SWNOVELXO Chapter 11: Executors of the Holy Church
[You meet their accusation with indifference.]
[You always knew this day would come. As someone impersonating a Church "Sage," you were bound to be exposed sooner or later.]
[You are neither surprised nor flustered. Calmly, you watch as they emerge from the shadows.]
Their cold, rasping voices still echoed in the library's vast dome. Though quiet, they spread eerily through the towering chamber, as if reverberating through consecrated stone.
Wind blew through the high windows, and the dust between the ancient pages began to dance—shivering, as if the paper itself sensed the dread that had entered.
They came from the shelves—not one, but many.
Moving in coordinated groups of three, they surrounded Lucan in a perfect triangular formation.
They didn't look like priests or ordinary believers. Instead, they resembled assassins cloaked in divine pretense. Each wore a black cloak with a deep hood hiding their face. Black gloves and boots completed their uniform. The only visible symbol of their faith: a silver cross hanging at the chest.
Lucan looked at them approaching, then lightly touched his own silver cross.
"So just ordinary Executors?" he asked, unfazed. "I thought I might get someone from the Burial Agency."
His tone was casual, almost welcoming.
"To deal with you, we are enough."
The rasping voice came again, as if from all directions—or from none of them.
They met each other's eyes, not shocked by being discovered. Of course they weren't hiding. They had no reason to.
This was confidence. No—arrogance.
"Lucan Lovest, Priest of the Seventh Rank," they intoned. "Do you confess your sins?"
Lucan merely shook his head.
'Priest'—the seventh rank of the Church's hierarchy, and the most common among its clergy. Lucan was indeed registered as a priest in their records.
After all, in this simulated life, he had grown up under the care of a monastery's abbess.
Even if she had strange beliefs and raised him with little true faith, Lucan still lived among devotion and ritual for most of his life.
Which meant these men would know his name.
And Lucan knew their kind well.
To outsiders, the Church might appear pure or corrupt, depending on who you asked. But Lucan understood what it really was: a massive, ancient institution that never showed mercy to heretics within its own walls.
Executors were its executioners.
He raised his foot—then froze.
Around him, the faint outlines of glowing sigils emerged in the air. Light formed imperceptible walls. At his feet, a circular formation sparked to life—lines drawing themselves like ink on water.
A sealing formation.
Using the exact points where the three Executors stood, the formation drew a glowing triangle around Lucan. A trap, clearly pre-prepared.
He was boxed in.
No way out. No physical or magical contact with the outside world.
"Lucan Lovest, do you confess?"
The voice echoed again, this time louder—far louder.
It shook the walls like a cathedral bell. It boomed like judgment from Heaven itself.
Lucan thought, Did they bring a megaphone?
But he had to admit—it was effective.
Still, his expression remained calm.
After all, he had predicted this.
"So this is your execution stage?" he said. "If I confess, will you burn me here and now? Like the witches you murdered in the Middle Ages?"
"All men are born with sin. But your sins are grave. Punishment is just."
Again, they spoke in eerie unison, like three bodies sharing one will.
Lucan laughed.
"Then what is my sin? Impersonating a Church Sage?"
"Or perhaps... killing your hidden pawn in the palace—Grigori Rasputin?"
His words struck like thunder.
The winds howled. Pages flapped like wings. Dust and golden light swirled over the bookshelves like spilled paint.
All three Executors flinched.
Lucan raised a hand.
And in that moment—
His robes ignited with light.
Ancient runes blazed across his clothing, linking into an array. Like wings, his outer garments unfurled. A burst of magical force shattered the sealing triangle. The formation burst like glass, falling into shards of light.
Bookshelves shook. Dust rained.
"You..." the Executors took a step back, shielding themselves from the backlash.
Smoke billowed. From its midst, the youth stood still—unfazed.
Not because of his posture.
But because of what he'd said.
"You're wondering how I know about Rasputin, aren't you?"
Lucan smiled.
He knew perfectly well.
Rasputin had been the Church's man all along.
Lucan's title of 'Sage' hadn't even spread far yet. But the Church had already come after him.
Meanwhile, Rasputin—who'd claimed divine power and deceived the royal family for years—had never been confronted. No purge. No discipline.
Hypocrisy.
It was proof enough.
Nicholas and Alexandra—ordinary people in this magical world—should have been more wary. They ruled a great empire. Surely they weren't blind to the supernatural?
Unless...
Unless they had been misled.
Only the Church could do that.
Rasputin was their plant—sent to exploit the imperial collapse, to steal wealth from a sinking throne.
The Church was never pure. Not since its founding.
But Lucan didn't say all that.
He just smiled at the three silent men.
"I heard the inner Church looks down on magic. They rely instead on 'miracles.'"
He stepped forward.
"In truth, those miracles are just faith," he continued. "Belief from millions—conscious or subconscious—gathers into a force strong enough to become the divine."
"A thought. A god. A mystery given shape."
"It's not Magecraft. It's not passed through bloodlines. It's rooted in the human mind. In belief."
"And religion binds it together."
That's why the Executors hadn't attacked immediately.
Because 'miracle' required ritual.
They needed Lucan's own acknowledgment of guilt to begin his execution.
That's why they spoke so loudly. Like divine trumpets.
If Lucan even slightly believed himself guilty—he would be lost.
This was a battle of wills.
A clash of faith.
Too bad...
"Words cut deeper than faith," Lucan said. "And now that I've exposed your lies—your miracle's foundation is crumbling."
The air fell silent.
The dust settled.
Lucan stepped through the broken triangle. His cloak flared like wings. The sacred script on his clothes shimmered anew.
He stood tall—defiant.
A priest in form.
But a heretic in their eyes.
And a storm was coming.