{Chapter: 53: James And Safi Assignment of Tasks}
No… someone like this wouldn't hesitate to cast us out if we ever ceased to be useful.
Safi's years of ecclesiastical politics and spiritual maneuvering told him clearly: the church needed allies who could be controlled, not threats that could become tyrants.
Still, in the short term, there was no viable alternative. This prince might be a wolf in royal robes, but today, they shared a common goal. If the operation succeeded, the Church of the Holy Flame would gain a firm foothold within the Principality of Marton—an opportunity that could not be squandered.
With these thoughts hidden behind a well-practiced mask of serenity, Safi gave a small smile and tilted his head. "If that's the case, then how do you propose we divide up the search?"
Unaware of the internal calculations taking place behind that smile, James responded with cheerful pragmatism. He gestured toward the map, tracing an invisible line down the middle with his finger.
"We'll save the red zones for last," James said. "They're the most sensitive targets. For now, let's split the rest. You can choose: the left side of the city, or the right?"
Safi's smile thinned at once. "Oh? A perfect fifty-fifty split, is it? But Your Highness… this is your territory. We are merely here to support. Isn't it a bit much to ask our small delegation to take responsibility for half the entire city?"
He straightened his back, his voice steady but laced with undertone. "After all, our church has perhaps one-tenth the number of boots you command. The sheer manpower gap—"
James cut in politely, waving a hand with an understanding nod. "You're right, Bishop Safi. Numerically, you're outmatched. But when it comes to experience—well, let's not be modest. The Church's Heretic Hunting Center was made for this kind of work. You've studied cult tactics more thoroughly than anyone alive. Your priests and agents are trained to sniff out deception, to dismantle their networks from within. My soldiers… they're brave, certainly. But bravery alone doesn't cut it when facing the unnatural."
He gave a respectful shrug. "If we're being realistic, your side's success rate will be higher. My side's casualties will likely be worse."
Safi's brows twitched slightly. James was clever, too clever. He knew how to couch his request as praise, turning a burden into a compliment.
Still, Safi pressed, his expression hardening. "Even so, Your Highness, I cannot in good conscience risk the lives of my clergy just for the sake of appearing capable. I must protect my people."
A heavy pause stretched between them. Then James smiled—a different kind of smile this time. Calm. Confident. And cutting.
"The scope of the church's parish within Marton will be expanded by one-third," he said softly. "And the Principality will fund the construction of your new cathedrals with 600,000 gold coins from the royal treasury."
It wasn't an offer. It was a deal.
'Old man, don't be so nagging!' James snapped, his inner voice laced with annoyance and impatience.
The bishop didn't flinch, nor did he respond with offense. Instead, he stood calmly, with the serene arrogance of someone who knew that time and influence were on his side.
James, on the other hand, wore the mask of forced civility. As if compelled by some invisible force—or perhaps the insistent nudging of diplomacy—he suddenly took a deep breath, exhaled dramatically, then reached forward and embraced Bishop Safi with exaggerated fervor.
His voice cracked slightly, eyes glistening—not with sincerity, but with the flair of a seasoned actor. "Your words... have touched me deeply," he said, as if trying to convince himself as much as anyone else. "Our Principality of Marton and the Church of the Holy Flame have always stood as brothers, shoulder to shoulder through war and peace. Let this small gift be a humble token of my appreciation. Please, accept it!"
The bishop blinked. For a brief moment, his lips parted as if he had not expected the gesture. Then, as though reminded of the role he, too, must play, Bishop Safi stepped forward with the solemnity of a martyr preparing to walk into the flames. He placed both hands reverently on James's shoulders and spoke in the slow, pious cadence reserved for religious rites.
"In the sacred mission of eradicating heresy," he intoned, his eyes gleaming faintly, "the Church of the Holy Flame has never faltered. We are diligent. We are faithful. We are prepared to sacrifice all for the sanctity and salvation of this world. Your Highness, your generosity is boundless. And yet... how can I accept this? Such behavior does not align with the sacred vows and protocols of our Church!"
James's expression froze for a beat. "No," he insisted, gripping Safi's hands tightly. "You must take it!"
The bishop shook his head, just as stubborn. "No, our Church cannot…"
"No, you must!"
"I cannot possibly…"
"No—"
As the two men volleyed hollow formalities back and forth, the scene began to resemble a theatrical performance rather than a serious negotiation. To the casual observer, it might seem heartwarming, a rare moment of camaraderie between faith and crown. But to those who knew better...
Meanwhile, standing a few paces away, Ciel observed everything in silence. His face remained expressionless, but when he noticed no one was paying attention, he turned and spat onto the ground with scorn.
"Disgusting," he muttered under his breath. The overly sentimental display between the church and the crown prince was far from convincing. It was little more than a spectacle, a dance of two snakes trying to out-slither each other.
Ciel, a sorcerer who had spent most of his life studying the corruption in both the Church and the Royal Family, had no patience for such performances. He muttered to himself, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Such loyal friends, weren't they at each other's throats barely two generations ago?" He shook his head. "If they hadn't been forced to stop by the neighboring powers, they'd have killed each other to the last priest and prince."
He turned away from the exchange, whispering, "As expected of politicians. Each one more shameless than the last. Even a sorcerer like me wouldn't dare mouth such sanctimonious drivel."
Eventually, with much dramatic reluctance, Bishop Safi allowed himself to be persuaded. He accepted James's offer with a sorrowful nod and an expression that made it seem as though he were accepting a funeral gift rather than a favor. The bishop agreed to dispatch his church forces to purge the left half of the city of heretical influence.
James, ever the generous host, even assigned a small unit of soldiers to accompany the church's holy inquisitors—not out of trust, of course, but to "assist" them. In reality, it was little more than a way to monitor their every move, ensuring they stayed busy and didn't attempt anything behind the scenes.
Before Safi departed, James grasped his hands once more with an expression of almost parental concern. "Take care of yourselves, old friend," he said. "The mission is noble... but lives are irreplaceable."
The moment the bishop and his entourage had vanished down the cobbled path leading toward the city's western quarter, James's entire demeanor changed in an instant. His face twisted with disgust. With a snarl, he yanked his handkerchief from his sash and furiously wiped his palms.
"Disgusting," he muttered, spitting at the same spot where Ciel had spat moments earlier.
"Ugh... Get me wine," he snapped.
A servant approached with a silver flask, and James seized it, pouring wine directly over his hands and scrubbing as though purging filth. He took a long swig, gargled, and spat the wine onto the ground.
"Disgusting... absolutely revolting. If I have to say something like that again, I'll vomit on the spot."
If he ever had to act like that again, he would rather bite off his tongue.
He glared at the retreating figure of the bishop. "Just a temporary ally. One day, old man... I'll put you in the dirt myself."
---
Elsewhere, Bishop Safi was having his own crisis.
As he walked with rigid grace through the city ruins, his robes gently fluttering behind him, he shifted uncomfortably. A hint of a scowl broke through his otherwise composed mask.
A young priest trailing behind him noticed and leaned in. "Bishop, are you unwell? You seem... off."
"It's nothing," Safi replied without breaking stride. "I simply feel the need to change into something cleaner."
He, too, was repulsed by the exchange. The fake smiles, the oily flattery. He couldn't shake the feeling of grime that clung to his skin like a film. As discreetly as he could, he removed his outermost robe, shook it vigorously, and draped it over one arm as though purifying it. As though trying to rid it of invisible slime, then put it back on with a sigh. His eyes, however, weren't calm. They were sharp and contemplative.
After a few minutes of silent travel, he suddenly asked, "Have any of you heard of a man named Ciel?"
The clergymen exchanged puzzled glances.
"No, Your Grace."
"Never heard of him."
"I... don't believe so."
Safi's eyes narrowed slightly. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. The name had come up too suddenly, too conveniently. He clearly remembered the map James had shown them earlier. Some of the locations marked for investigation were not just random guesses. They matched places the church had secretly marked after years of surveillance and careful investigation.
These were classified. Known to only a select few. And yet, here they were, already flagged by James and his people.
That meant someone on James's side had access to serious information. Information that should have been impossible to acquire.
"It doesn't add up," Safi muttered. "If James's intelligence really came from someone named Ciel, then that person must be extraordinarily well-versed in cult detection. More so than most of our senior inquisitors. That kind of man... wouldn't stay hidden for long. Rumors would spread, survivors would whisper his name. But I hear nothing."
He glanced back at the soldiers assigned to follow their group. Their armor gleamed, their posture stiff, but he knew better than to believe appearances. These were watchdogs, not reinforcements.
He turned back to the priests beside him. "Listen carefully. After today, I want a full report. I want every scrap of information we can get on this man named Ciel. Who he is, where he came from, and more importantly, what exactly is the relationship between him and James Woz. I think there are big problems between him and our Crown Prince James Woz. What exactly are they hiding from us…"
Safi's voice grew colder. "There is a shadow behind that throne. And I intend to find out whose it is."