Chapter 21 — The Whisper of Thorns
"The Enemy of Thorns — Purification?"
Charles turned the slim white-covered booklet in his hands, his brow furrowing.
Elliot glanced at him and gave a crooked smile. "That one's the highest difficulty."
"How high are we talking?" Charles asked warily.
"That depends entirely," Elliot replied, "on what kind of person you are. For some, it's impossible. For others…" He paused, a glint of amusement in his eyes. "It might come naturally."
Charles frowned. "You mean… magic difficulty depends on the person?"
Elliot only smiled faintly. "You'll understand soon enough."
He handed the book back to Charles. "How much time did Brother Worsie give you?"
"A month."
"Not bad." Elliot folded his arms. "The record for learning Purification in all of Dulin Kingdom is seven days."
He said it casually, almost encouragingly — but the implication hit like a stone.
"…Right," Charles muttered.
"Good luck," Elliot said with a faint smirk.
"That's exactly what Worsie said," Charles noted, voice tight. "Which probably means it's extremely hard, isn't it?"
Elliot didn't answer. Instead, he handed Charles a small folded slip of paper.
"Take the bones," he said, "and go to this address. Someone there will receive you."
Ah — that matter. The sale.
Charles took the note with a sigh, glancing down at the scribbled location. "And what price should I ask?"
"There'll be someone there to advise you." Elliot shrugged. "Pita's a small city. A bad reputation spreads fast. No one will dare cheat you."
"Probably won't, you mean."
Elliot smiled. "No one can ever truly read another person."
Charles exhaled, pocketed the note, and nodded his thanks before turning to leave.
---
Elliot watched his figure disappear down the aisle, then quietly shook his head.
Just as he turned to go, Brother Worsie — the kindly, middle-aged priest who had presided over Charles's hearing — stepped out from the shadows of a nearby column.
"You shouldn't have let him mingle with practitioners so soon," the older man said softly.
Elliot's tone was indifferent. "It hardly matters. He'll end up among them sooner or later."
"He may not even master Purification."
"Oh, I know." Elliot's lips twitched faintly. "But to avoid punishment, he'll have to try. And when the 'Voice of Ulm' rips his mind apart, he won't even remember the address I gave him."
Worsie sighed. "He has talent — but also a history steeped in forbidden arts. If he fails to master purification, then silence would indeed be the best mercy."
He looked away, voice low and heavy. "The pirates of the Viper Sea are restless, the zealots of the Heart of Flame grow unstable, and the cult of demon apostles stirs again. I don't need another wild card slipping through the cracks. Without new blood, our order is collapsing — but reckless blood will only destroy us faster."
He paused, then added grimly, "And his fall into darkness seems… very likely."
"Why do you say that?"
"The notebook's origin has been traced." Worsie's tone turned cold. "It belonged to Lady Cranston — his aunt. The youngest daughter of General Bourne of Dulin."
Elliot's eyes narrowed. "She's supposed to be dead."
"For some," Worsie murmured, "death isn't an ending."
"Then why let that book reach Charles at all?"
"Perhaps," the priest said, "someone meant to lure him — to test whether he'd take the bait."
Elliot scoffed quietly. "A recruitment ploy? Too crude. It feels more like someone wanted us to notice."
"Whoever wanted it," Worsie said with that placid, unnerving gentleness of his, "the result is the same."
He clasped his hands in prayer. "The kingdom's generals bring only chaos now. And chaos," he murmured, "is the soil in which evil takes root."
"May the Lord," he added, "purify them all."
--
Sitting inside the rattling carriage, Charles turned another page of the thin white-bound book in his hands.
Most of the contents were the same — endless hymns, praises of the Divine, and sanctimonious verses exalting something called The Purification.
Nothing useful.
He exhaled sharply. "Just a pile of holy nonsense."
Rolling his eyes, Charles flipped back to the page that contained the actual spell — the incantation and its supposed "method of invocation."
"Should I… try it?"
He hesitated. Casting spells in the middle of a public street probably wasn't the brightest idea. But then again, this was a purification prayer, not some sinister necromantic ritual. What harm could it do?
"Right," he muttered, "what's the worst that could happen?"
He studied the words again, then gripped the silver thorned cross pendant the priest had given him. Closing his eyes, he steadied his breathing and began to recite the incantation under his breath.
At first, nothing happened.
Then, halfway through the first line—
A roar of voices erupted all around him.
"Under the radiance of the Holy Light, all heresy shall be destroyed!"
"God loves mankind, until mankind becomes corrupt. When all is evil, the Lord decrees: it must be purged!"
"Crush the demon's crown, and you shall be delivered—"
Tens of thousands of voices shouted at once — booming, relentless, deafening.
They weren't echoing from the outside world. They were inside his head, shouting directly into his skull.
The onslaught hit him like a hammer. His vision swam; the world spun; his consciousness wavered.
[You have been struck by an unknown will. Your memory has experienced minor deviation.]
The message flashed across his sight as Charles snapped back to awareness, gasping.
"What the hell was that!?" he croaked, clutching his temples.
He hadn't even channeled anything — he'd merely spoken the words aloud!
There had been no mana flow, no ritual focus. So how—?
"Was that the actual casting effect?" he muttered. "No… impossible. If simply reciting a prayer caused that, anyone could perform miracles."
He frowned deeply, replaying the incident in his mind.
"Then it must require a specific… condition. A qualification."
Elliot's earlier warning echoed faintly in his head: 'The highest difficulty.'
Charles clenched his jaw. "So that's what he meant. The spell itself fights back."
Unlike the necromantic art of Bone Resurrection, this wasn't merely an arcane formula — this was something else entirely. Something that tested the soul itself.
"Holy spells… divine magic…" he whispered. "This might not even be the same category."
He sighed, rubbing his temples, but curiosity gnawed at him.
He glanced down at The Enemy of Thorns again.
"…One more try."
He took a deep breath, focused, and began to chant again.
The result was immediate — and worse.
The moment he spoke the opening words, the roar returned, louder, closer — an avalanche of divine proclamations crashing straight through his consciousness.
The air trembled. His ears rang. Covering them did nothing; the voices pierced straight through flesh and bone.
[You have been struck by an unknown will. Your memory has experienced minor deviation.]
The message blinked again as the noise finally receded, leaving only a pounding silence and the taste of metal in his mouth.
Heart racing, Charles stared at the book in horror — and slammed it shut.
"This spell is insane," he hissed. "No one could possibly master it."
Then he frowned. "No… not even a ghost could."
Still shaken, he recalled the strange message: "Memory deviation."
"What does that even mean?" he muttered.
He probed his thoughts, trying to detect any missing fragments — but everything seemed intact. His memories, his reasoning, his emotions… all normal.
At least, he thought they were.
Before he could dwell on it, the carriage slowed, and the driver's muffled voice came from outside.
"Sir, we've arrived — 23 Martin Street."
Charles blinked, glancing out the window at the modest building waiting ahead.
"Right," he murmured, tucking the cursed book deep into his coat pocket.
"Let's get this over with."