Chapter 34 – The Terrifying Purification Rite
The great cathedral loomed high beneath a dome adorned with carved reliefs and vibrant murals of the gods. At its far end stood a magnificent, arched window of stained glass, blazing with seven colors. Sunlight streamed through it like liquid gold, scattering across the marble floor in dazzling hues that seemed almost divine—like the descent of heavenly light itself.
At the center of the dais stood a statue of a faceless, wing-bound angel. The figure's smooth, featureless face seemed to gaze silently downward upon the scene below—a man bound tightly to an iron cross.
Calling him a "man" was perhaps generous. His entire body was covered in short, dark fur—from his cheeks to his elbows, down to his ankles—like some grotesque throwback of evolution. His eyes burned with a feral madness that made him look more beast than human.
He howled incoherently, his guttural roars echoing in the vaulted space. The noises were ugly, dissonant, grating to the ear, yet the white-robed congregation surrounding him watched without flinching. To them, he was no different from a carcass laid on a butcher's table—or a maggot squirming in filth.
Standing among them were the highest clerics of Pita City:
— Auxiliary Bishop Stiller
— Father LeBlanc
— Brother Worsie
— Brother Schumann
— Sister Lisa
— White Deacon Alric
— White Deacon Rishi
— and others, unnamed yet no less devout.
It seemed that every clergyman in the diocese had gathered—save for Bishop Charles, who oversaw the entire district.
They formed a ring around the platform, all eyes fixed upon the bound creature and the young man standing before it—just a few paces apart.
The youth wore a gentleman's black attire: dark coat, black trousers, polished boots. His hair and eyes were equally black, giving him a somber, austere appearance. Against the sea of white robes, he looked like a single blot of ink. Yet, curiously, the clergy regarded him not with hostility, but with a subdued warmth—perhaps even a hint of respect.
"Begin," came a calm voice.
It was Brother Worsie.
The young man nodded without turning. His right hand tightened around a small crucifix entwined with thorns. Raising it before him, he fixed his eyes on the struggling figure bound to the cross. He drew in a deep breath—and began to speak.
A deep, resonant chant filled the cathedral.
The sound was not entirely human. Beneath the rising, rhythmic syllables of an ancient tongue, there was a haunting undertone—as though unseen choirs whispered through the vaulted air. The faint light shining from behind the angel statue grew brighter, enveloping the chamber in a shimmering haze.
The chant reverberated across the vast, hollow hall, magnified by echo until it seemed to shake the very stone. Many of the clergy bowed their heads, faces radiant with reverence and awe.
But the man bound to the iron cross reacted very differently.
He screamed.
His body convulsed, his mouth spat curses and meaningless syllables in rapid succession—until the words choked off.
Then came the burning.
A hiss of smoke rose from his forehead, followed by the faint scent of scorched flesh.
There, at the center of his brow, a small mark began to glow—a fiery cross, forming slowly as though branded into him by invisible hands. It rotated, sinking deeper into his flesh, searing it apart. The skin bubbled, reddened, folded in on itself like melting wax.
The air filled with a sharp, unbearable scream—high-pitched, hoarse, raw with agony.
And that was only the beginning.
The chant continued. The radiant cross grew brighter, feeding on the surrounding light. Even after the young man's voice faded into silence, the mark spun faster, blazing hotter, as though it drew power from the very air itself.
A hole burned through the man's forehead, his blood sizzling into vapor under the heat. Beneath it, his skull gleamed pale and cracked, the faint sound of bone creaking like a log in fire.
Then came the light.
A soft, milky-white radiance began to spread from his forehead down his neck, over his entire body. His voice broke, his screams dwindled into a rasp, and the blinding heat coursed through him like molten light.
Around the dais, the gathered clergy began to smile.
The creature's clothes ignited. His hair curled and blackened. Blisters bloomed across his skin, swelling, bursting, collapsing in waves. The temperature climbed, searing and relentless.
The purification continued for what felt like an eternity—perhaps a quarter of an hour—until the bound figure was completely swallowed by a cocoon of pure white light.
Within that radiant shroud, no one could see what remained of the man at all.
He was gone—or perhaps, finally cleansed.
When the cocoon of light finally burst, it did so with a thunderous boom. A blinding flash filled the cathedral before revealing what was left behind—an iron cross wreathed in burning thorns, glowing crimson from the heat… and beneath it, nothing but a small mound of blackened ash.
No bones remained.
Charles stared blankly at the sight, his mind momentarily blank, while around him, the hall erupted into applause.
"Well done."
"Every time a new believer joins our ranks, I can't help but feel like singing."
"Welcome to the Church, Sir Cranston."
"May the Lord be with you."
"Thank you… thank you."
Charles smiled stiffly, forcing polite replies to this crowd of strangers. The corners of his lips ached from the effort, and his face had gone numb from feigned composure.
Thankfully, the crowd soon dispersed—each cleric busy with their own duties—leaving him with some space to breathe.
As Father Alric departed, he gave Charles a subtle nod of acknowledgment. Only Brother Worsie remained, smiling warmly as he clapped Charles gently on the shoulder.
"Well done, young man."
"Half a month of practice—not exactly fast," Charles said modestly.
"But not slow, either," Worsie replied, still wearing his serene smile. "If you've mastered Purification, it means you are without sin. There's no doubt about that."
"So… what happens next?" Charles asked cautiously. He didn't for a second believe this grand ritual had been held merely for show. It felt far more like an initiation—one designed to mark him publicly as part of the Church.
"You've probably already guessed what we intend," said Worsie softly. "What are your thoughts?"
As if I actually have a choice, Charles muttered inwardly. Out loud, he said, "Naturally, I'd be honored to join the Church. But I have family responsibilities—business I can't abandon, and the duty of continuing the Cranston bloodline. I fear I can't devote myself entirely to serving the Lord of Thorns."
The truth was, he was frightened.
That spell he had just cast—the Purification Chant—was his own, yes, but he had never used it on a living person before. The sheer power of it… the destructive heat, the sound of burning flesh—it was far beyond what he'd imagined.
If that kind of energy ever turned on him… he doubted even ashes would remain.
The spell was supposed to target only "creatures of darkness," but Charles couldn't shake the unease in his chest. He hadn't forgotten what he was learning—nor the strange, conflicting nature of his power. Could those opposing forces one day collide? Could his own magic turn inward and consume him?
Yet Brother Worsie clearly had no intention of letting him walk away.
"We've already considered such cases," he said kindly. "In fact, there are many within the Church who share your situation. That's why you have two options."
"Two?" Charles raised a brow.
In his understanding, Church members all lived the same kind of life—no marriage, no possessions, endless discipline and routine.
"The first option," Worsie began, "is to serve as a semi-independent Demon Hunter. You'd travel across the kingdom, completing monthly assignments. The Church would provide supplies, resources, and opportunities for advancement. It offers a great deal of freedom."
Charles's expression didn't change much. The idea of running all over the country didn't appeal to him in the slightest—especially now that he possessed the means to move through portals at will.
"And the second?" he asked.
"The second path is as an external member of the Church," Worsie explained. "You would still receive tasks, but they'd be local—near your home. The benefits, however, are… minimal. Aside from emergencies involving life and death, we wouldn't intervene to aid you. To acquire spells or magical artifacts, you'd need to make your own contributions."
He paused, then added with a knowing smile, "But like the demon hunters, this path doesn't forbid marriage."
"So," he said gently, "which will you choose?"
Charles didn't hesitate.
"I'll take the second option," he said.
A shadow of relief crossed Worsie's face, as though he'd expected the answer all along.
"Very well," he said. "Then, Brother Cranston—welcome to the Church's outer circle."
Charles wasn't foolish enough to ask, 'And what if I refuse all of them?' The priest had been nothing but courteous so far, but there was an unmistakable edge beneath that gentleness. Best not to test how sharp it was.
Brother Worsie didn't seem surprised by the choice. He nodded approvingly.
"Very well. As an external member, you won't wear the Church's uniform, but you'll receive an official Hunter's Certificate, stamped with the seal of Dulin Cathedral. It's valid across all kingdoms. With it, you can requisition aid from local law enforcement when needed—though each request must first be reported to the central diocese for approval."
He spoke in that calm, measured tone unique to those who'd spent a lifetime preaching rules.
"Each month, new externals are assigned one mission," he continued. "You must always be ready. We never know when the forces of darkness may awaken. In time, once your certificate arrives, we'll share with you more about the Church's higher doctrines—and the opportunities they offer."
Charles nodded along, though inwardly he rolled his eyes.
No room to refuse. No freedom. Mediocre benefits.
It all sounded suspiciously like being drafted into a holy pyramid scheme.
Brother Worsie, oblivious to the young man's thoughts, carried on his long lecture about sacred laws and spiritual obedience. His droning voice was enough to make even the candles flicker from boredom.
Finally, as if remembering something important, he added, "Ah, one more thing. Regardless of rank, attacking a servant of the Church is considered a grave sin. Should you find yourself in trouble, you may reveal your true affiliation for protection."
He fixed Charles with a stern gaze. "But remember—privilege comes with obligation. Break the Church's laws, and not even the gods will shield you."
"Understood," Charles replied, nodding sincerely. This part, at least, sounded useful.
But then came the statement that truly caught his attention.
"Your future," said the old priest, "depends on how far you can ascend. You're not yet seventeen—you have remarkable potential."
"Ascend?" Charles raised a brow. "You mean… a higher rank?"
"Something greater than that," Worsie said cryptically. "Those who walk the path of righteousness need not seek miracles—the gods walk beside them already. You'll understand, in time."
Charles wasn't sure if that was wisdom or nonsense, but he smiled politely and took his leave.
As his footsteps faded, another robed figure approached from the shadows. An elderly monk, thin and pale, peered after the retreating youth and murmured, "I didn't think he'd survive the Voice of Ulm. I thought he'd break—or fail entirely."
Charles would've recognized him as the same priest who'd helped interrogate him during his first encounter with the Church.
Brother Worsie sighed. "Nor did I. But it's a good sign. Enduring the Voice proves he can be trusted."
The elder priest hesitated, then lowered his tone. "About his aunt's case… I think he might be the key. That notebook—"
He never finished.
Because at that moment, the tent flap flew open again. Charles returned, his expression calm but his grip tight around the collar of a struggling, thin man in a blue coat.
Brother Worsie frowned. "Child, that's hardly a polite way to treat someone."
Charles dropped the man unceremoniously to the ground. "He attacked me," he said simply.
That single word froze the priests.
"Attacked?" Worsie's brows knit. He turned to the blue-clad stranger, whose eyes darted between them, panicked.
Meanwhile, the elder priest let out a quiet sigh, shaking his head.
He's only been with us a day… and already he's brought trouble to our door.