​Dong... dong... dong...

​The resounding tolls of the Sanctum Cathedral bells shattered the morning mist drifting lazily over the city’s grey rooftops.

​Roland was already sitting upright on the edge of his bed long before the first strike of iron rang out. He stared at the leather soles of his boots, now wearing thin at the heels, reflecting on just how many miles he had marched through dust and peril merely to reach this point.

​Across the room, Rianor remained faithfully at his desk. His quill scratched against the parchment—skritch... scratch...—filling up gods-knew-what page since they first set foot in The Silver Bell inn.

​"You’re not coming with me this morning," Roland stated, pulling his shoelaces tight.

​Rianor didn’t lift his gaze from the paper. "I know."

​"It’s too risky," Roland continued. "Marius isn’t the type to be easily fooled. He can sniff out a lie like a bloodhound, while your body... harbors far too many technological secrets. The crystal tablet, the Mana Glove, the mana compass. Everything you hide beneath those robes is a blaring red flag."

​"Hmm, you finally acknowledge the risks. Fascinating."

​"I never denied them, Brother. I simply chose not to broadcast them out loud at the checkpoint yesterday." Roland stood up, shrugging on his coat. "Your assignment today is to investigate what Adul saw in the market yesterday. The grey circle symbol and that mysterious old woman."

​"Understood."

​"Naya will escort you. Take Adul as well—he’s the only living compass who knows the exact location of that alley."

​Rianor finally set his quill down, looking up at his brother through his spectacles. "Are you certain you will be alright at the upper shrine?"

​Roland stood tall, straightening the collar of his coat with a bitter smile. "I’m only going to face a fanatical pastor with a penchant for torture, a hatred for machines, and a cold dungeon reserved for those deemed impure. Oh, I will be absolutely perfectly fine."

​"Neatly packaged sarcasm."

​"I learned from the stiffest man in our faction."

​The corner of Rianor’s mouth twitched ever so slightly. It almost resembled a smile.

​Dom was already standing tall like a stone gargoyle in the inn’s courtyard when Roland stepped outside.

​Mornings in Sanctum felt drastically different from Whitebridge. The air was much drier, carrying a biting chill. The townsfolk walked in orderly lines along the pavements, but their eyes darted with high vigilance, quickly looking away whenever they crossed paths with a foreigner. At every alley intersection, shrine guards stood rigidly, their grey cloaks fluttering softly in the morning breeze.

​Roland and Dom began their ascent up the terraced stone path toward the hilltop. The silhouette of the Sanctum Cathedral loomed majestically, its grey stones dominating the sky as they drew closer. From this proximity, the intricate carvings on its walls looked profoundly intimidating: reliefs of angels with wide, scaled wings, the seven-rayed sun symbol, and rows of stone hands reaching upward as if begging for absolution.

​"You don’t need to speak once we’re inside, Dom," Roland whispered without turning his head. "Just act as my shield and stand behind me."

​"As always, My Lord," Dom replied heavily.

​"But, if the situation suddenly goes south..."

​"I know exactly when to draw my sword."

​They stopped dead in front of a pair of colossal oak doors. The seven-rayed rising sun was deeply carved into its surface, vastly larger and more detailed than any they had encountered before.

​Roland took the deepest breath his lungs would allow and patted his coat pocket containing Elias’s travel pass. "We’re going in."

​The interior of the Sanctum Cathedral instantly forced Roland to hold his breath.

​Towering pillars of black marble supported a domed ceiling veiled in grey shadows. Enormous stained-glass windows fractured the morning light into a kaleidoscope of colors that danced mystically across the stone floor—sapphire blue, golden yellow, deep purple, and blood red. The grand altar stood arrogantly at the far end, surrounded by twelve giant candles whose flames burned statically, without a single flicker. Above the altar, a statue of the Goddess of Light stared coldly downward; her eyes were crafted from chunks of pure yellow crystal that glowed with an eerie life, as if truly capable of flaying the soul of anyone who knelt before her.

​The rows of teakwood pews in the hall were entirely empty. Dead silent. It was just the two of them.

​A young monk in a spotless white cassock emerged from a side partition door. His face was serene, his hands folded across his chest. "The Head Pastor is still concluding his morning prayers. Please wait."

​Roland and Dom took seats in the very front row. The silence in the room was crushing. There was only the faint crackle of the altar candle wicks and the monk’s footsteps slowly fading away behind the door.

​Seconds crawled by like torture. Roland tried to distract his nerves by counting the candles on the altar—exactly twelve. He counted the stained-glass panels—six. He even found himself counting the rhythm of his own exhales, which felt increasingly heavy.

​Creeeak...

​The side partition door slowly opened once more.

​Pastor Marius stepped inside. He didn’t emerge from behind the altar, but from a completely unexpected side angle—a positional trick seemingly designed to deliberately throw his prey off balance.

​His cassock was pitch black. That was the first detail Roland’s hyper-vigilant radar caught. Not pure white like Elias’s, nor the dull grey of the shrine guards. It was absolute black, adorned only by a small, pure silver sun brooch pinned to the collar.

​Marius was tall, lean, and held an imposing posture. His dark hair was slicked back, framing a pale face devoid of any emotional ripples. His eyes were grey—not the pale blue so common among the clergy here, but a dark, stormy grey, like thunderclouds mere seconds before a lightning strike.

​Marius didn’t offer a greeting immediately. He walked slowly, his steps entirely soundless, toward the Goddess statue at the front of the altar. He stared up at it in silence for several moments.

​Then, he turned around with lethal grace.

​"You are foreigners."

​His voice didn’t boom, but every syllable that left his mouth landed like a heavy stone dropped into a still pond—precise, weighty, triggering invisible ripples of dread that were impossible to ignore.

​Roland stood up, forcing his body to remain relaxed. "We are merely humble merchants from Eastmarch, Pastor. My name is Roland." He gestured slightly behind him. "And this is my personal guard, Dom."

​Marius shifted his gaze to Dom. The stare lasted only two seconds, but to Roland, those two seconds felt like an hour. Dom remained completely unfazed. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t allow even the smallest micro-reaction to twitch the muscles of his face.

​Marius’s stormy grey eyes snapped back to Roland.

​"You are lying."

​Thump. Roland’s heart spiked, but he successfully willed his shoulder muscles not to tense. "Pardon? I haven’t even begun to explain anything, Pastor."

​"You don’t need to weave excuses with words," Marius hissed coldly, stepping closer until the sharp scent of incense clinging to his robes hit Roland. "The look in your eyes. The way your shoulders brace the weight. The overly controlled rhythm of your breath. Everything about you screams that you are hiding a monumental lie."

​A tense silence blanketed the altar. Roland didn’t attempt to defend himself. Nor did he confirm the accusation. He chose absolute silence. Roland vividly remembered the three golden rules from the inn last night: do not lie, do not hide anything, and do not show fear before his eyes.

​"Fascinating," Marius murmured, narrowing his grey eyes. "Usually, the foreigners I accuse instantly panic and scramble to defend themselves. Denying it with a thousand frantic excuses. But you... you choose to remain silent. Why?"

​"Because I know you have already struck the gavel in your mind, Pastor," Roland answered calmly. "Arguing emotionally would only make me look guiltier."

​Marius’s lips curled upwards—so thinly it barely registered as a smile. "You are far too intelligent for a merchant, Roland. And intelligent men who hide secrets... are usually very dangerous."

​Marius pulled up a wooden chair from the front row and sat a few paces away from Roland with highly controlled, efficient movements. He crossed his left leg, resting his bony palms on his knee.

​"You came here to request a new Travel Pass?"

​"Correct, Pastor."

​"For what destination?"

​"To continue our trade expedition southward."

​"That is your final destination, Roland. Not your primary reason for crossing this land."

​"Eh? What is the difference?"

​"A destination is merely a coordinate on a paper map. But a reason... a reason is an absolute truth buried within the soul." Marius’s grey eyes stared piercingly, unblinking. "You have intentionally buried your truth deep underground. I could easily order my guards to drag you below and force you to speak honestly. But... I would much rather see you confess voluntarily."

​Roland knew this critical second would arrive. Since last night, he had rehearsed the scenarios in his head—weighing the exact ratio of lies and truths he had to feed the man. A total lie would be sniffed out by Marius’s instincts, while the absolute truth would obliterate their entire mission. He had to stand perfectly on the grey line between the two.

​"I am a merchant, that is a legally verifiable fact," Roland modulated his vocal intonation to be as smooth as silk. "However, besides that... I am also a man on the run, searching for a truth of my own."

​"A truth? Or merely a justification for your sins?"

​"What difference does it make to a servant of the Goddess like yourself?"

​"The truth never takes sides. Whereas justification... is merely an ego shield you forge to protect yourself."

​Roland stared directly into Marius’s grey eyes. "Then how do you differentiate the two with such absolute certainty, Pastor?"

​"I only need to look into their eyes." Marius leaned forward slightly. "You are not a cold-blooded villain, Roland. But you are also far from an honest man."

​"A man who is entirely honest would never survive the journey through the outer mountain belt, Pastor," Roland countered coldly.

​Marius fell silent for a moment. The stillness made it impossible for Roland to map whether his argument had landed successfully or had just triggered a catastrophe.

​"You are a very intriguing man," Marius finally said. "The majority of foreigners will instantly tremble, stutter, and break into a cold sweat when faced with me. But you remain upright."

​"That is because I know how much you despise the scent of fear."

​"Hmm. So you went through the trouble of researching my personality beforehand."

​"I simply do not wish to die a foolish death in this city."

​Marius stared at Roland in silence for almost half a minute. It was a psychological autopsy—a gaze that made Roland feel as though his internal organs were being examined under a giant microscope.

​Marius stood up slowly.

​"I will not give you the Travel Pass."

​Roland reflexively locked his lungs to prevent a panicked gasp.

​"Not yet."

​That single affirming word hung thick in the frigid air of the shrine. Roland slowly exhaled the breath he had trapped.

​"You are hiding something massive inside your carriage. I do not yet know what variable it is, but I will undoubtedly catch its scent soon," Marius walked slowly back toward the altar. "For the time being, your entire party is confined within the walls of Sanctum. You are free to move, trade, and socialize in the market. But you are strictly forbidden from crossing the city gates without my written consent."

​"That equates to city arrest, Pastor."

​"Not an arrest. Consider it a test of patience." Marius glanced back with a chilling smile. "You said you are searching for the truth, did you not? As am I. Let us see which of us uncovers the truth first."

​Roland lowered his head slowly. "Understood, Pastor."

​"You are dismissed. For now."

​Roland turned on his heel, walking steadily down the aisle between the teak pews, followed by Dom, who marched vigilantly behind him. They headed straight for the giant oak doors.

​"Roland."

​Roland’s steps halted at the threshold. He chose not to turn around.

​"The next time you step into this room... bring your complete truth. Not a cunning lie you intentionally wrapped in a blanket of honesty."

​Roland didn’t reply. He pushed the heavy oak doors open and stepped out into the biting chill of the outside air.

​Simultaneously, in a secluded, rundown alleyway in the eastern district of Sanctum.

​Rianor walked slowly along the narrow gap between the grey stone walls, precisely at the spot Adul had pointed out yesterday afternoon. Naya walked closely on his left flank, her hand hovering over her dagger hilt, while Adul led the way. His skinny finger pointed toward the dull stone surface.

​"T-the symbol yesterday was drawn exactly right here, Lord Rianor! I swear I’m not lying or hallucinating!" Adul squeaked anxiously.

​Rianor approached the wall, pushing up his spectacles. There were no grey chalk marks there. Only a blank stone surface. But when his fingers brushed the texture of the stone... it felt unnaturally damp.

​"The symbol was recently scrubbed away by force," Rianor concluded coldly. "The stone is still wet from the friction of a damp cloth."

​"Why would they go through the trouble of erasing it?" Adul asked, confused.

​"To eliminate the coordinate trail."

​Naya stepped a dozen meters further into the darker part of the alley, her sharp eyes sweeping over every pile of junk wedged between the buildings. Her movements suddenly stopped. "Lord Rianor. Over here."

​Rianor and Adul quickly followed. Behind a pile of rotting pine planks deliberately stacked at an angle, the exact same symbol was displayed. A simple, empty grey circle drawn in dull chalk. It was smaller, and its position was incredibly well hidden.

​"This is no random scribble," Rianor murmured, touching the chalk dust. "There is a systematic network pattern here."

​"This is a tactical marker," Naya chimed in, her voice low. "Exactly like the ones used by shadow factions in the underworld."

​"What do you mean ’factions’, Naya?" Adul asked, worried.

​Naya shot Rianor a brief glance before answering. "Groups of outcasts who refuse to be found by the eyes of the shrine."

​Gulp. Adul swallowed his anxiety. "T-the emaciated woman I met yesterday... she was sitting right at the corner of this alley. She must know something about this circle."

​They attempted to sweep the perimeter around the slum alley for several minutes, but the middle-aged woman had vanished without a trace. Leaving behind only the cold shadows of the grey walls and the mystery of the circle symbols scattered across the hidden corners of the city.

​A theocratic city that was orderly on the outside, yet harbored a silent network of rebellion deep within its darkness.

​The sun had begun to tilt toward the western horizon by the time Roland and Dom set foot back in The Silver Bell inn.

​Rianor and the others had apparently regrouped in the bedroom earlier. Adul sat on a wooden chair, his face still a bit pale, while Naya stood rigidly near the window frame.

​Roland shed his heavy coat and collapsed into the chair opposite Rianor. "How did your alley investigation go?"

​"The circle symbol is an active marker for a hidden faction. Someone recently erased it from the main alley to obscure the trail from shrine patrols," Rianor reported flatly, closing his book. "How did your high-altitude diplomacy fare?"

​"Marius refused to issue us a new Travel Pass. At least, not for the time being. He’s detaining our entire party within the walls of Sanctum until he’s satisfied... or until he manages to sniff out whatever it is we’re hiding in the carriage."

​"What is the time limit for this detention?"

​"He didn’t provide any clear parameters."

​Rianor tapped his fingers on the desk. "That means we are trapped in a state of data uncertainty."

​"Yeah, pretty much."

​Everyone was locked once more in a heavy silence. From outside the inn’s window, the echo of the Cathedral’s bells tolled softly again—this time sounding far heavier and slower. Like an echoing prayer for salvation, or perhaps the sound of an executioner’s gavel, patiently waiting for its prey to slip into sin.