Chapter 1300: Chapter 1300

A moment ago, at the elven altar, the sentient memory that had spoken with Jenkins used his [Spirit Striking Cane] as a core. Supplemented with the complex components of a broken World Tree sword and a pipe of enchanted demonwood, it transformed the staff from a Series B Extraordinary item into a Series C Bestowal.

The three materials were remarkably compatible. Infused with plant-like vitality, the modified staff could now change its shape at will. In addition to its basic cane form, it could lengthen into a scepter, like the one he had seen earlier. However, the transformation was limited to staff-like shapes—it couldn't possibly morph into a shield for him to wield.

From this day forward, Jenkins's primary arsenal consisted of the holy sword and the staff. Although he could only use the sword while in disguise and the staff as himself, having another weapon that felt right in his hands was still a delightful development.

Before departing, he had also spoken with the memory about the "Misfortune Poem," learning the method to acquire the [Child of Disaster] ability. As expected of such a rare and unique power, the means of obtaining it was just as unconventional.

The [Tree House] had painstakingly acquired this ritual, even going so far as to initiate disasters, mimicking the mad poet of a millennium ago. Judging by today's events, they had succeeded even without the replica of the Nolan slate. It was highly likely that this would happen four more times across the continent.

"So, could the turmoil in Ruen two weeks ago, and the anomaly in the far north, also be part of the ritual for the [Child of Disaster]?"

After a moment of thought, he confirmed his suspicion. However, when he had been in close proximity to the slate earlier, he had only seen one of its depressions filled. This meant the disaster from a few weeks ago had failed, thanks to his timely intervention.

"Then could the tobacco incident be related to this as well? Right now, all I know is that the [Perfume Appreciation Committee] is connected to that strange tobacco; there's no proof of the [Tree House]'s involvement. Still, this must be taken seriously. Perhaps I can tell the Church about the [Child of Disaster]. It isn't a Savior's Emblem, after all, and even if it were, I would never actively pursue it. The power is tempting, and the identity of a Savior is important, but I'm not the kind of person who resorts to unscrupulous means."

With this in mind, he swept his hand over the table before him, and his [Psychography] ability instantly constructed the "Misfortune Poem" slate. He had performed similar feats many times recently, so the process was second nature.

He sighed inwardly as his palm stroked the stone slate. The instant his skin made contact, he felt a sudden jolt. Countless colorful threads materialized before him, and then blood began to trickle from his eyes. Jenkins let out a faint groan, nearly toppling from his chair.

"How could this be? Why am I seeing the threads of fate now?"

He clutched his head in agony, collapsing onto the table. It took a long time for him to recover. When he finally lifted his head, panting, he was stunned to see that the uppermost depression on the slate was now filled with a flawless white gemstone.

He pressed his hand to his forehead again, not from any physical pain this time, but from sheer frustration. Summoning the glowing orbs that represented his abilities, he saw what he had expected: the blank bubble he'd acquired from devouring the 'tree root' now swirled with an ambiguous, iridescent light.

This was the 'incomplete' form the memory beneath the World Tree altar had described—the state of an ability with extensive prerequisites. In this form, the power was completely unusable unless he erased it with something like B-12-4-4432, the [River Styx Water].

When Mr. Rossier returned to the church, he found Jenkins laboriously wiping dried blood from his eyes with a towel. His earlier request to the young nuns for warm water and a cloth had given them quite a fright.

Now that Mr. Rossier had returned, Jenkins knew the night's events had come to a temporary close. He followed the man to his office, where the two equally exhausted men sat facing each other in the glow of a gas lamp, both suspecting that sleep would be impossible tonight.

"Saint Williamette, your eyes..."

the demigod asked, hesitating.

"The power I used earlier was a little difficult to control," Jenkins explained vaguely. "It is, after all, a power bestowed by a god. When mortals like us wield such things, problems are bound to arise."

Jenkins explained dismissively. He was feeling much better, but it wasn't a topic he wished to dwell on.

"So, how did all this happen? I was sleeping and only saw the fires raging across the city after my cat woke me up."

"It's difficult to explain," Mr. Rossier began, "but we are deeply grateful for your contributions to the Ruen diocese, Saint Williamette. Ruen will never forget your assistance."

The middle-aged man—or rather, the man who appeared middle-aged—sighed. He pulled open the second drawer on the left side of his desk and manipulated some hidden mechanism. A rolled map of Ruen's urban district descended from the wall opposite the window. It was made of leather and so exquisitely crafted it could have passed for a work of art in any home.

"According to the reports, the first fatalities appeared here."

Mr. Rossier rose and moved to the map to brief Jenkins, his finger indicating the city center.

"More precisely, the first wave of deaths occurred around this very street. Since it happened at night, we've had trouble finding any living witnesses. However, based on the current divinations and autopsies, we have reason to believe the demigod simply walked brazenly into the heart of the city and launched his attack."

This attack required little investigation; the perpetrator's goal was clearly to cause a disaster, and we've confirmed he acted alone. The real problem is how he managed to escape the combined efforts of the Church's demigod and Saint Son. Furthermore, his timing was impeccable.

"After the unrest a fortnight ago, Ruen has been under a partial curfew at night. The likelihood of someone reaching the city center without being questioned is extremely low. That leaves two possibilities. Either the man had been living near the city center for days, waiting for the right moment, or he had an insider—a local official or noble—who allowed him to reach the heart of the city after dark. You must understand, that street is less than three hundred feet from the hill where the Stuart palace stands."

The Church was inclined to believe that the [Tree House] has connections among the city's high nobility. Combined with the recent ice anomaly caused by Dolores's brother, the royal princes and princesses have once again come under suspicion.

It was a reasonable suspicion; even Jenkins harbored similar thoughts. Moreover, tonight's chaos had brought a large number of unregistered armed groups onto the streets. A quick estimate suggested they outnumbered the city's official defense force.

It was obvious what the Stuarts were preparing for. And as for tonight's incident, the [Tree House] wasn't the only one to profit from the chaos.