Chapter 29: Bishop Kratov

A silver ring heart-anchor.

Enid was reasonably satisfied.

Although she remarked that many people in the Inquisition or the Bureau of Supervision did the same. Most people fussed over the inner band, engraving letters or patterns. The cleverer ones, like Roland, worked on the tactile feel and the material itself.

As long as one knew it for oneself, that was enough.

Between Ritualists, the notion of trying to deceive or confuse the other with a "Field" to secure victory was as ridiculous as two knights charging on warhorses while hoping to drown each other with spittle.

Heart-anchors were primarily used in the Sleeping World.

Thus, he passed.

"Come with me to the church to register. Besides, your purification ritual has been delayed for too long."

Enid pulled on her gloves and led Roland to the carriage. Both the East and West Districts had churches and monasteries, but the Inquisition was built exclusively in the West District. They had to register and undergo the purification ritual in the East District first before heading to the West.

The Holy Cross Church.

Since arriving in London, Roland had never stepped foot inside. The place he originally lived in only had a small chapel; clearly, a metropolis was different.

This towering, craggy white structure often had clergy preaching and serving porridge nearby. Some of the sick or those who truly could not afford a meal would often wander around the church. If they were lucky, within a few days, they would be "chosen" and have their suffering relieved—though, of course, there was a distinction between the two. At the very least, Roland had never witnessed a real, verified case of illness being cured; compared to the porridge that actually filled one’s stomach, it was more like a legend. A legend akin to fairies or dragons.

The carriage stopped cautiously at the end of a street: it was still a distance away from the church.

"I cannot go any further, madam, sir."

Enid signaled her understanding, paid the fare, and half-guided, half-supported Roland as he stepped down—or, in truth, she practically carried him.

"...Madam."

"Don't mention it," Enid hummed with pleasure, smoothing his collar as she spoke. "I am taller and stronger than most."

*And I am fonder of you than most.*

*—How terrifying.*
*—I think I’m actually getting used to you.*

Roland twitched the corner of his mouth uncomfortably.

The cathedral was right before them. The unusual material of the Latin cross merged with the intricate, ornate Baroque style; in its magnificent, dreamlike splendor, it looked down upon the city with a condescending gaze—perhaps reflecting the philosophy of its builder: God looking down upon His flock.

The sense of oppression was palpable.

"I heard it is at least two hundred feet tall."

"To be exact, three hundred and sixty-five feet," Enid replied.

Walking through the crowd, her black attire acted like a sword parting water, carving a path wide enough for two to walk side-by-side through the people. Those were gazes of awe.

Roland tilted his head up quietly. He could sense the dome. The arched stone roof looked like a giant whale surfacing from the water; at the very top, the cross of the Holy Cross stood almost in the clouds. It felt as if it were situated above the high heavens.

Truly magnificent...

"A pity you cannot see it, Roland."

Noticing Roland’s sigh, Enid assumed he was dejected by his blindness and began to introduce it. This building, which had practically become a landmark, had a storied history.

"...He spent forty years ascending. After he left, he bequeathed this miracle to us."

"He?" Roland turned his face toward Enid. "Who?"

"The builder of this cathedral. He is no longer in the Waking World." Enid nodded to a passing clergyman and led Roland up the steps. "A long forty years..."

"This miracle on earth was the ritual object he used for his ascension."

"The Immortal Long Steps."

A ritual...

Roland clicked his tongue in secret. To build such a magnificent cathedral just to serve as the steps beneath one's feet—an unimaginable feat.

They passed through the gate. They were inside.

The "scenery" in Roland’s perception shifted abruptly. Unlike the weathered exterior, the interior decor could no longer be described by a simple word like "ornate." The dome, beyond the reach of human effort, was covered in exquisite murals. The uniquely designed portals and bell towers, along with art formed by the erosion or application of long ages, seemed to freeze the past in time forever.

Stepping inside, the sound of prayer echoed in his ears at every moment. It was a holy, opulent, and sublime sanctuary.

"That is the Eden Chant."

The "Eden" described in the Holy Cross doctrine. The resting place of the Father of All Things, His divine kingdom, the origin of everything, and the place closest to Him. The wicked descended to hell, while the righteous ascended to heaven. And only the great, the most devout, were qualified to walk the path to the sanctuary where the Father of All Things lay in eternal rest.

The Place of Origin: Eden.

Enid did not take Roland through the main entrance, where the believers prayed. Instead, after entering, she turned and headed toward a side path. She caught Roland tilting his head, straining to listen to the sound of footsteps, and couldn't help but smile.

"You don't need to memorize the way. Unless something unexpected happens, you won't need to come here again for a very long time."

They arrived in a vast, empty hall, and then... downward? At least, Roland felt they were descending. They circled a narrow, ring-like passage on the western side of the building, where clusters of white stone pillars were revealed by the flickering, pale flames in his sight.

Suddenly, it opened up.

Monks were walking slowly, some holding books, others clutching holy crosses, whispering to themselves. Some of the older ones were leading children of seven or eight—or even younger—talking as they walked.

The moment Roland stepped in, he felt something was wrong. It was as if moisture were being generated out of thin air, washing over his skin. It was itchy. It stung.

Enid walked straight inward. Soon, an elderly man with graying hair and brows approached them. He was not as tall as Enid, quite portly, with short hair and a nose that was round and shiny, like the base of a pipe. He wore a white-collared shirt under a deep green robe, with a long silver chain hanging from his chest. That holy cross was much larger than the ones others wore.

"What wind has blown you here?"

"Bishop Kratov." Enid tapped her forehead, shoulder, and heart, bowing in a meticulous, holy ritual. "I have brought this child to register."

"Call me Uncle, or Old Gary, Enid. I watched you grow up; don't pick up the bad habits of the Inquisition."

Gary Kratov’s smile lacked any sense of distance; he was as gentle as an ordinary old man without status or power. He scrutinized Roland carefully before asking Enid, "A candidate for Executor?"

"Yes."

"Come with me, child."

Enid gave Roland a gentle push and whispered in his ear, "Come out quickly when you’re done."

Before Roland could react, he was pulled in by the old Bishop’s large hands.

"Come, child. You’ve climbed to the heavens in a single step, you know?"

Roland felt those large hands rubbing against his back, burning and scorching. His arm was held firmly, and Roland felt as though he were "nestling" in his embrace.

Gary Kratov didn't take him far: just to a small room behind a massive wooden door within this "White Hall." Many candles were lit inside, each as thick as his wrist. Thus, there were no shadows here.

In the center of the room stood a massive mahogany altar, upon which lay an open scripture with gold-leaf pages, at least six or seven feet long and equally thick. It looked like a golden box that could turn its pages.

The old Bishop released Roland, stepped forward, and pulled a small silver knife from the side of the book, embedded in the table. With his other hand, he gripped Roland’s arm.

"It will hurt a little, but not too much," he said.

Then, he gently pressed the blade against Roland’s fingertip, slicing a small cut, and used a glass bottle resembling an inkwell to collect the blood that dripped out.

"You have such beautiful skin, child..."

In the solemn atmosphere where only the candles crackled, the Bishop suddenly said something strange. Then, those burning-hot hands began to stroke Roland’s wrist, his palm, his forearm. Like someone selecting silk or satin.

Rough and stinging.

Was he... touching him?

"...Sir?"

Roland felt goosebumps rise instantly.

"You are a beautiful child..."

Amidst the searing candlelight, the old Bishop’s kind smile turned sinister and chilling in Roland’s eyes. He looked at Roland with a gaze full of hidden affection.

"You are the most beautiful child I have ever seen..." He exhaled hot air, his breath smelling of stale alcohol.

"The lady taught me, sir. I think I made preparations for this a long time ago."

As Roland spoke, he forcefully pulled his arm from the man’s grasp—he didn't need to see it to know the expression on the man's face.

*He looks very regretful.*

The old Bishop smacked his lips, his eyes lingering on Roland’s face and neck with unsatisfied hunger until Roland began to repeat "Enid" under his breath. Only then did he pick up a quill with a look of disappointment and dip it into the blood to write a few lines.

"Roland Collins... 45th term Inquisition Executor candidate..."

"Recommender: Enid Judia."

The blood-colored characters began to emit blue smoke, hissing as if chunks of meat had been thrown into a fire. Roland felt a connection form between himself and the scripture.

*Radiance flows into the brain, the skull struggles to bear it.*
*Discard pity and evil thoughts to uphold the truth.*

A resounding voice boomed in his mind—like a guide, perhaps a lure.

*To cure disaster, there is only bondage.*
*Shed the mortal shell, the truth is formless.*

It said.

Until the winter-colored flames in Roland’s eyes began to burn fiercely, spreading like demonic fire across flesh and blood, filling his vision. Until the voice was burned away entirely.

Only the heavy breathing of the Bishop beside him and the crackling of the candle wicks remained.

It was as if it had been a hallucination, leaving no trace behind.