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Chapter 638: Ingrid's Return
“Ingrid, you’ve finally arrived. I’ve been awaiting you,” said the man, extending his hand in a gesture of welcome. His face—half dragon, half human—twisted into a faintly fierce smile. “Welcome to Dragonhead City. Or rather… welcome back to Dragonhead City.”
“Thank you, Baron Hans,” Ingrid replied, nodding. She stood at the city gate, her gaze sweeping over the once-familiar landscape now reshaped by conquest. A strange unease settled in her chest.
The city had changed. The Sun Sacred Emblem atop the gate had been replaced by the crimson heraldry of the Empire’s Red Dragon. Fearsome dragon heads now jutted from the city walls, snarling at the sky. The grand Amannata Temple had been transformed into the Oath of the Dragon Sanctuary. The Lamp Tower, once adorned with sun disks, now bore a soaring spire shaped like a flying dragon. The statues of saints that once graced the streets had all been shattered—replaced by towering statues of Emperor Kai Xiusu of the Ember Empire.
In the skies above, Wyvern-riding Peacekeepers patrolled without cease. Every few meters, Tiefling Guards stood watch, rifles in hand. Scattered among the crowds were the Stellarfallen, clad in wild, mismatched garments, wandering aimlessly.
Yet traces of the past remained. People still favored bright hues—yellow, red, orange. The Amanatara Sacred Emblem still adorned walls and rooftops. The distinctive “Fadalan-style” architecture, with its arched gateways and sunlit courtyards, lingered like a ghost of better days.
These remnants stirred something deep within Ingrid. A bittersweet longing welled up. Without thinking, she whispered the forbidden name—so long buried in silence.
“Collins City… I’m finally home.”
A single tear glistened in her eye, catching the light.
This was Dragonhead City—the heart of the former Holy Fadalan Empire, the center of Northern Aether, her homeland. The city where she was born, raised, and once served as Honorary Bishop of the Collins Diocese. She remembered summers on the solstice, leading priests and faithful in sacred rituals beneath the golden light of the sun.
Now, after years of exile, she had returned.
But time had turned everything upside down. The Holy Fadalan Empire was gone. She, once a revered figure, had become a captive of the Ashen Empire, serving the Emperor in the remote North for countless years.
She recalled Kai Xiusu’s words from long ago:
“In the near future, you shall reclaim your homeland—not as a prisoner, but as a bishop of the kingdom, a faithful servant of the Crown.”
The Emperor had kept his promise.
But not through peace.
Not through redemption.
Through conquest.
Ingrid stared down at the imperial emblem stitched into her luxurious long robe. Her heart sank. She had returned to her dream—yet at what cost?
She had betrayed the Amanatara Church.
She had betrayed the people who once trusted her.
She had betrayed herself.
Now, she dared not meet the eyes of the Aethel people. She feared being recognized—accused of being a “shameless traitor,” a “vile servant of the Dragon,” a “wretched apostate.”
Baron Hans leaned in, concerned. “Ingrid, are you alright?”
She snapped back to the present, forcing a smile. “I’m fine. It’s just… I’ve been away for so long. It’s overwhelming.”
Hans nodded. “Good. The Empire has only recently conquered Northern Aether. The city is unstable—tensions run deep. All factions of Feanso are eyeing this place. Twelve uprisings in just the past month. You’ve arrived at the perfect moment.”
As he spoke, several Tiefling Guards emerged from the shadows near them, alert and ready. Hans waited until they were out of earshot before continuing.
“Ingrid, if you’ll come with me?”
“Of course.” She brushed her golden hair behind her ear and pulled her hood low over her face.
Then, hesitantly: “Baron Hans… why did you summon me? You know well enough that now… I can offer little in the way of support.”
Her faith had waned. With Amanata asleep and her surrender to the Ashen Empire, her conscience had been torn apart. The divine power she once wielded—earned through years of devotion, prayer, and unwavering belief—had faded.
Now, she was a legend in name only. Her rank as a Legendary Light Priestess remained, her wisdom still sharp—but her ability to cast divine spells had vanished. She could no longer summon the awe-inspiring, high-tier miracles of old. She could only force forth mid- to low-tier divine effects through sheer will.
Hans shook his head, studying her with a calm, knowing smile. “Ingrid, you misunderstand. The Empire doesn’t need your strength. It needs you.”
“Me?”
Her eyes widened in surprise—then narrowed. The truth struck her like lightning.
Of course. She was once the Honorary Bishop of Collins City. Revered by millions.
And now, the Empire wanted to use her name, her image, her legacy—to crush the faith of the people beneath their boots.
But as an Imperial citizen, she had no choice. No right to rebel.
Hans, however, seemed utterly unaware of her inner turmoil—or perhaps he saw it and didn’t care. He simply continued walking, speaking casually.
The Aethel people nearby flinched at the sight of the Tiefling Guards. They hurried aside, trembling, terrified of being mistaken for rebels, of being shot on the spot.
Hans turned abruptly. “By the way, Ingrid—do you know which faction in the city is the most unruly?”
Her stomach dropped. A cold dread crept up her spine. She remained silent, shaking her head.
“Dawnlight Holy Army.”
He pulled a crisp, new parchment scroll from his pocket, voice flat and cold.
“The Dawnlight Holy Army is the largest rebellion group in Dragonhead City. Since the Empire took control, they’ve launched eleven uprisings. They’ve destabilized our rule, shattered public order. Intelligence reports confirm they seek to overthrow our leadership and restore the Church’s divine sovereignty. They’re dangerously corrupting, deeply incendiary. Their leaders? Former members of the Amanatara Church.”
He unfurled the scroll. A long list of names filled the page—endless, dense.
“This is…?” Ingrid’s heart plummeted.
Even a single glance revealed familiar names—friends, colleagues, former brothers and sisters in faith.
Hans smiled again—this time, a grin so chilling it felt like the smile of a devil.
“Ingrid, I truly despise such rebellion. I’d have gladly… eliminated them all.”
He didn’t finish. Instead, he made a slashing motion across his throat.
Ingrid’s hair stood on end. She lunged forward, hands outstretched. “No—Baron Hans, please, don’t!”
He placed a hand on her shoulder, gently. “Relax. I brought you here for a reason. I won’t allow such a tragedy.”
He handed her the scroll. “You have a chance to save them. How many you can spare… that’s up to you.”
Silence. Long and heavy.
Ingrid stood frozen, her face flickering with hesitation, guilt, sorrow. Then, slowly, she nodded. Tears welled in her eyes.
“…Yes.”
They reached the Ceremony Square—once the sacred space where Ingrid led prayers and rituals with the faithful. Now, it was a stage for Empire officials to deliver speeches, propagandize, and enforce obedience.
The great Sun Sacred Emblem had vanished. In its place stood the vertical pupil emblem of the Ashen Empire.
The Aethel people were herded into the square like cattle, forced by guards, driven by fear. The air buzzed with shouts, cries, and the clatter of boots.
Hans clapped his hands. “Go on, Ingrid. Declare your status. Expose the rebels hiding in the shadows.”
She lowered her head, wrapping herself in her long robe. Her body trembled violently.
But under Hans’s quiet, unwavering gaze, she stepped forward—slow, deliberate—onto the dais.
“Who is that?”
“Can’t see her face. Why is she up there?”
After a long pause, she lifted her hood.
Her golden hair spilled into the sunlight, glowing like molten gold. Her face—pale, beautiful, heartbreakingly familiar—emerged.
“Amanata above… it’s Ingrid! The Bishop!”
“She’s alive?”
“The one who healed me!”
“She’s real!”
A wave of shock and awe swept through the crowd. The former Bishop, long believed dead, had returned.
And yet…
“Sometimes, weakness is its own original sin.”
From afar, Hans watched her. A faint smile curled at the corner of his lips. Then, slowly, his face shifted—changing, melting—until it bore the serene, benevolent visage of Emperor Kai Xiusu, the “Benevolent Lord.”
---
Deep beneath the city, in a damp, shadowed dungeon lit only by flickering candles, a circle of robed figures sat around a round table. The walls bore faint traces of the Amanatara Sacred Emblem—faint, but still there.
One man, mid-fifties, with tired eyes and a voice like gravel, spoke first.
“Brothers… I believe one of us is a traitor.”
Aern Strauss. Former priest of the Amanatara Church. Leader of the Dawnlight Holy Army.
“Otherwise, how did the Dragon’s Claws learn of our operation so quickly? That was the most secret mission we’ve ever run. I suspect… the traitor is among us.”
He tapped the table rhythmically, scanning the room with piercing eyes.
“Should we continue?” another asked, anxious.
Aern sighed. “Postpone for now. Last operation cost us too many lives. We can’t let them die in vain.”
“But… they’re holding a propaganda rally in the Sacred Ceremony Square! That’s her favorite place—the place where she once led prayers! How can we stand by while they defile it?”
The voice belonged to Fer Burres—thirty-something, wild-haired, bearded, clothes disheveled. But his eyes burned with fury.
A former priest, now a core member of the Dawnlight Holy Army. He hated the Ashen Empire with a passion. He’d planned assassinations, sabotage missions—anything to bring down the Red Dragon.
Because his idol—the Honorary Bishop, Ingrid Galces—had supposedly died beneath the dragon’s claws.
Fer had once been blind. She had walked into his darkness like a sun. With a single touch, she healed his eyes. She brought light into his world.
In his memory, she was gentle as water, radiant as dawn. He remembered her singing hymns beneath the sun, her voice rising like a prayer to the heavens. She had been a goddess—perfect, untouchable.
Even from afar, to look upon her was bliss.
His faith wasn’t in Amanata.
It was in her.
He had believed that light would last forever.
But then she vanished—rumored dead in the North.
And the dragon’s claw had shattered his world.
Now, the beast had returned.
The temple of his memory lay in ruins.
And the voice of the one he loved was being used to preach lies.
Aern looked at him, weary. “Fer… I know you want revenge. But your actions are reckless. You’re putting us all at risk.”
Another woman spoke softly. “The enemy is out in the open. We’re in the shadows. We still have time.”
No one suspected Fer of betrayal. His hatred for the Empire was too deep, too obvious. He charged into every mission, fearless, always first—ready to die.
After a long silence, Fer stood. His voice was firm.
“You don’t need to say more. My decision is made. I must kill the Dragon’s Claw on that stage. I will make the evil beast weep. And I will show the people—show everyone—that the Dawnlight Holy Army is not afraid.”
A sigh.
Aern said nothing.
He knew.
Fer was walking toward death.
But for him, it was not surrender.
It was vengeance.
It was love.
It was the final act for the light he had once believed in.
This was an assassination born of a will to die.
(End of Chapter)
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