Luther turned toward the sound of heavy boots and clinking chains, half-expecting Mariana or some poor soul sent to remind him of his prayers again.

Instead, sunlight spilled through the stained-glass windows, painting the corridor in blood-red and gold. The glow framed a small procession of guards marching forward—and in their center walked Harold.

Or rather, what was left of him.

The temple's former golden apprentice looked more like a tattered parchment than a man. His white robes were burnt at the edges, his wrists bound with a strip of dull silver cloth that shimmered faintly with sealing runes. Yet somehow, he managed to walk like a priest on parade—head high, chin lifted, eyes full of that same nauseating confidence he'd always worn like perfume.

Luther blinked once.

"Ah," He murmured, tilting his head. "The temple's golden boy finally lost his shine."

What was his name again?

Oh... right!

Harold.

The sword hummed inside his mind, its tone dripping with disdain. "So this is the fool who burned half the prayer hall?

The guards stiffened, unsure if he was serious.

Inside his mind, the sword snorted, its voice dripping with mockery.

"That's the firebug who called himself 'enlightened'? I expected someone taller. Or less... human disaster."

Luther chuckled under his breath. Noticing the stares, he sighted. "You'll have to forgive me," he said aloud, tilting his head as Harold passed under the fractured light. "I'm not quite used to seeing someone burn their reputation and the prayer hall in one day."

One of the guards snorted into his gauntlet.

Harold's hair glinted faintly, though dust and ash dulled its shine. His face was calm—too calm. A faint smirk tugged at his lips, like a man who'd just confessed to treason but was certain heaven would applaud.

The guards flanking him seemed uncomfortable. One of them shoved him lightly and barked, "Move along!"

"Patience, my sons," Harold murmured sanctimoniously when one of the guards shoved him forward again. "I am walking toward truth, not away from it."

Luther groaned dramatically. "Oh for the love of—he still talks like a sermon."

The sword hummed dryly in his head.

"He talks like a rejected choir member who thinks he's the second coming."

Harold's gaze flicked up—and landed squarely on Luther. For a moment, recognition flashed between them. Then Harold smiled, slow and deliberate.

"Ah," he said, his tone dipped in mock reverence. "The temple's new miracle child. Saint?... Luther?, isn't it? How holy of you to still look so smug."

The guards tensed at his tone, but Luther only leaned against the marble wall, arms crossed. "Saint?" he drawled. "I prefer reluctant volunteer."

That got a few chuckles from the guards. Harold's smirk faltered. "Still pretending, I see."

"Always," Luther replied breezily. "It's either that or throw myself down the nearest flight of stairs. And considering the stairs are blessed, I'd rather not risk divine intervention."

Even the sword snickered at that one.

Harold's expression didn't falter. If anything, it deepened into that infuriating calmness of his. "You don't understand yet, do you?"

Luther shrugged lazily. "I'm sure you'll enlighten me. Preferably before I die of boredom."

Harold's composure cracked just a little. His eyes glinted with something wild and fervent—like a candle about to explode instead of burn. "You think this is all a joke?" he asked softly. "You think those gods of yours will protect you when the truth comes?"

"I don't think anything protects me," Luther said, pushing off the wall. "That's why I carry a sword that never shuts up."

"Hey!" the sword protested in his head. "That's rude but fair."

The guards exchanged wary glances, but Harold's voice dropped into a silky tone that made the air in the corridor grow colder. "The temple, the gods, the entire council—they're all just puppets dancing on borrowed strings. You think your god Asmethan marked you because of purity?"

Luther snorted. "No, probably because he's blind."

The sword wheezed with laughter in his head. "Oh, I like you when you're mean."

Luther ignored it. "So tell me, Ha.. Harold," he continued, tone deceptively casual. "What truth were you trying to spread when you burned half the prayer hall down?"

Harold's lips twitched. "The fire was necessary. A cleansing. The temple's rot runs deep, Saint Luther. Deeper than you can comprehend."

Luther tilted his head. "If you start talking about destiny and higher purpose, I swear I'll start praying just to shut you up."

One of the younger guards nearly doubled over stifling laughter.

Harold, however, didn't share the amusement. His voice grew lower, more venomous. "The gods are liars. They chain mortals to obedience, whisper promises of salvation while drinking our prayers like blood. They deserve to fall."

Luther shrugged lazily. "I'd agree—except I still need them alive."

Harold blinked. "...What?"

"Yeah," Luther said, deadpan. "Can't kill someone until I get my answers. Priorities."

The guards snorted. Even the sword chuckled wickedly.

"You're starting to sound like me," it said.

"That's what terrifies me," Luther muttered back.

Harold's calm façade cracked again. "You mock what you cannot understand."

"No," Luther said, his voice smooth and steady, "I mock what can't stop talking."

That earned an outright laugh from one of the guards. The sound echoed down the hallway like a bell of heresy. Harold glared daggers at them all, his holy aura flaring faintly with golden light—but it was weak, unstable, flickering like a candle in the wind.

Luther smirked. "Careful. You'll set off another fire."

The sword cackled, "Too soon!"

Harold gritted his teeth. "You think you're better than me, boy? You think just because the gods branded you, you're chosen?"

"Branding implies choice," Luther replied. "I was more of a cosmic accident."

The guards burst into laughter again, one of them whispering, "Saint Luther, you're going to get us executed."

"Relax," Luther said, winking. "If they strike us dead, at least we'll haunt Harold together."

That did it—the guards completely lost their composure, laughter spilling through the corridor.

Harold's patience snapped. "Laugh all you want! When the skies crack and the divine tremble, you'll see! The temple will fall, and the gods' golden chains will break!"

Luther sighed. "You said that like six times already. Maybe you should draw it on a protrait."

"I could design it," the sword said helpfully. "Add flames in the background."

Harold's eye twitched. "You dare—"

"Constantly," Luther interrupted, folding his arms. "It's sort of my thing."

The head guard barked out a half-choked laugh before quickly clearing his throat. "Enough talk. Discipline Hall's waiting."

The name made Luther straighten slightly. "Discipline Hall?" he repeated, brow arched.

"Yes," said one of the guards. "Father Seraphon's orders. The council wants him questioned before the sealing."

Luther frowned. "And who's leading the questioning?"

The guard hesitated, then sighed. "Lady Mariana."

The sword perked up.

"Your master's going to love this," it said gleefully. "Maybe she'll turn him into holy ash."

"Or a sermon candle," Luther muttered. "Wouldn't be the first time."

Harold smiled again, that awful, knowing smile. "Ah… your precious mentor. The witch in holy robes. Tell me, Saint Luther, has she told you who she really serves?"

Luther arched a brow. "Anyone who can afford her patience, probably."

The guards snorted again. One of them elbowed another. "By the gods, I needed this shift."

Harold glared murder at them. "You'll all regret mocking me when—"

"When the skies burn and the chains break, yes, yes," Luther cut in. "We covered that. You're boring and repetitive. It's tragic."

The sword practically wheezed with laughter in his mind.

"Can I stab him? Just once? Please?"

"Tempting," Luther muttered, "but I don't want to fill out paperwork."

The guards chuckled, but their humor died quickly as the lead officer barked, "Move him along."

Harold was shoved forward, his chains clinking softly. As he passed Luther, he sneered, voice dripping venom. "You think your gods will keep you safe? They'll abandon you too. You'll see, Saint Luther—you'll see how hollow divinity truly is."

Luther watched him go, unimpressed. "Hollow, huh? At least they're consistent."

Even the guards were trying to suppress their laughter now.

As Harold disappeared around the corner, the corridor fell silent again, save for the low hum of the sword in Luther's mind.

"He's mad," the sword said simply.

"So are you," Luther replied.

"Yes, but I'm charming about it."

Luther snorted softly and pushed off the wall. "Come on."

"We're following them, aren't we?"

"Obviously."

"Because you care?"

"Because I'm bored."

The sword hummed.

"Ah, moral curiosity disguised as boredom. Classic you."

They moved through the empty halls, the fading sunlight painting streaks of crimson across the white marble floor. When they reached the west wing, the heavy doors of the Discipline Hall loomed ahead—massive, carved with glowing angelic runes that shimmered faintly with divine energy.

Through the thick oak, voices echoed—stern, commanding, unmistakable. One of them, smooth and dangerously calm, made Luther's lips curl.

Mariana.

The sword pulsed faintly in his hand.

"She sounds mad."

"She is mad," Luther murmured. "But she's my kind of mad."

He adjusted the ridiculous golden crown still perched mockingly on his head, cracked his neck, and grinned.

"You know," the sword said, "if we just waltz in there now—"

"—it'll look dramatic?" Luther finished.

"Exactly."

"Perfect."

He ran a hand through his hair, straightened his cloak, and then—without a word—planted one foot forward and kicked the double doors open.

They swung wide with a thunderous crash, light spilling into the room like divine spotlight.

Luther stepped in, chin high, crown gleaming under the sunbeams, and his sword glowing at his side. The guards inside froze mid-action.

The sword chuckled low in his mind.

"Now that's an entrance."

Luther smirked. "What? I like to make an impression."

The hall went silent.

And at the far end of the chamber, standing beside the bound and glaring Harold—was Mariana, her expression sharp enough to cut through steel.

She slowly turned toward him, her icy blue eyes narrowing in irritation and disbelief.

Luther froze mid-stride, grin faltering just slightly.

"Oh," he muttered under his breath. "...She's going to kill me."

"Worth it," the sword whispered gleefully.

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