heads bowed to conceal their faces.

Before them shone a blood-red, V-shaped sigil, its glaring light bathing every black-clad worshipper.

A figure in black knelt before the symbol, hands pressed together in a posture of fervent devotion.

It was impossible to say how much time had passed before the third figure from the left in the first row spoke, his voice hoarse and shrill: “The king still lives. We have failed. A plan centuries in the making—ruined.”

“Why? Why? Why?”

“We cannot have failed! Our king will rise again from the depths of ancient history!”

“We cannot accept defeat. Let us kill the king now, and restore the plan to its course!”

“Kill the king!”

Mad murmurs, questions, shouts, and silence rippled through the congregation, until the chapel echoed like an asylum for the deranged.

“Why did we fail?” asked the kneeling figure, their voice ambiguous as to gender or rank, as if questioning both the others and themselves.

Before the others could respond, the tall form spoke again, their voice still indistinguishable. “Because of the Grand Duke of the Eastern Marches, because of those suspected High Humanity. The Green Fiend disaster was resolved by them, and instead of scattering, all the powers of the Dawn Kingdom have gathered in the capital for the royal selection. The power of the script is immense, yet it has flaws. Whenever any factor beyond the script’s influence derails the plot, the entire play veers toward the unknown.”

The tall figure continued, answering their own question like one suffering from a split mind. “Why?”

“Because the script does not observe the real world, nor can it. She can only write through the Otherworld. The Grand Duke of the East does not exist within your world; he is the greatest uncertainty, and the chief reason for our failure.”

“Then let us go and kill this Grand Duke of the East!” someone below howled in madness.

The tall figure answered calmly, “With the Sword of Dawn present, we cannot kill the Grand Duke. And with the Night Church at his side, our success is even less likely.”

“Are we to give up, then? Our king awaits our call to awaken him. We cannot betray his hopes—not even at the cost of our lives!”

“I cannot accept this! I have killed my wife, my son, my daughter—all to awaken our king. Why, why? Was it not enough?”

The black-clad congregation erupted in turmoil; for them, failure was inconceivable.

At that moment, the kneeling figure slowly rose, spreading their arms wide.

“We have not failed. Our king shall return, treading over bones and blood, to reclaim his throne and restore his divine kingdom!”