The limousine glided silently over the highway, leaving the smog of Zonia behind like a bad memory.
We had been traveling for three hours. The landscape had shifted from industrial grey to a manicured, almost aggressive green. Here, the sky was not the color of bruised iron; it was a pale, sanitized blue.
"The air is cleaner," I noted, watching the horizon.
"It is filtered, My Lord," Malakor explained from the opposite seat. "The Holy City maintains a localized atmospheric shield. Pollution is... discouraged."
Ahead, the destination emerged from the mist.
The Holy City.
It was not a metropolis like Zonia.
White stone buildings rose in perfect geometric harmony, arranged in concentric circles around a central point. There were no neon signs here. No holographic advertisements. Only gold, marble, and the crushing weight of history.
At the center, dominating the skyline like a mountain of carved bone, stood a Grand Cathedral.
Its spires pierced the clouds. Its flying buttresses were not just architectural supports; they were sculptures of angels holding up the heavens.
"That... is St. Sophinear Cathedral! Magnificent," Malakor whispered, his voice trembling with a mix of awe and fear. "St. Sophinear... the First Prophet. He brought the First Name to humanity twelve thousand years ago."
"He is called a Saint," I corrected. "Not a Prophet."
"Yes... the Church prefers the term Saint. It implies... subordination to the Creator Deity."
"Mortals are really interested in worshiping their bored God, aren't they?" I said.
"Bored...? My Lord?"
"And that?" I asked, changing the subject.
I looked past the white splendor. Far to the east, isolated on a jagged cliff overlooking the sea, stood a smaller structure.
It was dark grey. Brutalist. A fortress of jagged obsidian that seemed to absorb the light around it.
"The Church of the Eternal Lens," Malakor said, his voice dropping. "The Inquisition's headquarters. They are... a branch. They deal with the things the main Cathedral prefers not to see."
Beside me, Kael stiffened.
He was staring at the grey fortress. His pupils contracted. His hands, resting on his knees, curled into fists so tight the leather of his gloves creaked.
"My world..." Kael whispered. "For years. In the dark."
A trace of genuine fear—a child's fear—flickered in his eyes.
I ignored it.
"Explain the theology," I commanded Malakor. "If I am to walk among wolves, I need to know their scent."
Malakor tore his eyes away from the window.
"Yes, My Lord."
He cleared his throat.
"The global faith is monotheistic. Every human on the globe—except for heretical cults like my former Order—believes in only one God. The Creator Deity. Linear."
I nodded. "Go on."
"They acknowledge other entities exist. The God of Time. The God of Life. The Prince of the Abyss."
He hesitated, sweating.
"But they are not called 'God' with a capital G. They are 'gods'. Lowercase. Primordial Entities. Semi-divine."
"And worshiping them?"
"Blasphemy," Malakor said. "Punishable by death. That is why the Inquisitors attacked us. Worship is a resource, My Lord. The Church claims a monopoly on it for the Creator."
He wiped his forehead.
"The Church... they likely classify you as a Primordial Entity. A 'god'. Powerful, ancient, but... not Him."
I hummed with satisfaction.
"Good. Let them think I am a Primordial. It explains the power without revealing the Authority."
"My Lord?"
"Continue. The politics."
Malakor opened his mouth, but he faltered. He was a priest of the underground; he knew dogma, not governance.
"The Church..."
"The Church of Linear is a co-ruler," Kael interrupted.
His voice was smooth again, the fear locked away behind his mechanical persona. He sat exactly 0.5 meters away from me—the new calibrated distance.
"The Pope can unilaterally veto the Emperor's decrees," Kael recited, as if reading from a manual. "But the Emperor cannot veto the Pope."
I looked at him. "A one-way check?"
"Yes. However, the Pope is not absolute. The Council of Cardinals can veto the Pope by a majority vote. And since any citizen—even a commoner—can rise to become a Bishop or Cardinal, the Church acts as the 'Voice of the People'."
"It balances the Nobility," I analyzed.
"Correct. The Imperial Family rules the globe. They control the Seven Continents through the Seven Royal Families. But they cannot crush the populace because the populace controls the Church."
"Two leviathans," I mused. "Locked in a stalemate."
"Enough," I said.
I waved my hand.
"Social classes. Hierarchies. It is boring. It is just monkeys fighting over the biggest branch."
I looked out the window.
We had entered the city limits.
It was Monday, 3:00 PM. The time of the Great Sermon.
The main boulevard leading to the Cathedral was not a road; it was a river of humanity. Millions of people packed the street, a sea of heads bowing in prayer. The sound of their chanting vibrated through the chassis of the car.
"We cannot drive through this," the driver announced over the intercom. "The crowd is too dense. We must park at the gate and-"
"No," I commanded.
I pressed the intercom button.
"Fly over them. Land in front of the Cathedral stairs."
"Sir? There is no landing zone. There are people-"
"Create a zone," I said. "Descend. They will move."
The driver hesitated, then obeyed.
The limousine rose on its anti-grav plates, humming loudly. We drifted over the heads of the millions.
Then, we dropped.
The driver brought the heavy vehicle down aggressively toward the packed square in front of the Cathedral stairs.
Shadow fell over the crowd. People looked up. Screams erupted.
"Move! Move!"
The sea of humanity parted in a wave of terrified panic. They pushed, shoved, and trampled each other to escape the crushing weight of the descending black metal.
We landed with a heavy thud on the pristine white stones.
Silence fell over the square. Millions of eyes stared at the audacious black vehicle that had dared to interrupt the Sermon.
The door opened.
Malakor stepped out first, his robes billowing. Then Kael.
Kael opened my door. He pushed a few stunned worshipers back with a glare that froze their blood.
I stepped out.
The air smelled of ozone and fear.
I adjusted my gold-embroidered cuffs. I leaned on my black cane.
Ahead, the massive bronze doors of the Cathedral were guarded by twelve Paladins in full white plate armor. They lowered their halberds, blocking the path.
"Halt!" the Captain of the Guard bellowed. "Identify yourself! You have disrupted the-"
Malakor stepped forward.
He didn't cringe. He remembered the wine glass. He looked at the Captain's forehead.
"Make way," Malakor announced, his voice amplified by the acoustics of the square.
"Make way for the Master of the Divine Archives! Returned from the Silence!"
The crowd gasped. A ripple of whispers spread like wildfire.
"The Archives? He is back?"
"Look at the gold... the cane... that is the man Valerian spoke of..."
"The Prince's Mentor..."
The Captain hesitated. He looked at my attire. He felt the cold, heavy pressure of my presence.
He raised his halberd.
"Pass," he said, bowing his head.
We walked up the stairs.
The interior of St. Sophinear Cathedral was a universe of colored glass and incense. The nave was so large it had its own weather system; mist clung to the vaulted ceiling.
Thousands of nobles sat in the front rows—the VIPs.
I scanned the sea of velvet and silk.
There.
In the front row, Prince Valerian stood. He was waving his hand, grinning, inviting us to the empty seats beside him.
Beside him stood a boy.
Victor Eontire. The Prince's younger brother. Perhaps fifteen years old. He had soft features and wide, innocent eyes.
We approached.
Valerian bowed slightly. "Father. You made an entrance."
But before I could reply, the boy, Victor, moved.
He didn't bow. He didn't offer a hand.
He jumped.
He bypassed the Royal Guards. He bypassed Kael.
He threw his arms around my waist and hugged me tight.
"Father Mollian!!!"
His voice was a squeal of pure, unadulterated joy.
"You're back! I missed you so much!"
He buried his face in my expensive suit.
"You promised! You promised you'd bring me a souvenir from the Secret Lands!"
I froze.
My arms hovered in the air, stiff as boards. Physical contact. Unsolicited. Inefficient.
I looked at Valerian.
The Prince looked confused. His smile faltered. He remembered me as the man who said tears were saltwater. He remembered a cold, strict genius.
"Victor?" Valerian asked, frowning. "Since when are you... affectionate with the Father?"
Victor looked up, beaming.
"What do you mean, Valerian? Father Mollian used to read me bedtime stories! He's the nicest priest in the world!"
I stared at the boy.
The Law of Probability had patched the timeline.
But in its haste to fill the gaps, it had given the two brothers contradictory memories. To Valerian, I was a cold mentor. To Victor, I was a kind grandfather.
I stood there, stiff and awkward, hugged by a Prince in front of a million people, trapped in a paradox of my own making.
"This," I whispered to myself, "is going to be complicated."