Chapter 129: The New Home

The house carried a sense of quiet, lived-in warmth.

In the entryway stood a polished coat rack and a holder for canes, a thoughtful touch that spoke of gentle domestic order. The living room opened wide and bright, its redwood furniture lined with care and harmony. At the center stood a stone fireplace, perfectly placed. When winter came, one could almost see the fire lighting up the room, the family gathered close, reading or resting with quiet contentment while snow fell beyond the window.

Gehrman’s eye twitched as he glanced at the removable carpet. He looked down at his own boots, dusty from the road, and for the first time felt awkward about his rough clothes. He had always thought his worn coat gave him character, yet in this immaculate house it looked out of place, almost vulgar.

“What are you waiting for? Come in.”

Maria, standing near a painting of a crimson maple, turned her head with a faint smile. It was rare to see Gehrman uneasy. His hide was thicker than stone, yet here he was, hesitating at the door like a boy. Her hand still tingled from the slap she had given him earlier—a necessary correction, though it had left her palm numb.

Gehrman scratched his nose with a sheepish grin and finally stepped inside.

“Whoa! There’s another floor upstairs!” Felia’s voice rang out from above, bright and unrestrained. Her excitement spread through the house like sunlight spilling through open windows. For a girl who had lived most of her life within the solemn walls of cathedrals, the freedom of an ordinary home felt unreal. The wide staircase, the scent of wood and dust, the echo of her own voice—it all felt alive in a way stone chapels never could.

Of course, a house this large could not be managed by themselves. There were no attendants here, no choir boys running errands, no sisters tidying halls at dawn.

Maria’s fingers drifted to her purse. The small savings she had gathered by reselling surplus supplies from the Radiant Church would not last long. To maintain even a modest life here would soon become difficult. But that worry could wait. For now, she allowed herself to enjoy the comfort, the sunlight, and the quiet.

Still, her mind returned to the Fractured’s coming open test. The first act would unfold as a low-intensity war between the Radiant Sun Faith and rival powers. Her attention needed to stay fixed on the transcendent—those who would shape the world through faith and fire. And of course, the Rite of Kindling would return.

The thought made her sigh. She would need to find a way to obtain an entry token from the radiant Church. Without it, she would be shut out from the Cinders of the First Flame and its mainline story. In the Fractured, losing the main path didn’t make the world unplayable, but it left one wandering through chaos and death without purpose. For an NPC like Maria—whose knowledge was never as broad as the players’—the main story meant survival itself.

But the first priority now was simpler.

“Cleaning!”

With her voice crisp and commanding, Maria tied her apron, pulled her silver hair into a neat twist, and led the charge. Gehrman and Felia rolled up their sleeves, joining her. The house had been abandoned for months. Dust lay thick as ash on the windowsills, and a faint scent of rot clung to the walls. It was the smell of silence.

As the three worked, the musty odor gave way to sunlight and fresh air. Felia’s laughter drifted through the rooms like a song. Maria’s rhythm with the feather duster struck in time with the girl’s voice. She was brushing the copper trim of the fireplace when a bell chimed.

Ding-dong. Ding-dong.

The sound was clear and gentle, yet it pierced the peace of the house like a sudden wind. Maria froze, the duster poised in midair. A flicker of unease passed through her crimson eyes. They had only just moved in. Who could be at the door already? Even friendly neighbors usually waited a few days before visiting.

And then, unexpectedly, came a wave of disgust.

It rose from somewhere deep within her awareness—a visceral revulsion, sharp and sour. For an instant, her mind filled with resistance and nausea. She almost wanted to bar the door and drive the visitor away without a word. The feeling was irrational but powerful, as if her very blood rejected whoever stood outside.

Maria clenched her jaw and forced the emotion down. Her will had always been her strongest shield. Taking a deep breath, she went to answer the door herself.

“May I ask who you are?”

As the door opened, Maria saw three figures waiting patiently outside. For a moment her vision blurred. They were clergy, dressed in black robes lined with faint, silver-white embroidery—holy symbols woven so subtly that only one trained in the Church’s rites would recognize them. Her heart stirred. She had seen the same kind of fabric once before, in the ceremonial robes of her father, Pastor Lynn.

So these three were servants of the Radiant Church. The sun-shaped pendants at their necks confirmed it.

“Under the Radiant Lord’s light, Sister Maria, good day.”

The speaker was a middle-aged priest whose smile radiated warmth and humility. His voice was gentle, pleasant to the ear, yet Maria was certain she had never seen him before.

“Good day, shepherd.”

Her tone softened. Whatever her feelings toward the Church’s politics, she respected its clergy. They were kind souls, guided by light, most of them carrying faith honestly even amid the world’s decline.

“Do you need assistance?” she asked quietly, lowering her gaze.

The question was natural. The Church had fallen on difficult times. When its priests traveled through the world to spread the Radiant Lord’s light, they often lacked resources and sought help from local powers. Many responded with sympathy, offering food, lodging, or protection. Maria herself had done so more than once.

But this time, she sensed something else. A shadow behind their courtesy, a purpose too deliberate. Perhaps the Lord had decided to collect an old debt and sent His servants to deliver the message.

The man smiled again. “My name is Lucifel. I am not here seeking aid. Sister Maria, I have come to request an audience with Her Grace Felia.”

The air seemed to still.

Felia? Her Grace?

Maria’s expression changed in an instant. The warmth vanished from her face. She looked at Lucifel as one might look at a lunatic. In the Church, the title of Grace belonged only to those of high divine rank—saints, prophets, the chosen heirs of the Holy Spirit. To attach it to a child’s name was absurd.

“Why do you wish to see her?” Maria’s voice carried curiosity, but there was steel beneath it.

“To welcome Her Grace to the Church headquarters,” Lucifel said calmly, “and to guide her in inheriting the name of the Holy Spirit.”

For a moment, Maria did not understand. When the meaning sank in, her entire bearing changed. The scarlet in her eyes deepened to the color of blood, and her slight frame radiated power. The air grew heavy, cold, almost metallic. A sovereign’s will pressed down upon the room, and the light itself seemed to dim.

Lucifel and the two priests behind him did not flinch. Their composure remained perfect, their silence filled with an unspoken determination.

“If you turn around and leave now,” Maria said quietly, “I will pretend none of this ever happened.”

Her voice was flat, stripped of emotion. The silver-haired pureblood sovereign stood poised like a drawn blade, her wrath barely restrained. Felia meant more to her than anything else in the world.

Lucifel took one slow breath and stepped forward. His eyes shone with faith that would not bend.

“For the Radiant Lord,” he said, and the words rang with sacred weight.

The sound of them rolled through the doorway like a chime of iron and sunfire.

Maria did not move, yet the air between them thickened, crackling with unseen force. Outside, a wind stirred the red leaves along the street, and for a heartbeat the world itself seemed to hold its breath.

Within the quiet house that had only just begun to feel like home, two wills collided—one born of faith, the other of blood.