---
Pleasure never lingers long.
Inside the carriage, Eli Walker reclined listlessly, his gaze vacant as he murmured, "Martin, must I really return to school this semester?"
The fact that he was still obligated to attend university filled him with faint incredulity.
"Zhou Mingrui didn't even help Klein attend university," he muttered under his breath, half in complaint, half in irony.
"Young Master, please don't joke," the butler, Martin, replied with unshakable patience. "I've already requested leave on your behalf several times in the past. If your attendance continues to decline, it may affect your academic standing and ultimately your graduation. This could jeopardize your future."
Hehe~
My cold just had to recover a bit too quickly. Why did no one warn me?
Do noble offspring truly need to attend seminary?
"I understand the logic," Eli said, tone languid. "But the courses at the theological seminary are utterly uninspiring."
The thought of poring over dogma—particularly treating Night Revelation as a divine textbook—suffocated him. That brand of faith felt too brittle for a world where gods unquestionably existed.
"Young Master, you yourself expressed an interest in mysticism. Once you graduate from the Backlund Theological Seminary, you'll bypass the novice monk stage and directly enter the clergy as a deacon. After you familiarize yourself with church affairs, priesthood will naturally follow. With some accumulated contributions—and with the support of Madam and Master—you will certainly be elevated to a bishopric overseeing a local diocese."
Martin's voice remained even, practiced. This was not the first time he had recited this carefully charted path.
Bennett Maynard had always had an affinity for mystical arts but a visceral dislike for dense theological texts. Eli Walker, it turned out, shared this disposition perfectly.
"My future really has been mapped out in exquisite detail," Eli muttered. "Do you suppose there's still time to switch majors? History? Medicine? Engineering, perhaps? Mechanics?"
He stared at the carriage ceiling, unwilling to dive into formal theology in a world where miracles had mass and prayer bore political consequences. Something about that felt... insulting.
"Young Master," Martin said gently, "you are allowed some degree of caprice. But if you push it too far, the results of your last episode of willfulness might be revoked."
A warning, albeit a courteous one.
The last time Eli had defied the family's expectations, he had managed to secure an independent residence, away from the suffocating supervision of his noble house. Any further resistance might cost him even that.
"Praise the Goddess," Eli said dryly. He drew a scarlet moon on his chest with four fingers, touching the cardinal points clockwise.
Very well. Theology it is. At least the main scripture is Night Revelation, not the Storm Bible. That's tolerable, barely.
"Praise the Goddess," Martin echoed in relief, likewise tracing the moon symbol upon his chest. The young master had, at least for now, relinquished his fanciful notions.
Eli turned his face toward the window and fell into silence, watching the gray-and-gold bustle of Backlund's streets pass by. Only by living in this world did he begin to notice what the past had made invisible.
For instance—being a priest in a remote town is simple enough, but it pays nothing.
For instance—while the Blackthorn Security Company lacks field agents, Tingen's Night Church has more than enough priests.
For instance—he, Bennett Maynard, could theoretically ascend to a bishopric at Saint Samuel Cathedral. Though below Archbishop Anthony in rank, a bishop controlled the secular affairs of the Church: receiving offerings, organizing ceremonies, managing believers. He would be a power in his own right—safe, influential, and mostly removed from danger.
He had once thought that entering the Church was a way for ordinary folk to grasp a sliver of fate and shape it. But that was naïve. Becoming a Beyonder through the Church was the real gate to change—not joining it through mundane ordination.
No wonder desperate people didn't scramble to join. The hidden threshold was still prohibitively high.
Even if one were to succeed in becoming a Beyonder within the Church, one would merely be shuffled into the Nighthawks' path—dangerous, thankless, and fleeting.
If he, Eli Walker—or rather Bennett Maynard—became a bishop at Saint Samuel Cathedral, barring the apocalypse itself, he would likely never face true peril for the rest of his life.
---
The Night Church's seminary stood dignified in the North District.
The Maynard family carriage halted before the front gate of Backlund University's Theological Seminary. Eli stepped down, robed in ceremonial black-and-crimson cloth, holding a fresh copy of Night Revelation. He looked, at least outwardly, like a picture-perfect seminarian.
Say what you will—the Night Church had impeccable taste. Their clerical vestments had clean lines, tasteful weight, and the refined aesthetic of a goddess who took appearance seriously. He rather liked them.
Selection by Night was always harsh—but it ensured style.
Martin remained behind; it was an unspoken rule. Here, status was irrelevant. Even the most gilded heir became merely a servant of the Goddess, a student of theology, and a seeker of doctrine. Inside, one addressed others as equals under Night's gaze.
Eli wandered leisurely through the seminary's tree-shaded walkways. Though he had inherited these sights from Bennett Maynard's memories, seeing them directly made everything feel strangely richer.
The supercharged spirituality brought on by the Secrets Supplicant potion—his newly acquired Hanged Man Pathway Sequence—was still active. Even in daylight, it allowed him to perceive things the average seminarian could not.
Natural spirits drifted around the gardens and buildings, trailing faint whispers. Eli arched an eyebrow. Did the faculty and staff really remain here in death, teaching in spectral form?
Perhaps some senior brothers and sisters had refused to leave. Perhaps they still graded papers or enforced curfews. An undying university—iron rice bowl indeed.
"Bennett, you've been gone several days, haven't you?"
A familiar voice cut through his musings.
Eli turned. "Henry. Sick leave."
He smiled casually at Bennett Maynard's old friend, whose well-intentioned curiosity often spilled over into gossip.
"Another illness from your strange mysticism experiments?" Henry raised an eyebrow. "Last time it was poisoning. What happened this time?"
"Just a cold," Eli replied, the corners of his lips twitching. "And I wasn't poisoned last time, either."
"Right—you weren't poisoned. You just accidentally poisoned your hunting dog." Henry shook his head, equal parts amusement and concern.
"Bennett, you really ought to be more cautious. One day, you're going to get yourself killed tinkering with those occult brews. Are they really that irresistible to you?"
"It's a good thing you're not completely insane and still use your poor pet as a tester."
"The Goddess will protect me," Eli said solemnly, gently patting the Night Revelation in his hand.
Strictly speaking, Bennett Maynard hadn't failed in that earlier experiment. He had concocted a potion—just not one suitable for human consumption.
Not every dog was named Susie, after all.
That failure had left a mark. Afterward, Bennett Maynard had never again trusted his own brews enough to drink them.
--