While My Mage Wife Grinds, I Power Up Idly-Chapter 51: This Is Not the Reason I Wanted

"Eh?"

The two of them gaped in stunned silence for a full minute.

They were even wondering whether this young Bishop was so inexperienced that he’d forgotten the part about kissing the right hand.

After all, even they, as foreigners, knew the rules of the Holy Cultivator Guild. In the Holy Cultivator Guild, the right hand is considered sacred, and kissing it carries a specific theological symbolism: it expresses respect and reverence for the ecclesiastical authority and divine power that the Bishop represents.

"Never fail to show reverence to the divine"—he had said those words himself.

Just at that moment—

Ashu’s gaze, cast down upon them, flickered with a barely concealed mockery.

"That will do. Rise. My god has already perceived your devotion."

At those words,

Vikrant’s lip twitched. As the Commander’s younger brother, he had often been put in his place throughout his life. Within his own country, he’d been crushed under the heel of the powerful more than once. Within his own Legion, he’d been scolded by his brother from time to time.

But he had never, never been humiliated inside his own nation’s churches. The clergy there would never treat him this way—because he was a faithful Devotee of the "God of Deceit."

The gods would not make life difficult for a devoted follower; that was the very least the doctrine promised.

Yet here, in this place and in this moment, though he had already knelt before the opposing god, the Bishop who embodied that god had chosen to toy with him.

To toy with others—that was the privilege of a Devotee of the God of Deceit alone.

"Bishop." Vikrant clenched his jaw, swallowing his anger. He was still unaware of his brother’s fate. "We have shown our respect. As you said, may we now proceed to the formal discussion?"

Ashu smiled faintly. "Before we begin the formal talks, I must lay down three preliminary rules."

"What?" The younger fellow, Shaan, snapped. "We’ve done it already—what more do you want? Tell me, my—"

Shaan’s words died on his lips as his uncle Vikrant interrupted, arm sweeping out to block Shaan’s chest.

He shot Shaan a warning glance, then turned back to the Bishop. "Please, Bishop, proceed."

Ashu watched their reactions and had already pieced together most of the situation.

Their initial request for this meeting stemmed from a missing Commander.

That Commander was now reduced to nothing but bones and dust—but before he died, Ashu had observed him briefly and retained a clear impression of his features.

If that young man had grown a bushy beard, he would have been the spitting image of the fallen Commander. He must be his son.

The older, middle-aged man—who appeared to be orchestrating this meeting—shared only the upper half of his face with the Commander; his lower half was sharper, more angular. He must be a blood relative, too.

It was natural for a son to worry when he couldn’t find his father. It was also understandable for a younger brother to be anxious when his elder went missing. But the expression on this man’s face did not speak of simple filial worry. Yes, he was anxious—but perhaps his mind was occupied by something else entirely.

"First, I am the Bishop of the Holy Cultivator Guild branch in the town of Riven. Our discussion should center on matters of faith. Second, before I became a Bishop, I was a humble farmer—feel free to ask me anything about agriculture, and I promise to answer without reservation. Third, we must discuss the reasons your Legion operates within the territory of my faith." Ashu spoke slowly.

Young Shaan’s blood boiled at these three stipulations. Their original request for this meeting had been solely to find their missing Commander—their father. Yet not a single one of the Bishop’s three conditions mentioned him.

"Very well. Let us begin." Before Shaan could erupt, Vikrant made a polite gesture, inviting Ashu aside for a word.

Shaan watched his uncle in confusion. From the side, he could just make out the three crow’s feet crinkling at the corner of Vikrant’s eye—an expression he could not decipher.

He didn’t know what to say.

Vikrant, however, dove straight in. "Bishop, regarding faith, I see no need for us to dig too deeply. I worship my god, I respect yours—that should suffice, yes? As for agriculture, I have no questions. Let us then address the third point: why my Legion operates in your lands."

Ashu nodded. "Speak honestly."

"I am Vikrant, Vice-Commander of the Seventy-Two Legion of the Kingdom of Ankgarde. My Legion, acting as a diplomatic envoy with the King’s permission, resides here under the freedom to move as we please." Vikrant spoke confidently and even produced the appropriate documentation.

But Ashu didn’t glance at the papers. He simply said, "That is not the reason I wanted."

At that, Vikrant’s hand froze midway, the document hovering in midair. He had pulled out the evidence with such assurance—only to find his neatly printed endorsement close to worthless.

"What do you mean?" he asked, bewildered. "Bishop?"

"I said, that is not the reason I wanted."

Silently, Vikrant slipped the papers back into his tunic. He now understood: Ashu had no intention of making things easy. The documents were secondary—just like their earlier display of reverence. He was simply toying with them.

Should he cut to the chase and turn hostile?

Of course not.

At this point, he dared not lay a hand on a Branch Bishop of the Holy Cultivator Guild. Any show of force would spark an international incident.

What was he? Merely a Vice-Commander of a Legion.

And what was the state of his kingdom? The Queen’s Faction and the Duke’s Faction were locked in a power struggle—whoever triggered war would bear the stain of treason.

If he instigated conflict today, would the powerful Duke back him and risk fallout, or cast him aside as a sacrificial pawn?

Clearly, he and his entire Legion would be branded heretics and executed.

Yet the situation was not entirely static.

He dared not act today, but that didn’t mean no one present would. His hotheaded nephew Shaan, once pushed beyond reason, would strike without hesitation.

The moment Shaan attacked, Vikrant could sever all family ties at lightning speed—and in doing so, ascend from Vice-Commander to Commander of the Seventy-Two Legion.

So he spoke up: "Bishop, it seems the justification we brought isn’t quite sufficient. We’ll have to come back another time. Shaan, let’s go."

"Go back?!" Shaan’s eyes widened in disbelief. This wasn’t how it was supposed to end! How could they just leave so easily? His normally formidable uncle was acting like a wilted squash. And what of his father—what would become of him?

In his panic, Shaan whipped free the hunter’s longwhip at his waist. "Cut the riddles. Either you hand over my father today, or our Legion will flatten this place! That’s the Kingdom of Ankgarde’s reason—satisfied!?"

Witnessing the scene, Vikrant’s mind made up: he’d achieved exactly the outcome he wanted without expending much effort.

The command of the Legion beckoned him.

Ashu stood upon the dais, looking down at the two of them. In his world, an elder kept a younger in check—and when that restraint vanished, one could expect blood to flow.

Within these hallowed walls of the Holy Cultivator Guild’s church, no one dared harm a "luminous saint." From top to bottom, Ashu’s defenses remained unbreachable.

Today, he intended to end them.

Those two corpses in the crypt below could never be explained away with mere words. And he was furious that they treated him like a bargaining chip to haggle over.

"Child," Ashu said as he summoned the power of his god, "you must understand: this is the Holy Land of my god. Any who violate it will face swift and severe punishment."

"To hell with your Holy Land!"

Shaan’s anger flared like a blazing crown, his Magical Essence erupting around him as he swung his whip down at Ashu.

But—

A divine golden barrier enveloped Ashu. Not the slightest attack could breach it.

Shaan froze. After all, this was the first time in his life he’d dared strike a Bishop inside a church—in his homeland or any foreign land.

He’d always thought Bishops were idle poets and weaklings—nothing compared to the warriors of his Legion.

If anyone warranted caution, shouldn’t it be the Paladins sworn to the church?

His plan had been simple: beat Ashu into submission, arrest him as a hostage, then swap hostages—free his father, and make a swift retreat with his Legion.

"Unfortunately, plans cannot keep pace with change.

The moment the sacred golden ward flickered out, the entire cathedral dome erupted in savage arcs of lightning.

Shaan looked up in horror. What he saw was not the ornate, lofty ceiling of an ordinary church, but a roiling, tumbling sea of thunderous energy.

"This... how is this possible?" Shaan could scarcely believe it. Such a massive storm could obliterate the entire cathedral—wouldn’t it?

A Bishop daring to unleash total annihilation?

He had no time to ponder further. He stumbled backward and shouted toward where his uncle Vikrant had been standing, "Uncle, run!"

But as the words left his mouth, his eyes caught the now-empty space where Vikrant had stood.

"What?!"

He could not believe it—his very blood, his uncle, had abandoned him.

Amid the tempest of thunderbolts, Shaan’s legs gave out and he collapsed into the front pew.

As he struggled to rise, a golden thunderbolt filled his vision, growing enormous in his widening pupils.

"BOOM—!"

A deafening roar echoed through the nave, followed instantly by a second, a third, a fourth bolt...

Ashu treated it all as nothing more than practice to refine his skills. Trapped inside the cathedral anyway, with perfect targets delivered to his hand, how could he not unleash a few more strikes to hone his touch?