Chapter Fifty-Two: Old Illness Persists – New Fire Arises (Part Two)
What a sight!
The war chariot, glowing a fiery red like the sunset, galloped into view, propelled by a sturdy brown beast charging out of the grassland from the west flank of the mountain. Far in the distance, it approached against the dawn, and Sharman’s pupils constricted for a brief moment. Instinctively, she stepped closer to the window, pushed it wide open, and focused her gaze on the flashy chariot, quickly spotting the flag fluttering atop.
It depicted a blazing meteor.
The war chariot soon halted near the rice fields, and it was at that moment Sharman realized that the old man busy in the fields had mysteriously vanished without a trace. Yet, she could faintly hear some noises from below the wooden house, mingled with muffled voices, but she couldn’t quite make out what was said.
Meanwhile, as the chariot came to a stop, a man in white clothes and a white top hat gracefully dismounted from the beast, striding to the side of the carriage, lifting the curtain, and bowing his head respectfully.
Then, someone emerged from the carriage.
A well-dressed and elegantly confident woman stepped down, likely around fifty, exuding an air of refinement. She wore a slightly androgynous, black suit with golden winged lapels, a red bow tie, and sharply pressed black trousers, with no wrinkles to be found. Her black top hat, also bearing a masculine design, was beautifully adorned with fiery red satin flowers. At the moment she emerged from the chariot, standing under the sun, her age seemed irrelevant: even the surrounding scenery seemed to pale in comparison.
Sharman noticed that the woman stood staunchly in the breeze, though her right hand leaned on a peculiar black cane. This was no ordinary cane meant for the feeble; after adjusting her hat, she strode toward the wooden house gracefully, appearing far from disabled. She knew that such canes, known around the northern parts of Ethanbel as “Civilized Sticks,” were symbols of decorum and status for gentlemen.
But those details didn’t matter right now.
With a flicker of recognition, Sharman recalled that cane.
“Moon Blade, Midnight Ceremony…”
She couldn’t help but murmur, her eyes glued to the elegant woman’s figure as she associated it with that formidable and indestructible weapon crafted in the central workshop and its current owner’s name.
“…Meteor Shower, Magipani Holjones.”
Magipani Holjones, whose reputation once soared as “Second to None,” was a powerful Pope Knight, only second to Sword Saint Ryan in terms of overall prowess. Rumor had it that she was as moody as she was combative, and in her youth, she loved challenging other famous Pope Knights. By twenty-four, she had become unbeatable among her peers, and by twenty-six, she casually triumphed over the elder, Canglan Butterfly Apheir.
She spent nearly a decade challenging and defeating sixteen Pope Knights and slaying four Abyss Beasts, only to tumble down when facing the Sword Saint Old Man at thirty-four. After that defeat, although people hailed her as “Second to None,” one could well imagine that such a title felt more like a curse than a compliment. She vanished from public life thereafter.
The head maid recognized her at once upon seeing the cane but hadn’t expected this reclusive powerhouse, rumored to have two children, to appear at this moment…
And with her arrival, Sharman’s heart lifted slightly.
Since she had come here, it meant—
Sharman couldn’t help but sigh softly. After Magipani arrived, someone from the wooden house stepped out to greet her—none other than Cardinal St. George, now casually dressed in simple cloth attire after some tidying-up. The old man’s demeanor was relaxed, smiling like an old friend or a familiar elder, nodding cheerfully, while Magipani removed her hat and bowed earnestly.
They exchanged a few words, but due to the distance and a sudden gust of wind, Sharman couldn’t hear them clearly. She noticed they didn’t enter the wooden house; the old man patted Magipani on the shoulder and brought her to the edge of the fields, likely showing off his hard-earned work. Meanwhile, over in the house, the elder’s steward ordered the maids to bring out some tables and chairs.
…So, Meteor Shower is the person both Her Majesty the Queen and Cardinal St. George have been waiting for?
Sharman frowned involuntarily.
No, that doesn’t add up…
She watched as the servants set a large round table outside amidst the flowers, continuously adding chairs—three, six, ten… The table was big enough, but the number of chairs kept increasing. The maids hurried about, not only arranging seats but also serving various snacks and warm red tea.
Clearly, this preparation wasn’t just for one person’s arrival…
Not long after, another war chariot rolled up, confirming Sharman’s guess.
As Cardinal St. George and Meteor Shower took their seats at the round table for tea and chit-chat, a second pitch-black war chariot arrived from the foothills. It looked like a rental from Lagomus City, rather ordinary and unremarkable; however, when the carriage stopped, the person who stepped down was once again a shock to Sharman.
“Archbishop Pius Hurlington… Why is he here too?”
It was well known that there were two prominent archbishops in the Holy Church renowned across the Western Continent, contenders for the next cardinal. In terms of accomplishments and faith power, they rivaled the current cardinal. One was Archbishop Anseier, and the other—the man who walked into Sharman’s view, shedding his clerical robes for simple attire—was Pius Hurlington.
Compared to Anseier, this cardinal candidate looked much younger, said to be only thirty-six years old but poised to ascend to cardinal before turning forty, especially after Cardinal Nero returned to the embrace of the Deity. Pius might become the youngest cardinal in the church’s history, with his popularity among the people subtly surpassing Anseier’s in recent years, yet here he was at the church’s infamous den of sinners. Sharman clearly understood the implications of this…
But the unfolding events took her further by surprise.
As noon approached, a third war chariot appeared, also black and rented. Unlike the previous two, this one had a group of about a dozen riders behind it. They were cloaked figures, and while Sharman couldn’t discern their identities, the two swords they carried hinted at a connection to the underground prison…
The riders stopped at a distance from the wooden house, seemingly intending to camp there, while the leading war chariot pulled up to a shed next to the house, not far from the other chariots. Sharman observed a man in heavy armor step down, well over forty, sporting a fierce look and a long scar that stretched from his mouth to his right ear.
Sharman didn’t recognize him.
But the golden claw emblem on his chest hinted that he was someone with authority in the underground prison… Upon arrival, he let out a hearty laugh and unceremoniously dragged a chair next to St. George, sitting down and bellowing, loud enough for everyone in the house to hear: “Hey! Is this all we’ve got? Old George, this hardly sets the stage for anything big…”
Soon after, someone downstairs said something, and laughter erupted among the group.
As dusk approached, the fourth war chariot arrived.
At this point, the earlier attendees had already vacated the round table. Perhaps the burly man from the underground prison had shed his armor, joining the elder to work in the rice fields again. Magipani was nowhere to be found, reportedly off in search of some game for dinner, while Archbishop Pius, weary from the long journey, rested inside with a book, looking quite gentle.
In the makeshift camp on the distant lawn, a bonfire had been lit, and raucous voices could be heard from far away. Alone in her quarters, Sharman felt the tranquility of this secluded piece of land turn tumultuous, unsettling her mind.
Just then, she caught sight of the fourth war chariot’s arrival out the window.
The green-and-white carriage, with wooden, flower-carved wheels, didn’t appear to fit the Ethanbel style and most likely came from Silgaya. Driving was a young woman, dressed plainly as if disguised, exuding an unmistakable aura of sanctity.
Another church member… Sharman mused, then saw a figure with water-blue, shoulder-length hair step down from the carriage.
“…Huff.”
She inhaled deeply, trying to quell the tempest within.
It was none other than Saint Margaret…
The dim yellow sunlight was fading, and while the outside light grew murky, even just by that iconic hair color, Sharman didn’t need to confirm the face—Saint Margaret was unmistakable.
However, this time, instead of being accompanied by the usual stern-faced Saintess Class in pristine white robes, she was flanked by a few riders in war chariots, their faces completely hidden under cloaks, wearing bizarre masks resembling owls, wolves, or bears.
Sharman instinctively grew wary of those who hid their identities, lurking in the shadows.
Not typical of the church…
Who are those people…?
“Owls.”
Suddenly, the voice of Her Majesty the Queen rang out from behind her.
“They are the Owls, the Holy Church’s highest enforcement agency. They never operate in the open.”
Sharman whipped around, startled; she hadn’t noticed when Her Majesty entered the room. Since lunch, the Queen had placed her in a room arranged for her on the third floor under St. George’s care, without summoning Sharman to join her again, leaving her to feel the ominous atmosphere that had brewed in this remote speck of land.
Now, she noticed that Her Majesty had changed out of her earlier relaxed attire, donning a gown that was not overly extravagant but still radiant, hair elegantly piled up, her face still bare of makeup. Sharman couldn’t help but stare in awe at her breathtaking beauty—being the Queen’s personal maid, she was even unaware of when this dress was changed.
“…Your Majesty.”
Sharman struggled to cast aside her myriad thoughts, bowing her head once more in the presence of her Queen.
“Alright, it seems people have gathered.”
She heard the Queen’s voice, indifferent yet melodic, followed by a pair of hands resting on her shoulders: “Let’s go. You and I will head down to meet them.”
In that moment, she roughly guessed what Her Majesty intended to do.
Her whole body trembled slightly in anticipation.
