Chapter 68 — Divine Radiance
[A sacred staff filled with unknown spiritual power. Its origins are ancient beyond reckoning.]
[Its existence is tied to a certain entity of this world.]
---
The message faded.
Charles stared at it twice before reaching out toward the seemingly unremarkable staff.
The dried corpse gripping it had clenched the wood too tightly. With a sharp pull, his effort was met with a faint cracking sound.
"Sorry," Charles muttered after glancing at the corpse's snapped forearm, then turned his full attention to the "piece of wood" now in his hands.
Nothing happened.
No divine voice.
No thunderous echo.
No response at all.
It looked… ordinary.
"Some kind of legendary artifact?" the thought crossed his mind. And the more he considered it, the more reasonable it seemed.
After a long moment, driven by an impulse he could not explain, Charles softly recited a single incantation.
One eerily similar to the mysterious voice he had heard before.
Boundless.
Majestic.
Ethereal.
The words had barely left his lips when the staff began to tremble.
Black stains that had crawled across its surface for centuries flaked away like dead skin. A soft glow seeped from the wood, spreading slowly outward.
In seconds, it transformed.
The decayed blackness vanished. The surface regained its warm golden-brown luster, as if reborn.
A gentle, sacred radiance filled the crypt.
It pushed away every shadow.
Outshone the torches.
Brilliant—but never blinding.
Instead, it felt… comforting.
---
The guards froze.
They stared at the scene in disbelief.
This boy was supposed to be the Black Wizard.
Cruel.
Cold.
A master of death.
A monster whispered about in taverns and alleyways.
Yet here stood a youth bathed in holy light, surrounded by a soft glow that inspired peace instead of fear.
"Am I… dreaming?" someone whispered.
Others stood rooted in place, mouths slightly open, eyes fixed on the pure radiance.
The stone chamber's doors had never been fully shut.
Outside, the old priest saw everything.
Seizing the moment when Ser Plummer was too stunned to react, he shrugged off his grip and staggered closer, eyes wide.
"Y—You… child… what have you done?" he whispered, trembling.
Charles did not answer.
His eyes never left the staff.
The incantation did not cease.
The light intensified.
And when it crossed an invisible threshold—
The staff began to shake violently!
So fiercely that Charles nearly lost his grip.
The glow swelled outward.
First engulfing him.
Then the priest.
Then the entire chamber.
---
"A miracle…!"
The old priest dropped to his knees, sobbing.
"A miracle of the Seven…! Father blesses us, Mother shelters us! I, Chad, have lived long enough to witness divine grace…!"
He prayed frantically, awestruck and weeping.
No one else dared to speak.
The chamber was filled only with:
The old man's shaky prayers.
The staff's low hum.
The echo of Charles's chant.
The guards' uneven breath.
---
But it could not last forever.
When the tremors grew so intense that the staff nearly tore free from his hand—
Charles stopped chanting.
Instantly.
The staff fell silent.
The glow collapsed inward and vanished.
Stillness returned.
After a long moment—
Ser Plummer finally found his voice.
"Sir… Sir Cranston… this…"
Charles merely looked at the staff.
"As you can see," he said at last.
Then he turned toward the old priest, intending to question him.
But before a word could be spoken, noise reached them from outside.
Vague at first.
Then clearer.
"Hand over the black wizard!"
"Burn the sorcerer!"
"Burn him!"
Plummer rushed toward the doorway.
Moments later, he came back pale-faced.
He did not look at Charles.
Instead, he turned to the old priest.
"Is there another exit?"
"Only this one," the priest whispered.
Then, fervently, he looked at Charles.
"But he is protected by the Seven! He need not fear those outside!"
"We're not gambling on divine favoritism," Plummer said grimly—and turned to Charles.
Charles thought for only a moment.
Then he walked forward.
Straight toward the door.
The guards followed instinctively.
No one argued.
No one hesitated.
They trusted him.
When they emerged into daylight—
A sea of filthy, ragged bodies faced them.
Flea Bottom's poorest.
Faces twisted by hunger, grief, and madness.
Mobs like this were usually ignored.
But now…
No one could ignore them.
They were here for him.
"So fast?" Charles murmured, eyes narrowing.
"The one pulling strings is impressive."
He glanced at the staff in his hand.
"Well. That timing is convenient."
He breathed deeply.
Then stepped forward.
Pushing past the trembling guards at the door, he raised the staff high—
And the light returned.
The mob's screaming died at once.
A wave of pale radiance erupted from the crystal.
Down the staff.
Across Charles's arm.
Over his body.
And outward.
Even beneath the midday sun, the glow was unmistakable.
The light expanded in a wide arc.
Gentle.
Unstoppable.
A rising tide of radiance.
And in an instant—
The entire plaza went silent.
---
Bathed in the milk-white glow, the mob seemed frozen between faith and terror.
Whether it was the sheer shock…
or something truly sacred within the light—
the madness draining from their faces was unmistakable.
The twisted rage that had possessed them faded little by little. Eyes that moments ago burned with hate now stared silently at the young man standing in the radiance.
The shouts weakened.
Then died.
Seeing this, the guards silently exhaled in relief.
It looked as if the danger had passed.
And then—
A stone flew from within the crowd.
"You're being fooled!" came a hoarse shout. "The black wizard is using sorcery! Don't fall for it!"
The rock struck Charles square on the forehead.
Blood spilled instantly.
Yet instead of pain—
he felt something else.
A strange surge rose within his chest.
Not fear.
Not shock.
But fury.
A fury that felt vast, alien… sacred.
As if he himself had been insulted by blasphemy.
His gaze lifted, dark and piercing, locking onto the voice in the crowd.
---
As though sensing his emotion, the trembling staff in his raised hand suddenly stilled.
And then—
Light erupted.
Violent.
Expansive.
A storm of radiance burst from the staff and swept outward in a great arc, whipping the crowd's clothing like a sudden gale!
Divine authority did not permit mockery.
"Guilty…"
A voice sounded.
Then another.
And another.
Echoing from all directions—
as if the world itself was speaking.
"Guilty."
"Guilty!"
"YOU. ARE. GUILTY."
---
The man who had thrown the stone stood rigid at first.
Then his knees buckled.
With a heavy thud, he collapsed onto the ground, curling forward, clutching his face as he wept uncontrollably.
"I'm guilty! I confess!"
"I stole my neighbor's relief money! I scorned the gods! I peeked at Aisha while she bathed! And worse—I accepted a silver stag to provoke Sir Cranston!"
"I incited them! I manipulated everyone! I deserve death!"
The plaza fell into dead silence.
Only one voice remained.
Crying.
Confessing.
Begging.
Incited them?
Manipulated?
The crowd's fury reignited instantly.
Faces flushed red with humiliation and rage.
"Bastard!"
"You traitor!"
"Kill him!"
"Rip him apart!"
The divine light quietly withdrew.
It was no longer needed.
The mob erupted with far greater violence than before.
What had been aimed at Charles not long ago now redirected toward their true instigator.
The man was swallowed by fists and curses in seconds.
The one who had come to judge the "black wizard"—
had become the sacrifice instead.
And just like that—
The crisis was over.
---
"S-Sir… should we retreat?" Ser Plummer asked quietly.
He no longer tried to sound fearless.
None of them did.
Charles did not answer.
He wasn't watching the mob.
Instead, he stared at the staff in his hand, eyes narrowed.
Frowning—
as if seeing something no one else could.
Then, suddenly, he looked left.
"Where does that direction lead?"
Before Plummer could reply, a guard spoke up eagerly.
"That's Flea Bottom, sir."
---