Chapter 82 - - 82 - What I Would Have Done Without You

Chapter 82: Chapter - 82 - What I Would Have Done Without You

"Lady Isalyn," came a voice from the other side of the door—the Archbishop, Lady Arianwen. "The Pasha family is here to see you."

Isalyn and Lucien emerged from the room, the warmth of their private conversation still lingering between them. And there he stood—the head of the Pasha family, his face contorted with rage. He was a portly man, draped in garish green garments that did little to flatter his stout frame, his head half-bald with a thin, pathetic mustache adorning his upper lip. He was screaming like a rabid dog, spittle flying as his voice echoed through the sacred halls.

The Pasha family held the title of Viscount in these lands—nobility that had grown fat on the cathedral’s reputation.

"What is the meaning of this?" Isalyn’s voice cut through his tirade like a blade. Her tone carried no anger, only contempt—pure, refined contempt that someone had dared to interrupt the moment she had been sharing with Lucien. The audacity of it left her cold.

"So, you are the new High Priestess, I see..." Warrick Pasha’s eyes raked over her form with undisguised lecherousness. "They never told me you would look so good."

Isalyn’s expression remained impassive, though a flicker of disgust danced behind her eyes. "What is the matter, Lord Pasha? May I know the reason you are trying to destroy the peace of this cathedral?"

"I should be the one asking questions, High Priestess!" Warrick’s face reddened further, veins throbbing at his temples. "Why did you use my resources to heal the wretched creatures of that village? I am funding this cathedral—my gold, my influence—not so you can play savior to those mortal insects! I wanted them to die, and you healed them!"

The venom in his words hung heavy in the air, but Lucien remained utterly still beside Isalyn, his expression one of profound boredom. He had dealt with men like Warrick Pasha before—small men who believed their coin bought them the world.

"Well, first of all, I did nothing of the sort," Lady Arianwen interjected, stepping forward with practiced grace. Her voice was calm, measured, the voice of a woman who had navigated political minefields for decades. "It was this gentleman who came and saved those poor people with his own resources."

Arianwen gestured toward Lucien, and Warrick’s bloodshot eyes finally settled on the young noble.

"Who the hell is this?" Warrick’s voice dropped to a dangerous growl. "And why did you put your nose in Pasha territory? I don’t care if you are noble—I will not leave you unharmed. Do you understand me, boy? I will make an example of you."

Lucien blinked slowly, his boredom so palpable it was almost an insult in itself. Beside him, Isalyn shared his sentiment, her lips pressed into a thin line of irritation.

"So ugly," Lucien murmured, almost to himself. Then he stepped forward, meeting Warrick’s gaze with an arrogant smile that seemed to mock the very air the Viscount breathed. "I did what I felt like doing. And if I am not mistaken, the only reason this territory is even remotely famous is because of this cathedral. Let me tell you something, Lord Pasha—if this cathedral did not exist, no one would ever visit your lands. Not a single soul. It is your fortune, your blind luck, that this cathedral formed on its own in this land. You are a parasite feeding on its glory, nothing more."

The words struck Warrick like physical blows. His face contorted, shifting between shades of purple and red.

"You speak too much, boy!" Warrick’s voice cracked with fury. "Do you really think you can fight the Pasha family alone? But if you are alone here, that means you must belong to some stupid fallen family who can merely wear noble clothes but possess no power to back them!"

"Oh, why don’t you try me?" Lucien’s smile widened, his eyes glinting with dangerous amusement. The air around him seemed to grow heavier, charged with an energy that made the candles flicker.

"You—bastard!" Warrick screamed, taking a half-step forward.

"Lord Pasha." Isalyn’s voice cut through the tension like a guillotine blade. Her eyes had transformed—no longer the serene, devoted gaze she reserved for Lucien, but something ancient and terrible. A High Priestess at the brink of unleashing divine fury. "Calm yourself. If you think you can hurt this lord in this cathedral, you are gravely mistaken. He has the protection of this cathedral. If you step forward, if you so much as raise a hand against him—trust me, I will unleash hell upon you."

The threat hung in the air, absolute and terrifying. Warrick’s bravado flickered, his eyes darting to the holy symbols adorning the walls. Even in his rage, he was not foolish enough to challenge a High Priestess within her own sanctuary.

"I will not forget this insult, High Priestess." Warrick’s voice trembled with suppressed rage. "As for you, Bastard—I will make sure I erase you. Every trace of your existence. Right now, I am leaving, but I will return. Mark my words."

He turned his back and began walking toward the cathedral’s grand entrance, his footsteps echoing with wounded pride.

"Lord Pasha." Isalyn’s voice stopped him mid-stride. "As for your funding—this cathedral no longer requires a single coin from you. Those coins you graciously provided have already been repaid in services rendered by this cathedral to your noble family. From this moment forward, there is no relationship between the cathedral and the Pasha family. You are severed."

Lucien watched her, truly watched her, and felt something shift in his chest. When she spoke to him, she treated him like a god—a fanatic’s devotion that made her kneel and offer prayers at his feet. But now? Now she stood as a threatening force, a woman who could level cities alone if she chose. He loved this side of Isalyn—the steel beneath the silk, the storm behind the calm.

Warrick Pasha did not respond. He simply continued walking, his shoulders hunched with the weight of his humiliation. He was not brave enough to threaten a High Priestess directly, so he clutched whatever dignity remained and fled like a wounded animal.

When the great doors closed behind him, Lady Arianwen exhaled slowly and turned to Isalyn, her brow furrowed with concern.

"Lady Isalyn... if they stop funding, how will we run this cathedral?" Arianwen’s voice carried the weight of administrative nightmares. "The accounts, the maintenance, the charitable works—"

"Do not worry, Arianwen." Isalyn’s expression softened slightly, though the authority in her voice remained absolute. "From now on, Lord Lucien will support and fund this cathedral. You need not trouble yourself with all that paperwork anymore."

Arianwen nodded slowly, processing this information. Then another concern surfaced. "And what if he tries to fight back? We are on his land, after all."

"We are not on his land, Lady Arianwen." Isalyn’s eyes glittered with cold certainty. "He is on our land. Or at least, when he was within this cathedral, he was. The cathedral was never built by him, so it never belonged to him. Anything related to the followers of the cathedral belongs to the cathedral itself."

She paused, weighing her next words carefully. "Lady Arianwen, go right now. Lord Lucien told me there is a priestess in that mortal village. Go and tell her to join the cathedral. Now that the Pasha family is out of the picture, it will be much easier."

"Yes, my lady." Arianwen dipped into a respectful bow. "I will do that immediately and ensure she joins the cathedral."

The hour grew late, and the cathedral settled into the profound silence of midnight. Candles burned low in their sconces, casting dancing shadows across ancient stone walls. Lucien sat in one of the guest chambers, his mind churning with plans and possibilities. The key—the divine origin key—occupied his thoughts, its mysteries tantalizingly out of reach.

A soft knock came at his door.

He rose immediately, crossing the room in three swift strides. When he opened the door, Isalyn stood in the dim corridor, her hair catching the faint candlelight, her eyes luminous in the darkness.

"Isalyn?" A smile tugged at his lips. "What are you doing at this hour?"

"My Lord Lucien." She inclined her head, that familiar reverence coloring her voice. "I wanted to discuss something with you. Something important. How about we go for a walk?"

They walked through the cathedral’s hallways, their footsteps echoing softly against the ancient stone. Isalyn led him up winding staircases, the air growing cooler as they ascended. Before they realized it, they had emerged onto the terrace.

The sky stretched above them in an endless tapestry of stars, each one burning with ancient light. A giant moon hung low and luminous, casting silver shadows across the world below. The village lay in the distance, sleeping and peaceful. The cathedral’s spires reached toward the heavens like fingers grasping for divinity.

"So," Lucien said, turning to face her. "What did you want to discuss?"

"It’s about that divine origin key you showed me earlier." Isalyn’s voice was soft, contemplative.

"Yeah." Lucien’s expression grew serious. "I also want to know what that key is supposed to do."

"My Lord Lucien, that key is the key to the path of the Heavenly Physique." Isalyn stepped closer, her robes whispering against the stone. "But what kind of physique that is, I am unaware of. The details remain beyond my knowledge."

"Kind of physique?" Lucien raised an eyebrow.

"Yes. Whether it is Heavenly or Demonic Physique, they have different kinds. For instance, Heaven’s Calamity Physique is vastly different from Heaven Defying Physique. There are also many other types of Heavenly and Demonic Physiques. Each one unlocks different paths, different abilities."

Lucien fell into thought. Now that I consider it, in that demonic dungeon, I obtained the Abyssal Demonic Buddha Physique. So a physique is a vessel—it allows a Realm Master to utilize different kinds of skillsets. My Abyssal Core Physique allowed me to use void skills. But if I must reach the Heavenly Pulse Realm, I will need it. No wonder so many Realm Masters fail to reach even the Abyss Core Realm. The path is treacherous, the requirements merciless.

"My Lord," Isalyn’s voice broke through his reverie. "Are you worried?"

Lucien shook his head, a genuine smile spreading across his face. "No. I’m just excited. So many types of physiques this realm has to offer—how can I not be excited?"

They stood at the terrace’s edge, looking down at the world below. The cathedral loomed massive beneath them, its shadow stretching across the landscape. The moonlight painted everything in silver and shadow, creating a world of ethereal beauty.

Lucien and Isalyn stood close, their shoulders nearly touching, their words soft and intimate.

"So I assume you also have a Heavenly Physique," Lucien continued.

"Yes, my Lord." Isalyn’s voice carried pride tempered with humility. "The priestesses have Heavenly Physiques—that includes me, Lady Arianwen, and if you remember her, Kelie from the Ancient Breach."

"I see." Lucien nodded slowly.

He moved behind her, his arms encircling her waist, drawing her back against his chest. His face hovered near hers, his breath warm against her ear. She melted into his embrace, every line of her body softening with pleasure.

"Sometimes I think about how helpful you are, Isalyn." His voice was low, intimate, a whisper meant only for her. "What would I have done if I didn’t have you?"

"My Lord and my only Lord." Her voice trembled with devotion. "You saved me. You brought me back to life. You have full right over my body, my soul, and my time."

"I know," he murmured.

His lips found hers, gentle at first, then hungry. He deepened the kiss, his passion possessive. She responded in kind, her arms reaching back to entangle in his hair, her body pressing against his. If anyone witnessed this moment, they would never recognize the High Priestess—the woman who stood as the embodiment of divine authority—now kissing a noble as if the world had ceased to exist.

But then Lucien’s eyes caught something in the distance.

Flames. Orange and red dancing against the night sky. The village—the mortal village—was burning. And among the chaos, he saw the glint of armor, the movement of soldiers.

His passion vanished, replaced by curiosity.

"Isalyn." His voice was sharp, urgent.

She understood immediately. "Lord Lucien, go. I will bring my forces immediately."

Lucien didn’t waste a second. He launched himself from the terrace, floating through the air like a phantom of vengeance. Wind howled past him as he descended toward the village, his eyes fixed on the inferno below.

In the blink of an eye, he touched down in the midst of the chaos. The village square was a nightmare—buildings ablaze, villagers screaming and running, the stench of smoke and fear thick in the air. And there, amidst the destruction, he saw Xandra desperately trying to extinguish a burning home, her face streaked with tears and soot.

Lucien grabbed a random villager—a man weeping in front of his destroyed house.

"What happened?" Lucien demanded.

The man’s eyes were wild with terror and grief. "L-Lord Pasha’s soldiers! They attacked us!"