Chapter 39
After briefly speaking with Isabel and Godfrey, Karl set off toward the southern headquarters of the Order.
By chance, it ended up being just the two of them traveling together, and so most of what lingered between them was silence.
“Since that last incident, has any further trace of Gullveig been found?”
Hoping to maybe glean some new information, Karl asked.
“Since that day, no direct traces of Gullveig have been discovered.”
“I see.”
Silence resumed.
Karl wasn’t the talkative type to begin with, and it seemed Isabel wasn’t either, so the two of them rode in silence for quite some time.
“What will the Order decide regarding Viscount Julio?”
“Since he’s a noble of the Empire, it won’t be simple to just tie him to the stake and burn him. But it won’t be brushed aside without punishment either. By the doctrine of the Order, a man like Viscount Julio, who made a pact with a demon, would unquestionably be sentenced to burn. Still, the specifics will likely be adjusted.”
The political landscape of this world was complex. Power was divided between the Order, the noble class, and the imperial family. After the Emperor’s death, no single entity held ultimate power.
In a way, this prevented any one tyrant from shaking the world, but it also meant that chaos could spiral unchecked.
“Why haven’t you joined a knight order or pursued a title? With your skills, it wouldn’t be difficult to earn a high position anywhere.”
“I’m not interested.”
Isabel read multiple meanings into that short answer.
A man with his skill, in his mid-twenties, should have been overflowing with ambition.
Everyone she had seen with talent had been.
But Karl seemed to have no interest in such things.
And to reach his level at that age, without any backing, was something that couldn’t be explained without some divine help.
Since parting ways with Karl previously, Isabel had done some digging into his background.
One thing she’d discovered was that he was the third son of the impoverished House of Meyer.
‘There were no official records… but he was apparently nicknamed "the possessed one."’
A man that skilled, branded as possessed. Isabel knew well how society pointed fingers at those who were different.
‘…I’m no different.’
She had been told from childhood that she was a child born with the “Light of Resurrection.”
Having been raised as a candidate for sainthood by the Order, Isabel could guess at what Karl’s childhood might have been like.
“How did you end up becoming an Inquisitor?”
“…”
“Is it a difficult question?”
They had ridden for some time before setting camp. As they sat by the fire, Karl asked the question quietly. Isabel knew he wasn’t asking out of malice.
“It’s not difficult. It’s just… not a happy memory.”
She stared at the crackling fire for a while before speaking heavily.
“I was born with the ‘Light of Resurrection.’”
“You were a candidate for sainthood?”
“…Yes. That’s right.”
The Order assessed newborns according to unknown criteria and selected a few to be raised as saint candidates.
“It must’ve been hard.”
The title “saint candidate” sounded noble.
But unless the parents were exceptionally devout and offered their child up as an honor, in practice, the Order was simply taking a child from their family.
Conflicts from this were smoothed over with either a modest bribe or appeals to faith.
“What about your family?”
“….”
Her expression wavered.
“The Order made special arrangements to protect my family.”
“I see.”
“That’s why I had to prove my worth. No matter what.”
“Even so, the Order doesn’t threaten or intimidate families. Even I know they’re not that ruthless.”
“Yes.”
Her simple answer led Karl to infer something.
“You couldn’t leave because of what you were holding on to.”
“That’s right.”
If Isabel left the Order, her family would no longer receive its protection or support.
“Still, that’s not why I continue to serve and travel the continent. Now, I do it out of a sense of duty.”
Having come from a different world and time, Karl viewed this world's Order much like the medieval European Church: a mixture of corruption and public service.
Some parts were rotten, but the institution still played a key role in education, relief work, and cultural preservation.
Regardless of the Order’s dual nature, Karl saw that Isabel’s eyes were filled with conviction. In that moment, she seemed to radiate a gentle divine light.
‘Conviction…’
Karl thought of the battle with Dragul. He was confident in his use of Qi—but his sword lacked Qi
He was an outsider in this world, and he had no belief system rooted in it.
Qi, the hallmark of a master knight and a sign of firm conviction, was perhaps something naturally denied to him.
Karl looked up at the sky, where two moons hung. Even after all this time, he still hadn’t gotten used to seeing two moons.
***
“Have you heard the tale? The tale of a knight, I say! Gather round, everyone! This is the tale of the Free Knight who saved the Lady of Tennesse in her time of peril! Who cut down a werewolf in Dinston in one stroke! And who recently slew vampires in Burkden!”
Inside a large, lively tavern—brighter and more spacious than most—people crowded together, clinking mugs and laughing uproariously.
In the center stood a stage for bards and storytellers, and a man with a lute was drawing the crowd’s attention.
He expertly set the mood and strummed the lute as he began to sing.
His ballad was of a Free Knight who had single-handedly defended the righteous Tennesse House, slain a werewolf, and destroyed vampires thereafter.
“Ho ho, what a tale.”
“Indeed! I followed his trail and turned what I heard from reputable tellers into song. So it’s true! This great Free Knight, Sir Karl, saves the innocent and vanishes into the sunset!”
“Ha! And he asks for no reward?”
“None at all! He refused gold after saving the Tennesse House from ruin, and walked off alone beneath the setting sun.”
As he told the tale and answered questions, the bard received coins, food, and drink.
In these grim times, when most news was bad, this tale of the Free Knight was spreading across the continent like wildfire.
“Hahahaha! What a splendid tale! Here, take a coin!”
“Thank you kindly!”
The tavern was filled with cheer—but only one person wasn’t smiling.
“All this talk of Sir Karl, everywhere we go. Why the long face?”
Isabel’s formal speech carried a strangely teasing tone. Karl frowned slightly as he looked at her.
“Teasing people like that is unbecoming.”
“Hahaha.”
Karl shook his head and took a drink.
There was no carbonation, of course, but the beer was at least cool—probably well-stored in a cellar.
“I have a question. May I ask?”
“Go ahead.”
“I’ve heard the name Ghost of Chevalier.”
“….”
Karl’s face stiffened, and his demeanor shifted. Isabel sensed a chill.
In written accounts, the Ghost of Chevalier had been a war machine from the East Continent—a living weapon.
A terrifying ally, and a nightmare to enemies. Hard to imagine from the man in front of her.
When Karl neither confirmed nor denied it and stood up, she followed with another question.
“So, do you know what people are calling you now?”
“What?”
“They’re calling you the Knight of the Lighthouse.”
“The Knight of the Lighthouse…”
People murmured the name softly. Karl too found himself murmuring it as he entered his room.
Knight of the Lighthouse.
Lying in bed, he gazed out the window at the stars.
Ever since arriving in this world, he had swung his sword countless times. But the titles he’d earned always stank of blood.
Titles like “The Butcher of Al-Khalidah” or “Ghost of Chevalier” were far from pleasant.
He particularly disliked ones tied to specific places—they brought back memories of what had happened there.
He’d been on the West Continent for quite some time, calling himself a Free Knight. But it wasn’t like he truly believed he was a knight.
He just didn’t have a job, and Free Knight was a convenient label.
And yet, that bard’s story had stirred something inside him. For someone from 21st-century Earth, it was embarrassingly dramatic… but not unpleasant.
That night, Karl tossed and turned before falling asleep late.
***
The next day, Karl and Isabel were finally allowed into the inner sanctum of the Vatican.
The man he met was Cardinal Thomas Begetto of the Inquisition.
“Word of Sir Karl’s exploits has spread far and wide these days. Thank you for accepting our invitation.”
“Thank you for the warm welcome.”
Cardinal Thomas appeared to be in his early fifties.
Clad in the red cassock and shoulder cape befitting his station, his broad frame made him look more like a seasoned warrior than a cleric.
“So… I’d like to hear the reason you summoned me.”
Having dispensed with formalities, Karl got straight to the point. With a curious expression, Cardinal Thomas looked at him. And after a moment’s pause—his mouth slowly opened.