Chapter 369 - Looking into the dark past! (1)

[Few Days Back]

"I just plan to kill someone."

The words fell into the room like a blade striking stone.

The old hut seemed to shrink around them. Firelight flickered weakly against warped wooden walls, shadows crawling along the ceiling beams as if trying to escape what had just been said.

Aldric stiffened.

His fingers, wrapped around a chipped clay cup, went rigid. The tea inside rippled, a few drops spilling over the rim onto the table.

"Kill...?" he repeated quietly.

The word tasted foreign in his mouth. Heavy. Final.

Luca met his gaze.

There was no rage in his eyes. No bloodlust. Only a calm so deep it was unsettling.

"To fulfill a promise," Luca said softly.

Silence followed.

Not the peaceful kind—but the suffocating kind, the sort that pressed against the ears until even breathing felt loud. Outside, the wind brushed against the hut’s walls, making the old wood creak faintly, as though the structure itself was uneasy.

Aldric opened his mouth.

Closed it.

His thoughts raced—faces, names, consequences layering one over another. Holy Kingdom. Execution. Faith. Blood. A promise tied too tightly to all of it.

Slowly, his eyes shifted back to Luca.

The boy—no, the young man—sat there with his sabers leaned against the wall, shoulders straight despite the injuries he hadn’t fully healed from yet. His hands rested loosely on his knees, fingers relaxed, as if he were discussing the weather rather than murder.

Aldric swallowed.

"...You’ve already decided," he said.

Luca didn’t answer directly.

Instead, he watched Aldric’s reaction closely—the tightening jaw, the way his gaze kept drifting away and returning, the conflict written plainly across his face.

After a moment, Luca spoke again.

"Can you do something for me, Professor?"

Aldric looked up sharply.

The shift in the conversation caught him off guard. He studied Luca from head to toe, as if searching for cracks—any sign that this was bravado or desperation.

"...What do you want me to do?" he asked.

Luca inhaled slowly.

"I want you to look into the bishops of the Holy Kingdom," he said. "The past twenty years."

Aldric’s brows knit together.

"All of them," Luca continued, voice steady. "Their movements. Who they interacted with the most. Where their influence concentrated. Any suspicious activity—no matter how small. Donations that don’t make sense. Unrecorded meetings. People who vanished after crossing paths with them."

He leaned forward slightly now, crimson eyes intent.

"I need everything."

The fire cracked softly.

Aldric leaned back in his chair, the old wood groaning under his weight. He lifted a hand to his face, rubbing slowly over his brow, fingers pressing hard as if trying to physically push the implications away.

"That’s..." he started, then stopped.

His gaze drifted to the floor.

"...difficult."

Luca’s eyes sharpened—not aggressively, but knowingly.

"That means it’s not impossible," he said.

Aldric let out a long breath through his nose.

He didn’t look at Luca as he spoke again. "Before I agree to anything like that... you need to tell me why."

His voice grew quieter.

"And who you intend to kill."

Luca opened his mouth.

Then stopped.

The words hovered on his tongue before he swallowed them back down.

"...Just look for it," Luca said instead. "I’m sure... you’ll understand on your own."

Aldric finally turned back toward him.

Really looked at him.

The firelight caught Luca’s face at an angle—etched shadows beneath his eyes, exhaustion layered beneath resolve. Whatever he was carrying, it was heavy. Too heavy to be shared lightly.

"You really don’t want to tell me anything," Aldric said.

It wasn’t an accusation.

It was an observation.

Luca’s expression faltered.

For the first time since the conversation began, something fragile surfaced. His shoulders dipped just slightly, and his gaze lowered to the floor between them.

"I just..." he began, then stopped.

His fingers curled faintly against his knees.

"I think you won’t be able to hold back," Luca said quietly. "Once you know the truth. And I don’t think you’ll believe it unless you see it yourself."

The words landed hard.

Aldric stared at him for a long moment, searching for exaggeration.

There was none.

Only fear—not of consequences, but of what knowledge might do to a man who had already lost too much.

Slowly, Aldric nodded.

Once.

Then again.

"...Alright," he said.

Luca looked up.

"But how are you going to do it?" Luca asked. "Digging into bishops—this isn’t something—"

"It’s not just the Saintess my orphanage has raised," Aldric interrupted.

His voice was calm now. Firm.

"There are others," he added quietly. "Children who learned to survive by watching power from the shadows. Some of them... never forgot."

Understanding flickered in Luca’s eyes.

He didn’t ask further.

Instead, he bowed his head slightly in respect.

"You’ll need to do it before the execution," Luca said. "I’ll stall as long as I can—but it won’t be much time."

Aldric straightened.

His spine, once weighed down by doubt, seemed firmer now.

"Leave it to me," he said.

The fire popped.

Outside, the wind howled once—sharp and distant.

And in the dim, fragile safety of the hut, two men silently accepted that by the time this was over, neither of them would be able to return to who they once were.

***

Night had long since claimed the Holy Kingdom.

The corridors beneath the cathedral complex lay dim and narrow, lit only by sparse mana-lamps whose pale glow barely touched the stone walls. Shadows stretched unnaturally long, clinging to arches and corners like listening ears.

Professor Aldric moved through them alone.

His cloak was drawn tight, hood pulled low, his steps measured and silent despite his age. Every few turns, he paused—just long enough to listen. To feel. To ensure that no footsteps echoed behind his own.

None did.

Still, he did not relax.

Faith had taught him caution. Years within the Holy Kingdom had taught him something sharper—paranoia.

He slipped through a side passage rarely used except by maintenance priests, then down a stairwell that descended into the older foundations of the complex. Here, the air was colder, heavier, smelling faintly of dust and ink rather than incense.

Finally, he emerged behind a massive structure.

A record hall.

From the outside, it looked unremarkable—plain stone walls, no grand windows, no holy symbols. But Aldric knew better. This was where truths were buried under paperwork and time.

Waiting at the rear entrance stood a single Divine Knight.

Golden armor gleamed softly beneath the moonlight, polished to perfection. His helm was tucked beneath one arm, revealing a young man’s face—tense, alert, eyes scanning the darkness until they finally locked onto Aldric.

The knight straightened instantly.

He brought his fists together before his chest in a formal salute.

"Father."

Aldric stopped in front of him.

He didn’t remove his hood.

He only nodded.

"Is everything ready?" Aldric asked quietly.

The knight’s jaw tightened, then he nodded firmly.

"Yes, Father. Everything is prepared." His voice dropped to a whisper. "With the Saintess’s execution approaching, most of the senior personnel have been reassigned to the plaza. Security here is... thinner than usual."

Aldric’s eyes narrowed beneath the hood.

"Good."

The knight stepped aside, unlocking the reinforced door with a small crystal key etched with holy sigils. The wards shimmered briefly—then dissolved.

They slipped inside.

The door closed behind them with a muted thud, sealing out the outside world.

The room beyond was vast.

Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, packed tightly with books, scrolls, and sealed parchments. Some were pristine, others yellowed with age. Labels marked decades. Centuries. Entire lives reduced to ink and paper.

The faint smell of old ink and dust filled the air.

The knight gestured inward.

"All recorded movements of the bishops," he said. "Travel logs, correspondence summaries, meeting records—anything that passed through official channels."

Aldric slowly took in the sight.

Rows upon rows of history.

Secrets.

Lies.

And truths that were never meant to be found.

"...This is everything?" Aldric asked.

The knight nodded solemnly.

"As you requested, Father," he said. "Every record that still exists."

Aldric stepped forward into the archive.

The hood cast his face in shadow—but his hands trembled slightly as he reached out, brushing his fingers across the spine of the nearest book.

Somewhere in these pages lay the reason a Saintess was about to die.

And perhaps—

The name of the man Luca intended to kill.

The archive swallowed sound.

Only the faint rustle of parchment and the soft creak of shelves breaking the silence as Aldric lowered himself onto a narrow wooden chair at the center table. The mana-lamps above flickered gently, their light steady but tired—much like the man beneath them.

He began to read.

One record at a time.

Careful. Methodical.

Names. Dates. Movements. Donations disguised as offerings. Meetings labeled as prayers. Transfers of "holy resources" that never reached the sick or the poor.

His brow furrowed.

Hours passed.

The knight remained at the door, unmoving, a silent sentinel. Aldric barely noticed. Page after page fell beneath his hands, his fingers growing stiff, his eyes burning—but he did not stop.

Slowly, his expression changed.

From concentration—

To disbelief.

To something far darker.

His hand clenched around a parchment so tightly the edges crumpled.

"...Disguised payments through pilgrimage routes," he murmured.

Another page.

"...Private audiences with merchants later arrested for cult affiliations."

Another.

"...Repeated contact with the same intermediaries."

His breathing grew heavier.

Aldric pushed back from the table, standing abruptly. The chair scraped softly against stone.

"Every single one..." he muttered, voice trembling despite himself.

His hands curled into fists at his sides.

"Every single one is corrupted."

Not a trace of hesitation.

Not a single clean name.

Not one bishop whose records did not reek of compromise, manipulation, or outright crime hidden beneath layers of sanctified language.

He dragged a hand down his face, exhaustion and fury warring behind his eyes.

Time slipped by unnoticed.

The mana-lamps dimmed slightly, reacting to the late hour. Aldric’s movements slowed—but his resolve hardened.

Then—

His hand paused.

Among neatly cataloged parchments lay something... wrong.

A sheet that didn’t belong.

Half-burnt.

Edges blackened and brittle, ink smeared as if someone had tried—poorly—to destroy it.

Aldric leaned closer.

"...What’s this?" he muttered.

His fingers hovered over the scorched paper.

And the archive seemed to hold its breath.