C110: Speed up the ritual

“Father.”

In the hidden study room beneath the church, Florence stood as still as the stone wall, her hands clasped neatly together before the front of her apron. Her posture was straight and disciplined, as if she were standing before a superior officer rather than a simple priest.

She lowered her gaze and closed her eyes briefly, the lantern light above casting shadows across her pale face.

The underground chamber remained dim. Oil lamps burned weakly on the walls, their flames wavering.

The bats that nested within the stairwell had crept down into the chamber. The room felt alive with their leathery rustle of wings. They clinged to rafters, shelves, and the corners of the ceiling. Some hung upside down, their violet eyes blinking in the dark.

Before her stood Father Victor.

His white vestment was a stark contrast to the gloom of the room. The silver cross on his chest gleamed softly under the lamplight. A long stole draped over his shoulders, embroidered with yellow patterns.

He moved his hand, stroking the scarred wood of the table surface with a tender expression.

“You said there was an intruder, Florence?”

“Yes, Father,” Florence nodded, her voice devoid of any tremor.

“Mmmm.”

Victor licked his upper lip. He turned away from the table and looked back at her with a gentle smile.

“How very bothersome. Could you step outside for a time?”

Florence did not question him. She simply bowed her head.

Without another word, she turned on her heel and walked toward the staircase. The swarm of bats stirred; they detached from the walls and took flight simultaneously. Their wings rustled as they fluttered up the narrow, pitch-black staircase.

Florence climbed the narrow stone steps until she reached the shrine room above.

When she stepped fully into the shrine, Florence opened her eyes again.

The bats that had followed Florence clung silently along the beams of the ceiling, their violet eyes glimmering in the dim light.

Her violet gaze immediately fell upon a small figure standing before the statue of the White Monarch.

“…”

“…”

Florence walked forward and stopped beside the small girl.

‘Mary Smith.’

The girl had braided brown hair. She gazed up at the cold, marble face of the White Monarch statue, her small hands clasped together in devotion. Her thin shoulders were stiff, her posture rigid as if she had been standing there for a long time.

Yet, her eyes... her eyes were unfocused. There was no light in them. They were wide and glassy, staring unblinkingly at the statue.

It was as if the girl actually thought she was a real devotee.

“…”

“…”

“…”

*Slap.*

Florence struck her across the face. The sound rang out sharply through the quiet church.

Mary’s head snapped to the side from the force. A red mark bloomed instantly on her cheek.

But the girl did not cry out. She did not even blink. Slowly, mechanically, her head returned to its original position, her vacant gaze resuming its fixation on the White Monarch.

“How unsightly,” Florence muttered coldly. “Both you and your mother.”

It wasn't fair. The bitterness rose in Florence’s throat.

How dare this common, mud-stained girl refuse the status of the Moon Elf?

The very position that would allow them to seize the Moon Maiden’s role.

Florence’s gaze hardened as she looked down at the girl.

“If not for your blood, if not for that precious ichor in your veins, you would have already been marked,” Florence whispered, leaning close to the girl’s ear.

Like the rest of this wretched village. Like the cattle that lived and died under the shadow of the trees, unaware that they were merely waiting for the harvest.

“Do not be too harsh with the child, Miss Florence.”

“...”

Florence lowered her head instantly. She stepped aside and bowed, her hands folding together once more before her apron.

From the underground staircase, Father Victor emerged.

His boots struck the floor in steady, rhythmic sounds that echoed through the shrine room.

Florence’s eyes perked up, her gaze immediately drawn to Victor’s right hand.

“Is that…?”

In Victor’s grip, he was dragging a body by the neck.

It was the boy with the bandaged head. The cloth around his skull was soaked through with dark stains. His arms dangled limply as Victor dragged him forward as if hauling nothing more than a sack of grain.

But there was another thing Florence noticed.

‘It stinks.’

Her face contorted. The smell of rotten meat, cloying with decay, filled the air of the shrine. She raised her gloved hand to cover her nose.

“You are correct,” Victor said casually. “It is the intruder.”

He smiled. But the smile did not look pleased. If anything, it looked irritated.

Victor tossed the corpse onto the shrine floor with a heavy thud.

Florence focused on the ruin of the corpse. Every orifice in its body: his ears, his nostrils, his mouth was trickling with blood. His eyes were the worst; the sockets were shattered, the eyeballs themselves having literally popped.

Thin streams of dark red trickled slowly down its face and pooled on the wooden boards beneath.

“What happened to it?” Florence asked.

Victor tore off the white gloves he had used to handle the body and threw them onto the heap of meat. The once-pristine fabric was now smeared with streaks of red.

A look of disgust crossed his face.

“Our Maiden cast Her gaze toward it,” Victor replied. He took off his other white glove, revealing a gleaming polished ring on his index finger.

“It was strange. We still cannot communicate with Her.” Victor continued thoughtfully.

Florence frowned.

“Father. You hid our Maiden’s idol beneath the underground study? How dare—”

Victor opened his eyes wide, glaring at Florence with a sudden, violent intensity. His eyes flared violet.

Florence instantly shut her mouth, the words dying in her throat. The pressure that filled the shrine in that instant felt like invisible hands pressing against Florence’s skull.

A bead of cold sweat trickled down her forehead.

At the same moment, Victor’s figure blurred into a streak of violet. He appeared directly in front of her.

Before Florence could react, his hand slid around her waist. His fingers gripped her hip firmly while his other hand slipped behind her back.

“...”

Her dress’s hooks and eyes were unhooked slowly. Her outer dress slid downward.

Victor pulled her body against his own.

“…”

Florence’s face flushed red.

“What a naughty lady you are, Florence,” Victor whispered near her ear, his breath hot against her skin.

As he spoke, the fabric of her maid's dress lost its support and fell away from her shoulders.

*Swish.*

*Thud.*

From the folds of the falling garment, something heavy hit the floorboards.

It was a small, dark purple leather notebook, lying open. On its first page, clearly visible in the light, were the words: “Advance Ritual of Vampire Stage.”

“Stealing my private belongings right before my very face,” Victor whispered, his voice low and vibrating with a dangerous edge as his hand moved up to smooth her flushed cheek.

“You deserve… a most harsh punishment, Florence.”

“Yes… Father,” Florence murmured, closing her eyes.

The bats closed their wings, eyes closed.

—

Florence lay on the table, her face flushed a deep red, her hair a wild tangle of black silk. Her breathing was ragged, and her skin was slick and damp.

After a moment, she slowly pushed herself upright.

As she sat up, she raised one hand quickly to prevent the thin, white cotton chemise from sliding further down. It now hung freely from her shoulders, the delicate fabric clinging to her frame.

Her maid uniform had been removed earlier to avoid staining it. The petticoat layers, corset, outer dress, and apron lay discarded nearby in a careless heap.

Florence reached into the pocket of one of the discarded garments and pulled out a small handkerchief. She pressed it against her face, wiping away the sweat from her face and neck.

“...”

Not far from the table, another man stood, dressing himself again in the white vestments of a priest.

Yet, this man did not resemble the calm, middle-aged priest with the kind eyes that the village knew.

He was younger, handsome, with strikingly pale skin and a voluminous black pompadour hair cut, swept upward in waves. His eyes were sharp and striking, filled with a cold, piercing intelligence.

“Father,” Florence muttered, her voice still a little breathless.

Florence slid off the table and began to dress. First she rolled her brown stockings back up along her thighs, smoothing the fabric into place before pulling on her drawers. She bent slightly to fasten her black leather ankle boots securely.

“Did Father drug the girl?”

She spoke while tightening the laces of her corset, pulling the stiff garment tight around her waist until her posture straightened.

Next came three layers of petticoats, each adjusted carefully so they fell properly around her hips.

Finally, she slipped her black gown over her shoulders and tied the apron back into place, restoring her appearance to that of a perfectly composed maid.

Her eyes flickered toward the closed door of the shrine room.

Inside, Mary was still there.

The girl had not moved. She remained kneeling before the statue of the White Monarch.

The man buttoned the stiff collar of his vestments around his neck and allowed a cold smile to touch his lips.

“Just a small dose, my dear. Do not fret; it will not compromise the efficacy of the ritual.” His voice was not the calm, steady of Father Victor; it was higher, sharper, and infused with arrogance.

He instinctively moved his hand toward his chest, but stopped himself mid-motion. He frowned slightly and let his hand drop to his side. Playing the part of a priest for so long had given him many inconvenient habits.

“It has been far too long,” he said quietly. “Almost twenty years of waiting, all for this exact moment.”

The man slipped his hand beneath his robe and withdrew a small ring.

On its head was a miniature sculpture of a human face. Its expression was twisted, its mouth open as if caught in mid-scream.

“[T-04-073 Golden-tier Cursed Artifact: Unloved Fellow]”

With a careful movement, he slid it onto his index finger.

Instantly, his appearance began to change.

His skin curled inward and rippled, the pale tone darkening slightly. His face contorted and smoothed, the handsome young man’s features warped and reformed.

Within seconds, the face of the familiar middle-aged priest returned.

Father Victor.

“A Golden-stage Curse,” he murmured thoughtfully. “It is a true stroke of fortune that the White Church only saw fit to dispatch a single Silver-stage Inspector to this backwater.”

He looked down at the ring and smiled tenderly. The sculpted face seemed to wink in the candlelight.

“Father,” Florence said while smoothing the wrinkles from her skirt, “now that someone else knows of the secret study, what is our next course of action?”

“...”

Victor thought for a moment, his gaze drifting toward the door of the shrine room.

“I am not yet certain how they discovered it,” he admitted, stroking his chin. “But it doesn't matter. We shall simply speed up the preparations for the ritual.”

“Speed it up?” Florence tilted her head, her bangs falling over her eyes. “Has the girl accepted the role of her own accord yet?”

“She has not… yet.” Victor looked over toward the maid, his eyes narrowed slightly. “I did not anticipate her involving her father so early.”

He clasped his hands together behind his back, walking toward the shrine room. “Lumber Smith bears the blessing of the moon; he is a stubborn man, difficult to sway with words alone,” he murmured. “That is why I withheld the truth from him.”

A smirk slowly appeared on his gentle face.

“It doesn't matter now, even if he knew it or not. We still possess plenty of options. We can either solicit the further support of the Golden Trader, or simply utilize the other offerings we have secured.”

“The Golden Trader…” Florence trailed off in a low voice.

Victor shook his head. “There is no choice left for us. It is expensive to ask for the assistance of those money-craving fiends without external support, but the end result will be well worth the expenditure.”

He looked up at the ceiling, smiled.

“As long as we can worship Our Lord in the fullness of Her glory, as long as the Winterin’s Moon Maiden is devoured,” Victor spread his arms, a look of craving madness filling his eyes. “We shall receive the Blessing from Her, finally become a true Bless of our Lord!”

----

[Classified Documents: FEATUS Archives]

[T-04-073 Cursed Artifact: Unloved Fellow]

Curse Class: Golden

Protocol: Green - Beneficial / Possibly Harmful

Function:

Anomaly Properties:

Description:

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