45

  Under the cover of night, Constantia and her group finally infiltrated the city of Avignon, emerging from a vile, reeking sewage canal. They surfaced inside a mold-ridden tunnel thick with filth, trudging their way out into the open. None among them looked pleased with this revolting method of entry. They stank to high heaven and would need to cleanse themselves quickly or draw unwanted attention from every passerby.

  They scaled a nearby rooftop, minimizing their presence and surveying their surroundings. Not far off, they spotted a modest clothing shop—its wares cheap and meant for peasants and the destitute, but it would suffice for their needs.

  The foremost rule of infiltration: blend in. Wear what the locals wear. Walk as they walk. Speak in their tongue and echo their cadence. Years in the shadows, hunted by the Longinus Order, had honed the Inquisitor agents into some of the most skilled infiltrators alive. No longer merely a militaristic order, they had become something more—spies, saboteurs, phantoms.

  They basically went through a transformation from Militaristic order into a blend of spy and special unit. That’s why most Inquisitor groups only consist of five people, never more or less. But even in Small numbers, their skill and power are something that can’t be scoffed at.

  Constantia gave Marcus a signal to scout ahead while directing Antonius and the other Repentants to guard the perimeter. Marcus moved like a whisper of wind, his steps soundless, his motion barely stirring the air. He glided across rooftops with the silence of an owl in flight—though no owl ever stank so terribly.

  Reaching the shop’s balcony on the second floor, Marcus picked the lock with practiced ease. Inside, he found the shopkeeper and his wife asleep. Whether they were accustomed to such horrid odors, or Marcus was less pungent than he feared, they remained fast asleep, undisturbed by his presence. He signaled to the others. The coast was clear.

  Killing these two people would be unwise if they wanted to walk incognito through the street. If word got out that a clothes shop owner is killed inside their shop with missing clothes, then the guard would be on high alert and check every single person on the street. However if the shop owner reports a theft from his shop, then the guard would probably just brush it aside considering the slum area they’re living in right now.

  The group entered without a sound. Antonius produced a pouch of white powder and gently placed it beneath the noses of the slumbering couple—a potent sleeping agent, ensuring they would remain unaware. Constantia began removing her soiled garments.

  “Coast is clear. Everyone, change quickly,” she commanded. “Antonius, burn the uniforms.”

  “Understood,” Antonius replied.

  “So, where to next?” Marcus asked as he donned a threadbare tunic.

  “There’s a small Inquisitor outpost here in the city—just a handful of agents, but they may know something.”

  Constantia and her group finally wear new and ‘clean’ clothes. Despite the clothes they’re wearing are better than their filth ridden uniform, it’s still far from the word decent. However, it’s not the time or place to complain.

  Dressed in rough, peasant garb, the group looked no better than beggars. But appearances were secondary to survival. Constantia’s mind was elsewhere. Ipsilas. She didn’t know where he was or what he was doing—but her instincts screamed that he was up to no good.

  Back in Isildus, he had deceived both Valentinus and Cain, inflicting untold damage to the Church’s standing. What would he do in Avignon? The very thought made her shiver.

  Constantia and her group exit the clothes shop and blend themselves in with the local. They walk separately to minimize suspicion and even fool people who might tail or watch them. However they still maintain a perfect line of sight of each member so they’ll know if someone goes missing or even in trouble. As they walked through the outer city of Avignon, they noticed a large gathering of people in front of a ruined church. Out of curiosity, Constantia gave each member of her group a signal to see what’s going on right now.

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  The crowd swelled—men, women, even children—all pushing forward. Then, as if summoned by divine will, a figure emerged. The throng parted for him: a masked man clad in white robes, stitched with golden thread. From his gait, Constantia surmised he was an adult male, but beyond that, she could tell little.

  “He comes! He comes!”

  “The Prophet walks among us!”

  “Bless him! Oh, bless him!”

  “He carries the Word! He bears the truth!”

  Constantia looked around confused. Why is everyone calling this guy a prophet? Is this some type of a new religion that pops up inside the city? But the Diocese holds an iron hand on this place and forbade any other type of worship besides the one true god. Then she looked at all her group members, each of them just as confused as her. What’s going on? Who is this ‘Prophet’?”

  The Prophet approached the ruined church building and stood on the top of the stair in front of the church door. There he lifted a small hammer with his right hand and paper on his left hand. Everyone just stood in silence. Waiting for something to happen. Then the Prophet finally spoke.

  “Good evening, people of Avignon. May the light of the Almighty shine upon you tonight. This is the hour foretold—the veil is lifted, and we step forth from shadow into the gaze of heaven and man. Tonight, our silence ends.”

  The crowds cheer with thunderous applause and praise. Constantia could feel the ground shake and her ear rangs from the enthusiasm around her.

  “We see you, Prophet!”

  “We’ve waited for this day!”

  “The veil is torn! The truth is here!”

  The Prophet lifted his hand and the crowd went silent.

  “Too long have wolves wrapped themselves in the robes of saints. They say they serve God, yet their hands are steeped in greed. Look around you! The holy man—your Cardinal—dines on silver platters, while your children starve. He builds cathedrals from your bones and bathes in coin bought with your misery.”

  Someone from the crowd yelled. “THEY’RE ALL GREEDY BASTARD!”

  The Prophets point at the man who just yelled. “I hear you, my lost lamb! You were told to kneel. I say—rise. You were told to obey. I say—speak. No more shall the sacred house be ruled by bloated liars and false saints! No more shall your prayers go unheard while their banquet never ends! We will cleanse the temple. We shall bring the fire. And from the ashes… a new church shall rise.”

  “This is madness!”

  A shout pierced the crowd as people began to look at the source of the sound. There stood one Constantia Agent. He looked really angry and fuming in the mouth. Constantia on the other hand can only shake her head, signaling everyone to not intervene at all cost. They’re severely outnumbered here, even with their skill and battle prowess, these people here could easily restrain them and kill them in seconds. Not to mention the problem of openly killing a lot of civilians. She couldn’t even think of the consequences of that action.

  “Madness?” ask the Prophet.

  A sudden chill swept the entire area. Every eye on that place is directed towards the Inquisitor Agent who now thinks he just screwed up really bad. He tried to look for help from his team, but he couldn't see any one of them around him. His throat becomes drier than a dessert and his body shakes as if chill took over his body.

  “You’re not a Prophet! You’re a heretic! A blasphemer! A-“

  Suddenly his head explodes and blood splatter around his headless body. Constantia just looked at it, eyes wide open, shocked as to what just happened. There’s not a single movement she could see or something that could cause that to happen. She wonders if the Prophet is a mage and uses one of his tricks to do that, but there’s not a lingering mana in the air either. It looks like his head has just exploded on its own and that terrifies her. What the hell just happened? How can that be possible? What kind of trick do these guys use?

  “The wrath of God is upon him!”

  “A sign! A divine sign!”

  “The Prophet is true! The Prophet is anointed!”

  The crowd erupted again in cheer and praise. The prophet lifted his hand high and made a praying gesture towards god. The crowd went mad with adrenaline. Constantia could see some of them crying while others jumping in joy at what just happened. Some of the citizens began to strip the dead Inquisitor's body and nailed it to a pole and lifted the corpse high in the air. This whole thing felt like a fever dream. Everything felt unreal and very disturbing, even for her standard.

  The Prophet nailed his paper to the shattered door, the final blow echoing like a drumbeat from heaven itself. Then he turned, arms outstretched like a crucified martyr reborn in flame.

  “By fire and blood, we reclaim what is ours. No more waiting. No more begging. We are the blade of God’s will. And our time is NOW. REFORMATION!”

  A scream of triumph ripped through the crowd.

  “REFORMATION!”

  “FOR THE PROPHET!”

  “BURN THE OLD! BUILD THE NEW!”

  “BY BLOOD AND FIRE!”

  “GOD WALKS WITH US!”

  The chant grew wild, unhinged, a tidal wave crashing through the city. The people surged forward like a living tide, eyes wide with delirium, mouths open in rapture. Mothers wept. Old men howled. Children danced barefoot in the ashes of holy things.

  “Burn the golden houses!”

  “Tear down their idols!”

  “The Prophet walks with flame!”

  “God has chosen us—we are His wrath!”

  Torches rose like stars catching fire. Flames licked the eaves of homes, devouring them like dry leaves. Stone and wood fell alike under hammers and hatred. The sacred was no longer sacred—only fuel.

  Constantia sent the signal. Her fingers shook. They had to leave. Now.

  She moved swiftly, eyes scanning the madness. Her people vanished into shadows, ghosts slipping from a burning dream. But the dream refused to end. Screams filled the streets—some in joy, others in agony. The line between the two blurred.

  She saw a child drive a nail through a priest’s cassock, laughing as others cheered. A group of women wrapped a cardinal’s robe around a pig and paraded it through the square.

  “THIS IS OUR CHURCH NOW!”

  “NO MORE CHAINS!”

  “THE AGE OF LIES IS DEAD!”

  As Constantia sneaked away from the crowd, she was looking around for the city soldier to calm and suppress this riot. But no one came. The fire spread and blood now ran through the street as the sound of scream fills the void of night. The corpses of her agent are flaunted and paraded on the street with cheer and laughter.

  This “Prophet” was no simple zealot. He was dangerous—far beyond anything she had anticipated. If he gained more followers, he would become unstoppable.

  Then their eyes met.

  The Prophet.

  Ipsilas.

  He stood still in the chaos, untouched by flame or blood, watching her with eyes that saw into the marrow of her bones. She felt her lungs collapse. Her heart squeezed by an invisible hand. Her knees buckled—but she did not fall.

  She fled.

  Behind her, the city burned. And something greater than fire had been lit.