Wizard: I Have a Cultivation System

Chapter 368: Chapter 78: The 300-Year Wish

"Then what about the Pope’s Throne?" an old woman who had been silent, her face grim, suddenly spoke. Her voice was sharp and shrill. "He is the supreme leader in name, after all. And... it seems he harbors some undue sympathy for certain of Fuer II’s ideals."

Ambrosius let out an unconcealed, cold laugh. "Let him fight it out in the Half-Plane with those Wizards, and with all the fiends and demons hiding in the shadows. Isn’t that what we’ve been painstakingly planning for all these years? Since he’s so intent on following Juliano’s—oh, Fuer II’s—path of ’mercy,’ then let him walk it. Let him use his ’orthodoxy’ and ’benevolence’ to draw their fire, to wear down our opponents. And we..." He scanned the room. "...will reap the final rewards."

The elegant man chimed in with a smile, "And our next Pope will naturally be the one to lead us to our zenith, Saint Cyril... No," he paused, his voice taking on a solemn, proclamatory tone, "he is Ete I! Let us greet the Holy Throne, Ete I, in advance!"

"Ete I will lead us to unprecedented heights!" someone exclaimed in a hushed, excited voice.

"For a thousand years, for ten thousand years, we shall forge the will of Oriane into the one and only iron law of the mortal realm!" another voice added in agreement.

A low murmur of discussion arose in the hall, filled with long-suppressed excitement and ambition.

Saint Cyril—or rather, the old man who was about to become Ete I—showed little sign of satisfaction on his face in response to the flattery and pledges of fealty.

He remained seated, his head bowed slightly, as if in deep contemplation, or perhaps to conceal the even deeper, more inscrutable glint in his eyes.

Finally, he simply raised a hand and slowly pressed it down through the air.

The hall immediately fell silent.

"The path is still long," he said slowly, his voice calm once more. "The bell has not yet tolled. Elizabeth still requires one final step. We must remain cautious in all things."

His words were like a splash of cold water, slightly dampening the group’s feverish atmosphere.

Yet the gleam in each person’s eye burned hotter than the light of a Moonlight Stone, filled with an even greater certainty of victory.

...

Rosenia Kingdom. Grand Shepherd District. The Capital.

The architectural style here was a stark contrast to the intricate and magnificent beauty of the Holy City. It was more rugged, stern, and imposing.

The massive, stone-hewn halls featured stark lines and simple decorations, exuding the unique, severe chill and solemnity characteristic of the Northern Lands.

Deep within the most magnificent of these halls, light filtered through high, narrow, stained-glass windows, casting cool patches of light onto the floor.

The air was filled with the sharp scent of pine resin and the biting chill of ice and snow.

The Valkendu Metropolitan Bishop stood motionless in the center of the hall.

He was even more imposing than he had been ten years ago at Blackstone Fortress. His posture remained as erect as a Northern Lands snow pine, and his deep blue Shepherd’s Robe was embroidered with the stars and ice peaks that symbolized the faith of the Northern Lands.

Time had left its marks upon his sharply-defined features, yet it had not diminished his ice-like austerity.

His hands were clasped before him, his posture like that of an ancient, unchanging glacier. The aura he exuded was colder and more sublime than ever, as if he had become one with the very spirit of this hard, frozen land.

Yet, when he raised his ice-blue eyes slightly to gaze at the great throne shrouded in shadows deep within the hall, the chill in them—a coldness that could freeze fire itself—instantly melted away. It was replaced by a pure, almost absolute reverence, utterly devoid of any impurity.

"Great Shepherd’s Throne." His voice was not loud, yet it echoed clearly through the vast, silent hall.

In the shadows, upon the great throne, a silhouette even deeper than the darkness itself stirred slightly.

No distinct features or details were visible; there was only a pair of eyes that seemed to hold all the starlight and cold nights of the Northern Lands. They slowly opened, their gaze falling upon Valken.

The gaze was not sharp, yet it carried a profound power that seemed to pierce through time and soul.

"Valken." A voice arose, neither male nor female, neither old nor young. It was like the wind echoing from a snowy peak—ethereal and direct. "The South... Are preparations complete?"

Valken bowed slightly, his movements fluid and deferential. "Everything has been prepared according to the ancient pact and plan. In the Rotalia Empire, their agents have successfully guided and catalyzed the rise of the Equalist Sect. Its doctrines have already taken root in several provinces in the Eastern Region and the north, and the resulting challenges and shocks to the existing order are beginning to ferment."

"In the Albion Islands, another carefully cultivated ’Heresy’ has been planted at the core of the trade consortium led by the Golden Coast Duke. Both the new and the old ’maladies’ have sprouted in their designated soil, waiting only for the right moment to catalyze their spread."

The presence in the shadows fell silent for a moment. Then, the ethereal voice spoke again, tinged with an inscrutable air. "The same style as three hundred years ago... Ever since the schism, ever since their attempt to push Fuer II’s radical reforms ended in failure, they have always been fond of sowing these seeds of chaos across the board—seeds that seem contradictory, but in truth, share the same origin."

"One side champions ’absolute equality and sharing,’ while the other preaches ’ultimate efficiency and centralization’... They appear to be polar opposites, but in reality, both serve to disrupt the established order, wear down their rivals, and create the opportunities for change and the power vacuums they require."

"Yes, Holy Throne," Valken replied calmly. "Their strategy has not fundamentally changed in three hundred years. They exploit the anger over injustice and the greed for prosperity that lie within human nature, shaping them into highly inflammatory doctrines that they then detonate at the opportune moment. The only difference each time is the specific form and the slogans they use."