{Chapter: 46: Of Hearts and Parishes}
"Knock knock knock~"
A gentle but deliberate knock echoed against the door of Dex's study, reverberating subtly through the quiet room.
With a small flick of his wrist, the arcane construct above him—the [High Beam Mirror], a floating lens-like structure projecting complex magical inscriptions—dispersed silently into scattered motes of mana, disappearing as if it had never existed.
"Come in," Dex called, his tone flat, neutral. The ambient temperature of the room shifted slightly, as though responding to his mood.
The door creaked open, and a beautiful figure stepped across the threshold, carefully carrying a polished black tray. She walked with the grace of someone trained not just in etiquette, but in restraint. It was Trina—the housekeeper assigned to him since his arrival in this human world. Her heels barely made a sound against the obsidian tiles.
As an outstanding graduate of the Styx Riverside Kindergarten—an infernal educational institution infamous in the Abyssal realms for raising demons to value cruelty, cunning, and experimentation—Dex had always operated by a simple principle: never waste time, and never act without precision.
A new-generation demon, equally proficient in murder and arson as he was in biochemical engineering and the art of infernal summoning, Dex was considered a rare gem among his kind. Yet, beneath the sinister exterior, he remained a being of logic. His thoughts, though occasionally clouded by the chaotic essence of the Abyss, often returned to rationality. Dex was not one to make careless mistakes.
Yet today, an uncharacteristic discomfort coiled in his chest—a peculiar tightness, like a puzzle piece wedged into the wrong space. A rare thing indeed: he was troubled.
His crimson eyes locked onto Trina. She seemed hesitant. Her posture, once sharp and confident, was now slightly stiff. Her aura—calm but reserved.
"Why has your attitude changed so much?" Dex asked, his voice calm but curious. He tilted his head, his obsidian horns catching a sliver of morning light through the curtains. "Is it because of what I am? My identity?"
Trina hesitated. Her gaze lowered, and the tray in her hands trembled, ever so slightly. "...It's just... a little awkward," she finally murmured.
Dex narrowed his eyes slightly. "I have never concealed my nature. You already knew what I am. I've never threatened you. On the contrary, compared to many humans I've encountered, I—this so-called demon—am likely far safer."
His voice had a soft edge to it—firm, but without menace. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out, intending to brush a strand of hair from her cheek.
But before his fingers could make contact, Trina recoiled as though jolted by lightning.
"I—I'm sorry..." she whispered, clutching the tray with both hands. Her eyes stared at the floor, guilt and confusion written across her face.
Dex's outstretched hand lingered in the air for a second before he casually let it drop back to his side.
"Nothing to be sorry for," he said flatly, masking whatever flicker of emotion stirred beneath his cold facade. He shrugged. "You may leave."
"Yes... I'll go prepare the west wing, then," she mumbled, turning to leave in hurry.
As the door shut softly behind her, Dex remained standing still.
Then, without a word, he reached up and pulled up his shirt, revealing his chest. Sharp claws extended from his fingers as he drew a long, surgical incision across his own torso. The flesh parted with eerie smoothness—there was no blood, no pain.
Nestled beneath was his heart—still beating, rhythmic and strong. He reached in and plucked it out like a ripe fruit from a tree. The wound closed behind it as though nothing had happened.
Holding the heart in his hand, Dex studied it in silence. A muscle of endless endurance, yet so easily swayed by something so irrational.
"Why...?" he murmured aloud. "Why, as a pure-blooded demon—born in the Abyss, raised in war and fire—do I feel something as absurd as human emotion? Desire, longing, affection..."
His gaze grew distant.
"Could it be the lingering traces of my past life? But that's impossible. Those fragments are just echoes—broken images of a different world. Not nearly potent enough to override my core. Unless..."
Dex's expression darkened slightly.
"Unless my soul was already tainted before it reincarnated. Already exposed. Already cracked."
He shook his head slowly.
The idea of a demon feeling love—ridiculous. Yet the discomfort persisted.
"Could these echoes be the source of this... affection?" he questioned, the term foreign yet fitting.
"Am I... broken? A mutation? Or just... unfinished?"
With a contemplative sigh, he consumed the heart, A crunch. A swallow, the act devoid of blood or gore. The cavity in his chest sealed effortlessly, leaving no trace of the intrusion.
"Perhaps these emotions are but spices in the stew of existence," he concluded, turning his attention to the arcane apparatuses scattered across his chamber. He muttered, half amused, half lost in thought. "A little seasoning to keep things interesting."
---
Elsewhere, in a lavish chamber overlooking the rising spires of the capital city...
A line of carriages rolled away from the palace, adorned with the holy symbol of Safi's order. Their passengers smiled faintly, a mix of triumph and concealed tension in their expressions.
Within the gilded hall, the Minister of Urban Development wrung his hands nervously.
He turned to the one seated casually on the throne-like chair at the far end of the room—James Woz, a royal descendant, clad in dark velvet and silver embroidery.
"Your Highness," the minister began cautiously, "Are we truly allowing the church to build a parish in the capital itself?"
James didn't immediately answer. He seemed lost in thought, gazing out the window at the disappearing clergy procession.
The minister stepped closer. "Forgive me, but I must ask. You summoned me urgently, insisted on choosing land near the central plaza—prime space. This... this is not like the royal family's stance."
One must know that two hundred years ago, when the dispute over royal power and divine power arose again, the royal family did not hesitate to go to war in order to expel the church members from the Principality of Marton.
He was right to be confused. Just two centuries ago, the conflict between divine authority and royal governance had exploded into open warfare. The Duchy of Marton had expelled the clergy with fire and steel. Battles raged for years before the church was subdued and reduced to whispers in the countryside.
And now, here was James, essentially welcoming them back.
James finally spoke, voice calm. "The times have changed."
The minister blinked. "Changed, Your Highness? How?"
"The church still holds sway in places we can't reach. Rural hearts. Forgotten lands. Faith never truly dies, Minister. It only waits. I would rather it wait beneath our watchful eye, inside the capital, than grow wild beyond our borders."
He leaned back in his chair.
"Let them build. Give them just enough room to think they matter again. A single parish. Nothing more."
The minister bowed, reluctantly accepting the royal decree. But he left the hall with worry shadowing his steps.
The church's return to the capital might mark more than just a change in policy—it might signal a turning of the tide.
As, for over two hundred years, the Kingdom of Marton had tolerated the slow crawl of the Church within its borders. A chapel here, a nunnery there—just small shrines nestled between market alleys or rural hamlets, barely staffed by a few weary godfathers and silent-veiled nuns. They were quiet, quaint, and—most importantly—harmless. Their reach extended no further than local rituals and the occasional seasonal festival.
But this… this was different.
Now, in the very heart of the kingdom—in the royal capital itself—a new parish was being established. Not a modest outpost or a village shrine, but a full-fledged ecclesiastical district, sanctioned with holy insignia, armed with divine writs, and supported by the full bureaucratic force of the church's eastern arm.
It was not just construction. It was a declaration.
Like the raising of a royal standard on a battlefield, the act carried symbolism far beyond its immediate purpose. Scattered church operatives, hidden evangelists, silent clergy in neighboring provinces—even those in bordering principalities—would flock toward the new beacon, no longer fragmented and isolated. The fragmented would unite. The passive would rise. Their faith would find form and purpose beneath a new archbishopric that would act like a spiritual pillar.
And in doing so, it threatened to fracture the already fragile grip the royal family had on its kingdom.
"This is no mere expansion," muttered Minister Hallen, his silver hair glinting in the warm candlelight of the king's chamber. "It is a spine. A backbone. And everything scattered nearby will grow ribs around it. Once the Church plants its roots, it will act like an old vine, slow and strangling. Their presence, Your Highness, will undermine centuries of royal autonomy."
He looked at the young king beside him, concern flickering beneath the surface of his composed features. "We will not be able to regulate their teachings. Not without sparking conflict. And if they gain the hearts of the people... well, then they'll have no need for kings."
Yet to crowned James Woz did not respond immediately. His eyes were fixed on the map laid across the polished blackwood table, fingers tracing the inked borderlines of his capital's districts. He seemed far away, as if listening to voices beyond the walls of the room. At last, he spoke, his voice low and resolute.
"This is necessary," he said, not lifting his gaze. "Though the reason may be difficult to explain in full… believe me, Hallen, it will benefit the kingdom in ways we cannot yet measure. Let the Church build. Let them think they are establishing power. Everything is as expected."
Minister Hallen hesitated, the silence between them stretching longer than protocol allowed. Then, seeing the unwavering seriousness in the young future king's eyes, he bowed slightly and spoke with measured breath.
"I understand, Your Majesty. If this is your will, then I will ensure it proceeds smoothly. You have my word—I will not obstruct your design."
"Thank you, old friend," James said gently.
When the minister departed, James remained seated, unmoving, eyes lingering on the flame of the candle that flickered in rhythm with the shifting breeze from the window.
The room grew still.
He leaned back and exhaled deeply, as though the words he'd spoken had weighed more than he let on. The ornate walls of the royal chamber—carved with depictions of Marton's ancient battles and triumphant ascensions—suddenly seemed heavy, oppressive, as though watching him with eyes of judgment.
"A thousand years of history," he whispered to no one. "And not once has this land known true peace."
Marton was a kingdom of stone and gold—enduring, proud, but riddled with rot. Beneath the gleaming towers and noble courts lay a network of corruption and hidden rivalries. The royal family itself had not been spared. Cousins with ancient claims, barons with foreign allegiances, merchant dynasties rooted in decades of silent rebellion—there was no shortage of daggers aimed at his back.
*****
Important Update Regarding Subscribestar
A Small Creator's Dilemma… I Need Your Thoughts
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