Chapter Thirty-One: The Storm Approaches

The Supreme Tower, 102nd Floor.

“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr. Ulysses.” Franks—the eldest among the twelve white-robed bishops assigned by the Order to Hemtica—raised his glass, offering the youth a hearty smile. “Thanks to the Lord’s mercy, and to the favor of fate.”

“Thank you.” Amy took a seat opposite him, accepting the proffered glass and sipping lightly. “We should also thank our dear, pitiable Sister. It seems she suffered quite a fright.”

“Helena is a good child,” the elder in the white robe stroked his snow-white beard, cascading like a waterfall. “You ought to make it up to her. If she hadn’t insisted on verifying the victims’ details, you might have been stuck below for another three or four days. Who knows, perhaps the great miracle of resurrection after seven days of death would have manifested in you.”

“I must respectfully decline.” The young man shook his head, placing five gleaming gold coins on the table. “Let these gold Tols serve as compensation for the Sister—and as thanks for the Order’s care during my time away.”

“Words alone hardly convey sincerity.” The bishop of the Supreme Tower teased.

“With a behemoth like the Order, I haven’t much else to offer—so words of gratitude will have to suffice.” The young Glorious One composed his expression. “If that’s not enough, how about some information? I imagine news about the black sorcerer Alfred is of some value.”

“You…” The old man fell silent, then looked up, laughter vanishing from his eyes, replaced by a falcon’s sharp glint. “You met Blake.”

“He didn’t tell me his name.” The young man neither confirmed nor denied.

“I suppose not. With that pride of his, dying in such a manner would be the greatest insult. He’d hardly speak of himself to you.” The bishop sighed long and deeply, pausing before he continued, “Well then, speak. What intelligence did you bring back with your life?”

“The Dark Lords’ target is Ulysses—at least one of them seeks Ulysses.”

It was only the black sorcerer Alfred who had made it clear he meant to kill anyone bearing the Ulysses name, but for Yulia’s safety, Amy had slightly distorted the report.

Unexpectedly, the white-robed bishop of the Supreme Tower displayed no surprise at this baffling news. In fact, he seemed to find it perfectly natural—

“As I thought…”

He murmured almost unconsciously, his voice soft and low, but not beyond the Glorious One’s hearing.

“As you thought?” The youth arched an eyebrow, his eyes black as ink never straying from the elder before him. “You don’t seem the least bit surprised that the Dark Lords would target Ulysses—a family utterly unknown in Hemtica.”

“That’s right…” The old man paused. “I’m not surprised.”

“And why not?” Amy pressed, sensing that within his seemingly ordinary surname lay a staggering secret. Yet what that secret was, he still had no clue. “Ulysses is just an unremarkable little family in Hemtica, nothing special at all. With the Dark Lords’ power and status, there’s no reason for them to go after a trivial clan of Glorious Ones.”

“You’re quite right,” the bishop agreed, taking the youth’s words as a foundation for his own reasoning. “Ulysses is indeed an ordinary family—but that’s precisely why the Dark Lords chose them. What Glorious One family would be easier to break than Ulysses? And among the small, easily targeted families, which is as notorious as Ulysses—the family bold enough to defy Duke Galsworthy?”

“So,” he concluded, “for making an example, there’s no better choice than Ulysses.”

Surprisingly, there was no argument to be made.

Still… The young Glorious One narrowed his eyes. “Making an example? What do you mean?”

“To set an example…” Franks searched for the right words. “It’s rather straightforward. The chaotic cultists in Hemtica have recently been hunted to the four winds, no longer a threat; their morale must be in tatters. To restore their reputation, they’d first annihilate a well-known but weak Glorious One family, then openly clash with the Order and Glorious Ones. There’s no better course.”

“I see.” The youth gazed at the old man for a long while before asking, “Aren’t the cultists of chaos supposed to be wholly lost to blind madness? How can they speak of morale?”

“If they were entirely demonized, they couldn’t operate freely within the Fireseed’s radiance.” The bishop shook his head. “Even the Dark Lords—those called the blind and mad agents of chaos—retain a considerable degree of human heart. It’s just that their minds have been utterly warped by unspeakable powers, making them something that is and isn’t human.”

“I understand.” Amy nodded, betraying little emotion. “Lord Franks, I’ll leave Yulia in your care. Will you?”

“You’re not going to see her?” Sensing the youth’s intentions, the old man raised his brow. “That child cried herself sick over you and hasn’t recovered yet.”

“It’s getting late.” The young Glorious One glanced out the window. “Such emotional extremes aren’t good for her health. Please, pass on the news that I’m alive when you think the time is right.”

“You’re making me the villain.” The bishop gave a wry smile. “If she finds out I kept this from her, Yulia will surely tear out my beard.”

“She won’t, she’s very gentle.” Amy paid little heed to the old man’s complaint. With Yulia’s temperament, she might sulk, but she’d never do anything as childish as pulling someone’s beard. In fact, thinking back, his sister had always been exceptionally mature; from her earliest memories, she’d never wept or thrown a tantrum. Even when fate cruelly took away her sight, she’d remained optimistic and strong in her battle with illness. “She’s grown up. She’ll understand.”

“That’s not certain,” Franks shook his head. “A girl’s heart is always delicate and sensitive.”

“Is that the voice of experience?” The youth merely raised a brow.

“No,” the old man’s lips curled into a smile, “that’s the wisdom of an elder.”

What could seeing Yulia change? What could he even say? The young Glorious One hesitated inwardly, the words of promise catching in his throat and never making it out. In the end, he could only give a stiff shake of his head and utter a flimsy reassurance even he didn’t believe: “I trust she… will understand.”

Silence. An awkward, lingering silence.

“Never mind, it’s not my place to interfere.” The elder sighed, finally giving up on persuasion. “Don’t worry about Yulia. Even if the Dark Lords doubled their numbers, the Supreme Tower is no place for them to run amok.”

“Thank you.”

“As for you, trouble may be brewing,” the bishop’s brow furrowed. “With the abilities of the black sorcerer or the Harbinger, even hiding in the Lower District may not guarantee your safety. The only good news is, for now, they likely can’t spare the time to come after you.”

“Seems the Upper District is headed for chaos.” The youth remarked.

“Indeed.” The bishop didn’t disagree, only patting his shoulder. “Three Dark Lords in Hemtica—this is no small matter. To face such foes with only the Order or the Glorious Ones’ strength would be unwise. So, in these past days, we’ve sent envoys to negotiate with the Glorious Ones. Regardless of what degree of cooperation is reached, we’ll be taking action soon.”

“Are you confident?” Amy asked.

“Our main goal is to probe for now,” the old man dodged. “Achieving our aims shouldn’t be difficult.”

“Doesn’t sound very optimistic.” The young Glorious One arched a brow. “Then again, the Dark Lords came prepared. No doubt they have something backing their confidence.”

“At least in the short term, you should be safe,” Franks said. “Before the great battle breaks out, cultists of the Dark Lord’s rank can’t move freely. Besides, chaos cults—hounded like stray dogs for years—need this time to regroup. They can hardly spare any effort for you.”

“It seems a storm is coming.” The youth mused, with a touch of self-mockery. “This frail little butterfly will have to exit the stage for now—”

“Well then, farewell, Lord Franks. Thank you very much for your aid.”

He bowed in salute.

He could hide in the Lower District, but he hadn’t forgotten: that, too, was a powder keg ready to explode.

There was nowhere to truly find refuge.

He thought this quietly to himself, then started away.

His figure gradually receded into the distance.

The bishop merely watched him go. Only when the youth’s silhouette had completely vanished from sight, and the sound of the closing door reached his ears, did he let out a deep, lingering sigh. The smile faded from his face, leaving only profound fatigue.

“As I thought…” he murmured softly, “this place is no longer safe.”