Holy City.

Main Cathedral of the Life Church.

“Yellow-hair, haha, yellow-hair again!”

In the great hall, an elder in a luxurious purple robe—disheveled, his face ragged with beard—suddenly burst into a maniacal laugh. Then he smashed the crystal ball in his hand into shards.

“Haha! Every time I look, all I see is yellow hair! What the hell am I even watching for? What the hell kind of Grand Astrologer am I?! Bah! I quit, haha, I quit! I’m going back home to farm!”

Saying so, the old man ripped his splendid robe from his body and, ignoring the horrified gazes of the others in the hall, ran out naked, wiggling his rear as he went.

He ran so fast that even the Church knights outside had no time to stop him. In a streak of light, he shot across the sky like a meteor above the Holy City.

Within the hall, several bishops looked at each other in silence, their expressions like they had just stepped in dog droppings the moment they walked out their doors.

At length, someone broke the heavy silence, his tone strange:

“How many is this now?”

“Three, I think.”

“That yellow-hair... is truly that terrifying?”

“Unclear. But to disturb fate to such a degree—utterly unheard of.”

“Shall we try to find him?”

“There are countless yellow-hairs in the world. How do you find one? We can’t just round them all up, can we?”

“True enough. But still... it’s stuck in my throat.”

“Perhaps we should issue—”

“A vague, ethereal prophecy—why should it leave you all so rattled?”

At that moment, a calm voice sounded from the highest seat in the hall.

The tone bore the authority of one who ruled from on high, yet strangely carried a warmth like spring sunlight.

At once, the murmurs in the hall ceased.

“Your Holiness the Pope.” All bowed deeply.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Amid their solemnity, the sound of a staff striking the floor rang out. An elder in a robe of pure white descended from the dais.

His hair and beard were snow-white, longer than those of any bishop present. Yet his face was as ruddy and smooth as an infant’s, only the ancient eyes—brimming with boundless holy light—betraying the traces carved by time.

The Life Church.

Its Pope—Hezekiah.

“Fate has ever been elusive. Obsess too much over its signs, and you will stumble into ruin with no way back. Better instead to follow its flow, and do what we must.”

“We are instructed.”

“Then return to your stations. The time is near.”

“Yes.”

The bishops soon departed, leaving only the Pope, who lifted his gaze to the countless stars above the dome.

His eyes flickered with their light, as if calculating something.

“Ul’rons.”

Hezekiah’s voice was quiet.

“Present,” came an ethereal reply, with no telling where it arose from.

“Begin.”

“Yes.”

At once, the earth roared.

The sound like ten thousand thunders shook the cathedral as golden light erupted from beneath the ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) Pope’s feet, shooting up as a radiant pillar that pierced heaven and earth.

In the Holy City, countless believers lifted their heads, awe and fanaticism dawning across their faces. Then, like a tide, they dropped to their knees, hands clasped, praying with reverence.

Bathing in the purity of their faith, Hezekiah tapped his staff once. From the golden radiance rose a vast door.

On its surface were carved winged angels, laughing children, and the God-blessed land of milk and honey.

He stepped through.

In an instant, the world changed.

No longer the holy cathedral, he now stood in the boundless heights above.

The sky dimmed.

A barely visible transparent film split the endless firmament in two.

Below—thin clouds, raging gales, and a faint dawn.

Above—absolute void.

Hezekiah clasped his hands behind him, gazing silently into that void.

After a time, three figures approached from the horizon: a crow, a white dove, and—absurdly—a mangy rat, flailing its limbs like it was swimming through the air.

“Shit, the old bastard got here fast!” The rat blinked at Hezekiah, blurting without thinking.

Hezekiah cast them a glance, waving a hand casually.

“Run along, little ones. Don’t get in my way.”

“Is this your house?”

The crow snapped angrily.

“Why should we leave just because you say so?”

“Because... I am the old bastard you just called me.”

Without looking back, Hezekiah’s tone was mild:

“Is that reason enough?”

The crow froze.

Hezekiah—one of the few peak powers of the continent, over four centuries old—certainly had the right to lord his age.

Not to mention, he was Pope of the Life Church. To call them “little ones” was almost grandfatherly.

The crow’s gaze flicked aside—where the rat had already bolted far away on its stubby legs, and the dove had vanished entirely.

Cowardly bastards.

The crow’s beak twitched, muttering:

“So what if he was born a little earlier... what’s there to be smug about!”

Flapping its wings, it too departed, leaving the best vantage spot behind.

Hezekiah paid no mind, continuing to stare into the void.

By seniority, by strength, by station—this was where he belonged.

He had long been accustomed to standing at the very front.

But suddenly, his brows furrowed.

Space warped to the side.

From it stepped... a white-haired little girl.

She wore a pink nightgown, looking freshly woken, eyes still heavy with sleep.

Rubbing at the corner of her eye, her amber-red pupils hazy, she glanced at Hezekiah, pouted, and said:

“Little brat, move aside. Don’t block me.”

Hezekiah: “...”

Why did those words sound so familiar?

“Meladomir.”

Hezekiah’s expression grew grave as he fixed on her.

“I was here first.”

“I know.”

Meladomir yawned and stretched, utterly unconcerned.

“Don’t you know to respect your elders? And you—some snot-nosed brat who hasn’t even grown hair properly yet—what are you standing so close for? Didn’t your mother teach you, when you watch a show, you keep your distance? Otherwise, if you get caught in the splash, you’ll be crying.”

Hasn’t even grown hair properly...

Hezekiah’s hand instinctively brushed the beard flowing nearly to his chest.

And yet—he couldn’t retort.

He sighed. “Projection?”

“What, because I’m not here in person, you think you can bully me?”

Meladomir waved her tiny fist fiercely.

“Go ahead, try hitting me! The moment you do, I’ll— I’ll just flop on the ground and play dead, and you’ll never hear the end of it!”

...Were these truly words a millennia-old Archmage should say?

“...”

Hezekiah sighed again. “Ul’rons.”

“Present.” The unseen voice echoed once more.

“Find me another location.”

“Yes.”

Golden light fell again, shaping a simple door.

Hezekiah stepped through, vanishing.

Once he was gone, Meladomir’s expression instantly sharpened.

“Ul’rons? Just from a short nap, and the Sanctuary’s already evolved to this level? A thousand years of Church accumulation is nothing to scoff at.”

Her crimson eyes narrowed, as if feeling something out.

“So that’s how it is. Using living souls to lever the authority of dead things, then fueling it with the faith of the goddess’s believers, to pay the cost.

A genius trick, one not unlike my own. Truly, Hezekiah... you are not to be underestimated.”