Chapter 78: The Grave-Digging Archbishop

Upon the throne of thorns, a deep voice resounded.

“Reynold, you have proven your strength, but in doing so, you have also caused the death of Falianor.”

“Now you must fill the vacancy left by Falianor and become a loyal Inquisitor.”

Reynold was taken aback. Inquisitors, aside from their occasional duties, were required to stay constantly at the Holy King’s side, serving as elite guards bound by absolute loyalty.

Yet Reynold had once been a traitor to the Sacred Assembly. Now, upon his return, the Holy King placed him in such close proximity—was he not concerned about Reynold’s intentions?

As Reynold hesitated, Colonna, appearing unruffled, offered a quiet reminder at his side.

Reynold drew a deep breath and traced the sigil of penitence across his chest. “By the Holy King's grace, I obey your command.”

Lee Nanco looked toward the throne, where the vast shadow of the Thorn-Father eclipsed the withered figure, making it impossible to discern the Holy King’s face or expression.

“Knight Edward, as Reynold’s companion and retainer, you may serve as a candidate Inquisitor.”

“You and Reynold shall go together.”

Lee Nanco furrowed his brow, thoughtful.

The brief audience ended. Colonna led the two from the hall of audience.

“Archbishop, where are we going?” Reynold asked.

Colonna did not answer immediately; he merely quickened his pace down the church’s long corridor.

He led them down steps into the church’s undercroft, where no sunlight reached. Flickering candlelight hung from the walls, casting overlapping, mottled shadows. The air was thick with chill, sending a shiver down their spines.

“Did you not hear the Holy King’s command? I’m taking you to become loyal Inquisitors,” Colonna said, putting special emphasis on “loyal.”

The underground passageways were a tangled maze, each entrance guarded by soldiers of the Penitents’ Guard.

Colonna brought them before a metal door carved with the relief of the Father of Thorns. He knocked, and a hoarse voice called from within, “Enter.”

Reynold’s expression shifted instantly; he seemed about to speak, but Colonna had already pushed the door open.

Beyond lay a wide underground chamber lined with towering bookshelves. Dim lamps flickered, and a sharp, fetid stench hung in the air, as though countless ancient corpses lay rotting within.

A figure in a black robe sat at an oak desk, yellowed parchment scattered before him. His voluminous cloak concealed his form, his face shrouded in darkness beneath the hood.

The silhouette beneath the robe was not only unnaturally tall, but grotesquely twisted. The arm that emerged from the sleeve was withered, drained of flesh, as though only desiccated skin remained stretched over bone—like a root dried by the wind.

The black-robed man reached for a scroll, and from the sleeve, several shriveled arms could be glimpsed.

Colonna traced the penitence sigil on his chest and spoke with reverence. “Lord Melchiades, by the Holy King's command, I have brought these two who must become more loyal Inquisitors.”

The Nineteenth Benediction, Archbishop of Graves, Melchiades.

Years ago, the Penitents’ Guard had slaughtered heretics by the thousands, their corpses heaped into hills. Melchiades, a clergyman of the Church, had delved deeply into arcane rites and prayers. Surrounded by the dead, he became fascinated with forbidden knowledge—Death’s Invocation.

Through his study of countless heretical bodies, Melchiades gradually unraveled the secrets hidden between life and death. Yet as his research deepened, he soon met an insurmountable barrier.

At first, he experimented on captured heretics. But he came to understand: without experiencing it himself, he would never master Death’s Invocation.

Melchiades began grafting the limbs and flesh of dead heretics onto his own body, seeking to experience death. He failed; putrefying flesh infected him, his body rotting in constant agony.

Yet he also succeeded—for in his suffering, he prayed to the Great Presence, and the Benediction of Suffering descended. His own flesh fused with countless desiccated, rotting limbs. Wracked by unending torment, he finally mastered Death’s Invocation.

At the desk, Melchiades raised his head. Candlelight drove back the shadows, revealing a face beneath the hood as fearsome as a skull.

A hoarse voice broke the silence. “Where is Falianor’s corpse?”

“The Penitents’ Guard has been sent to retrieve it, but even if found, it will surely be incomplete.”

“No matter. Even as pulp, Falianor is of considerable value.”

Melchiades turned to address the two. “The Holy King’s will is absolute. You must become utterly loyal.”

“Fortunately, you have shown great strength. Now I offer you two choices.”

“First, surrender all resistance. I will allow you to retain some basic consciousness, making you the most loyal of Inquisitors.”

“Second, take up arms and resist, and then serve the Holy King as corpses.”

“After all, in this world, what is more loyal than a corpse under one’s command?”

Colonna echoed with a cold laugh. “The Holy King gave you a chance to leave, but you insisted on facing judgment and even slew Falianor.”

“Now, you must repay the Sacred Assembly’s loss with your lives.”

Standing at the doorway, Colonna clapped his hands, the sound echoing through the empty chamber.

Immediately, the rapid, synchronized tramp of boots rang out, accompanied by the metallic clamor of armor.

Heavily armed soldiers of the Penitents’ Guard surged in from every passage.

In moments, the armored warriors had encircled the chamber, forming an impenetrable wall of steel.

Cross-shaped swords glinted with cold light, and their icy armor reflected a chilling brilliance.

Their presence rendered the already grave atmosphere suffocating, as if every breath was drawn under the crushing weight of inescapable power.

Reynold clenched his jaw, his hand resting on the hilt of his wolf-headed greatsword, but his face betrayed a despair he could not suppress.

In such circumstances, the thought of reaching the cells to free Anya was unthinkable—survival itself was a distant hope.

Here stood not only the Sacred Assembly’s mightiest, the Archbishop of Graves, but also dozens of the most elite Penitents’ Guards.

Should they resist, nothing awaited them but the cold embrace of death.

Should they yield, they would become mindless hounds of the Assembly, stripped even of their will.

Reynold instinctively looked to Lee Nanco, only to find not a trace of fear or agitation in his companion’s expression, as though he was a stranger to terror.

Lee Nanco even managed a smile in that dire moment. “Reynold, are you ready to begin?”