Chapter 142

Outburst!

“He was appointed by divine oracle as the bishop of Steel City—how could I possibly be stronger than him!”

Morris’s breath halted abruptly, as if he had just heard an absurd joke.

“Why not?” said Fenrir. “Clerical rank only reflects one’s proximity to the divine. Or do you think your faith is less devout than his?”

Morris’s fingers dug deep into his palms. Blood seeped from between them, dripping onto the expensive carpet in the room.

“You mean… I’m more devout than Anthony?”

Fenrir’s voice carried the ethereal quality unique to divinity. “How many years have you served in the Nightmare Faith?”

“Fifteen years and four months.”

That number felt like an inscription carved into bone—because it was also the snow-covered night his mother breathed her last.

“And Anthony?”

“Seven…” Morris’s eyes suddenly widened. “But the divine oracle clearly—”

“Divine oracle?” A mocking laugh rang in his ears, so sharp it made his eardrums ache. “Did you truly believe the Lord of Desires personally appoints every district bishop?”

A wave of dizziness swept over Morris.

Fifteen years of fragmented memories surged through his mind—those sacred texts he copied late at night, those pilgrimages again and again, the filthy and exhausting tasks pushed onto him by other priests.

“It seems you’ve figured it out.”

“But… but… he’s still the bishop…”

“Tch.” Fenrir’s voice suddenly brimmed with disgust. “You hopeless maggot, trapped in a dead end…”

Fenrir’s voice abruptly drifted away.

“Wait!” Morris instinctively tried to reach out, but grasped only empty air.

“Fen… Fenrir, my lord?”

The bedroom returned to silence. Only the ticking of the pocket watch reminded him of the passage of time.

Everything that had just happened now felt like nothing but an illusion.

He slowly unclenched his fist, and the seething murderous intent receded like the tide.

And yet, why was there still this unbearable resentment?!

He looked down at the robe on his body—those two gray sashes symbolizing a priest felt unbearably glaring.

…

In the shadows—

“I was just about to succeed in beguiling him. Why did you call me back?”

The now-manifested Fenrir spoke with clear discontent.

But Lucy merely shook her head.

“I’ve already agitated his malice several times in a row—it’s very likely to be noticed.”

Even though he was merely a priest, Morris still carried a portion of the Lord of Desires’ will. Pushing too far risked drawing unwanted attention.

And Lucy had no interest in Morris’s current soul—what she wanted was the soul he would become in the future. So she wasn’t in any hurry.

Besides, judging from the information gathered about the wizards, the conflict between Morris and Anthony clearly went deeper than a mere dispute over rank.

…

The ticking of the pocket watch sounded especially jarring in the dead silence.

Morris stared at the gilded watch face, its hands fixed at three o’clock. His fingernails scratched pale grooves into the tabletop.

Suddenly, he stood up and pulled a bottle of treasured perfume from the depths of his wardrobe.

It was something he had traded from a southern merchant last year, still bearing the royal wax seal scorched onto its glass body.

“At least there’s still Marlena…”

As he dabbed the perfume behind his ears in front of the mirror, his fingers suddenly froze.

At the collar of his priest’s robe in the reflection, those two gray sashes constricted his vision like nooses.

“Damn it! Damn it!”

The bottles and jars on the vanity clattered to the floor, and the perfume soaked into the wool carpet, leaving a dark stain.

Perhaps… perhaps if he had just listened to Fenrir earlier, everything would have turned out fine.

Suddenly, he caught sight of himself in the mirror—a bloated figure, disheveled hair, pale face, and bloodshot eyes that made him look like a predator ready to devour anyone.

The sight startled him.

He hurriedly tightened his corset and straightened his hair. Only after restoring his usual “gentlemanly” appearance did he finally let out a sigh of relief.

Then, with great care, he took down the Holy Tome and gently wiped away the dust with a silk scarf.

Marlena was not only his mistress but also a devout follower of the Nightmare Faith. Every time they lay in bed together discussing the contents of the Holy Tome, it felt to him like a healing balm for his wounds.

He stepped out of the room and walked away with steps that were far from light.

The shadows of the corridor swallowed his figure.

As he turned past the spiral staircase, he habitually glanced toward the bishop’s suite. To his surprise, the oak door carved with the sacred emblem stood ajar, and from the gap came the muffled sobs of a woman.

A jolt ran through his chest, and an inexplicable panic surged within him.

Like one possessed, he slowly approached the door, peering through the narrow opening.

Inside the room—far more luxurious than his own—Marlena lay sprawled on the floor like a discarded rag doll. Her swan-like neck was covered in purplish-red finger marks, and her carefully styled curls were now matted, stuck to her tear-streaked cheeks.

Morris stared at the woman he had always touched with the utmost tenderness, his mistress and was struck as if by lightning.

Half a sandglass later—

“Darling, I really put my heart into it today.”

“I told you long ago—I’m far better than Morris.”

“Don’t bring up that useless trash right now. I’m leaving…”

“Come find me again next time.”

“Mm.”

Dressed in a black lace dress and carrying a velvet purse, Marlena swayed her hips as she left, completely unaware of the pale face lurking in the shadows.

How could this be!

How could it be like this!

Marlena’s innocent face and the wanton expression from earlier gradually overlapped in Morris’s mind—his entire world felt as if it had just collapsed.

“Is the honorable priest observing for personal edification?”

A sudden voice shattered the silence.

Anthony had appeared behind him at some point, bishop’s robe lazily draped over his shoulders, with lipstick and wine stains still on his chest.

“You really ought to treat your woman better. She’s… quite something, hahaha.”

The moment Anthony turned around, the Holy Tome with its gilded cover struck the back of his head. His vision went white as he crashed heavily to the ground.

Morris found himself astride Anthony, ramming the spine of the book again and again into that repulsive head.

“You… you bastard! You deserve to die!”

“You stole my position!”

“You stole Marlena!”

“I’m going to kill you! Kill you!”

“…”

Anthony never imagined that the always-timid Morris would actually dare lay hands on him. Nor that he would do so over a woman. And certainly not that he would go completely insane…

But as the dizziness from that first blow faded, it left behind only a roaring fury.

That bastard hit me?!

That bastard actually used the Holy Tome to hit me?!

“Mor! Ris!”

Boom!—

Terrifying divine power surged through Anthony. Morris, still mid-swing, was flung backward by an immense force and crashed heavily onto the floor.

“What are you doing? You’d kill me over some whore? Are you out of your mind?!”

Everyone in Steel City’s Nightmare Faith knew Marlena was a total whore.

Anthony had assumed Morris was just having a bit of fun too—he never imagined the fool had gotten emotionally attached.

“To be spun in circles by a whore… No wonder you couldn’t beat me back then. Truly a worthless piece of trash.”

Anthony looked at Morris, who lay motionless on the ground, his gaze filled with disdain.

But just as he was about to call for the church knights—

Boom!—

A horrifying divine power exploded from Morris’s body.

Two terrifying forces, stemming from the same origin, collided between them.

For the first time, panic flickered in Anthony’s eyes.

He had never expected the weak-willed Morris to unleash such overwhelming power.