Alongside the typical precious metals, there were massive piles of coins made of metals he had only known as pure fiction: mithril, orichalcum, Unobtanium, and various others. He touched each new metal, and the knowledge granted by the Voice of the World instantly defined its properties and value.
In the center of the piles was a raised, circular platform, about four feet above the ground. It featured the exact seven-pointed crest that was on his chest and the patch of grass he first woke up in. This time, however, each of the seven points was colored, representing a hue of the rainbow. The center was pure white, where the colors converged.
Embedded upright in the white center was a large, crimson-red stone slab with silver words carved into it. Alex approached it but stopped himself, forcing his hand away.
“Is it safe to touch?” he asked the voice.
He waited, realizing the voice remained silent while he was within the temple. “It is really a useless ability,” he muttered, referencing the skill’s temporary restriction.
Then, he touched the tablet anyway. A month ago, his brain was so shattered he'd committed suicide. Compared to being accused of the death of thousands, dying here was heaven.
The crimson tablet read:
For anyone who is reading this note. Congratulations on clearing the dungeon. The last trial will be arriving soon. If you clear it, you will be awarded this dimensional space that holds this church. If you make it out, I have a request for you. Please find the man named Stalin Aterous and tell him that I have forgiven him, and he can return.
– DEUS ETERNA
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The instant his hand left the tablet, the slab melted and seeped into the crest on the platform. A circular hole appeared in the middle, and a new, slightly higher platform rose up. Embedded in it was a magnificent cutlass.
The blade was jet black, embedded with gold and silver runes. Its handle was crafted from redwood and intricate leatherwork, and its cross guard was a disk of black and silver fur. His hand flew instantly to the cutlass's handle.
When he touched it, the voice spoke again—not in his mind, but resonating in his soul:
“ITEM – EMPEROR'S WILL, RECEIVED. RANK – ? USE YOUR AURA BEAST TO LINK THE ITEM WITH YOUR SOUL.”
“And that’s how it all ended,” Reina completed, turning from the awe-inspiring mural to the face of the young priest.
“That’s a long story. How long did it take us to complete it?” the priest asked.
“Well, it took around an hour and a half. Reina Darath.” Reina offered her hand for a handshake.
“Ketovan Motsari.” The priest returned the gesture.
“Motsari?” Reina asked, surprised by the famous surname.
“Yes, I am the son of Vincent Motsari.” Ketovan's shoulders slumped, his initial interest in the history now fading into simple exhaustion.
The elder priest approached them. “I believe your conversation is over. Ketovan needs to meet the Director.”
“Yes, Bishop. I am sorry for the inconvenience.” Reina bowed apologetically.
“I will come up with you later, Miss Darath,” Ketovan said, following the short man down a corridor.
“Please call me Reina,” she called after him, returning to her cabin.
Ketovan and Bishop Renald stood before the cabin door of Director Garahath Helmswell. The door opened automatically. They entered and found the central table buried beneath stacks of paper.
A muffled voice came from behind the paper walls: “Who is it?”
“It’s me, Director. Renald Loskov,” the Bishop said.
The large man—Garahath—emerged from behind the piles. His eyes were heavily bagged, a clear sign of sleepless nights. “Bishop Renald, I just looked into your request. Looks like you got the Archbishop involved.” He approached the smaller man and offered a handshake. “Who do we have here?” he asked, looking at Ketovan.
“Ketovan Motsari,” the Bishop answered.
“The Motsari boy you talked about a year ago, yes, I remember.” The Director’s face softened slightly. “How is Vincent, lad?” he asked Ketovan.
“Doing well, Director,” Ketovan replied.
“Good… good.” Garahath turned his gaze back to the Bishop.
“We need a pass into the Spirit Domain,” the Bishop stated.
“A Noble Ranker and a Commander Ranker. Well enough.” The Director reached for a piece of paper. He moved to hand it to the Bishop but stopped midway. “What are your Cores?” he asked sharply.
“Domain,” Ketovan answered.
“Judgement,” the Bishop answered.
“Typical clergy of the Hegemon, it is then.” The Director handed over the necessary document.