Chapter 236: The Church of Dragonkind
Half a month had passed since the confrontation between the Nightblades and the royal family, when Wang Yu and the others made their escape from Aleisterre via a long-range teleportation array.
Since that night, neither the Nightblades nor the crown had made any overt moves. It was as if both sides had silently agreed to let this long-simmering conflict dissipate without another word.
But in truth, change was already taking place. Some of the Nightblades had chosen to leave the capital for other towns and provinces—places they deemed more worthy of protection than the capital itself.
With the departure of Sieg, Wang Yu, and Hugin, the Nightblades' special ops team was officially disbanded. The small team that had once shifted the tide of war between Aleisterre and Selwyn faded quietly into history.
Yet the dissolution of the special ops team did little to hinder Fang's plans.
In the days that followed, Father Fang reached out to the remaining devout of the Church of Nightfall who still dwelled in the capital's shadow. With the aid of the God of Light's resources, he offered these persecuted followers of the Lady of the Night a path out of the capital.
During that time, a quiet accord was struck between the Church of Nightfall and the Church of Light: the former would begin spreading their gospel throughout Aleisterre and even beyond its borders. Their collaboration with both the Church of Light and the Nightblades would continue.
With a growing number of new converts to the Lady of the Night, the Prayer Network steadily expanded, casting a web spun by three forces—a net that would one day stretch across the land.
The royal family refrained from taking further action against the Nightblades. They knew full well that the Nightblades were indispensable to the kingdom.
If even those sworn to defend the kingdom were to abandon it, no matter how firmly the royal family held onto power, Aleisterre would inevitably slide into decline.
After the incident, Edward and Charles were nominally appointed as leaders of the Nightblades. Further negotiations and restructuring remained ongoing, but one thing was clear—once this affair was fully settled, the relationship between the crown and the Nightblades would be irrevocably altered.
As for Wang Yu, Sieg, and Avia, the royal court wasted no time in branding them fugitives. The charges were grave: assault on the royal palace, disruption of the realm, and intent to harm high-ranking officials. A formal warrant was issued, absolute and uncompromising—citizen or foreigner, anyone who brought back the heads of these three fugitives would be handsomely rewarded by Aleisterre.
And the reward was no trifling matter—a noble title, a vast sum of gold, and, most enticing of all, a favor from the crown itself.
At present, such a favor all but guaranteed a fief in the lands of conquered Selwyn.
Though Selwyn was famously cold and harsh, the promise of land under their own control was a dream many had chased their whole lives.
Selwyn had brought about its own destruction, and Aleisterre merely reaped the spoils. None of the other human kingdoms on the continent could find fault in Aleisterre's annexation of Selwyn's lands.
After all, it was not Aleisterre who slaughtered Selwyn's people—it was Selwyn itself who had offered up its citizens in sacrifice to summon the God of Terror.
Though the other kingdoms looked on with envy, they could do little more than make token noise about Aleisterre's handling of Selwyn's surviving population, hoping to glean what little advantage they could.
But with the Church of Light entrenched in Aleisterre's court, even those murmurs were swiftly silenced. The Church of Light would ensure that such matters were handled, and handled well.
And so, peace returned once more to the kingdom of Aleisterre. Kingdoms, after all, had their own kind of resilience. No matter how fierce the storm, so long as their internal structures held, any wind would eventually pass, any wave eventually recede. In time, all things could be weathered.
Even the descent of a dragon upon the royal palace, surely a calamity by any measure, was now memorialized only in the form of a single wanted notice. It was prominently displayed and had attracted no small share of attention.
Within the royal palace, the Minister of Finance Bordeaux strode through the corridor, flanked by a procession of figures cloaked in gray. They were all hooded, their faces swallowed by darkness, their features indiscernible.
They differed in height and stature, but unified in their silence. Only the one leading the group exchanged words with Bordeaux.
"Your Excellency," said Bordeaux in a courtly tone, polite but not overly ingratiating, "the gift you've provided is proof enough of your sincerity. His Majesty will surely be open to discussion. After all, your goals and ours... align in more ways than one."
At Bordeaux's waist hung a small satchel, from which a faint glow seeped. It throbbed in a sedate rhythm, as though something living pulsed within—the very gift he was referring to.
"We did not come all this way to leave empty-handed," replied the leader of the graycloaks, voice ageless and genderless, neither young nor old. "This offering is merely an invitation. We ask in return that you show equal sincerity... and tell us what you know of the dragon. All else is secondary."
"But of course." Bordeaux nodded with a courteous smile. "You will not be disappointed."
With that, he pushed open the great doors ahead and bowed low as he entered the throne room of Donatien Charlemagne, king of Aleisterre. Behind him followed the graycloaked envoys.
The chamber was empty save for the throne—and the man upon it.
All but the lead envoy lowered their heads as they stepped within, seemingly involuntarily, as if the pressure emanating from the throne itself demanded their submission.
"Your Majesty," Bordeaux began, "the honored emissaries of the Church of Dragonkind have come bearing tribute."
He stepped forward and, with both hands, lifted the satchel from his belt and offered it up to the king.
Donatien Charlemagne took the bag without a word. He simply opened it, even before examining its contents for danger. A crimson radiance spilled forth, revealing the gift within: a heart.
It was a massive, throbbing heart, many times the size of a human's. Its surface was rough with keratinous growths, yet it beat with an uncanny vitality. Though long severed from its host, it pulsed with undiminished life.
"This is the heart of a young dragon on the cusp of maturity," explained the leader of the envoys. "Its vitality was preserved fully during its extraction. We hope this offering will meet with Your Majesty's approval."
Charlemagne's eyes narrowed slightly. "I thought the Church of Dragonkind revered dragons," he said, calm but cold. "And yet you bring me the heart of one as tribute?"
"Indeed, we do revere them," the graycloak replied evenly. "Our doctrine is to pursue, serve, and support true dragons. But just as in human kingdoms, not all dragons are alike.
"We venerate only those of true draconic blood—those who remain pure, ancient, and noble. To these we offer service and obedience, following their will as our sacred charge.
"But there are others, those who stray. Misguided, solitary, corrupted by pride or madness... Though they bear the blood, their apostasy is a sin. These are the dragons we are sworn to find and eliminate.
"We have come to Aleisterre upon hearing of a dragon's presence in your kingdom. We seek your aid, Your Majesty, in locating the dragon which has been recorded in our tomes."
"I see," murmured Charlemagne. "You must refer to Sieg Wilsbach. Bordeaux, see that these people are given a copy of his records."
"Your generosity is appreciated," the graycloak bowed. "Sieg Wilsbach... so that is the name he wears among men. But truthfully, he is not our true quarry. He is merely... a means to an end."
"Oh?" Charlemagne's tone remained flat, but a flicker of interest stirred in his eyes. "And what is it you truly seek?"
"A silver dragon," said the envoy. "One of staggering power. She is an utter heretic—unreachable, unrepentant, and dangerous beyond measure.
"She hides her tracks with uncanny skill. She has long thwarted the Church and sabotaged the work of the dragons we serve. Sieg Wilsbach is... connected to her. Through him, we hope to find her. Her name is Aurelian."
As he spoke, the envoy drew a crystal shard from within his robes and crushed it between his fingers. At once, a vivid image shimmered to life before them.
Thunderclouds roiled above a vast plain. Lightning slashed the heavens. A flight of dragons—black, red, blue, and white—chased a silver figure streaking across the sky, her wings aglow with magic, her speed blinding.
Their breaths came in unison: viridian flames of corrosion from the black dragon; searing red beams from the red; a tempest of lightning from the blue; and a howling blizzard of ice from the white.
The silver dragon darted between them, her agility astounding. In a flash, she pulled skyward, ascending beyond the reach of the black and white dragons' slower attacks.
Mid-flight, she twisted her body, magic gathering like a storm within her chest. A brilliant pulse lit her wings—then, a blinding white beam surged from her maw, colliding head-on with the converging attacks of red and blue.
The impact was cataclysmic. The plain below buckled under the shockwave. Earth split; trees and boulders were launched skyward in a storm of debris.
The image trembled, corrupted by the force it attempted to record. When it stabilized again, two dragons—red and blue—were falling, their massive bodies charred and broken, into the ravaged plain below.
A heartbeat later, the silver dragon dove down. She was no longer draconic, but human. She took the form of a silver-haired woman, her waist-length hair streaming behind her, her strength and speed magnified to the level of the divine.
She struck. A leg like polished marble slammed into the white dragon's throat, snapping its neck with a deafening crack. The beast fell, helpless.
The black dragon lunged at her back, its fangs wide and jaws poised to devour the woman who was barely a speck in comparison to the size of its body.
She vanished, then reappeared right before its eyes. A single small, human fist crashed into the dragon's head. The black dragon reeled, its eyes rolling back. It crumpled insensate.
In the span of mere moments, she had felled four dragons. Suspended high above the storm-wracked land, her silver hair and white garments billowing in the wind, she hovered unshaken, sovereign, and supreme.
The image froze on her face as she turned, her eyes meeting the viewer's. She was beautiful and bold, grim and glorious. Power incarnate.
"Those dragons must all have been legends..." Charlemagne muttered. Even he was unable to hide his awe. The scene played again in his mind, unbidden.
"At the time," the envoy said quietly, "over a dozen mature dragons encircled her. In the end, every pursuer perished. She vanished without a trace."
He took the documents from Bordeaux—records on Sieg—and tucked them away. He turned to leave. "With these records, we believe we will finally be able to find her."
"I recall that dragons haven't been seen on the continent for quite some time," Charlemagne remarked, just as the cultists were about to depart. "Sieg has already been in our kingdom for some time. Why didn't you make your move sooner?"
The leader of the envoys paused mid-step. After a moment's thought, he inclined his head slightly, a faint, ambiguous smile playing at his lips.
"This world is changing," he said. "Once, even heretics could find refuge upon this land. But now, any dragon that sets foot upon the continent beyond the Endless Sea is a heretic. It's time for a purge to begin."