The Divine Sanctum was not merely a place—it was a declaration etched into the sky.
Suspended above the endless cloud sea like a judgment rendered by the heavens themselves, it rested upon a vast disc of white-gold stone. Its surface was so flawless it seemed less constructed than unveiled, as though the firmament had parted to reveal something eternal beneath.
From a distance, the Sanctum resembled a crown laid gently upon the clouds.
As the divine skiff drew nearer, its true magnitude asserted itself.
Massive pillars of aether-crystal rose from the platform's edge, each engraved with ancient liturgies written in a language no longer spoken by mortals—prayers so old they had crystallized into law. These pillars did not merely support arches and bridges; they anchored reality, stabilizing the Sanctum against gravity, storm, and time itself. Faint halos of light circled them endlessly, like silent choirs bound into orbit.
At the center stood the High Basilica.
Its spires spiraled upward in defiance of proportion, piercing the upper firmament where the sky deepened into indigo. Sunlight fractured against its sanctified glass, scattering prismatic radiance across the clouds below, casting long, sacred shadows that shifted with deliberate slowness—as if the Sanctum itself were breathing.
Null stared through the reinforced glass, eyes narrowing slightly.
"…Already?" he asked. "I assumed a journey like this would take days. At minimum."
Sora followed his gaze, her expression composed, though there was a quiet reverence in her eyes—one born not of awe, but of long familiarity.
"Ordinarily, it would," she replied. "Had we traveled along conventional aerial routes, even a divine skiff would have required several days."
She paused, then added evenly, "From Arcdence—the imperial capital of the Atlantis Empire."
Null glanced at her. "But we didn't."
"No," Sora said. "Because Arcdence houses a network of Aetherway Arches."
Null turned toward her. "Aetherway… warp gates?"
She nodded. "Precisely. They are large-scale spatial conduits designed specifically for sanctioned vessels. By passing through an aligned sequence of Arches, the divine skiff bypassed conventional distance."
"…So that's how you cut days down to half an hour," he murmured.
His brows lifted,
"You have warp gates in this world. And not just for people—for vehicles."
Sora regarded him sidelong. "Is that unusual where you come from?"
A faint, amused smile touched his lips as he looked back toward the Sanctum, now looming impossibly close.
"Let's just say," he replied, "it's very interesting to see a world that treats miracles like public transportation."
****
They disembarked beneath a cascade of light.
The divine skiff settled into a crescent berth carved directly into the Sanctum's outer ring, its hull dissolving excess mana in a soft chiming hush. The moment Null stepped onto the platform, he felt it—the pressure. Not physical, but conceptual, as if the air itself carried expectations, doctrines, and unspoken judgments layered thick as incense.
Sora moved first.
Her posture shifted the instant her boots touched sanctified stone. Shoulders back. Chin level. Every trace of the woman who had spoken of stars and moonlight folded away, sealed behind the immaculate bearing of a Saintess
Elder Ozag followed at her side, staff tapping once against the floor—a sound that rippled outward in faint rings of light.
"This way," he said. "The Seat of Radiance awaits."
They entered the inner concourse of the Divine Sanctum.
The scale was staggering.
Vaulted corridors stretched endlessly, their ceilings lost in a haze of sacred light. Floating scriptural sigils drifted along the walls like slow-moving constellations, updating, dissolving, rewriting themselves in response to unseen divine calculations. Bridges of translucent crystal spanned open chasms where clouds drifted far below, sunlight refracting upward in luminous waves.
Members of the Divine Sanctum moved throughout the halls.
High clerics in layered vestments of white and gold walked in solemn groups, their staves humming softly with stored blessings.
Archivists clad in muted silver robes guided levitating tomes through the air, pages turning of their own accord. Paladins of the Radiant Guard stood at intervals, helms tucked beneath their arms, their eyes sharp and disciplined—watchful not only of threats, but of balance itself.
Some noticed them.
Whispers followed in subtle glances.
The Saintess was expected.
The elder priest was revered.
But the unblessed summon—
That drew interest.
"I'm popular already," Null remarked.
Sora didn't look at him. "You are being observed."
"By the walls?"
"By everything."
"Ah." He nodded once. "My favorite kind of attention."
[Master]
Yes?
[I have a query.]
Oh? Ask away.
[You are aware that you could have accessed her complete recorded history via Reader's Omniscient View.]
[Full biographical archive. Psychological profile. Trauma markers. Preference clusters.]
'You mean Sora?'
[Yes.]
I could have. Null replied calmly. But where's the fun in that?
[Fun is not an efficient metric.]
[You rejected perfect information in favor of conversational uncertainty.]
'Exactly'
[Elaborate]
'If I already knew her past. Every word she spoke would just be confirmation—or contradiction. Either way, the outcome would be predetermined.'
[Predetermination is optimal]
'It's boring'
[Boredom is not a valid operational concern]
'For you, maybe'
[I do not understand]
Null faintly smiled.
'You will, Eventually.'
"—We've arrived."
Elder Ozag's voice settled like the final note of a hymn.
Before them, the corridor widened into a vast circular expanse—the Seat of Radiance.
At its center rose a stepped dais of pure luminal stone, translucent and softly aglow, as though light itself had been shaped into architecture.
Above the dais hovered a great halo-ring of condensed radiance, slow-spinning and soundless, its presence bending perception..
And seated beneath it—
The Pontifex of the Divine Church.
The Pope, Seraphel Lysandria
Her hair fell in long, immaculate strands of pale gold, luminous enough to catch and refract the ambient radiance, cascading over ceremonial vestments woven from sun-silk and prayer-thread. Her elven ears remained unhidden, elegant and proud. Her eyes—deep, lucid green—held compassion tempered by an authority honed across centuries.
Those eyes opened fully as they approached.
And the light shifted.
Not brighter.
Sharper.
Null felt it immediately.
Not pressure this time—but attention.
Sora went to one knee without hesitation.
"Master," she said, voice resonant and flawless.
Elder Ozag followed suit, bowing deeply. "Your Holiness."
Seraphel Lysandria regarded them in silence.
"Sora, my disciple" the Pontifex said at last.
Her voice was calm. Clear. Neither raised nor softened by affection—yet it carried an unmistakable warmth beneath its authority.
"You may rise."
Sora obeyed at once, movements precise, reverent. Elder Ozag followed a heartbeat later, returning his staff to the floor with measured care.
Seraphel's gaze lingered on Sora for a moment longer—green eyes reading more than posture, more than expression—then shifted.
To Null.
The air changed again.
Not with force.
With focus.
"So," the Pope said, her tone thoughtful, almost curious, "you are the unblessed summon."
Null straightened—not abruptly, not deferentially, but with an ease that suggested he neither underestimated nor exaggerated the moment.
"That appears to be the working title," he replied.
Seraphel Smiled.
Not indulgently.
Not amused.
But with interest.
"Most who stand before the Seat of Radiance choose their words more carefully," she observed.
Null met her gaze without flinching. "Most who stand before it know what they're expected to be."
The halo-ring slowed.
Elder Ozag inhaled, clearly preparing to intervene—but Seraphel lifted one slender hand, forestalling him without even looking away from Null.
"Expectation," she repeated softly. "An insightful choice of word."
Her eyes sharpened—not unkindly, but keenly.
"You do not fear this place," she said.
It was not a question.
Null considered her for a moment, then answered honestly.
"I respect it," he said. "Fear would imply I believe it exists to harm me."
A murmur passed through the distant ranks—quickly subdued.
Seraphel leaned back a fraction against her throne, golden hair shifting like a curtain of light.
"And yet," she said, "you stand beneath the authority of the Divine Church. Observed. Unblessed. Untethered by covenant."
Her gaze flicked—briefly, tellingly—to Sora.
"Do you understand what that makes you?"
Null followed her glance, then looked back.
"A variable."
The word landed cleanly.
Seraphel's smile widened—just a touch.
"Yes," she said. "That is precisely why you are here."
She inclined her head slightly.
"So I will not ask you to kneel," she continued. "Nor to swear. Nor to submit yourself to doctrines you did not choose."
Sora's breath caught—barely audible.
Seraphel noticed. She rested two fingers lightly against the arm of her throne.
"I will ask something far simpler."
The halo-ring above pulsed once, slow and luminous.
"Remain," the Pope said.
"Observe."
"And allow us," she added gently, "to observe you in return."
Null considered the offer—not for long, but sincerely.
"Sounds fair," he said. "So long as observation doesn't turn into ownership."
Seraphel's smile returned—weary, knowing.
"Oh, child," she said softly, and for the first time her age showed—not as frailty, but as experience.
"I have seen far too many 'chosen ones' to mistake possession for providence."
"You are not a savior," she said.
"And you are not a threat."
A beat.
"You are a question."
The Seat of Radiance seemed to hum in agreement.
Seraphel leaned forward slightly.
"And I have lived long enough," she finished, "to know that the right questions matter far more than the right answers."