“It’s all slipping away, all slipping away,” the Pope was muttering to himself. He was still sitting in the cavernous meeting room long after everyone else had fled with poorly made up excuses. His eyes were staring into the void, struggling with the calamity that had just unfolded.

Unlike his shortsighted colleagues who had foolishly scampered off, the Pope was well aware of the grave reality of their situation. If their unseen enemy had the cunning and resources to sneak into their most sacred spaces, plant runes, and broadcast their most incriminating discussions to every corner of the Northern Frost Dragon Empire, then surely, that enemy could snuff out their lives whenever they pleased. The Pope was understanding that the enemy’s real aim wasn’t just their physical annihilation but a far more devastating blow: stripping away their credibility and turning the populace against them.

‘And the only person who would benefit from this is the …..Istarin Empire…’ He was slowly realizing. At that moment, a shiver was running down his spine, goosebumps were covering his entire body. In the next instant, a look of lunacy was taking over his face. It was dawning on him how naive he and his compatriots had been. How could they have ever believed that Aditya, the Emperor of the Istarin Empire, would let their provocations slide without any form of retribution?

Realizing he was trapped with no way out, he was feeling a sense of doom envelop him. At this point, he wouldn’t have been surprised if the next faces he saw were the stern, unyielding soldiers of the Istarin Empire, come to mete out the justice he had long evaded.

“I guess it’s all ending, Hahaha!!!!” the Pope was thinking, resignation settling in his weary mind. At the end he just laughed as if he had gone crazy.

Witnessing the Pope’s unsettling fit of mad laughter, the remaining followers in the room exchanged uneasy glances, their faces etched with worry and bewilderment. “Has the Holy Pope lost his mind?” one junior priest muttered to another, their eyes darting between the Pope and each other, desperately searching for some sliver of reassurance.

“I don’t know, but this is not the man of wisdom we’ve all looked up to for guidance,” a nearby nun whispered back, her eyes widening with concern. They had stayed behind because of their unshakable faith in the Pope’s leadership, even when it seemed like the sky was falling. Now, seeing him unravel so dramatically made them question everything.

“Maybe the stress finally got to him? This situation is, after all, unprecedented,” suggested a deacon, trying to make sense of the surreal scene unfolding before them. They all had resisted the temptation to flee, putting their faith in the Pope’s fabled wisdom. They had believed that if anyone could navigate this perilous storm, it would be him.

“I don’t know about you all, but I stayed because I thought he would have a plan,” said an older priest, his voice tinged with regret. “It’s devastating to see him like this.”

“Yes, he was our last hope,” agreed another nun, clasping her hands together as if in prayer. “We thought he’d have some sort of guidance or solution, even when everything we’ve worked so hard for seemed to be collapsing.” From the tone of Nun one would think that they are facing injustice but the reality of the situation was this was something that they had called upon themselves for playing with the faith and trust of the people for centuries.

Watching their spiritual leader break down, they all felt an overwhelming sense of helplessness wash over them. This man, who had been their pillar of strength, seemed to have crumbled under the weight of the catastrophe. And as the Pope laughed crazily, their hearts sank further, leaving them to wonder whether the leader they had placed so much trust in had truly lost his way.

Tap! Tap!

The sound of footsteps echoed in the cavernous hall, drawing everyone’s eyes toward the entrance. Each footfall seemed to reverberate, resonating with the tension that had already filled the room. As they glanced over, they saw a mysterious figure walking towards them, clad entirely in a black cloak and hood. The cloak concealed the stranger’s features effectively, but the shape of the fabric hinted at a male physique.

At the sight of this uninvited guest during such a precarious time, every member of the church became instantly alert, their postures rigid with tension. A few priests and nuns instinctively took a step forward, hands clenched, ready to confront the stranger. But just as they moved, the man released a sliver of his aura into the room.

Eyes widened in collective astonishment as they quickly realized the man’s formidable cultivation level. He was a Peak 5th-order Cultivator, a being of unimaginable power and skill. Although the church also had several Peak 5th-order cultivators that the Pope had nurtured for centuries in secret, none of those Peak 5th-order cultivators could match against this man. This strange guest’s power was on complete different level. Conversations broke out in hushed, hurried whispers among the congregants.

“Did you feel that? He’s extraordinarily powerful,” a junior priest murmured to a nun standing next to him.

“This is no ordinary intruder; this is someone who can obliterate us with a wave of his hand,” another priest added, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. His face was starting to look pale.

Meanwhile, the Pope, who had been lost in his crazed laughter, snapped back to his senses. Sensing the powerful aura that the stranger had deliberately released, he raised his head and locked eyes with the shadowy figure. “Who are you?” the Pope inquired, his voice imbued with a mixture of calm and arrogance.

It wasn’t a sudden shift in his attitude; the Pope had always been a prideful man. He had hidden this part of his personality behind a mask of humility and kindness, particularly when dealing with figures like the Emperor, to whom he had to show deference. It irked him to bow or lower his head, and he had secretly resented every moment of it. When the White Dragon King had died, it was like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. Now, he thought he could finally realize his dream of turning the entire Northern Frost Dragon Empire into a religious state. So, even now, faced with an intruder of unknown but obviously powerful origin, the Pope’s pride was unshaken.

The cloaked man finally broke the silence, his voice filling the room like a chilling wind. “Alaric, I am someone who could offer you a sliver of salvation. While I can’t restore your lost prestige, your previous stature, or reinstate you as the Holy Pope, I can certainly propose an alternative path for you.”

The congregants, their eyes darting between the mysterious man and their fallen leader, whispered among themselves, each exchange tinged with a blend of awe and suspicion.

“Do you think he’s a spy? Someone from the Istarin Empire, perhaps?” one priest said to another.

“Could be a double agent, or even worse, someone with intentions we can’t even fathom,” a nun replied, her eyes narrowing as she studied the cloaked figure.

Alaric, perturbed yet intrigued, looked at the man intensely. “What alternative are you talking about?”

The mysterious man stepped closer, now standing directly in front of the Pope. “You’ve cultivated an image of kindness and benevolence over the course of five long centuries. But in mere minutes, that edifice has crumbled. Five hundred years of dedication and maneuvering have evaporated in the blink of an eye. It’s rather unjust, wouldn’t you agree, Alaric?”

Annoyance bubbled within Alaric. Had this stranger been any less powerful, Alaric would have launched an attack by now. “Just get to the point,” he spat out, his patience waning rapidly. His day had already been disastrous, and he had no desire to indulge in sweetened words.

Unfazed, the cloaked man continued, “What I’m saying is simple. It takes an enormous amount of effort and time to build something valuable, but almost no time at all to destroy it. Ant colonies, for example, labor ceaselessly, investing countless hours to construct intricate nests. Yet it takes but a single stomp to ruin their work. A forest may take centuries to mature, but a wildfire can level it in hours. Similarly, your reputation took lifetimes to build but was shattered in moments. Do you grasp the gravity of what I’m conveying, Alaric?”

Bang!

With a swift flick of his hand, the mysterious man shattered the table that stood before Pope Alaric. Wood splinters flew in all directions, yet Alaric’s face remained impassive, as if he had expected such an action. The destruction of the table served another purpose; now, their conversation would remain concealed from any prying. Under the wooden table, Nathan had secretly put a small cube shaped artifact that was letting them show the meeting between Alaric and other members. And this mysterious man was able to see this hidden object under the table the moment he entered the room.

After a moment of contemplation, Alaric broke into a mad grin. “So, am I correct to assume that you’re here to extend me the power to dismantle, to obliterate, just as effortlessly as you destroyed that table?”

The mysterious man chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that reverberated through the room. “Ah, Pope Alaric, I have a fondness for smart men.”

As if sealing an unspoken agreement, their hands met in a firm handshake. Church members who had been watching this unfold exchanged glances, their eyes wide with a mixture of awe, fear, and perhaps a tiny glimmer of hope. Could this enigmatic figure be the catalyst for a turnaround, or was he the omen of an even deeper abyss?

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