Pirate Phantom
patreon
Chapter 122: Transaction Complete
🕑 Added 2025-10-16 18:22:27 +0000 UTCWhen Maria saw Archbishop Mark again, her usually serene expression flickered with a trace of surprise.
The sight before her made her doubt her own eyes.
The man who had always seemed full of spirit and sharp thought now sat slumped in a wooden chair like an ordinary old man, his entire being exuding the quiet rot of decay. The deathly stillness that seeped from him made Maria wonder whether he had already lost the will to live.
“You’ve come…”
The Archbishop’s eyes lifted slightly once Maria entered. He fixed his cloudy gaze on the black-clad nun.
“Are you well, Your Grace?” Her brow furrowed. Maria knew that for a transcendent, any issue with one’s body was never minor. Once one set foot on the path beyond the mortal, their vitality was usually stable—unless some external force had shattered their balance.
Which meant: if a transcendent’s own body faltered, death was almost certain.
A Gold-rank transcendent, the Archbishop had safeguarded Torrent City for a century of prosperity and peace. For him to be failing now brought Maria a faint sorrow. Whatever one’s creed, he was a being who stood near the mortal pinnacle. His life could fill a splendid chronicle—yet now he sat like a piece of rotting wood, appearing ready to die at any moment.
“Do you want the truth?”
Archbishop Mark’s white beard trembled. A hint of irony touched his tone as he regarded the so-called nun who had somehow escaped divine judgment.
“No. I’m here to finish our deal.”
Sensing danger in his tone, Maria decisively refused to go deeper.
Everyone knew the Radiant Church’s current state. She, a nameless nun, would be crushed if dragged into the death vortex brewing inside it. Even a Gold-rank transcendent risked falling. Maria was not exaggerating; in her past life, the Church’s supreme boss—the Sunrage Sword Saint—had nearly reached the Legend realm, yet was slain at extreme range by the combined power of three Weavebinder Marshals.
It had felt scripted, but Maria knew exactly what “Marshal of Arcana” meant in power.
As always, the last Sun God, Gwyndolin, had underestimated the ambitions of other gods long suppressed.
“I’ve already erased the unpleasant record of your father’s actions in Seth Town,” the Archbishop said, trembling as he drew a dossier from his sleeve. “This copy is the final, true record.”
Maria reached out, but felt resistance at the other end.
“Hm?”
Was he going to retract it? Her gaze sharpened. If the old man dared go back on his word, she would call Gehrman up here to “reason” with him.
“Are you certain, Maria? Each lie we tell owes a debt to truth. I won’t stop you, but someone must know it.”
The cost of lies.
Mark had pondered that for days. Across the temples of the Sun Faith, deceit had spread—priests misleading believers, hierarchs shirking duty, radicals preaching zealotry.
They wove a false future out of lies and dragged others into it.
“I know.”
She yanked the dossier free, the only true record of the Seth Town Incident, and handed over the scroll containing the sealed remains of the Daemon of Khorne. The transaction was complete—an inglorious affair finally ended. Maria exhaled softly.
Her reason told her this was wrong, but her heart insisted otherwise.
No one is flawless.
“If you find the time,” the Archbishop murmured, closing his eyes, “visit Phoenix now and then.”
Maria paused, then turned and left the clocktower.
When she was gone, a faint clang of metal echoed from the window’s blind spot. A figure entered—back straight, an axe on her back—the Steel Nun, Dolores. She knelt beside the Archbishop like a perfect knight guarding her lord.
“They came again?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Then accept, Dolores. You are the gods’ most faithful servant. Even if the Sun must one day fade, it must be proven that it once burned and shone. Even if only one true believer remains to tell the world it was pure. Will you give your life for that?”
“My lord, I will.”
Her fist struck her chestplate. Her expression was solemn, resolute.
She had grown up in the filth of the slums, numb and broken. The Sun had granted her a new life. For that, she would fight for the Church’s purity until her blood ran dry, until her breath ceased, until her foes trembled.
The heretic yearns for the fire of salvation—and she was its judge and giver.
“When I was young my eyes were poor and I misjudged people,” the Archbishop said with a faint smile. “Now that I’m old and dim-sighted, I see you clearly.”
He chuckled softly. The deep wrinkles of age eased a little.
Dolores saluted, the red-lined white mantle on her back fluttering as she withdrew.
She knew this was their last meeting.
The Archbishop’s next acts would be beyond her reach. She was the Church’s most unyielding blade, the wrath of the gods that burned all evil. Should anyone violate the Sacred Scripture, even the Pontiff Sulyvahn could be slain.
The devout are often the most merciless executioners.
To kill you? No—she purifies you, saves you. Such is divine order. If the unclean resent it, the cleansing was simply incomplete.
That is the logic of zealotry.
Archbishop Mark’s jest about “dim eyes” was self-mockery. In truth, the man who had guarded the city for a hundred years saw everything with perfect clarity—and he could already guess who was moving behind the scenes.
