Lord of The Mysterious Realms Chapter 522

"Excellent. Everything is going smoothly."

The elderly gentleman sighed, taking a step forward to nudge the nearest young boy with the toe of his boot. He then turned and gestured for a group of black-robed figures waiting outside to enter, before plastering a smile on his face and addressing Miss Madison.

"Sarah, I'm proud of you."

Miss Madison kept her lips pressed together, quietly retreating to the wall. She watched as the figures carried her classmates to the altar, arranging them in neat rows like fish laid out to dry.

She had only ever seen such a scene once before, as a child, when she had accompanied her father on an errand in the docklands.

"That one is Earl Scott's son. Move him outside."

Mr. Madison was clearly aware that some people could not be killed. Though he sought a "greater benefit," he had no desire to bring ruin upon his own family.

After the great sacrifice was complete, everything could be explained away as the "church collapsing." It would cost a hefty sum in compensation, but it was a worthy price to pay. Therefore, he had to carefully consider who he could not afford to provoke.

"John Williams can't die here either. His brother has an extraordinary relationship with the Orthodox Church. We shouldn't invite that kind of trouble."

The old gentleman turned, leaning on his cane, but his gaze fell not on John, but on his own granddaughter.

After a long moment, he finally nodded, the eyelid of his right eye seeming to twitch.

Miss Madison's face flushed, but she breathed a sigh of relief, clutching the ribbon at her waist as she watched John being carried out of the church. A small measure of comfort settled in her heart.

"It seems John's life is quite colorful, too."

Jenkins mused to himself.

He was currently hiding on the church's dome, carefully observing the situation below through a crack in the structure. ɴᴇᴡ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ ᴏɴ n0velfire.net

What was happening here was a classic case of a human sacrifice to some unknown entity. A few such incidents occurred in the Nolan region every year, so it was not entirely uncommon.

But Jenkins was curious about who they were sacrificing to. If it was some evil spirit, he could handle it. But if it was a higher being from a sub-dimension, or even one of those terrifying existences from another plane, then his best move would be to run, now.

"Why should I wait for the sacrifice to begin before I act?"

He asked himself, glancing down at the black-robed figures—the priests, he presumed—who were clearing a space in the center of the church and forming a circle to begin chanting.

Fumbling in his pocket, he produced three small metal plates and pinched them between his fingers. They were exploding charms, the type he was most familiar with.

He aimed at the crowd below, infused the metal plates with his spirit, and flung them downwards. Then, clutching his cat, he dove to the side.

Amidst a thunderous explosion, the church dome was nearly torn from its foundations. Jenkins tumbled a short distance down the curve of the roof before his hand shot out and gripped a nearby protrusion—what must have been the base of a long-gone stone statue.

Chocolate, sheltered in his arms, was completely unharmed.

His Eye of Reality pierced through the dome, looking down. The single point of light that marked the Enchanter had been extinguished.

With feline agility, he leaped from the edge of the dome. Before rushing into the half-destroyed church, he took a moment to straighten his clothes and brush away the dust.

The man stood at the church entrance, pistol raised, and shouted. His monocle helped him pierce the swirling clouds of dust.

He saw no need for a disguise; both the coachman and John knew he had come here. Posing as a cultist of a new god was risky and prone to error. In a situation , his true identity was far more suitable.

He squeezed the trigger, firing a shot at the old gentleman who was attempting to retaliate. The man cried out, clutching his arm and dropping a small, golden pistol as Miss Madison rushed to support him.

Jenkins had missed again. He had been aiming for the heart, but his shot had gone wide. It was a minor issue, however. At least the situation was now under control.

Two-thirds of the black-robed priests were dead, and the rest were barely clinging to life. The only ones still able to speak were Miss Madison and the old gentleman before the altar, but neither looked capable of putting up a fight.

As the dust from the explosion settled, the old man and the young woman saw the young man standing in the church doorway.

The last rays of the setting sun streamed in from the west, casting a golden halo around Jenkins's form. His expression was stern, the hem of his black coat fluttering gently in the evening breeze.

He was the very picture of justice.

The old gentleman had evidently seen Jenkins's face in the newspapers.

"That's right. Don't even think about resisting. That includes you, young lady. If you hadn't tried to save John, I would have put a bullet in you as well, just to prevent any further trouble."

"I understand," she said, her head bowed.

"Good. Now, nobody move. I will..."

A piercing shriek came from the altar. One of the boys lying there sat bolt upright, as if in the throes of a terrible nightmare. His eyes were wide open, but they were stark white, with no pupils to be seen.

As his scream echoed, the sunlight streaming through the hole in the dome and the main entrance faded, dimming like stage lights at the end of a play. After a crisp crackling sound, the now-pitch-black church was illuminated by a ring of blue flames, suspended silently along the walls.

"You seem to have misunderstood," the old gentleman wheezed, a weak laugh escaping his lips. "The place of sacrifice isn't just that altar—it's the entire church. I never imagined the ritual would work even when only partially completed..."

As he spoke, the boy who had sat up opened his mouth. Amidst his tormented moans, a black, pus-covered hand began to emerge, inch by inch, from his throat.

Thick saliva dripped from his mouth like threads, landing on the floor below as a wrinkled arm slowly extended outwards.

The boy's eyes bulged, looking upwards as if they would pop from their sockets at any moment.

He could not form any words, his throat seemingly blocked as if a thick turnip had been shoved down it. His hands clawed desperately at his own neck, tearing away the skin to reveal bloody flesh. He tried to dig deeper, but with a sickening snap, an unseen force broke both his wrists.

Jenkins's world went dark. This was not a psychological reaction, his body subconsciously shying away from the horror. It was a terrifying supernatural ability affecting his vision. He could not see, but he could hear. Even his monocle could not dispel the darkness before him.

He fired, aiming from memory, but judging by the sound, the bullet missed its mark.

"Alright, then. Don't blame me."