The Archbishop was far from amused.

The most Reverend of Wardenlocke's Orthodoxy was a very busy man, with seemingly over centuries of experience under his belt. His blaring blue eyes burned like sapphire, roaring still with life, with a full head of curled pale blond hair, despite his ghastly skin practically withering, growing gray by the day, clinging to his bones.

He had sent one of his most competent Inquisitors on a random mission in complete nowhere, only for the idiot to disappear for months! Did Delacroix really take him for a fool?

His creaking hands gripped his golden crozier, the hooked staff supporting his frustration.

He stared at the pair before him, of mentor and student. Georges was as he had always been, without a speck of dust on his cassock and an unmoving expression. The other however, was clearly staring. From his point of view, a mass of fur regarded him with caution, a false head atop the child's.

"Far from it, your Grace. As you would have surmised, I have found potential." Georges spoke smoothly, unaffected by the Archbishop's strong venomous tone.

"Hmm..." He grumbled.

Indeed, he did bring a brat with him.

Looking to his left, the Archbishop turned a weary head to the child blatantly staring at him.

"What are you staring at? Inquisitor, won't you forgive this senile old man's memory, but did I not tell you not to pick up garbage from the street?" He remarked sarcastically, his sneering visage marred with contempt and annoyance.

"From the forest."

"What?"

"I'm from the forest." The boy clarified, his pearled eyes staring defiantly.

"Hoh?"

The brat dare talk back? Who even is this little shi-

Anyhow, he met the boy's blank stare, into those crystal clear beads. In them, the Archbishop saw his oh-so-glorious past, staring at his own decrepit appearance in those eyes.

He hated it.

"I don't care where you're from brat! Do you even know where you are right now?"

With a flick of his bony hand, the boy's ridiculous pelt flew from his scrawny shoulders. Staring at the insolent brat's face, his eyes blazed with blue flame, intense and bright like a pair of stars in the night.

Pressure exuded from him in droves, pulsating like a beacon in the day. The light in the vicinity intensified, as if strengthened, and eager to shine radiantly in his presence. An undaunting pressure sought to consume the world with unwavering conviction of belief in its own power.

His lips did not so much as twitch, yet he screamed of power.

His fingers didn't move from his hooked staff, yet he gripped at the boy's throat with all the rage of a bull and the killing intent of a tiger.

Georges did nothing, watching with an observant eye, unwilling to get in the Archbishop's way.

The boy's form shook, yet he stood his ground.

The boy's shoulders trembled and his expression showed desperation, yet he didn't beg for reprieve.

The boy was buckling, appearing to be breaking like a ceramic pot, with each passing second.

Yet, he did not bend.

And as if it were a passing danger, unaware of the prey cowering in the underbrush, it disappeared, went on by like it was never there in the first place.

"Forget it, get out of my face! I will not have you pair of fools ruin my day." The Archbishop shooed them away, turning back and staring once more at the serene altar, observing the way the light danced along the colorful array of stained glass.

For only a moment.

Because in the very next moment, the pair found themselves staring at an unlikely, dark, ominous brick wall lit only by the soft light of wooden torches. A spacious, yet dungeon-like chamber greeted them, with harrowing silence.

"..."

"..."

"What." The boy exclaimed, completely flabbergasted and exasperated.

"That went well." Georges commented, yet not a hint of sarcasm laced his voice.

"Is that so."

"His Grace wasn't so lenient on those before you... Follow."

Deciding to keep his silence and curbing his incredulity, he followed his mentor into the darkness of the spacious yet foreboding hallway. Not before picking up his prized pelt off the ground first of course, weirdly enough, it had followed them in this strange hall.

The more they travelled, the more details started to appear on the walls.

Pitch black windows that reflected nothing decorated with purple curtains, columns that crawled up the walls, elaborate wall ornaments and metal sconces lit up the path with smoky white light.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

Neither pair seemed to have realized how far they've walked, yet it seemed only a mere moment before they arrived.

"We're here."

"Here being?"

"The Confessional Complex, the Inquisition's quarters. It is quite the unique place, you may be surprised at what it has to offer. More or less, it can even seem alive at times. However, you will be given plenty of time to acquaint yourself with its bleak walls."

Laid out before them was a large open chamber, made of dull dark stone and wood. Apart from theirs, several other hallways were present in between columns in a circular and symmetrical fashion. Intricate indentations were present in each and every corner of the room, depicting angelic figures and crosses. It was incredibly spacious, giving the room an air of loneliness as it was quite difficult to even see each end of the place clearly.

Most peculiar however, was the fact that there was no ceiling, despite the fact that there were luxurious empty purple banners that stretched from the empty beyond and dipping into the chamber.

The chamber was indeed completely open, exposed to the dark void above. It was impossible to tell what lay beyond the curtain of endless shadow. And even still, the chamber was fully lit in a soft comforting light, seemingly suspended in space at a fixed point.

"It's empty."

"Not as much as you think it is."

"I see..." He shuddered to think what secrets could possibly be hidden here, in such an abnormal place.

"Take a seat, child." Georges gestured to a pair of ornate seats positioned right in the middle of the chamber, facing each other, separated by a proportionate round table.

Walking across the checkered floor, the pair take their seats albeit one did so rather stiffly.

"..."

"..."

Silence seemed to have taken a liking to dwelling within their company these days.

"So... what?"

"Whatever do you refer to?"

"All of it, especially back there. The Archbishop, whoever he is... Here too, what is this place exactly?"

"The Archbishop tolerates your presence."

"Is that so?" The boy asks with a furrowed brow.

"He allowed us entry into the Confessional Complex. That already, is more than most will ever receive from His Grace in their entire lives."

"Right. And what exactly is this... complex?"

"The Inquisition's main quarters, a complex series of networks of... itself, so to say. It has no entrance, nor an exit. Only some select individuals, the Archbishop especially, can grant entry and exit. To be transparent, I myself have no idea what exactly the complex is, but it has served the Inquisition for its entire lifetime."

"It's alive?"

"No."

"Then why do you speak as if it is?"

"It is the only way I can describe it. I am positive it is a construct of faith and magecraft, yet the specifics elude me, only a rituals and formations master like His Grace could ever grasp its intricacies."

A clever and roundabout way of saying 'I don't know, get off my back about it.'.

"I see..."

"Your identification is currently in the process of being created. Soon enough, you will become a Wardenlocke civilian. For now, we will continue your training in this complex."

"So this is where I live now?" The boy gestured faintly to the ephemeral surroundings with a flick of his head.

"For the foreseeable future. Here, you will learn and you will train."

"It really is one big stage to another..."

"Do not fret. You will be allowed exit from this place and into Avalon City, however limited of course. Inquisitors must not gather too much attention, it goes against our purpose." The Bishop explains, highlighting the difficult future ahead.

It was only then that all the weight of the world finally materialized on the boy's soldiers. It all happened so swiftly, he felt that he was given no time to react. He knew it was coming, yet it seemed it was too much to react to, even for a man who had tasted death and returned to life once more.

His breath quickened, and his knees buckled... or it should have, that was how normal people would react, after all. He just stared blankly at his mentor, thoughts swirling in his head. It seemed those times were far behind him.

It should have ended there. Death, so absolute... yet greater powers decided otherwise. He was just along for the ride.

"Doesn't ever stop it seems, I wonder if it ever will..." The boy muttered under his breath, dreading the path ahead.

"It will stop when it ends." Georges interjected.

He was right, and the boy knew. He had been sent here with purpose, a new chance at life, a chance to mean something. He needed to find the traitor, and make things right. The way they were meant to be, and always was before then.

What could he do?

"Of course."

No other choice, no other path to follow.

"Now, we have daylight to burn, are you prepared?"

Yet he wouldn't have it any other way.

"We can begin."

'This ain't so bad.'

- - - - -

"Focus."

"..."

It was indeed that bad.

"Left."

"!"

From the my left, a golden nail sailed through the air, making an impossible curve in the air. However, in the same instant, another struck from the right, grazing my left cheek as I sidestepped the other projectile in a bid to avoid the touch of death.

"You lied... Huff!..."

"I did not."

"..."

"Right."

I turned to my right. Seeing nothing, I immediately sidestep to the right, fearing an attack from the left.

"..." Nothing.

"Grh!"

A delayed attack, the nail buried itself into my left shoulder blade. Tricked, yet again.

"You failed. If it were anyone else, that would have been fatal."

"Is that so... huff! huff!"

This was no ordinary training.

My merciful mentor had determined that the only way for me to train conjuring up faith, was to do it during a life and death situation.

The scratches and wounds were already piling onto each other, my blood littered the checkered floors of the complex. If not for that comforting feeling in my heart that soothed me, the faith that assured me of my survival, the burning pain outside would've consumed me already.

If only I had my pelt with me.

Teacher said it would be able to repel the projectiles, so he wouldn't let me wear it during training, and therefore forbidden from wearing it until I was actually cleared to go on my own hunts.

Makes me wonder how a monster that could be killed by a stone could repel nails of gold.

"You survived for half an hour. Not terrible, but I suppose it cannot be helped. Channeling your faith for so long would've exhausted your entire reserve anyway, considering your less than stellar capacity. It was only a matter of time, but we can do better than that." Teacher said, walking back to the table with his hands behind his back.

I had expected that he'd conjure up a training field. Actually, I didn't know what I expected, really.

I hadn't gauged the complete capabilities of magic, I wonder if it could rival the technology of my world?

Taking a seat myself, I try not to cringe as my injuries stung.

"I am aware that it may seem like your training isn't evolving, changing, as you'd like it to be. But this is the way the Inquisition has done it for years, your training is being conducted upon the experience of hundreds before you." Teacher said to me as he stared openly at the way I winced slightly at my wounds.

"I understand the sentiment, but I know this is for the best. Don't worry teach, I'm not some softie who'll get discouraged over training."

"I am glad. You have the heart, yet it is hard for people like us to understand, how young fires could be smothered so easily." He nodded.

"I understand."

"Now, allow me." Teacher leaned over, hovering his outstretched hand over my body slumped on the chair.

"[Oh Elysium! Allow thy great mercies to flow, soothe the pain, rejuvenate the soul. Greater Heal!]"

Faith washed over me, his being fiercer and harsher than mine. It was like comparing a stable beam of light to a raging flame.

I wonder...

Seems another great thing about being with the Orthodoxy, the training efficiency is seemingly unmatched. Healing and excruciating training go hand in hand, I think I know why the Church is so feared now. If everyone trained like this...

Of course, that just meant more suffering for me, but I feel myself getting stronger by the second, so it really doesn't matter.

"Now, again."

Or maybe it does matter...