The Holy Church of Yaran did not worship the Goddess Yaran alone; beneath her divinity stood a host of subordinate gods—the God of Herds, the God of Flame, the Goddess of Light, and many more. In short, even among the divine, there existed a hierarchy of rank.
This order of divinities found its echo in human society. Should a follower be marked with the attribute of the Goddess Yaran, his station was deemed far nobler than one devoted to the God of Herds or any lesser deity. Moreover, once an individual awakened with Yaran's divine attribute, the Church would bestow upon him extraordinary privileges—higher offices, greater wealth, lovelier maidens…
Precisely because the rewards were so lavish, the Holy Church of Yaran examined with utmost rigor every supposed bearer of Yaran's gift, lest any fraud deceive the clergy for gain.
Indeed, there had once been such impostors. The Goddess Yaran was the Goddess of Sacred Song, and a charlatan once seized upon this truth—through a sinister art of voice cultivation, he imitated the traits of Yaran's gift with uncanny likeness, deceiving the Church into showering him with honors.
All this Luo Xiong told his son upon the road, giving Robert a broad sense of the inquiry awaiting him. Since the elder intended to report in detail the thunderbolt they had witnessed that morning, he accompanied Robert to the Seminary of Aemiseir.
Father and son walked side by side toward the dean's chamber. Luo Xiong whispered, "Seventh son, when we meet that old fox Michel, mind your tongue. No careless words, and none of your winks or gestures—understood?"
Robert looked puzzled. "Father, do you truly fear that old fox Michel so much? Who exactly is he?"
"Fear him? Hah!" Luo Xiong snorted. "Michel wields immense power. He is not only captain of this idol procession, but also third vice-justice of the Church's tribunal, a High Priest of the Red Robes, and senator over the thirteen empires' ecclesiastical affairs!"
This litany of unfamiliar titles left Robert bewildered. Knowing his son could not grasp the Church's inner hierarchy, Luo Xiong explained more plainly: "The details matter little. Remember only this—Michel's authority surpasses even that of our Cameron Emperor. Should he be displeased, a mere gesture of his hand could see our sovereign rotting in chains."
Robert shrank his neck, giving a nervous chuckle as he rubbed his left hand. Who would have thought, only yesterday he had dared to deceive such a towering figure?
Luo Xiong went on grimly: "Mark this well. Michel has long held the power of life and death. His nature is cold and merciless; he cares nothing for whether the likes of us live or die. Yesterday, knowing full well the thunderbolt could shatter the goddess's statue, he still sent me to investigate the southeast. To him, I was nothing more than cannon fodder!" He gave a bitter hum. "So I tell you, Seventh son—be cautious before him. Do not provoke or offend that old fox, or neither of us shall escape ruin."
Robert nodded, tension stirring within him. Arm in arm, father and son whispered together as they came at last to the dean's opulent chamber.
Within the vast and lavish room stood but two men. Dean Donald served attentively at the side table, pouring tea. Upon the gilded chair behind the desk sat Michel himself, frowning as he leafed through a dossier. A glance told Robert that the file in Michel's hands was his own record, and unease clenched at his chest.
Yesterday he had feigned the zeal of a fanatic to deceive Michel, and though his act had been flawless, who could say if some trace of falsehood still lingered in his papers? If Michel discerned from them that he was no true devotee, the consequences would be dire.
As Robert worried, Dean Donald caught his eye. Seizing a moment while Michel's gaze was lowered, the dean gave him a small, reassuring nod and flicked his glance toward the file. The meaning was plain: Do not fret—I have already amended your record. Michel will find nothing amiss within.
Relief washed over Robert like honey upon his tongue. Standing at his father's side, he bowed respectfully before Michel's desk.
The high priest lifted his eyes, pausing briefly upon Luo Xiong's bandaged shoulder before fixing his gaze on Robert. His voice was deep, controlled. "Robert, I have heard of your awakening to Yaran's gift. Dean Donald reports you were struck by the thunderbolt while shielding the goddess's statue with your own body, and so moved the goddess to grant you her favor. Is this true?"
Robert's heart hammered. Every word from Michel bore the weight of thunder, the oppressive aura of one accustomed to wielding life and death. Forcing himself to remain composed, he answered with a faint smile, "My lord, by all reason, that must be the case."
"Oh?" Michel's brow arched, and his gaze sharpened to a blade. "By reason, you say? Robert, to claim Yaran's gift is to claim rank, gold, and beauty. Time and again, contemptible frauds have dared to counterfeit such a blessing, and many of them excused themselves with the same cowardly words: 'by reason, it must be so.'"
Suddenly Michel rose, striking the desk with his palm. "Yes or no, boy! I require no evasions. Tell me—whence came your gift? Speak me the truth, clear and exact!"
Robert drew himself up, his voice steady though his heart pounded. "My lord, it is not that I would withhold the truth, but that I cannot describe with precision the moment of change. The circumstances defy clear telling."
Concealing all mention of Yar, he recounted in detail the thunderbolt's strike, then added, voice catching, "When I saw the lightning smite the statue, I thought not of myself—only of shielding it in devotion. The next I knew, the collapse cast me into darkness. When I awoke amidst the ruin, the goddess's form was broken above me, and I—by sheer fortune—had survived. My heart broke with grief, and I could only weep amid the wreckage…"
Michel himself had witnessed Robert's rescue and so pressed no further. Sitting once more, he allowed a faint smile. The boy's demeanor, his respectful bearing beneath such pressure—yes, this was a youth of promise.
Yet Michel was not one to be lulled by words alone. His eyes turned cold. "Mere testimony is wind. Though you passed the crystal's test, years ago a vile deceiver discovered its flaw and tricked the Church by feigning Yaran's gift. Since then, we have devised another trial. Robert—do you dare submit to my own hand's test?"
The fraud Michel spoke of was surely the very impostor Luo Xiong had described upon the road—the one who had forged Yaran's sacred voice with twisted arts.