"A noble's castle?" Irene paused for a moment upon hearing Jeanne's question, clearly puzzled as to why she would bring up such a thing out of nowhere.
"I don't think there are any castles around here; something like that couldn't survive out in the wasteland. But... there is a large estate nearby. It's not too far from our location."
Irene pointed off toward the horizon. She recalled that a massive manor sat in that direction. The folk living there used to supply food to the nearby Inquisition outposts, so she had never linked them with cultists.
"An Iberian noble resides there and manages a vast farm nearby," Irene explained, attempting to satisfy Jeanne's sudden curiosity. "I heard from the resident judges that the noble frequently donates grain and supplies to relief efforts. There shouldn't be anything suspicious about him."
Irene had guessed what Jeanne was implying, but she discarded the thought almost immediately. In her mind, a generous benefactor like that wouldn't possibly be tangled up in something so foul.
"Let's go take a look anyway," Jeanne said, her expression darkening. Her gut told her that the master of that estate was very likely hiding something—and whatever it was, it wasn't minor.
Seeing the grim intensity on Jeanne's face, Irene nodded and stepped forward to lead the way. Even if she believed the noble was innocent, inspecting the grounds would at least put the matter to rest.
"Why are you so convinced the manor owner is involved?" Irene asked, glancing back as they walked. Jeanne's quiet tension was infectious, making Irene feel a creeping unease of her own.
"I can't be entirely sure," Jeanne confessed, her tone heavy with unspoken weight. "It just brought back a memory... a shadow from my past. I need to verify whether my suspicions are true, if only to put my own mind at ease."
Her gaze remained locked on the horizon, as if she could already see the dark silhouette of the estate ahead. Part of her desperately hoped this was nothing more than an overactive imagination.
Yet Jeanne knew her instincts had rarely failed her. There was a dangerous chance that this place, much like Gilles' fortress in her past life, had quietly transformed into a hidden purgatory.
"I see... I hope everything is normal there too," Irene murmured softly. "Everyone says the master of the manor is a good man who frequently shelters refugees. They say he's a devoted believer as well. It's hard to imagine someone of sincere faith committing such atrocities..."
Irene caught herself talking to empty air. Without realizing it, she was already treating the nobleman as a prime suspect. Still, given everything she knew about him, her mind struggled to accept the possibility.
"A devout faith doesn't guarantee a righteous heart," Jeanne said, her voice dripping with solemn meaning. "Even the most sacred devotion can shatter when pushed to the edge. And when that day comes... that pure piety turns into a hysterical, unbridled madness."
Irene didn't answer right away. She simply gave a tight nod, mulling over Jeanne's words as she kept her eyes glued to the path ahead.
Unconsciously, her fingers tightened around the hilt of her rapier. A quiet resolve hardened within her: if the nobleman truly turned out to be the beast Jeanne feared, she would use the highest Arts of the Inquisition to cut him down without hesitation. There would be no second chances.
Though Irene had described the estate as nearby, the sun had long dipped below the horizon by the time they arrived. Night had fallen completely, casting the sprawling manor in a suffocating, oppressive shadow.
Standing before the wrought-iron gates, both of them felt an unmistakable chill in the air.
Unsure if it was mere paranoia or genuine dread, they could tell something about the atmosphere was profoundly off. Irene frowned, studying the darkened windows for a moment before reaching out to ring the heavy iron bell at the gate.
Clang... Clang...
"Coming, coming! Who could possibly be calling at such a late hour?"
An elderly Aegir man shuffled out from the side path, peering through the iron bars at Jeanne and Irene. The moment his eyes landed on Irene's official judge uniform, his body recoiled sharply, taking two steps back into the shadows.
For an Aegir in Iberia, such a reaction was hardly unusual. Ever since the Great Silence, the Iberian populace held immense prejudice against the Aegir—a hostility far harsher than what was shown to those with Oripathy. Innocent Aegir were routinely subjected to unjust persecution.
To them, the judges were angels of death. Countless Aegir had been dragged away by the Inquisition, never to be heard from again. It was only natural for the old man to flinch at the sight of Irene's robes.
Yet to Irene, who already suspected the estate of foul play, that nervous retreat looked entirely different.
She narrowed her eyes, assessing the elderly servant with a cool, authoritative gaze. After a moment of heavy silence, she softened her tone: "Greetings. I am a novice judge of the Inquisition. We are here to inquire about the recent disappearances among the local villagers."
Since nothing had been proven yet, Irene kept her manner polite, avoiding the harsh, freezing edge typical of veteran judges.
"Ah! Please, come right in! I'll inform the master at once!"
The old man seemed to snap back to his senses, hurriedly unlocking the grand gate to usher them inside. His previous skittishness vanished, replaced by an almost forced warmth.
He turned and guided them down the main path toward the estate. The walkway was pitch-black, shrouded in a heavy silence that gave the impression of walking directly into a haunt.
"Do you not light any lamps here?" Jeanne asked, scanning the dark gardens. Did the people here possess night vision? It seemed bizarre to navigate such a massive estate in complete blackness without even holding a candle.
"Ah, dear lady, you don't understand," the old servant replied without turning around. "Lighting lamps risks drawing the coastal beasts straight to our door. We are just ordinary folk here with no martial skill. If those horrors find us, we'd end up as nothing more than beast feed. A little darkness is far better than losing one's life, isn't it?"
The old man cast a quick glance back over his shoulder.
Jeanne, whose vision easily cut through the dark, noticed his eyes wandering aimlessly, as though he couldn't even pinpoint where they were standing.
"Wait... can you actually see in the dark?" Jeanne leaned in slightly, whispering her question to Irene.
Irene had been navigating the path effortlessly without any light source. Was this a Liberi trait? But Irene was a swiftlet, not an owl. Could swiftlets really see in pitch-black conditions?
"It's a specialized shadow-vision Art," Irene explained softly. "It's really only useful in places like this."
It was an Art perfected by the Inquisition after years of research. Unfortunately, not every judge possessed the aptitude to master it, leaving many forced to rely on brass lanterns in the dark despite the danger it presented.
"Has anything strange happened around the estate recently?" Irene asked, keeping her eyes fixed on the old man's back.
"Ah, constantly," the old man rambled, shaking his head. "Fleeing villagers pass through every day. The master is a merciful soul—he always takes them in for a few days and gives them bread. But lately, there have been far too many refugees. Everything is in chaos. A while ago, a bunch of robed zealots even tried to force us into joining their cult..."
He chattered on, but the mention of "robed zealots" made Irene's eyes snap wide. That was a textbook description of the Deep Sea Church!
"What happened to those cultists?" Irene interjected hurriedly, her voice sharp with tension. Her sudden shift in tone startled the old man, making him jump.
"Wh-who? The robed ones?" the old man stammered, clutching his chest. "When we refused to join, they tried to storm the gates! If the manor's iron walls hadn't held them off, and if a patrol of judges hadn't happened to pass nearby, we would have been slaughtered..."
Listening to his nervous, fragmented explanation, Irene found herself beginning to believe his story. Beside her, Jeanne held Fafnir close, remaining completely silent.
By then, the trio had reached the central courtyard. Looming before them in the gloom was the main mansion—a pitch-black monolith rising into the night, like a monstrous beast opening its maw, waiting to swallow them whole.