The Hundred Reigns

Chapter 93: The Church of the Stars (5)

In the end, the three year long Templar training took only three days for Simon.

Since the light megalith blessed him with the required prayer spells, Lady Beatrice focused his training on correcting the ‘flaws’ in his fighting style and assigning him intense study sessions to drill the canons of the Light into his skull. Simon didn’t find theology particularly thrilling, but it had the advantage of teaching him a few interesting tidbits like the megaliths’ various locations.

The light-aligned one was currently in Lore’s care, ironically enough. Paladins traditionally received a blessing from it before going on doomed quests to defeat the Overlord. Simon wondered if that was the reason why the stone favored him. Perhaps it could sense he would have become a Paladin under different circumstances.

Either way, Mastemo saw no point in delaying what he felt was an inevitability, and neither did Simon. He returned to his quarters with the knowledge he would pass the trial tomorrow, only to find Eole playing a song to his retainers next to an ever growing pile of food, coins, and small trinkets near the balcony.

“Simon.” Eole greeted him with a smile. “How did your day go?”

“Very well.” Simon glanced at the pile of loot next to her. “That’s quite the treasure trove you have there.”

“Locals keep giving me gifts,” Eole admitted. “I do not understand why.”

Simon could wager a guess. “It is said that the prophetess Pharis received a vision of a white-winged messenger of the Light that ordered her to bring the word of the divine across all corners of the world.”

Eole frowned. “She met a kish?”

“I don’t think so, but people who likely don’t know better probably mistake you for a divine messenger.”

“I can understand why,” Meredith mused. “Lady Eole is gracious and gifted with a wonderful voice.”

“Do the kish worship the Light, Lady Eole?” Leonard asked in Elvish.

“No, of course not,” Eole replied as if that was a foolish idea. The Church’s support of shifter slavery had made the religion unpalatable to her so far. “We worship the Mana Goddess, eidolons, and our local dryad to a lesser degree. I’ve never heard of the Light until I arrived in Telluria.”

Leonard smiled. “I would avoid mentioning that to the High Confessor if I were you, or your people will end up swamped with missionaries.”

“I’ve heard Uyo has many of those,” Simon noted.

“Not that much. While the Church regularly sends missionaries to Uyo, its influence is relatively…” Leonard chuckled to himself. “Light.”

“That was terrible, Leonard,” Meredith chided him, albeit with some amusement.

“My apologies, milady. I couldn’t think of anything better.” Leonard crossed his arms. “Are you ready for your trial, Your Highness?”

“As I ever will be, I suppose,” Simon replied, his gaze settling on Eole. “Lord Mastemo informed me that he will answer all your queries after my Templar trial. The Confessor Conclave takes all of his time for now.”

“That is… good,” Eole said, albeit with some anxiety. Her doubts about Mastemo’s words had continued to nag at her.

“It is rare for a Confessor Conclave to last more than a day outside of a High Confessor’s election,” Meredith noted. “I wonder what Their Eminences are discussing.”

How to best profit from Balzam Magnos’ death, I would wager, Simon thought. He knew from past reigns that the Church would eventually throw its full support behind Euphemia and rouse all their faithful against the War Party once the empire began to tear itself apart.

“Either way, Your Highness, I would like to have one last round of practice with you before bed,” Meredith said. “Your martial trial will involve fighting a demon from the Abyss and defeating it in single combat with your weapons and prayer alone. It will be a difficult challenge.”

Especially without a Class outfit, Simon thought. His passives would still apply and give him an edge, but he would miss out on his active ones and a large stat increase. “Do you know what kind of demon I can expect?”

“A lesser one, though the Confessors often use captured undead as a substitute,” Meredith explained. “Most initiates fight a gargoyle or an incubus. I fought the former to pass my own trial.”

Simon recalled that incubi were male demons with a humanoid appearance, except with horns, a tail, and batlike wings. They were usually more eager to partake in violence than their subtler succubi female counterparts, and preferred to take by force what they couldn’t take with sweet words. Simon had yet to encounter one, though he had slain or enslaved his fair share of gargoyles.

“However,” Meredith said with a hint of concern, “the Templar Trial is supposed to be challenging to their candidate. Most squires face minor demons because they can only cast Tier I prayers.”

Simon scowled upon seeing the issue. “You think they might throw a stronger foe at me because I have been favored by the light megalith?”

“I can’t say,” Meredith said. “This depends on the will of the Confessors.”

“I don’t think it will come to that,” Leonard commented sharply. “The High Confessor clearly wants His Highness to join the Templars, and adding a member of House Magnos to the organization would be a tremendous boon. He would not make your recruitment more difficult than it has to be.”

“Possibly,” Meredith conceded. “But I do not think the High Confessor would risk discrediting the trial for political gain. It is a sacred institution to the Light.”

“Can we witness this ordeal?” Eole inquired.

Meredith shook her head. “Only the Confessors and trained Templars are allowed to witness it.”

“Either way, it's set for tomorrow,” Simon said. “Let us proceed with a spar before I go to bed.”

His trial began at dawn the next morning.

Simon was brought to a hall with six other potential initiates—three men and women in their late teens to early twenties. They were then ordered to sit at individual desks and fill out a written exam that the priests called the Trial of Knowledge. Most of the test’s questions focused on religious matters, such as the acts of the prophetess Pharis, the megaliths, the history of the Church and its tenets, but it also included more difficult questions like calculating the range of a crossbow, how to identify signs of demonic or dryad cult activities, which weapons to use to defeat the undead, and so on. The Templars wanted their recruits to find practical uses for their knowledge.

Either way, Simon aced the exam without too much of an issue, as did the other initiates. They were brought before a group of ten priests of the Light—representing the ten first followers of the prophetess Pharis—and then asked to show their faith by casting a tier I prayer spell in front of them. Two of the candidates failed to do so because the megaliths refused to grant them power, which the overseers took as proof that while the Light shone on them in the past, it did not deem them ready to become Templars yet.

Simon felt a small knot tie in his stomach when he was called to perform, but thankfully the light megalith deigned to illuminate his blade to his observers’ delight. This completed the Test of Faith.

Finally, the Templar trainers of what remained of their group, including Beatrice, arrived to bring their trainees to an elevator that went the one direction Simon didn’t expect it to: down.

Besides its fantastical size, it appeared the Lighthouse also had a basement. Simon could sense the Dark grow stronger with each floor they passed. Shadows darkened as the elevator creaked past sealed vaults bound by silver chains and magical wards.

“You must feel it too, Your Highness,” Beatrice said. “These depths are where the Church has sealed away many dangerous creatures for the faithful’s safety. Patrolling it will be part of your duties once you join us.”

A jail for monsters, Simon thought. This would be a recipe for disaster when the black comet arrived to break their seals. He hoped the Church’s wards and defenses were solid enough to prevent a mass breakout, or else a terrible disaster would plague the Valendre region. “How deep does this place go? Where’s the bottom?”

“You will know when you become a Templar.” The elevator stopped on what appeared to be the third level and opened up to an antechamber lit by torches and housing a vast collection of weapons, armor, and other equipment. A set of tall stone doors faced them on the other end. “Each Templar and squire will be called one after the other to face their last trial. The fight is to the death. If you wish to back down, now is your last chance.”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

Simon scoffed. “Did you expect me to run now?”

“No, but many change their minds once they see fewer friends leaving through the door than they came in from,” Beatrice replied. “Either way, you will go last.”

The first squire and his Templar teacher were called inside. Each candidate was free to pick any weapon or gear they wanted, so that one walked in with a sword, shield, and plate armor. The doors closed behind him, only to open when the next duo was summoned.

“How do we know if a fellow squire passed the test?” Simon asked.

“They come out back this way,” Beatrice replied grimly.

Which bode ill for the initiate that walked in… “Is it normal for squires to die at this test?”

“Between a quarter to half of the initiates do not survive the Trial of Strength, depending on the Light’s whims,” Beatrice confirmed, which slightly shocked Simon. That was a rather harsh percentage of casualties. “We prefer to be rigorous before we grant them a Crestone, to ensure new Templars do not rely on it. We do not have a limitless amount of them.”

Simon guessed it made sense to only entrust the best of the best with Classes, yet still, Lady Beatrice didn’t sound all that bothered by it all. She probably saw this as a harsh but necessary measure to weed out those unfit to serve the Confessors.

Simon waited for his turn while paying close attention to what equipment each candidate picked. The next squire, a young man a head taller than Simon and built like an ox, picked a war axe and a suit of heavy armor. He would walk out of the chamber alive ten minutes later to the acclaim of his fellow knight aspirants, with his steel drenched in blood.

The first of the girls didn’t have that chance and failed to emerge from the chamber. The last squire before Simon, a blonde teenage girl no older than eighteen, picked a whip and a rapier for weapons of all things.

However, unlike all the others, she cast a Blessing of Light prayer before walking into the chamber.

“Is that allowed?” Simon inquired, since none of the other squires had done so.

“It isn’t forbidden,” Beatrice replied with a pleased smile. “Strength isn’t the only quality we look for in a Templar. Wits and caution have their place too.”

Whatever the case, the female squire’s choice paid off, because she walked out alive and with only light cuts to show for it. Not having to cast a buff during the battle itself had paid dividends.

“Lady Beatrice, and her squire Simon Magnos,” a voice called out from within the chamber when Simon’s turn came.

Obviously, he chose plate armor with a morningstar and a shield for his trial. It wasn’t as comfortable as his Overlord outfit, but so much more natural than a sword and mail.

“Lightstone of the ancients, holiest of graces, I beseech thee to grant unto my blade your Blessing of Light,” he chanted, his morningstar’s head glowing like the celestial body that gave it its name. He then followed with another buffing prayer he had learned under Beatrice’s training. “Lightstone of the ancients, grant me Lightspeed!”

Holy power filled him, and though it felt antithetical to Simon’s inner nature, it didn’t feel as painful as holding the Paladin Class Crestone; only vaguely discomforting, like taking an ice cold shower.

And it was worth it.

Haste status applied.

The world slowed down and blurred as Simon walked past the doors into a small circular arena whose every inch was covered in magical symbols. A cadre of templars stood watch over a ring of runes at the center marking the limits of the battleground. Bloodstains and the remains of someone’s entrails stained the stone floor.

Seven priests, Mastemo among them, observed from a balcony above seated on gilded thrones. Each of them bore golden masks marking them as members of the Confessors, the highest authority among the Church of the Light.

“Step into the cycle, initiate, or forever stay back,” the High Confessor announced without much fanfare. “For your Test of Strength awaits.”

Unwilling to waste time, Simon stepped into the ring of runes. It glowed the second he entered and manifested a barrier of light that cut him off from the outside world. Smoke arose into the circle, and a towering gargoyle similar to those he had employed in the Darkwood materialized in front of him, roaring and hissing with murderous red eyes.

“Now,” said Mastemo, “Begi–”

Simon charged across the ring and tore the gargoyle’s head off its shoulders with his morningstar.

He hadn’t meant to do that. His goal was to charge and injure the gargoyle without necessarily inflicting a lethal wound, in order to better sell the fight, but he was unused to fighting under the haste status without the Overlord outfit’s stat changes. His timing was off and his aim true.

His light-empowered mace shattered the gargoyle’s horns, then caved in its skull onto the stone floor with such strength that it shattered into a burst of bones, blood, and miasma. The body collapsed soon after without rising up.

A shocked silence and small gasps followed this display of strength, followed by the ring of light disappearing with the gargoyle’s sudden death. Simon looked around, half expecting another attack, but the only things surrounding him were awe and pleased men of the faith.

Was… was that all? Was it already over?

“He slew the fiend in a single blow?” one of the Confessors asked.

“Without hesitation either,” another commented.

“He cast a Tier III prayer from the light megalith too…” a third commented, clasping his hands. “Is he truly a squire?”

“Have you fought demons in the past?” Lady Beatrice inquired with a slight frown.

“No, no, I… I didn’t expect to win like this,”Simon replied in unease, his morningstar shining like the sun. I thought it would be stronger.

But then again… it was a creature weak enough to be slain by someone without a Class in single combat, and Simon had subjective years of battle experience under his belt by now on top of his hidden passive Perks. It couldn’t have gone any other way without better choreography.

Simon gulped, fearing he had been exposed, but claps from Mastemo quickly silenced the other Confessors.

“What an incredible display of strength and skill, Simon,” the High Confessor complimented him. “Faith has been your shield and the Light your weapon. For a second, I thought the new Paladin stood with us.”

If only he knew… Nonetheless, Simon smiled when the other Confessors recovered from their shock and clapped in unison. They likely were happier to see a new, miraculous, prodigy Templar than eager to question his gifts.

“Now, let us vote on whether this young child of providence deserves to join the ranks of the army of the Light.” Mastemo raised his hand, with all other Confessors imitating the gesture, though one or two took a bit longer to go along with the flow. “The motion is unanimous. Simon Magnos has been deemed worthy to join the Templar Order, and shall receive his Crestone after offering his vows to the Light.”

“It will be an honor to serve, Your Excellency,” Simon replied with a knee in the gargoyle’s blood.

“It most surely will.” Mastemo nodded to himself and then rose from his seat. “Beatrice, Simon, come with me. There is something I want to show our new recruit.”

Simon remained quiet and followed after Mastemo and the Godsblade as they followed a path near the balcony and walked into another elevator. Instead of going up as he expected, the High Confessor waved his hand at the switch panel and caused it to go down… and down…

And down.

Simon tensed up as the aura of darkness coming from the depths grew stronger, and its opposing light above dimmed. He heard muffled screams and beast roars past the stone walls, alongside inhuman wails.

Were they approaching a demonbarrow buried under the Lighthouse’s foundation?

“You can feel it too, don’t you?” Mastemo inquired. “The Dark.”

Lady Beatrice coughed. “Your Excellency… is this not forbidden? He hasn’t sworn the oath yet.”

“He needs to see it,” Mastemo replied, his head turning to Simon. “What I am about to show you is a secret usually reserved for Templars who have uttered their oath. You will have to swear not to reveal it, even should you decide against joining us.”

Simon scowled. Was that his real test of faith? “Why tell me then, Your Excellency?”

“Because I want you to understand the duty that will weigh on you once you utter your vows,” Mastemo explained. “Do you know when the Templar Order was created?”

That was an easy answer, which Simon had already answered in his exam. “During the flight east after Overlord Mardok murdered the prophetess Pharis.”

“That is half-correct,” Mastemo replied, to Simon’s surprise. “The modern order was created then, but another organization used to keep watch over the Lighthouse; an ancient group of guardians which raised this tower’s foundations and kept watch over its depths. The Templar Order modeled its vows after them, and though we have expanded its duties over time, its core mission remains the same.”

“I don’t recall any books mentioning an older order,” Simon noted, growing more and more confused.

“This information was suppressed for everyone’s safety,” Lady Beatrice replied. “This organization called itself the Order of the Gate.”

“Eight hundred years ago, the wickedness of mortals invited evil into this world in the form of demons,” Mastemo said. “You must understand that these creatures are anathema to life. Although they use our fears and sins to give themselves shape to trick or torment us, they do not need our faith and mana to exist the way eidolons do. Our souls are a delicacy to them, and our universe a playground, but the Abyss’ pestilence would remain should all life on this planet disappear. Demons are invaders.”

By the time the elevator stopped at the very bottom of the complex, the aura of Dark had grown almost as thick as the heart of the Darkwood. Chains holding the doorway sealed shifted like uncoiling snakes to let them step past the threshold into a great underground cathedral wreathed in shadows and hardly kept lit by ghostlight torches.

“And this,” Mastemo said upon stepping into a massive chamber, “Is the door they used to first crawl their way into our world.”

Simon held his breath when he saw it.

Past the great pillars holding the ceiling in place stood a colossal, fifty-foot tall gate of ebony manatree wood and adamantine. The massive doorway was sealed shut by a lock so large it must have taken giants to forge, and on which four symbols were engraved in a circular fashion: an azure dragon, a vermilion bird, a black tortoise, and a white tiger. Wisps of miasma floated around it, like water trying and failing to slip past a dam.

“This gate…” he muttered, quickly putting two and two together. “Does it lead to–”

“To the Abyss, yes,” Mastemo confirmed. “The foundations of what would become our Lighthouse were raised centuries before the Doom to bury this abomination beneath the earth.”

This… this is it, Simon realized. This was one of the gates his father’s notes ordered the Overlord to seize.

Simon didn’t see any sealed miasma crystal of the Zodiac, but he could tell that this place used to be a dungeon. A place similar to the Darkwood.

So where was the crystal? Had it been destroyed or sealed on another level? Or… did it find a host?

The High Confessor pointed his staff at the lock. “The four cardinal guardians stand proud above the myriad eidolons. Azulbolla is one, as is the Phoenix. They once came here and pooled out their powers under the great eidolon Basileus to raise this gate and seal away the Abyss. The doors have been sealed shut for many centuries, but evil does not die; it slumbers.”

“Your charge as a Templar, should you accept it, will involve keeping watch over this gate until the day it opens,” Lady Beatrice explained. “The Confessors pray to the Light each day that this gate will not open in our lifetime, for it would surely unleash destruction upon us all, but we must remain ever vigilant.”

A gnawing doubt wormed its way into Simon’s mind. “Is there another such gate?”

“Not that we know of,” Mastemo replied, his hand gripping his staff. “Why the question?”

Because his father’s commandment demanded him to seize the gates. Plural.

There were more than one.