Apostle of the Goddess of War

Chapter 122

Ch.122 Apostle of the Goddess of War

As Sion stepped into the Sanctum Council Chamber, his field of vision opened wide.  

Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, casting colorful hues upon the sacred icons, and at the far end of the vast hall—adorned with a long red carpet—stood a round table of such exquisite beauty it seemed plucked straight from heaven itself.  

Sion walked stiffly behind Garfenn, his expression rigid.  

Garfenn’s strides were unusually confident, bold and purposeful as he marched forward.  

Finally.  

They had arrived.  

This was the very place Garfenn had sought for so long, refining his body over countless years to reach.  

The Round Table.  

The gathering place of the Apostles of the Round Table Goddesses.  

Today, the War Cult had been invited here.  

Though not officially part of the Round Table, they had been granted special status.  

Since the Apostle of Light herself had bestowed this privilege, no one dared oppose it.  

All they could do was express their discontent as openly as they were doing right now.  

Sion, too, attended this gathering as Garfenn’s attendant.  

‘I must take in everything with my eyes.’  

Present here were the current Apostles and those most likely to become Apostles next.  

It would be wise to thoroughly understand and memorize everything about them—for the sake of what lay ahead.  

The importance of this needed no explanation. Sion had already sharpened his focus long before Garfenn could even instruct him to do so.  

Before entering the Sanctum Council Chamber, his master had said:  

“Today marks our Goddess’s return and the War Cult’s chance to reclaim its name. You understand that, don’t you?”  

“Of course.”  

“Under no circumstances must you appear weak. Though I’m sure you’ll handle it far better than I would. Just saying this out of old-man worry.”  

“Yes. I’ll keep it in mind, Master. I won’t do anything to tarnish Lady War’s honor.”  

“Good to hear.”  

Garfenn smiled leisurely. He had just realized he relied on Sion even more than he’d thought.  

If Garfenn were alone, he might unintentionally get tangled in complications—but Sion would untangle them for him. Indeed, at this moment, Sion seemed far more suited to be the Apostle of War than Garfenn himself.  

Sion recalled his master’s words once more as he walked forward, puffing out his chest more than usual and sharpening his gaze as if arming himself.  

‘Let’s win!’  

Though neither knew precisely what they were fighting against, both War Cultists shared the same resolve: they would surely triumph in this unfavorable battlefield.  

“Oh! You’ve arrived.”  

Among them, only one Apostle offered a greeting—Arwen. Her face looked haggard, as if she hadn’t slept properly since last night.  

It seemed Sion had tormented her too much.  

Garfenn took the seat Arwen had prepared for him. Sion stood solemnly behind him, scanning the others with a serious expression.  

He concealed his astonishment well.  

‘Incredible. Every single one of them is a monster.’  

Even Sion, who rarely felt intimidated, was overwhelmed.  

Each was a person blessed by their Goddess. Their character and strength couldn’t possibly be grasped merely by sight.  

Truly, the strongest knights of humanity had gathered in one place. Sion committed this once-in-a-lifetime sight to memory, etching it deeply into his mind.  

“Well, I never thought I’d live to see this—beholding the Black Wolf here of all places.”  

Someone spoke up. The speaker wore a large necklace, had fiery red hair, and a crimson cloak that stood out immediately.  

Judging by his seat and attire, he seemed to be the Apostle of Fire.  

As expected, Garfenn confirmed Sion’s suspicion precisely, as if kindly explaining it to him.  

“Apostle of Fire, Mattis. You owe my disciple a debt, don’t you? Isn’t it only chivalrous to start with words of gratitude?”  

“What?”  

The fiery man glared at Sion with burning eyes. He already knew about Sion—about what this individual had done for the Fire Cult.  

He couldn’t very well ignore it.  

“…You saved our cult members and defeated the resurrected ancient fiend. Even repelled the Apostle of Death, they say.”  

Garfenn nodded, never once averting his fierce gaze from Mattis.  

Mattis fell silent. Yet Garfenn kept staring him down.  

He seemed determined to maintain that stare until Mattis offered his thanks.  

Clearly uncomfortable under that gaze, Mattis kept shifting his eyes toward empty space before finally giving in.  

“Alright, alright! Scary enough already.”  

Mattis grumbled as he reluctantly addressed Sion.  

Though he disliked and distrusted Garfenn, he showed no intention of openly opposing him—perhaps because he simply couldn’t.  

“On behalf of the Fire Cult, I thank you. Sion of the War Cult, disciple of the Black Wolf—I thank you for dealing with the Death Priestess we failed to catch. We couldn’t properly repay you then, but next time you visit, I’ll make sure to take care of you. Something good, I mean.”  

Surprisingly, his words of thanks came out sincerely—so polite, in fact, that it was astonishing.  

(Though his expression turned slightly sinister when mentioning ‘something good.’)  

“I received more help from you. I’ll make time to visit next time.”  

“Heh heh. Do that.”  

After finishing his words, Mattis flushed awkwardly, his hands trembling slightly.  

Seeing this, another Apostle beside him spoke up.  

“Mattis, are you still weak?”  

“What? No, I’m not!”  

“How can an Apostle of a Goddess be so dependent on medicine?”  

“Don’t worry about it.”  

“You kept insisting it was a Fire Cult ritual, a tradition—but you’re really out of your mind…”  

Mattis clenched his jaw, his face reddening further.  

“Shut up, Ravienne! Do you have any idea how nauseating it is when you act all pure?”  

“This is the Sanctum Council Chamber. Please choose your words more carefully.”  

Sion observed the woman scolding Mattis.  

Garfenn had already briefed him about each Apostle.  

‘An elf. Peach-colored hair, dual-wielding knight. That woman is the Apostle of Purity…’  

She was famed for her impeccable conduct and beauty. Her cult had the most female adherents and maintained close ties with the royal family.  

‘I heard the Apostles have always come from royal bloodlines.’  

Her cult certainly had many intriguing stories.  

Sion continued scrutinizing the other Apostles as they conversed among themselves.  

Apostle of Abundance.  

Apostle of Water.  

Apostle of Penitence.  

Even the Apostle of Life…  

‘Arwen still can’t fit in here, can she?’  

She was the youngest among the Apostles, and her personality was simply too difficult to handle—it was exactly as Sion had anticipated.  

The only slight surprise was the Apostle of Abundance.  

Sion never expected to see an Apostle bearing a sword from a cult whose sole doctrine was solving everything with gold.  

‘But I suppose even they have their limits.’  

Just as merchant guilds employed guards, after all.  

Surprisingly, aside from Garfenn, the Apostle of Abundance felt the strongest presence here.  

‘Master did praise him, after all…’  

Soon, the doors opened, and the owner of the previously empty head seat appeared.  

It was Lagan, Commander of the Order of the Holy Sword.  

Technically, the Commander of the Order of the Holy Sword was treated as the Apostle of Light.  

The true Apostle of Light held a rank far above him and thus never attended gatherings like this.  

It was an unspoken rule, a custom among them.  

“Well—long time no see, everyone. Sorry for keeping you waiting. I was busy emptying last night’s meal.”  

“Sigh.”  

Ravienne, Apostle of Purity, pinched the bridge of her nose.  

“Must you speak of such filthy things out loud, Lagan?”  

“Why not? It’s perfect for lightening the mood. Don’t you agree, Sion?”  

Lagan winked playfully at Sion.  

All eyes instantly turned toward Sion. Everyone looked stunned—no one expected the Commander of the Order of the Holy Sword himself to address Sion directly.  

They’d all been ignoring the War Cultist, so this felt like a bolt from the blue.  

“I agree with Lady Apostle of Purity.”  

“Haha!”  

Lagan burst into laughter, clutching his stomach.  

“Figures. Not a single word to help me out.”  

Mattis couldn’t hold back any longer.  

“Lagan, are you close with that guy?”  

“Of course! We endured hardships together for about a month, didn’t we?”  

“What?”  

Lagan smiled knowingly, lowering his voice as if sharing something extremely important.  

“And that guy there is the knight who slew the Apostle of Blood.”  

“What?”  

The previously silent Apostles stirred in agitation, murmuring among themselves.  

“We heard the Apostle of Blood was killed, but wasn’t that your doing?”  

“We assumed it was you since they said you killed him together with the Apostle of Madness.”  

Lagan waved his hand dismissively.  

“Nope. I caught the Apostle of Madness, but the real heavyweight was taken down by him.”  

Lagan pointed emphatically at Sion, reiterating his point.  

“The War Cult’s next Apostle killed the Apostle of Blood.”  

Sion wondered why Lagan was going so far out of his way.  

Of course, gaining attention here and elevating the War Cult’s status would be beneficial—but still.  

“…Unbelievable.”  

“Lagan, don’t mock us.”  

“Hey, Ravienne, stop treating him like a child. I know you’re 452 years old and all.”  

“Why bring up my age? Are you belittling me just because I’m an elf?”  

“I’m just envious of your longevity. When did I ever belittle you?”  

“Is it because you’re never serious that I get confused?”  

“Want to see me get serious?”  

“No.”  

Sion let out a small sigh.  

Then, in a voice only Garfenn could hear, he asked,  

“Master… are Apostles always this pathetic?”  

Garfenn smiled expressionlessly.  

“They’re human, after all.”  

“Ah. Right.”  

Despite Sion’s evident merit, none of them acknowledged it—no one addressed him directly.  

They either remained silent or sought information indirectly through Lagan.  

The atmosphere of exclusion toward the War Cult still prevailed.  

What was with their damned pride?  

Sion wanted to say something, but decided against it—it wouldn’t look dignified.  

Now he finally understood why Lady War never personally explained herself whenever she suffered injustice or unfair treatment.  

‘Boasting about how great I am here would feel rather shameful.’  

After all, they all already knew.  

They knew Sion was exceptional.  

They knew the War Cult was steadily growing.  

Yet they simply refused to admit it—because doing so would force them to apologize for and renounce all their past dismissiveness and mistreatment.  

‘How amusing.’  

How worn down Lady Achille must have felt. In that moment, Sion silently offered a prayer of repentance to his Goddess.  

“U-um… um…”  

Arwen, who until now hadn’t uttered a word and had kept her head bowed while fidgeting with her fingers, suddenly raised her hand.  

Why she kept her gaze fixed on the floor despite raising her hand so boldly was unclear. But what mattered was that her courageous statement silenced the entire Sanctum Council Chamber, drawing everyone’s attention to her.  

Lagan grinned as he spoke.  

“Quiet down, everyone. Our youngest, Arwen, has something to say.”  

Arwen’s face turned beet red, as if about to burst.  

Yet she didn’t give up. Carefully, bravely, she spoke.  

“I think… we should praise… Sir Sion… who defeated the Apostle of Blood…”  

“What are you saying, Arwen?”  

The Apostle of Water—who had been relatively quiet until now—asked gently. She was a striking woman with vivid blue hair.  

“The Apostle of Blood… is a being… who can’t be killed by strength alone… right?”  

Arwen began to cry.  

‘Wait, she’s crying over praising me?’  

Sion was flustered. But Arwen’s speech continued unabated.  

“No matter how it was done… proper praise and recognition… are necessary…”  

“Typical of you, Arwen.”  

Lagan’s teasing voice echoed through the chamber. The Apostles’ discomfort reached the ceiling.  

Sion thought inwardly,  

‘Thank you, Arwen.’  

So this was how she repaid kindness—by making everyone terribly uncomfortable.  

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