Chapter 895: Reflections of the Past
In one sense, the Reflection Church was not merely the site of papal succession—it was a museum.
The busts of long-dead dignitaries lined its corridors, radiating the specific gravity of things that had survived everything. And then there were the Sigils of Magic Stones, capable of replaying history as holographic phantom—every major event preserved, suspended in light as if time itself refused to let go.
If future generations ever found it, it would make a remarkable tourist attraction.
But entering it was not a simple matter. The Reflection Church lay directly beneath the old Holy City cathedral, mirrored in its every proportion, yet the two structures were entirely unconnected. Between them: ten meters of slate and clay, laced throughout with God’s Stones of Retaliation. Digging through by hand would be exhausting. Phasing through with the Magic Ark would be equally problematic. After consulting Isabella about the details, Roland settled on a third route—the tunnels beneath the cloister.
Those tunnels had once moved freely beneath the city. They’d been deliberately sabotaged and sealed, but the Magic Ark could pass through such obstacles easily enough. More importantly, the abandoned tunnels lay outside the influence of the God’s Stone mineral vein running through the cave system above. It was, by any measure, the safer choice.
To avoid getting lost, Roland asked Sylvie to map the entire underground structure and chart the best route before they departed.
He had not expected anyone to notice.
He was wrong. Word spread through the camp like smoke through a keyhole, and when he emerged from his tent on the morning of departure, a crowd had assembled outside—the witches, alert and expectant, with Lightning at their center, vibrating with indignation.
“Your Majesty.” She crossed her arms and fixed him with a look of profound betrayal. “How could you leave me behind for something this important?” The pout arrived a moment later, as if to underscore the injustice. “Am I not your chief explorer?”
“Coo, coo! Adventure—coo!” Maggie agreed, fluttering her wings.
“This is only a sightseeing tour,” Roland said carefully. “There won’t be anything exciting in the place where Popes conduct their ceremonies. No danger.”
Lightning’s eyes went wide and liquid. “Can I come anyway?”
There was no way to say no to that face. He knew it. She knew it.
The floodgates opened.
“Your Majesty, take me too,” Hummingbird said softly, already reaching for the nearest satchel. “I can help with the luggage.”
“As a member of the Quest Society, I could hardly miss a moment of such historical significance.” Agatha raised an eyebrow, as if the invitation were a formality already concluded. “Surely you agree?”
“I’ll go wherever Elder Sister Anna goes!” Nana announced.
Lily stepped forward with her arms folded and a clinical expression. “What if the underground structure harbors demonic plague? You did say that poor ventilation creates ideal conditions for bacterial growth.”
Then, from a little further back, came a quieter voice: “Since the Queen of Starfall City is there, I would like to see her again.”
Roland turned. No. 76—Phyllis—stood slightly apart from the witches, her face carefully composed.
“Wasn’t she an enemy of Taquila?” he asked.
“She was still a remarkable leader. Without Lady Alice, we would not have survived even long enough to see the split between Taquila and Starfall City.”
In the end, everyone got their free trip to the Reflection Church.
Roland had originally planned to bring only Anna, Nightingale, Sylvie, and Isabella. The final count was considerably larger, and Margie had to make several trips before she had ferried all of them into the sealed tunnel.
The tunnels were in better condition than anyone expected. No leaks, no erosion—just dust, thick enough to leave footprints. The group moved through without incident, their Stones of Light casting faint yellow across walls that had not seen visitors in a very long time.
After roughly fifteen minutes, they emerged into the upper reaches of the Reflection Church. Isabella led them forward with the quiet certainty of someone who had walked these corridors in memory many times, and soon they arrived at a great hall.
It was not wide. That was the first thing Roland registered—then he looked up.
The ceiling disappeared into shadow, the pillars rising until they dissolved into darkness, their tops invisible. The hall’s height was absurd, disproportionate, like standing at the bottom of a gorge. The Stones of Light on either side reached only so far; beyond their radius, the upper reaches remained unlit—a vast vertical darkness that had no floor, only depth. Roland found himself breathing more carefully. The walls were far apart. The ceiling was nowhere.
“This is the Prayer Room,” Isabella said, her voice dropping half a register as she walked. “The portraits of every previous Pope are hung here.” She glanced briefly at the darkness above them. “On the day of his succession, O’Brien came here with Mayne. But the Archbishop didn’t know that O’Brien had also brought someone else.”
“Zero,” Roland said.
“Yes.” A pause. “Normally, a Pure Witch was strictly forbidden from entering this area. Even the witches chosen to activate the Sigils were selected from among those already designated for sacrifice—once they witnessed the phantoms, they were immediately submitted for the God’s Punishment Army’s incarnation ceremony.” Isabella kept her eyes forward. “The moment Zero stepped into this hall, she became a candidate for the papacy.”
“Disgusting.” Nightingale’s voice was quiet and flat, though whether the disgust was directed at the ceremony or at Zero was unclear.
Isabella said nothing.
At the far end of the hall, where the passage opened into space, the wall was taken up entirely by a single portrait.
It was framed in Stones of Light—real ones, carefully positioned—and the soft illumination they cast was unlike the faint yellow pools behind them. Every detail of the painting stood sharp and deliberate: the set of the jaw, the hands gripping the sword, the particular quality of the gaze.
She stood with a sword held in both hands, looking outward. Not past him—at him, or at whatever lay beyond him, in territory she had already decided she would reach. Soft and hard at once. Cold and burning. The kind of face that didn’t release you. He had heard her described many times—by Agatha, by Phyllis, by others who had outlived the world she built—and the words had not been adequate. It was not her beauty that stopped him. It was the weight of her—the impression, even in paint four hundred years removed, that she had been born already knowing where she was supposed to stand, and had simply walked there and never moved.
“What a beautiful woman,” Anna said quietly. “Fortunately, she’s gone.”
Roland patted her head. “Even if Alice were alive—would I really have been that easily swayed?”
He caught Nightingale in the corner of his vision and stopped himself from adding anything further.
I have nothing to hide, he thought. But if she judged even this as something partially-true-partially-false, what recourse would I have?
He let it stand.
Behind the full-length portrait, concealed within the wall, was the Illusion Room. Isabella led them through without ceremony.
“Nine Sigils of Magic Stones are stored here,” she said. “I haven’t seen all of them myself. Some appear to have been passed down from earlier generations.” Her hand found the first stone. “Shall I activate them one by one?”
“Yes.” Roland nodded. “Begin.”
The light vanished. Darkness fell over the room—total, immediate, complete.