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Chapter 39: The Sanctum
Ian nodded, sliding his dagger free from the dirt and following Eli off the arena floor, leaving behind blood, silence, and victory.
From the gallery, Velrosa watched them leave.
Her silver hair caught the light.
And a smirk touched her lips.
She turned her gaze toward the corpse of Vern and whispered to herself:
"Seems we might’ve found a monster just like us, brother."
———
> [Would you like to bind soul?]
The words hovered in the darkness, faintly growing and dimming like a heartbeat suspended in the air before Ian.
Ian stood still in the narrow alleyway, shadowed by the towering walls of stone around him.
The dim flame torched would occasionally flicker weakly overhead in ways that would cast distorted and eerie silhouettes on the cobbled path. The clamor of the arena was now distant, but still echoed like fading thunder—cheers, screams, the roar of men hungry for blood—but here, all was still.
Silent. Cold.
Except for the prompt before his eyes.
He stared at it without blinking, as though the prompt would somehow answer itself.
The system offered him a choice like it always did.
Absorb the soul. Claim its essence. Grow stronger—quickly, violently. Let the power of the defeated fuel his ascent.
Or bind it.
Enslave Varn’s will.
Shape it into a loyal servant, a voidwalker tethered to his command. Varn had been brutal, arrogant—but not weak. Reforging him into a weapon would grant Ian a formidable edge in future battles.
A soulbound warrior. A walking proof of strength.
But Ian clenched his jaw.
Too soon.
He needed strength—personal strength. Not servants, not complications. And in the public arena, displaying Vern as a voidwalker under his command would raise too many questions.
The decision crystallized in his mind.
He reached forward with his will—and selected [Absorb Soul].
A flare of cold light exploded in his mind’s eye.
Power surged into his bones, flooding his veins, threading through muscle and marrow alike. He staggered a half step, breath hitching, as tendrils of black and violet mana coiled around his soul core like serpents returning home.
[Mana Skill Unlocked: Blood Flame ]
The boost was immediate. Soul Essence expanded. His control sharpened.
Behind him, bootsteps approached.
"Haha, if it isn’t the arena champion himself," Eli said, strolling back into the alley from the hooded man he spoke with, the smell of smoke and blood clinging to his cloak.
Ian glanced at him but said nothing.
"I gotta say," Eli continued, grinning as he leaned against the wall, "I had a sliver of doubt. Just a sliver. But damn—you killed it in there. Literally."
Ian exhaled slowly. "Yeah. Then almost got seized for being a demon."
"Yeah, the Sanctum bastards," Eli said, waving a hand dismissively. "Always sticking their holy noses where they don’t belong... Anyway—are you one?"
Ian raised a brow. "A demon?"
"Yeah."
A pause.
Ian looked off into the dark for a moment, letting the silence stretch.
Then: "What if I were? Would it matter?"
Eli shrugged, casual. "Not to me, no."
Ian gave a short nod. "Figured. But I’m not one. As their holy relic proved."
Eli chuckled dryly. "That thing? It’s wrong half the time. But I believe you."
Ian leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. "So, what’s the deal with the church? Are they one of the princess’s enemies too?"
Eli’s smile faded. His eyes narrowed slightly, as if weighing how much to say.
"The Sanctum of Light," he began, tone shifting into something more serious, "isn’t just a church. It’s a nation in its own right. A force. Their main temple city is to the north—Seraphim’s Hold—built atop an ancient leyline nexus. No one builds an empire off just prayers, you know?"
Ian nodded, listening.
"They’ve got reach everywhere. In the courts, among the nobles, even the arena. But they’re fractured, too. Different Orders. Different doctrines. The lower-tier enforcers—those knights you saw tonight—they’re just the surface."
"And what’s below the surface?"
Eli’s voice dropped.
"The High Ordained. The Seven Pillars and Light crusaders. And at the top? The Hierophant. No one knows his true face. Some say he’s not even human anymore. Just light in the shape of a man."
Ian frowned. "You’ve seen them?"
"I’ve survived them—as a weaker, younger more impulse man," Eli said flatly.
He paused, eyes scanning the alley as if remembering ghosts that no longer lingered.
"You ever hear of the Caldin Uprising?"
Ian shook his head.
"That’s ’cause the Sanctum burned the name out of every history scroll they could find. A whole province—rebelling against their rule. I was there. I saw what they did to the last holdout. Light didn’t purify them. It erased them."
The shadows around Ian seemed to pulse with his heartbeat.
"So... the princess has dealings with them?"
Eli gave a humorless smile. "She doesn’t deal with them. She navigates them. Like a blind man crossing a frozen lake, hoping not to fall through."
Just then, a figure stumbled into the alley’s mouth.
Both men turned.
It was the hooded man Eli had spoken with earlier. Now his cloak was soaked in blood. His steps were heavy, erratic, as if each one was a struggle. His hand clutched his abdomen, where blood gushed between trembling fingers.
Then Ian saw it.
A hole.
Clean. Precise. Pierced straight through his torso, just left of center.
"They... refused..." the man rasped. Blood foamed at his lips.
He stumbled.
Collapsed.
Face-first onto the stone.
Motionless.
The torchlight flickered across the growing pool of crimson spreading beneath him, staining the alley red.
Eli stared.
Long. Hard.
Then exhaled through his nose.
"Gods damn it."
He crouched beside the man, fingers checking his neck.
Then stood again.
"I take it that was bad news?" Ian asked, his voice cold, even.
"The worst," Eli muttered.
He stepped back, eyes sharp now. Alert. The calm was still there—but something darker churned beneath.
He looked at Ian.
"Hey."
Ian nodded. "Yeah?"
Eli cracked his neck.
"You might need to kill a few more people tonight."
