{Chapter: 49: Cult Expert On How To And Suspicious Church}
"The Church," Ciel muttered, swirling his wine again. "They're not exactly the easiest group to work with. But I admit… they're professionals when it comes to hunting heresy. It's practically their entire brand."
James gave a tired, sardonic smile. "Yeah. I figured… no matter how prickly they are, I'd rather deal with their sermons than a demon's claws. Even if the Church decides to overthrow the royal family one day and hang me from the palace gates, they'll probably leave my body intact—for the sake of noble decency or ceremony. But if it's a demon that wins? I'll be lucky if they find more than ash and teeth."
Ciel exhaled, conceding the point. "That… makes horrifying sense."
James let out a single dry chuckle. "Horrifying the right word."
They fell silent for a moment, both of them picturing in their minds what could happen if the summoning succeeded. Streets running with blood. Sky choked with brimstone. Families torn apart. Sanity unspooling.
After a moment of that grim imagining, Ciel finally asked, "...So what exactly do you want me to do?"
James straightened and leaned forward, his voice shifting to a more serious tone. "I need you to help search for their hideouts. That's it. Just identify where they're likely holed up. Once you give us the locations, we can handle the rest. If we confirm a spot, the royal forces and the Church will do the cleansing. You won't need to lift a sword."
He tapped a knuckle on the wooden table for emphasis. "But we need that list. We need it fast."
Ciel shifted in his seat, visibly uneasy. "You make it sound easy. But I barely have enough manpower to keep up appearances, let alone investigate every crevice of the capital. I don't have spies or scouts. At this point, it would make more sense for you to deploy soldiers, lock the city down, and sweep it clean from one end to the other."
James waved a finger, immediately cutting in. "And that would alert the cult. No. That's exactly what they'd want—to panic us into brute force and lose subtlety. Even if we locked the city down, they'd vanish into some tunnel network or teleportation glyph. We'd never catch them."
He leaned forward now, eyes gleaming with a different kind of intensity. "What we need right now isn't muscle. It's insight. Strategy. Pattern recognition. In short… something more professional. And you, my friend, just so happen to be the expert in that department."
Ciel blinked. "Wait… me?"
"Yes, you!" James exclaimed, pointing with his wine glass before realizing he was out and setting it down with a sigh. "Ciel, you were the high priest of the Dark Society for over a decade. You lived in the shadows, danced circles around Church inquisitors, and evaded hunters with divine tracking relics. You didn't just survive—you thrived."
He stood up now, animated. "Who better to think like a cult than someone who was one of the best?"
Ciel stared at him, torn between exasperation and pride.
"In the world of hiding from religious extermination squads, you are a pioneer. You are a living textbook. You are the Cultist's Cultist—the kind of man who could publish a best-selling how-to guide on the subject."
James grinned now. "So all I'm asking you to do is this—use that brilliant, heretic mind of yours. Think like they would. Where would you hide, if you were trying to summon a demon in a capital crawling with suspicion? Which noble family would you lean on for support? What wards, what distractions, what rituals would you employ? I don't need you to be a warrior. I need you to be a criminal mastermind."
Ciel opened his mouth to respond, hesitated, then finally said:
"I, he..."
He paused, struggling to process the sheer irony of being praised for his old sins.
"...I don't know if I should feel flattered or insulted."
"Both," James said cheerfully. "Welcome back to the game."
Seeing James praising him so much, Ciel wanted to give him a thank you speech.
But then he thought better of it. After all, James was his boss now, and he'd need to keep him alive and well if he wanted to get anything done in this city. Besides, credit where it was due—James might have had a silver tongue and princely airs, but he'd shown a degree of tact and resourcefulness that couldn't be ignored. And, more importantly, he was willing to listen. That was rare.
Suppressing the sarcastic remark that lingered on the tip of his tongue, Ciel instead adjusted his expression, smoothed the creases from his sleeves, and nodded in a cool, professional tone.
"Very well," he said with all the composure of a seasoned expert reluctantly pulled from retirement. "Bring me the most detailed map of the capital you have, along with any and all related construction reports, especially those pertaining to underground passages, old infrastructure, and forgotten buildings. I'll mark the locations that have the highest probability of harboring cultist activity."
There was a pause.
Then he added, almost as an afterthought, "And if possible, include any recent land survey records. Cultists like to burrow into places that people have stopped paying attention to."
The aura of a true master surrounded him now—a man who had not only evaded the church's inquisition for more than a decade but had made a legend out of doing so. There was no trace of hesitation in his voice or demeanor; only an icy, unwavering confidence.
James gave him a look that was half-amused and half-respectful, like a merchant who'd found a priceless artifact hidden under a pile of junk.
"Then I'll leave it to you," he said with a grin. "My people will begin gathering everything you need immediately. Let me know when you've made your assessment."
---
The polished black carriage of the Church of Holy Judgment glided silently through the cobbled streets of the capital, its golden sigils glinting under the afternoon sun. Inside, the mood was far heavier than the elegant exterior might suggest.
Bishop Safi sat in deep contemplation, arms folded, brows knitted in a way that hadn't eased since they'd left the Crown Prince's estate. Opposite him sat Haliga, a seasoned priest from the Heretic Hunting Institute, whose gaze kept drifting toward his superior with increasing concern.
After several long minutes of silence, Haliga finally mustered the courage to speak.
"My Lord Bishop... is something troubling you?"
Safi turned to him, his eyes sharp and thoughtful.
"There is much that troubles me, Haliga," he said, voice low but steady. "Crown Prince James Woz is... far too cooperative."
"Too cooperative?" Haliga echoed, visibly confused.
"Yes," Safi said, nodding slowly. "You see, I had intended to use the threat of demonic incursion to pressure the royal family into conceding more ground to the Church. The idea was simple—force them to acknowledge our role and necessity by showing them the dangers they're ill-equipped to face. But James didn't resist. He didn't even hesitate. Before I could fully explain the nature of the Crooked Spirit Society's threat, he agreed to everything."
He looked out the carriage window, watching the capital roll by like a living organism—one filled with secrets and rot.
"Do you realize how strange that is? For generations, the Marton royal family has worked tirelessly to keep us at bay. They've spent fortunes building alliances to block our influence. And yet now, this young prince not only permits us to build a diocese in the capital, but offers us land, resources, and political protection as well."
"Perhaps he's simply pragmatic," Haliga suggested. "The capital's under threat. He knows he can't handle it alone."
"Perhaps," Safi murmured, but his tone was unconvinced. "But I don't believe it's that simple. A man like James Woz doesn't surrender anything unless he's already holding a dagger behind his back."
Another priest, younger and robbed in silver-threaded vestments, leaned forward.
"Do you think the Crooked Spirit Society has made contact with the royal family?"
Safi didn't answer immediately. He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer under his breath before answering.
"If that's true, then we're walking into a web, not a battlefield. Either James is genuinely trying to rid his city of the Crooked Spirit Society—or he's using them, and us, for some larger design."
There was a long silence, broken only by the clatter of wheels and the faint sounds of the capital city around them.
Finally, Safi spoke again.
"In any case, we must be ready. Send word to Art. Tell him to bring every elite hunter, every holy relic, and every enchanted tool at our disposal. I want to see what tricks James wants to play on me. Since James wants us to help him deal with the Crooked Spirit Society, then we will let him see the accumulation of thousands of years of the church… The Marton capital is no longer just a city under threat. It's become a battlefield of ideology, ambition, and faith."
Haliga gave a solemn nod.
"Understood, Bishop. I'll compose the message immediately."
Safi nodded. "Good. And make no mistake—if Prince James is playing games with us, I will not hesitate to burn his plans down around him. We are the shield of humanity, the blade that severs corruption. He may be the crown prince now, but if he dares side with darkness..."
He trailed off.
But the silence said enough.
They would bring the weight of a thousand years of divine wrath upon anyone who stood in their way.