Chapter 323: The King's Gaze

  This cell was now Celeste's true prison. Its walls, forged entirely from fine steel, were a full half-meter thick. Innumerable, complex magic arrays were engraved upon them, all with effects of solidity and defense. The entire cell was a giant iron box. And the lock on this iron box was the masterpiece created by a famous dwarven genius two hundred years ago on the continent. At the time, they had gathered the three highest-ranking thieves from the Assassin Guild and given them a full day, but they hadn't been able to open this lock. Compared to this place, any other cell was completely an undefended chicken coop.

  In the last hundred years, only a handful of people had been qualified to be imprisoned here, and without exception, they were great villains and demon lords whose very names could once make the entire continent pale. But none of them received treatment like Ethan's now, for his hands and feet were actually chained to the walls.

  The chains were braided from steel cables as thick as a thumb, intertwined with strands of several rare metals like wrought iron, fine gold, and Shiria Silver. At regular intervals, fine metal spikes protruded, piercing into the restrained person's body and injecting curses of weakening, decay, and the like, as well as trace amounts of poison. The highly magic-conductive Shiria Silver also allowed the magic power within the body to gradually seep out. These were hastily crafted by several great mages and master artisans.

  He had been imprisoned here for some time now. Ethan had tried several methods, but he couldn't even break free from these chains on his body, let alone escape.

  The sound of a complex lock being turned came, and the cell door opened. Two people walked in: Lancelot and the Pope.

  Lancelot was the same as usual, his face like an ancient well, showing no abnormality. Even though he had captured Ethan, this long-time opponent who had ruined many of his important plans, his face was still without joy or sorrow. He was holding a large chair, which he placed on the ground as soon as he entered.

  The Pope sat on the chair, or rather, lay down on it. Compared to when Ethan had last seen him, he now looked at least twenty years older. Those wrinkles, once clear and seemingly the crystallization of wisdom and thought, now looked like nothing but decay and weakness. His hair and beard were still as white as snow, but they had lost all their previous luster. His once sharp, radiant eyes were now a clouded, weak turbidity.

  Lancelot exited the cell and closed the door. In this giant iron box, only Ethan and the Pope remained.

  He coughed softly twice, and the Pope's gaze fell upon Ethan's face. Ethan also watched the old man quietly.

  "Completely beyond my expectations... Was that a gift Moriel asked you to deliver? What a heavy gift... so heavy I almost couldn't take it." The Pope's voice was very weak, as if he might not be able to draw his last breath at any moment.

  "But you took it in the end, didn't you? That was also beyond my expectations." Ethan looked at the Pope's hand. The ring was still on the Pope's finger, still looking unremarkable, like something that could be found on any street stall. "What I find even more unbelievable is that the ring I always carried could summon something like that. If I had known earlier..."

  "Even if you had known, you couldn't have used it." The Pope waved a hand. His gesture was slow, his voice powerless, but Ethan was unconsciously cut off by him. Even though the man himself was weak, the majesty and aura in his every move had not diminished; he was still the most powerful person on the continent. "It is a holy artifact that resonates with the entire The Radiant Citadel. What it contains is the faith, hope, and will of countless believers over hundreds of years. Can you understand these things? Can you bear them? Only one who can bear them is qualified to use this thing, only one who is a king. That is why it is called the Ring of Kings."

  "Why did you capture me? Is it because of the prophecy of The Black Star?" Ethan spoke.

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  Actually, he had been waiting for the Pope.

  "You could say that." The Pope nodded.

  "Then I have to tell you with regret that you are all thinking wrong." Ethan gave a bitter smile.

  "You have been trying all sorts of ways to capture me. It's for the power of the Sunwell and the Leaves of the World Tree, right? It's a pity. What you all thought was wrong..."

  "Oh?" The Pope was a little surprised.

  "This was what Moriel told me. Whether you believe it or not is up to you..."

  "Oh? It seems you had quite a harvest in Nighon. Actually, I also wanted to ask you about this. Tell me..." The Pope sat up straight.

  After listening to Ethan's account, the Pope sighed a long sigh and lay back down on the long chair, his face full of astonishment. He closed his eyes, not moving. He needed to slowly digest what Ethan had just said. After a long while, he opened his eyes, returned to that calmness, and said lightly, "What an interesting story..."

  "This is not a story." Ethan said lightly.

  "I know, I know what you mean. I can tell you are not lying." The Pope nodded slowly. "So, in fact, there is no great prophecy, and you actually have no connection to this huge vortex of Necromancers, is that right? That is what you want to tell me."

  "Right." Ethan nodded.

  "But I'll tell you, I didn't capture you because of any prophecy. I never cared about those things from the very beginning." The Pope said lightly. His gray eyes, though listless, were as steady as a rock settled over a hundred million years. "Wanting to ask about the situation under Nighon was just one of my purposes for coming here. The main reason was... I wanted to get a good look at you..."

  "What?" Ethan's eyes widened. If he could, he would have perked up his ears, suspecting there was something wrong with his hearing.

  "I do not believe in things like fate. That thing is just an illusion fabricated by the weak... However... sometimes, many coincidences can give people the illusion that there is such a thing as 'fate'. This feeling is very interesting, very fun... Especially when I look at you, it feels even more interesting... In fact, we really do have some kind of connection..." The Pope looked at him, as if speaking to him, but also as if muttering to himself.

  "What on earth are you talking about?" Ethan asked.

  The Pope did not speak again. He half-reclined on the chair, quietly watching Ethan, who was pinned to the wall not far away. But his gaze slowly drifted away, as if passing through Ethan's body to see some other, distant place. His expression was very strange, as if he were reminiscing, but Ethan could not discern anything from it at all.

  After a long time, the Pope remained immersed in this strange, trance-like state. Ethan did not speak either. In this giant iron box, an old man and a young one faced each other in silence. The Pope had no intention of speaking, and Ethan did not know what to say.

  Finally, the Pope sighed a long sigh. His gaze returned. He raised his voice and called out. Then Lancelot opened the door and walked in.

  "This person must be kept under strict watch. He absolutely cannot be allowed to escape. You know this, right?"

  "Yes, Your Majesty." Lancelot nodded.

  "But this person has good skills, and his luck seems to have always been quite good. You should know this as well."

  "Yes, I know this too. That is why I had people specially craft these shackles. These should be impossible for him to break free from."

  "Actually, there's no need for such complex methods. There is a simpler, more effective, and direct way..." The Pope pointed weakly, seemingly at the chains on Ethan's body, but also as if at some other place. "Didn't I say that as long as he is alive, it's fine? It wouldn't matter to break off two or three of his limbs..."

  Lancelot did not answer directly. He just went down on one knee before the Pope and said, "Your Majesty, I swear upon a knight's honor that he will absolutely not escape. Please be at ease."

  "Very well. Since you say so, I can truly be at ease." The Pope stood up again. He coughed softly twice, and without looking at Ethan again, he turned and walked towards the door. "By the way, Knight Talise's faith and loyalty are now beyond doubt. Let her return to her position in the Temple Knights."

  "Yes." Lancelot stood up and followed the Pope out of the cell. As he walked out the door, he turned his head and gave Ethan a look of deep meaning.

  With a loud boom, the iron door of the cell was closed again. Only a sliver of light came from the small ventilation hole.

  "Bastard... How could it be like this... But... what on earth is the situation now..."

  Ethan lowered his head and sighed a long sigh.

  Actually, ever since the Archangel disappeared and the Templars had bound Ethan hand and foot, Lancelot had already given the order to the Templars: "Chop off his limbs, just don't let him die." He didn't need the Pope's guidance. Lancelot naturally knew that this method was indeed the best and most effective way to deal with Ethan.

  "Stop." Talise stood up from the rubble. She was not dead, and her injuries were not even too severe, but the hand and sword she had used to block Ethan's strike were both broken. Fragments of the sword were embedded in her arm, making a bloody mess.

  "What?" Lancelot looked at his disciple.

  "Wouldn't it be fine to just imprison him properly? There's no need for this." Talise walked over to look at Ethan. Her gaze was still very strange, a kind of sorrowful determination.

  "This is the most effective method. Don't say foolish things." Lancelot waved a hand at the sword-holding Templar, giving a light command. "Chop them."

  A sword chopped down. Blood splattered, and a hand flew up. But it was not Ethan's hand.

  It was Talise's. She had thrown herself forward to block in front of Ethan, and so her hand flew up instead of Ethan's.

  "Master, I beg you." The splattering blood stained Talise's face. It was her own blood. But her voice and expression were not out of control because of the intense pain. Her face, covered in blood, was no longer just determined, but stubborn. She was not unable to block this strike by other means, but she chose this method anyway.

  Lancelot looked at his disciple, and a rare gloomy expression appeared on his face. He then sighed again and nodded.