funbook-pk Chapter 265: THE ROAD TO SANCTUM
Chapter 265: THE ROAD TO SANCTUM
Creeeak... groan...
The wooden wheels of their carriage ground against the stone road that cut a straight line due south. As the distance between them and Whitebridge grew, the rolling golden grasslands were gradually swept away, replaced by monolithic fields of wheat. The green crops towered high, arranged in rows that were unnervingly straight—far too precise for natural growth. In the distance, white stone windmills turned at a sluggish pace. Swoosh... swoosh... they channeled water into an irrigation network that gleamed blindingly under the morning sun.
Inside the carriage cabin, Roland sat tapping Pastor Elias’s sealed scroll against his thigh. The parchment remained tightly bound by red wax. He had already read its contents three times over—not to digest the words, but merely to ground himself, knowing this small roll of paper was the only thing making their lives legal in this land of fanatics.
"Hah... two days left until Sanctum," Roland muttered, leaning his head against the wooden paneling. "What do we actually know about the pastor running that city?"
On the opposite seat, Rianor sat in absolute calm, his notebook open on his lap. "According to preliminary data, he holds an absolute belief that every sin must be purged at its root. And his cleansing process... is agonizing."
"That’s coming from Theron. Are you certain we can trust the validity of that source?"
"The man is a former border guard, Roland. He intimately understands how their system operates from the inside."
Roland let out a heavy sigh, massaging his temples. "Wonderful. A psychopathic pastor with a hobby for torture. Perfect."
"You were the one who previously noted, ’not all pastors are like Elias’."
"Of course I said that. But I was hoping their personality variations leaned more toward... not torturing people."
Rianor didn’t reply. He turned a page in his book with a soft rustle—perhaps calculating the water discharge of the irrigation canals outside, or running the probability of their party making it out of Sanctum alive. Roland didn’t bother asking. He knew his brother’s habits far too well.
The blistering midday heat forced the caravan to pull over at a small rest stop on the shoulder of the road.
The facilities were bare-bones: a stone shelter with a thick thatched roof, an old well with a wooden bucket brimming with fresh water, and a few stone benches shaded by a leafy canopy. Two vegetable merchants sat in a corner, whispering quietly. A young mother was busy drawing water for her toddler.
And on the bench furthest away, an old man sat alone.
The robe he wore was incredibly threadbare—a decade ago it might have been pure white, but now it had faded into a dull, washed-out grey, the result of too much scrubbing and too few replacements. An oak walking stick rested against his leg, a worn leather satchel in his lap. The man was chewing on a piece of hard bread with excruciating slowness. His gaze was vacant, staring blankly ahead—the signature look of a traveler who had been on the road so long he had forgotten what a home felt like.
Roland walked over and took a seat at the opposite end of the bench. "A pilgrim, old man?"
The old man turned slowly. His eyes were a faded blue—nearly as transparent as Pastor Elias’s, but his gaze carried far more warmth. "I have walked for three full months, young man. Visiting every holy shrine that stands along this road."
"Every shrine? Wow, that must be a very long list."
"Endlessly long." The man offered a genuine smile, the relieved kind of smile that belonged to someone with no worldly ambitions left to chase. "But I have no complaints. Every shrine holds its own story. Every presiding pastor... possesses a unique character."
Roland reached into his supply bag and offered a piece of buttered wheat bread—leftover provisions from Sera. The old pilgrim accepted it with a deep nod of gratitude.
"My name is Jorah," he said, tearing the soft bread. "Are you a caravan from the north? Whitebridge?"
"Wait, how did you know?"
"That precious scroll in your hand. The wax seal is distinct." Jorah chewed his bread slowly. "That’s from Pastor Elias. An incredibly rigid and harsh man, but fair. You are very fortunate."
Roland reflexively glanced at Rianor standing a short distance away, pretending to examine the well’s pulley mechanism. "Fortunate in what sense, Jorah?"
"Elias loves to test foreigners to the very limits of their patience. It is infuriating, yes, but at least he grants an opportunity to those willing to try. Not all pastors in this land afford such luxuries." Jorah met Roland’s eyes. "Your next destination is Sanctum?"
"Correct."
"Ah... Pastor Marius."
Instantly, Roland caught the drastic shift in Jorah’s intonation. The name was spoken in a much lower, more cautious register, as if fearing the name itself might summon a curse. "You know of him?"
"I know exactly how he operates. And that is more than enough for me." Jorah set down the rest of his bread. "Elias tests a person’s faith. But Marius... he passes absolute judgment. That is a lethal difference."
Gulp. Roland’s Adam’s apple bobbed. "Judgment... in what context?"
Jorah didn’t answer immediately. His faded eyes stared straight into the southern sky—toward where the capital of Sanctum reigned. "I have often heard whispers that he maintains a special chamber in the Cathedral’s undercroft. A sealed room designed exclusively for those deemed... impure."
Something ice-cold suddenly coiled in Roland’s stomach. "And what happens to the people who go down there?"
"I don’t know for certain. But those who are dragged down... are almost never seen walking out again."
Silence ruled the stone bench. From a distance, the crisp laughter of the toddler being bathed by his mother drifted over—a joyful sound that felt ironically, tragically contrasted with this grim conversation.
"Do you have any small advice for dealing with him?" Roland finally fished.
Jorah looked at him with pity. "One warning from me: Never attempt to lie to his face. He possesses a terrifying intuition capable of sniffing out falsehoods—how, nobody knows. Some say it is a direct gift from the Goddess, others whisper that it is something far darker."
"Is that all?"
"And one more thing... never display any object that is... unnatural."
Roland had to use every ounce of his willpower to stop his eyeballs from darting toward Rianor. "Unnatural?"
"Mortal objects that bear no trace of the Goddess’s creation." Jorah’s gaze suddenly sharpened, piercing straight through Roland’s calm facade. "Pastor Marius despises such things more than he despises the demons of the underworld."
By late afternoon, Jorah rose slowly to bid his farewells.
"I shall continue my journey north, while you head south." Tap... tap... Jorah leaned his weight onto his wooden cane. "May the Goddess forever bless your steps... or at the very least, keep you hidden."
"Thank you immensely for the intel, Jorah."
"Do not thank me. I am merely casting words into the wind. What you build from that wind... is entirely your own business."
Jorah turned and walked away. His back was hunched, but the rhythm of his steps was steady. Roland watched the old figure until he was finally swallowed by the bend in the road.
Back inside the carriage cabin, Roland immediately leaned his back against the wall and scrubbed his face roughly with his hands. "Pastor Marius. A torture chamber beneath the Cathedral. Capable of detecting lies like a bloodhound. And holds an absolute hatred for technology."
Rianor snapped his notebook shut with a loud thud. "That is a substantially large problem variable."
"I know."
"We are carrying a mobile technology factory. Crystal tablets, a mana compass, the Mana Glove, Adul’s communication box, right down to Dom’s Gauss Rifle."
"Yes, Rianor, I know!" Roland ran his hands through his hair in frustration. "If that bastard forces a comprehensive search of our carriage—"
"I am aware of the risks," Rianor cut in flatly.
Roland looked at his brother with desperation. "So, do you have a tactical plan mapped out?"
Rianor was silent for five seconds. "The plan: You talk, and I stay silent. As usual."
Roland gaped in disbelief. "That’s not a strategy! That’s called shifting the workload!"
"In a survival scenario, efficient delegation of tasks is everything."
Roland almost laughed out loud from the sheer stress. Almost.
Night reclaimed the sky. They set up camp in a rocky crevice by the roadside.
A small campfire popped and crackled lightly, burning pine branches in the center of their formation. Dom took up a position near the horses—sitting cross-legged, facing straight toward the highway to Sanctum like a guardian gargoyle. Naya sat quietly, sharpening her dagger blade with a constant rhythm—a psychological habit she never abandoned, no matter where they slept. Orva was busy sautéing leftover rations in a copper pan. Meanwhile, Adul was already stiffly asleep inside the carriage, both arms wrapped tightly around his communication box like it was his own soul.
Roland sat brooding alone on a flat rock, his eyes emptily watching the swirling flames.
From his flank, Rianor approached carrying two metal mugs filled with warm herbal tea—the last of Lena’s provisions from Whitebridge.
"You look nervous," Rianor greeted him, handing over one mug and sitting beside him.
Roland accepted the cup. The warm steam drifted up, brushing his face. "I’m not." A brief pause. "Well... maybe a little."
"Clinically speaking, that is a perfectly normal reaction."
"I’m really not used to this kind of battlefield, Rianor," Roland complained, his gaze never leaving the fire. "In the political barricades of Northreach, I knew every legal loophole by heart. In the courts of Sol-Regis, I could dissect exactly who my greatest enemies were. Even in the dragon’s den of Draconia... at least I knew clearly what my negotiation objective was. But here..." He let out a breath that felt heavy in his chest. "Here, I feel like I’m walking blindfolded through a minefield."
"You managed to conquer Elias."
"Elias had clear parameters. And more importantly, he won’t be sitting next to us when we’re in Sanctum."
Rianor sipped his tea slowly. "You possess a silver tongue capable of melting iron, Roland. That is your pure, innate talent."
"Negotiating is one thing, Brother. But convincing a raving fanatic who has already slammed the gavel deciding you’re a filthy sinner?" Roland shook his head pessimistically. "That is no longer the realm of diplomacy. Winning the heart of a man like that requires a miracle."
"Then create the miracle."
Roland turned, staring at his brother with a furrowed brow. "Since when does Rianor Sudrath believe in occult nonsense like miracles?"
"I have never believed in such things," Rianor met Roland’s gaze with absolute tranquility. "But I believe in your ability to create the illusion of a miracle itself."
Roland was stunned. His mouth hung slightly open. He looked at the tea in his hand, then back at the blazing fire, and finally looked up at the sprinkling of stars glowing in the Luminara sky.
"Wow... that might be the most emotional and comforting sentence that has ever left your rigid mouth," Roland’s smile finally bloomed, genuine and bright.
"Do not get used to hearing it. Consider it a momentary system error."
"Of course. Don’t worry."
The two sat shoulder-to-shoulder in the ensuing silence. Only the sound of crackling wood and the chorus of foreign night insects kept them company as they waited for dawn.
The next morning, the wheels ground against the road once more.
The route toward Sanctum grew increasingly chaotic. There was a massive spike in the volume of travelers—groups of pilgrims with wooden staffs, local merchants hauling pushcarts, and small families whose children ran freely along the roadside. The presence of shrine guards had also skyrocketed. Grey-robed soldiers with longswords at their waists stood at every major intersection, their unblinking eyes monitoring the movements of every newcomer.
The vast wheat fields slowly receded, replaced by dense settlements. At first, it was just a few scattered red-roofed stone houses, but they gradually tightened, forming rows of packed streets that seamlessly merged into the city’s outskirts.
And ahead of them, standing arrogantly atop a gentle hill, Sanctum welcomed them.
The scale of the city might not have been as massive as Roland had predicted—but it was clearly giant enough to make Whitebridge look like a speck of dust on a map. A grey stone wall encircled the entire city—not a terrifyingly high military fortress wall, but a solid barrier affirming the holy boundaries of the metropolis. Outside the walls, the stone roofs of buildings were packed in a highly orderly fashion. And right in the heart of the city, the grand Cathedral dominated the sky. Its bell towers soared high alongside a massive silver dome that reflected blinding rays under the afternoon sun.
Right above the arch of its main gate, the symbol of the seven-rayed rising sun was carved, giant and intimidating.
"So... this is Sanctum," Roland whispered softly.
Rianor snapped his notebook shut tightly. "Are you ready to deceive them?"
"Not in the slightest," Roland took one deep breath to calm his racing heart. "But we don’t have the option to turn back, do we."
Their carriage slowly decelerated as it approached the main gates. Two heavily built shrine guards stepped forward to block their path—their hands resting fully alert on their sword hilts, their eyes staring suspiciously at the battered caravan.
One of the guards raised his hand into the air. "Halt where you are."
Creeeak. The carriage was braked hard. The guard stepped closer to the cabin.
"State your names. Region of origin. And purpose."
Roland stepped down from the cabin, widening his diplomatic smile—though this time, his jaw muscles felt far stiffer than usual. "We are a humble merchant caravan from Eastmarch, sir. Currently on our expedition route to the southern territories." Roland extended the wax-sealed Travel Pass from Elias.
The guard snatched the scroll, broke the seal roughly, and read its contents. His eyes instantly narrowed in suspicion. "Issued from Whitebridge? This is Pastor Elias’s authentic seal." He looked up, giving Roland an odd look. "He is known to be incredibly stingy with issuing Travel Passes to foreigners."
"He was quite impressed after we helped him fix up a few village facilities."
The guard didn’t return the smile in the slightest. He rolled the parchment back up and tossed it at Roland’s chest. "This pass grants you entry. But you will still be subjected to a total search at the inner checkpoint. All luggage. Every individual. Without exception."
Roland covertly fired a split-second glance at Rianor, who was still seated inside. Rianor gave no micro-reaction whatsoever. He remained as still as a statue.
"Of course. Protocol is protocol," Roland answered smoothly.
The iron-and-wood gates slowly swung wide open. The carriage wheels creaked again, pulled into the territory of Sanctum, which instantly swallowed their caravan alive.
Inside, the city’s atmosphere felt unnervingly sterile—far surpassing Whitebridge, far more orderly, but also infinitely more oppressive. The smooth cobblestone streets were flanked by gloomy grey stone walls. Not a single citizen walked with a hurried pace. There was no excessive vocal interaction. Grey-robed guards patrolled in tight formations at every intersection.
And far atop the hill, the Cathedral of Sanctum stood like an absolute sovereign. Its giant bells tolled low, cleaving the city’s silence.
Dong... dong... dong...
Once. Twice. Three times. It sounded like a bloody warning knell. Or perhaps... merely a prayer for the absolution of sins.
Roland swallowed forcefully, his eyes locked on the Cathedral’s silver dome. "That’s where Pastor Marius is waiting for us, Brother."
"Technically, we haven’t actually come face-to-face with him yet," Rianor corrected.
"Not yet," Roland replied hoarsely. "But I can already feel his breath on the back of my neck."