Chapter 15: The Ritualist

After seeing off the mayor, the clerics prepared to set out.

Enid took Roland’s hand and led him toward the carriage. Behind her trailed a man, head bowed, carrying two large trunks—Roland recognized him as the gentleman who had been reprimanded that very morning.

Fernandes.

The clerics cast strange glances at Roland, their eyes flicking back and forth between him and Enid. But when Enid’s gaze swept over them, they quickly lowered their heads and busied themselves with their own tasks.

They picked at their nails, inspected the silver ornament pinned to their chests, adjusted their cuffs, or poked small holes in the muddy ground with the tips of their shoe racks.

The clerics traveled in five carriages. Four of these had larger compartments and ferried more people. Roland and Enid occupied the smallest one.

It was also the finest.

The interior was scented with incense; beneath their feet lay deep gray soft carpets. The walls were adorned with intricate labyrinthine floral patterns in gold and black.

A redwood table separated two long sofas, upon which sat a small brazier, a candelabrum, and a broad-bellied blue teapot still steaming warmly.

Blue porcelain teacups rested on a tray beside it.

There was a plate of milky white cheese and another of sugar-glazed cakes, accompanied by a small mound of cherry tomatoes.

Roland thought it resembled a tiny moving palace.

Enid allowed him to board first, then followed herself, pulling the door tightly shut behind her.

Before long, the trees outside began to recede slowly.

Roland propped his chin in his hand, a mix of excitement and unease stirring within him.

I am leaving this place.

Miss Nina.

Mrs. Jones.

...

The wheels rolled steadily onward.

When two people face each other in such close quarters, conversation is inevitable.

For instance, about Roland’s origins.

Cultist.

The Collins family.

According to the clerics who had interviewed locals on Enid’s behalf, the butler Seth’s arrival coincided precisely with the day the eldest son of old Thales met with disaster.

Grief-stricken by the loss of his child, he pleaded with this extraordinary and mysterious gentleman who appeared at the manor—

Unbeknownst to him, in Enid’s eyes, these were obvious manipulations, hardly even conspiracies.

If he had not killed Thales Collins’ eldest son, how could he have so conveniently delivered hope?

“Hope cannot buy anything,” Enid said coldly, without so much as a hint of blame toward Thales Collins.

To her, when most people are foolish, he was merely the unluckiest among the fools.

Not worth judging.

---

Hope…

Roland instinctively touched his pocket.

“The Flesh Cradle, or those disorganized groups under their command… I can hardly call them organizations.”

Enid narrowed her eyes, resting her index finger against her cheek. “Cultists from the Flesh Cradle love to do exactly that—‘direct’ those teetering on the edge of a cliff and give them a gentle push…”

It was then she suddenly realized the “fool” she had mentioned was Roland Collins’ father.

For the first time, Roland caught a fleeting look of regret on the face of this lady wielding golden flames.

“You needn’t feel guilty about it, madam,” he said, cradling his cup and slowly tracing its rim with his fingertip, eyes fixed on the corner of the table. “If not for you, I suppose I would be like those servants now.”

“Empty shells who only know how to smile.”

Enid looked at him.

Her deep brown eyes brimmed with an indescribable admiration. They melted into liquid, quietly flowing within her gaze.

“When did you realize something was amiss, Roland?” she asked.

“The second day? Or the third?”

Roland pressed his lips together, hesitating for a moment. “There’s something you might not know—my sister delayed things for me a long time. Nina Collins… she… disappeared afterward…”

“You have a good sister.”

Roland was not worried that Enid might detect traces of ritual in the room—if she could, that would be even better.

All of it was the work of cultists.

In any case, he could not willingly conceal the fact that Miss Nina had once existed.

“However, I must warn you.”

Enid’s smile faded as she cracked open the window.

Butterflies waving blue phosphorescent powder fluttered inside.

The distant sea of trees swayed, the wheels creaked relentlessly, leaving a track on the emerald-green lake’s surface.

The ride was not bumpy at all.

It was as if they were gliding over a flawless mirror—quiet and steady.

“You have come into close contact with cultists—especially your father.”

Enid’s raised brows sharpened. “Since this involves a case, the person involved must cooperate with the Bureau of Surveillance. Also, to prevent contamination, you will need to undergo a purification ritual at the Church.”

“Purification ritual… and the Bureau of Surveillance?”

Something like the town’s security office?

“More or less. They handle the ‘other side’ of security.”

“You need not go to the Bureau yourself. Dealing with those vultures requires the skill of shedding gold skin,” Enid frowned, vague disdain in her tone. “Someone will handle this case. When the time comes, she will negotiate with the Bureau.”

Pale words appeared once again.

“She = myself.”

Roland ignored it.

What puzzled him was that from their very first meeting, Enid seemed certain he was no ally of those cultists—she had never asked whether he had come into contact with unclean things or participated in…

For example, the evil rites performed by the butler and old Collins.

Enid looked at Roland’s uneasy expression; the winter snow on her face melted, revealing a rare, genuine smile.

“No, Roland. It’s impossible.”

---

She said,

“Because you are not even an apprentice. Someone who has yet to enter the circle cannot possibly take part in the Ring Ascension Ceremony…”

Ring Ascension?

Apprentice?

Enid’s successive terms all pointed to the same question.

“I don’t know if you’ve heard, Roland.”

Enid looked at him calmly and uttered two words that Nina seemed to have once said: “Ceremonialist, the Great Path.”

At that moment, the words beside the woman’s face suddenly enlarged:

“Roland Collins should not have heard of them.”

Roland glanced at the words and shook his head in confusion.

“Mortals call us Executors. Cultists call us Burners.”

“And on the other side of the world, those of us who have mastered multiple rituals, abundant flesh, opened souls, and embarked upon the Great Path are known by a single name.”

She said,

“Ceremonialists.”

The utterance of this word seemed to freeze the air itself.

Roland had the uneasy feeling that something was wrong.

“Grinning wicked bat,”

“Wooden table,”

“Piano,”

“Fireplace,”

“Easel,”

“Fountain,”

“Chandelier.”

He felt an animal licking the back of his hand with a large tongue.

A deer, with antlers.

Everything…

As usual?

Roland touched his face, still feeling profoundly uncomfortable.

“Enid… madam…”

He hesitated for a long moment, then spoke slowly, “Where… are we?”

Enid smiled.

“Exactly where you think we are, Roland.”