Chapter 146: Baldy’s Last Case (2)

Record-keeping is a matter of maintenance.

There’s no need to think of it as complicated. Filling a hole in the ceiling, mending torn clothes, repairing a broken wall, record-keeping isn’t much different from those things.

The only difference is that what wears out isn’t a wall or a ceiling, but the self.

We record to remember ourselves. We retrace the trajectory of our lives so as not to lose ourselves.

Especially when we feel ourselves crumbling, all the more so.

Nicolai year 69, November 13th.

4,731 days since Clevens’s wife committed suicide,

4,721 days since Clevens quit being an Inquisitor,

And one day since parting ways with the Vice-Captain.

Clevens arrives in front of the Axolotl Cathedral.

White walls as if obsessed with cleanliness, sharp spires cutting into his vision, the faint smell of incense, and the murmuring voices of priests.

Cathedrals are all similar no matter where you go. That’s why Clevens dislikes coming here.

Without realizing it, Clevens pulled the wine from his bosom. But he stopped himself just before uncorking it.

Though alcohol has been his companion for the past 14 years, it would only be a hindrance now. This investigation, at least, had to be completed with a clear mind.

Clevens smacks his lips and tucks the wine back into his bosom.

“Um, excuse me, but do you have some business at the cathedral?”

Clevens turns around with sharp eyes.

Age, somewhere between 17 and 18.

Judging by those trembling fingertips, his personality leans toward timid. Ink stains on the side of his hand suggest he’s been copying manuscripts, so he’s likely a deacon. Plus, still a deacon at that age, probably not too bright.

In other words, a perfect sucker, easy to deceive.

Clevens puts on a deliberately stern expression.

“I am Colone Jorge, Inquisitor from the Crystal Palace. I’ve come to investigate heresy. I’d appreciate your cooperation”

“I-Inquisitor, you say? S-sorry. I’ll fetch the bishop right away…!”

Oh no, you don’t.

Clevens quickly grabbed the deacon’s shoulder as he was about to run off.

“This is a more sensitive matter than you think. There’s no need to inform the Bishop.”

“B-But… Th-Then at least my senior…”

“You alone are enough. Just guide me.”

There was a chance Irene, that woman, had also set traps here. Clevens had to enter and leave this place quietly.

Clevens added with a deliberately angry expression.

“You’re not trying to harbor heretics, are you?”

“O-Of course not! I-I would never…!”

“Then shut up and guide me.”

Is there any persuasion method more effective than coercion backed by authority. In the end, the timid deacon nodded.

“Th-then, where to…?”

It was as easy as sneaking alcohol behind the Vice-Captain’s back.

***

Clevens isn’t a particularly intelligent man. His insight isn’t exceptional, nor is his divine power, and he’s not exactly eloquent. You could call him the epitome of an ordinary priest.

Even so, Clevens was always the best inquisitor. Whether when he was in church or after he left it.

Because he believed in cause and effect.

Everything is paired with a cause and an effect. There are no coincidences or incomprehensible phenomena. There are only incidents where cause and effect are intricately intertwined.

And even *that* isn’t impossible to unravel.

You just need to step back and trace it upward.

The cause of the phenomenon, the cause of that cause, and the cause of *that* cause…

Until you reach the very first cause.

“H-here, this is the bedroom where the previous Pope stayed.”

The price of fate, Irene’s betrayal, the expedition to the Demon King, all the messes happening now. They all ultimately share a single starting point.

The Holy Sword, Abraxas.

A sword that was originally cursed, impossible even to touch.

If the curse on this sword had not been lifted, the expedition to the Demon King wouldn’t have been possible in the first place. After all, the holy sword was the vessel containing the Goddess’s soul. Irene would have had to find a way to lift the curse on the Holy Sword first.

However, Abraxas’s curse had been lifted ten years ago. And by the Pope at the time, no less.

“Th-that is, His Holiness Hairston.”

It’s clear. This is the starting point.

Or at least the closest point to it.

“Thanks, you can go back now.”

“Y-yes? B-But…”

“Are you questioning the Inquisitor’s mission?”

“N-no! That’s not it…”

“Then get lost. I have an investigation to conduct.”

Clevens deliberately lowered his voice and pulled out his mace.

“And if you so much as breathe a word about me to anyone…”

“O-Of course not…! H-have a good day!!”

The deacon scurries away. Watching him go, Clevens feels his strength drain away.

*I expected the deacon to at least put up a little resistance, but it’s frustrating how spineless the youth are these days are… Whatever.*

Pushing those useless thoughts aside, he grabbed the doorknob.

*Click- Click-*

…It’s locked.

Crouching down, he could see a small keyhole. Not just that, but faint magic circles carved into the wood grain, and chains visible through the crack in the door.

A triple lock. At this point, finding the key would be a chore in itself.

And Clevens didn’t have much time.

He raises his mace high.

“[Silence]”

_____!

In the sudden silence, the door shatters apart. Clevens kicks aside the broken pieces and steps into the bedroom.

In the Church, there’s a tradition of leaving the rooms of deceased high priests untouched, as a sign of respect. Something about preparing for the day when, with God’s permission, they would descend upon the earth again.

Anyway, because of that, the bedroom Clevens was looking at now should be exactly the same as it was when Hairston was alive.

But, what in the world was this?

A bed as white as new, without a single stain or discoloration. Neatly organized bookshelves and a desk without any ink spills.

No matter how much of a neat freak someone is, a bedroom inevitably acquires some traces of life. Some mark, some scratch, some proof of having lived there, it has to.

However, the bedroom Clevens was looking at… seemed like it had never been used at all.

Clevens started searching the room. At first, he rummaged through drawers and wooden boxes, but eventually he ended up flipping over the bed and other furniture too.

But even after turning the entire room upside down, Clevens couldn’t find anything. Not just evidence, mind you.

Clothes, combs, writing tools, none of it. This room lacked even the basic necessities.

Clevens sits down heavily on the overturned bed, lost in thought.

Did someone enter this room and take everything? No, that couldn’t be.

The Church took this bizarre tradition very seriously. They even keep a painted portrait of the deceased’s room at the time of their death.

If something was missing, they would have replaced it with an identical item a long time ago.

Hairston’s bedroom was like this from the start.

How is that even possible?

Unless he slept somewhere else entirely…

“Aha.”

***

The church historian squinted and asked Clevens back,

“You’re asking where His Holiness Hairston’s real bedroom was?”

Deep wrinkles creased between his brows, a crooked mouth, and disheveled clothes. He squints because his eyesight’s bad, and the stain on his collar’s probably been there for over a week. Nobody’s bothered to tell him, I guess.

A fussy old geezer, pointlessly proud of his scholarly knowledge, the type nobody wants to get close to.

Yelling at him like he did with that bumbling deacon won’t work here.

“Yes, that’s right, sir.”

Clevens flashed a friendly-looking smile.

“My son is writing a book about His Holiness Hairston. As you know, His Holiness was quite the enigmatic figure, wasn’t he?”

It wasn’t just an excuse, it’s Clevens’s honest thought. He had met Hairston a few times when he was still active, but aside from him being a gloomy old man, Clevens couldn’t tell what kind of person he was.

“So I went to check out the bedroom where he spent his later years, but it was rather… empty.”

“Hmph, of course it was. His Holiness Hairston was so busy fulfilling his noble duties that he didn’t even have time to sleep comfortably.”

“You mean the purification of the Holy Sword?”

“What else could it be.”

*So Hairston ate, slept, and shat in the place where he purified the Holy Sword. There’s got to be some clues left there.*

“Then, by any chance, do you know where that Holy Sword purification took place…?”

“And why the hell should I tell you that?”

*Damned old geezer.*

Clevens swallowed his curses with effort and bowed his head.

“Please don’t be like that, I beg you to tell me. My son’s priesthood is on the line. I’ll make it worth your while…”

“Well, if you’re begging that much…”

The church historian trails off and subtly extends his wrinkled hand. It’s a gesture so obvious it’s almost vulgar.

Clevens sighs and pulls out a few coins from his pocket and placed them on the historian’s palm.

“Are you joking?”

*This damned old geezer needs to be ripped apart.*

He shakes out the last few coins left in his pocket. But even then, the church historian’s face is full of displeasure.

“Sorry, sir, but this is all I’ve got. Besides this, I only have cheap wine…”

“Then hand that over too. I can’t give out such valuable information for such a low price.”

*…I was gonna drink that as soon as this was over.*

Clevens finally sighed and handed over the wine as well. The wrinkles on the historian’s brows soften just a bit.

“…It’s far from enough, but considering your love for your son, I’ll give you a little discount.”

“…Thank you. So, where did His Holiness Hairston purify the Holy Sword?”

“I’ll warn you upfront, I can tell you, but I can’t let you in.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

An annoying smirk creeps onto the church historian’s face.

“His Holiness purified the Holy Sword in the underground prison.”

“Ah, for fuck’s sake.”

Of all places, why there.

***

Prisons are contradictory spaces.

Their purpose is to confine someone, but to achieve that purpose, they also prevent anyone from entering.

Clevens walks through the garden, glancing sideways at the entrance to the underground prison. There, buried in the shade, stands a gleaming holy knight on guard.

Blocking the door completely with his body, making it damn near impossible to sneak in.

“Damn it…”

He forces the curse back down.

Truth is, getting in there isn’t all that hard. He could just go to the bishop of this cathedral right now and formally ask for help.

The pope and saint of the church is none other than Clevens’s sister-in-law. Unless they want to end up like Ivan, they’d make way.

The problem, as always, was Irene.

*Every place we’ve stopped by looking for clues so far had already been touched by Irene. Hell, we nearly died at her mansion.*

Would such a vicious woman not have prepared any countermeasures here?

To avoid unnecessary risk, Clevens had to stay out of sight. It’s not for nothing that he knocked out the church historian and stuffed him in a closet.

In other words, he’s got to get into that underground prison as quietly as possible…

Clevens’s head starts throbbing. His head is swelling up because he can’t think of a decent plan.

That’s when it happened.

The deacon from earlier suddenly comes running from the far side of the garden.

Clevens instinctively ducks behind a bush. Through the gaps in the leaves, he observes the deacon’s actions.

The deacon, rushing over in a panic, heads straight for—surprise, surprise—the front of the underground prison.

He says something to the holy knight guarding the entrance, and then a miracle occurs.

The holy knight scratches his head like he’s annoyed and runs off somewhere. The deacon follows after him in a flustered rush.

And just like that, unbelievably, the entrance to the underground prison is left empty.

And, once again, Clevens doesn’t believe in coincidences.

*Is this a trap?*

His gut feeling tells him it is. It insists waiting for the next chance is the right move.

But the voice of reason isn’t easy to ignore, either.

Will there *really* be another chance?

His contemplation was short, and his actions swift.

Clevens lets out a heavy sigh and starts walking toward the underground prison.

Thinking how he’d really like to have just one drink right about now.