Chapter 460 - 423: The Last Supper

Chapter 460: Chapter 423: The Last Supper

A massive long table, draped in velvet from the East, stretched from the foot of the high platform to the edge of the square, resembling a white river.

And upon that river flowed a dizzying array of delicacies.

The core area near the high platform was reserved for the nobility and high-ranking clergy. Crystal-clear glasses and pure silver platters were set at their places.

A whole suckling pig, roasted to a golden crisp, held an apple in its mouth, nestled in a small mountain of fresh flowers. Rare fish from the deep sea had been sliced into sashimi as thin as a cicada’s wing and were served in vessels sculpted from ice. There was even peacock meat, marinated for three whole days in spices and honey, exuding a captivatingly sweet and heady aroma.

Noblewomen in lavish gowns waved feather fans, their reserved smiles masking their disgust for the stench of the slums on this grand evening. Gentlemen raised their glasses, swirling the fifty-year-old vintage known as "Angel’s Tear"—each sip worth an entire commoner family’s food supply for a year.

A scene of clinking glasses and fragrant, silken shadows.

And at the edge of all this glamour was a cordon of black iron fences and fully armed Templar Knights.

Beyond the line of defense, the outer perimeter of the square had been set up as a massive, open-air feast—the tables for the devout commoners.

Tens of thousands of ragged believers from the Lower City District were already seated, their hands clasped, their faces a mixture of solemnity and longing. Though they had only coarse bread and broth, charity from the church and nothing like the delicacies of the inner circle, to these people tormented by hunger, it was a supreme blessing.

The collective sound of their swallowing was somehow louder than the orchestra playing in the center of the square.

In the bizarre atmosphere woven from this tapestry of extreme luxury and extreme hunger, a small, slender figure moved through an unremarkable servants’ passage.

Xiaolan kept her head down, a tray of cut fruit in her hands, blending into the long line of servers.

She moved slowly, each step landing just beside the footprints of the plump maidservant ahead of her. Her breathing was steady and faint, her heart rate controlled at sixty beats per minute. She was like a lifeless stone.

"Hurry up! Haven’t you eaten?"

A Templar Knight captain in silver armor stood at the mouth of the passage, waving a riding crop and urging them on impatiently.

His gaze swept over every passing servant like a hawk’s.

Xiaolan walked past him.

The Knight captain’s gaze lingered on her for a moment.

’Too plain.’

An unremarkable face, slightly messy hair, and hands faintly red from carrying the tray. There was no fluctuation of Magic Power, no hint of killing intent. She was just like one of the tens of thousands of menial servants that could be found anywhere in the Royal Capital.

The Knight captain looked away.

"Next!"

Xiaolan didn’t relax. She knew the real test was only just beginning.

She passed through the outer cordon and entered the inner circle.

This was the Noble District. The lavishly dressed VIPs sat in the front rows, swirling red wine in their glasses, their faces plastered with reserved, hypocritical smiles. They weren’t hungry. They were here for the show, to declare their allegiance to the church.

Xiaolan kept her eyes fixed forward.

Her gaze discreetly swept over the crowd, locking onto the preparation area for the main table below the high platform.

The distance was about fifty meters by her estimation, but the path was fraught with peril—three teams of patrolling Knights crisscrossed the area, and two clerics tasked with inspecting the food stood guard nearby. There was no opening.

’I have to create a blind spot.’ Using the motion of adjusting her tray as cover, she deliberately stumbled, as if she had tripped on the carpet, and took a single step to her left.

That one step was just enough to avoid the gaze of a Knight who had turned on his patrol.

"Watch it, you fool!"

A nearby steward cursed under his breath.

Xiaolan nodded meekly.

Just then, two lines of servants filed into the passage, their silver platters glinting in the candlelight as they delivered exquisite dishes to the nobles’ long tables.

On the high platform, Cardinal Moros was waving his arms, his impassioned voice ringing out as he delivered a grand speech praising so-called divine grace.

And by the steps directly below the high platform, a personal attendant with a solemn expression held a golden tray. On it sat a gemstone-encrusted flagon, filled with the wine the Cardinal would soon use for the consecration.

Xiaolan adjusted her breathing and tried to find an excuse to move closer.

However, she had only taken two steps when several icy glares shot toward her like daggers.

The Templar Knights guarding the personal attendant didn’t draw their swords, but their warning glares clearly said: *One step closer, and you will be killed on sight.*

Wisely, Xiaolan stopped.

’But this distance is enough. Everything is going according to plan.’

She immediately feigned terror at the Knights’ intimidating presence. Her face went pale, the hand holding the tray began to tremble, and her feet faltered, as if she were rooted to the spot, caught in a dilemma.

One of the Knights furrowed his brow, a flicker of disgust in his eyes. He was about to step forward and shoo away the insolent servant.

Just in the nick of time—

BANG!

A loud crash erupted from the commoners’ area, followed by the sound of tables and chairs toppling over and a man’s angry roar.

"Get the hell out of my way! This meat is mine!"

It was a member of the True Origin Association, planted there ahead of time.

The sudden commotion was jarringly out of place at the solemn ceremony. For an instant, it was as if time itself had slowed.

Every gaze—including the attention of the Templar Knights—was drawn to the sudden uproar.

’Now.’

Beneath Xiaolan’s lowered eyelids, a strange black-and-white light flickered deep within her pupils.

She didn’t move a muscle, not even lifting a finger. But a crystal vial in her hand twitched, and the colorless liquid inside vanished instantly.

Phase Pierce

The next second, the liquid materialized out of thin air above the spout of the gemstone-encrusted flagon, trickling down into the wine.

"Hm?"

The most perceptive of the Templar Knights snapped his head around, his sharp gaze sweeping back and forth, focusing on the attendant holding the flagon.

He thought he had felt an extremely faint pulse of a bloodline ability, like the surface of calm water being pricked by the tip of a needle.

But all he saw was the motionless flagon and, not far off, the little maidservant still trembling, looking as if the commotion had frightened her to tears.

’Was it just my imagination...?’

The Knight frowned, confused. He scanned the area again, but the feeling was gone. He concluded that he was just on edge and had imagined it.

He retracted his gaze and looked back toward the commotion.

Meanwhile, Xiaolan lowered her head and melted silently into the shadows with a departing line of servants.

On the high platform, the consecration ceremony was reaching its climax.

Cardinal Moros accepted the massive, gemstone-encrusted golden goblet. Another attendant held the flagon and slowly poured the wine, as red as blood, into the cup.

"May the Holy Light wash away all sin."

Moros raised the golden goblet, closed his eyes, and began to recite a lengthy prayer.

As his voice, amplified by a magical array, grew ever more sonorous, the ceremony clearly reached its peak.

In the inner circle of the square, the seated nobles rose to their feet. Amidst the silks and perfumes, their jewels refracted the light of the Magic Lamps in a dazzling display.

A little farther off, at the long banquet table for the nobles, Velin and Prince Willandar stood side by side, perfectly composed.

Velin himself was a Count who held real power and his own domain, and with a Prince of the Empire personally vouching for him, he had naturally gained access to the core of the inner circle. Though many gazes, faint and inquisitive, were cast their way, no one dared approach and disturb them at such a solemn moment.

The two men quietly observed their surroundings, taking in the flushed faces of the nobles—their eyes filled with either greed or fervor—and then the figure on the high platform, seemingly bathed in Holy Light.

Velin watched the scene with a triumphant smile, whispering softly, like a Hunter on his way to collect his prey from a trap.

"This is the... last supper I’ve prepared for you."

On the high platform, Cardinal Moros finally concluded his lengthy prayer. His face aglow with a holy light, he raised the blessed golden goblet high in a salute to the dignitaries below.

"To the grace of the Lord! Drink!"

The assembled nobles roared their approval, raising their own silver cups filled with wine in a distant salute to the Cardinal. Then they tilted back their heads and drained the crimson liquid in a single gulp.

As the nobles drank deeply, all eyes in the square converged on that single, highest point.

The golden goblet refracted the light of the Magic Lamps, creating a blinding halo, as if a miniature sun were being held in a mortal’s hand.

Cardinal Moros held the goblet, a symbol of his authority, high in the air. His well-maintained, ruddy face was a mask of sacred solemnity. He scanned the tens of thousands of starving commoners below the platform, then the impeccably dressed dignitaries in the inner circle. His voice was thunderous, magically amplified until it made one’s eardrums ring.

"With the wine in this cup, I shall wash away all the filth and lies of this world! Under the Lord’s radiance, there are no ghouls or ghosts, only grace!"

With that, he tilted his head back before the eyes of all.

The wine, red as blood and now mixed with the colorless liquid Xiaolan had just added, rolled past his Adam’s apple and slid into his stomach, every last drop.

For a moment, time seemed to stand still.

Prince Willandar’s fingers tightened slightly around his wine glass, his eyes fixed on the high platform. He was waiting—waiting for some fast-acting poison to take effect, or for some spell that would make the Cardinal a public spectacle.

And yet, one second passed. Then two.

Nothing happened.

There were no convulsions, no foaming at the mouth, no madness, no collapse.

Moros even licked the lingering drops of wine from his lips with an expression of pure bliss, as if he had just tasted nectar brewed by the gods themselves.

"Praise the Holy Light!" the Cardinal boomed, setting down his goblet.

"Praise the Holy Light—!!"

A thunderous cheer erupted from the crowd. Seeing the Cardinal was unharmed, the commoners’ last wisp of doubt about the "church’s impurity" vanished, and they began to grab the food on their tables and stuff it into their mouths.

Moros elegantly straightened his red robes, waved to the cheering crowd, and then descended the high platform with a steady gait. Guided by an attendant, he walked directly toward the long table in the very heart of the square—where the most powerful figures in the Royal Capital were seated.

"Did it fail?" Prince Willandar tilted his head slightly, his voice a low murmur only Velin could hear, tinged with confusion.

Velin watched Moros approach, beaming and walking with a brisk stride, and the mocking curve on his lips only deepened. He gently swirled the wine in his glass, watching the streaks it left behind. "Don’t be hasty, Your Highness," he murmured. "The more robust the ’vintage’, the stronger the finish. Let’s give the wine a moment to breathe..."

As they spoke, Moros passed by the table where Willandar and Velin were seated. It wasn’t that the Prince lacked the status for the head table; rather, he had declined the invitation himself long ago.

The Cardinal looked radiant, his eyes unnervingly bright. He even seemed... overly stimulated. He paused, turning to face the Prince with a brilliant smile.

"Ah, Your Highness, and Count Velin." Moros’s voice sounded strangely buoyant, as if he were walking on clouds. "The moonlight tonight... it truly makes one want to confess, doesn’t it?"