In religious studies, a church represents a deity's domain in the mortal realm—an extension of their divine kingdom.
The clergy of a major god are the god's servants, the official executors of the divine will.
For an executor of one deity to step onto the sovereign land of another is a matter of utmost gravity. Much like international diplomacy between nations, it requires intricate procedures; one does not simply drop by on a whim.
To the churches, this was not a matter of meaningless, redundant etiquette, but a solemn and necessary religious ceremony with genuine symbolic significance.
Of course, the executors of fallen gods were an exception—with the deity gone, there were no official executors to speak of.
Therefore, whether for receptions or conferences, the venue chosen was never a cathedral, but rather the Medea Hotel.
As a state guesthouse, security at the Medea Hotel was exceptionally tight. Furthermore, with high-ranking clergy convening inside, the internal security forces of the Four Major Churches added several extra layers of protection. Let alone living, breathing human beings, even a stray gust of wind trying to blow past would be stopped.
Yet Lynch encountered no resistance whatsoever, barging straight all the way to the conference hall.
He was no longer the man he used to be. After his battle at the Duke's ball, his name had been placed on the priority watchlists of virtually every major faction. So long as it didn't violate core principles, very few people dared to stand in his way wherever he chose to go.
Not to mention he was accompanied by an even more terrifying top-tier powerhouse—the sheer strength of a rank eight expert was enough to command deference from everyone, from king to beggar.
Thus, the security personnel on the hotel perimeter did not block Lynch's group at all, allowing them to stroll straight into the hotel lobby before they stopped to ask for directions.
Besides seeking out Archbishop Trinlais and Mrs. Nightingale, Lynch had his own motives for coming here.
Right now, this place was the center of attention in Rhine City. Almost every faction had their eyes fixed here, and the Shadow Alliance was likely no exception.
Apart from President Olei and the Milt siblings, no one knew he had gone to retrieve the Torch of Light—except for the Shadow Alliance.
So as long as he wandered around public areas carrying the Torch of Light on his back, anyone who reacted strangely to the medicine box would very likely be a mole planted by the Shadow Alliance—or at least someone deeply connected to them. And with the Medea Hotel guarded so heavily right now, there was no need to worry about them taking a shot at him, making this the perfect testing ground.
And so, Lynch led the group of three on a meandering tour through the hotel, sampling every snack and drink prepared for state guests across several lounges and recreation rooms. After half an hour, he indeed spotted quite a few strange looks—though they weren't directed at the Torch of Light, but at its owner.
Where did this glutton come from? Have they no concern for international propriety?
“I’m only doing this test to draw attention. I’m really not eating snacks for fun. But honestly, these pastries are great—you guys want a bite?”
Even though they knew Lynch had a valid point, both ladies blushed profusely. One cared about her dignity, while the other was already catching the odd looks from her colleagues. If not for fearing they might ruin Lande's international image as a safe and stable nation, the two young women would have proven through action that the security here wasn't entirely airtight after all.
As for the white-haired President Olei, he simply stroked his beard with keen interest from the side, a subtle smile playing across his face the entire time.
Fortunately, the hotel staff arrived in time to avert a bloody murder, informing the group that the conference had concluded and that staff inside were cleaning up, so they were free to enter whenever they wished.
However, considering it was inappropriate to barge in with a rank eight powerhouse unannounced—after all, a normal visit didn't usually involve carrying a nuclear bomb to someone's doorstep—the two ladies and President Olei remained in the lobby, primarily to observe for anything unusual. Lynch proceeded alone to the “Singing” hall to corner Trinlais.
Everyone exchanged subtle looks as they glanced at the Torch of Light strapped to his back, refraining from comment. Still, no one objected. Miss Diana opened her mouth to say something before he left, but ultimately remained silent, watching him amble away.
Good luck, Mr. Lynch. Hope you enjoyed the snacks in there.
Thus, under the gazes of high-ranking leaders from twelve churches and dozens of senior ecclesiastical figures, Mr. Lynch walked headfirst right into the “Singing” hall.
The conclusion of a conference and the actual dispersal of its attendees were two very different things. Important figures would never swarm out like a crowd leaving a movie theater.
Unless there was an explicit hierarchy in rank, the first to leave such meetings were always the attendants, heading out to coordinate the next leg of the itinerary. The VIPs would remain seated in composed chatter until their staff informed them that everything was arranged.
Unfortunately, as someone who had been the first to bolt out of every meeting in his past life, Lynch had no clue about this unspoken rule.
Consequently, he found himself put on full display. The collective gazes of a massive crowd locked onto his face, creating an instant surge of pressure that almost made his hair stand on end.
Diana, you've gone bad too...
Well, since I'm already here, I might as well make the best of it.
This was actually a good chance to parade himself in front of all the church leaders. At least one of these twelve churches harbored malice; perhaps he could figure out who was harboring ulterior motives based on their reactions.
As it turned out, someone indeed acted unusually. Their expression upon seeing the medicine box was subtle, even tinged with nervousness.
Mrs. Nightingale.
This startled Lynch for a moment, but a second thought brought understanding.
This relic had originally been born because of the Church of Suffering; it was only natural that they had records of it in their archives, and stranger if she didn't recognize it. As for her nervousness, that was even more understandable—if I saw someone swinging a sledgehammer at a landmine, I’d be nervous too.
Apart from her, everyone else acted completely normal, displaying an appropriate degree of curiosity and scrutiny, which left Lynch laughing at himself inwardly.
I really let myself get carried away, thinking I could read clues off the faces of a bunch of shrewd, high-and-mighty power players. Courage must be giving me strength. Still, whether it's because the gods haven't shared their intentions with their followers at all, or because these people hide their thoughts so deeply, remains open to debate.
“Everyone, this is the boy we were just talking about.”
In the blink of an eye, Mrs. Nightingale composed herself, giving Lynch a warm wave and calling him over to her side.
The regional heads of Lande's four official state churches were gathered together. The bald archbishop of the Church of the Sun wore a furious expression—though not aimed at Lynch, perhaps still immersed in the “friendly exchange” from earlier—while the archbishop of the Church of Wealth looked at Lynch thoughtfully, his face calm and devoid of emotion.
“He returned earlier this evening. Thank you for your introduction—this is a personal expression of gratitude.”
Lynch whispered as he passed by, receiving a cold snort in response as the bald archbishop turned away. Making a cheeky face behind his back, Lynch hurried to Mrs. Nightingale's side, turned to face the representatives of the other eight churches, tipped his top hat, and bowed slightly.
“A follower of the crimson moon, Lynch Levive, presents his personal respects to Your Excellencies.”
“You carry the aura of a Great Old One upon you; Cthugha has her eyes on you. Be careful, child—that is an immensely malevolent evil god.”
The speaker was a white-bearded, white-haired old man wearing a priest's robe. Standing well over two meters tall, his bulging muscles stretched the loose robe taut against his frame.
“Beware the temptation of the deep sea. Voices from R'lyeh stand ready at every moment to erode your sanity.”
A middle-aged woman looking to be in her forties intoned deeply, her voice calm and heavy like midnight waves.
Both of their voices were peaceful, as if merely speaking casually. Yet Lynch's experience from his past life left him with no doubt that these religious figures could go mad at any given moment.
Rate on N.U.
