Chapter 179 Heretical System

Ceanna’s serene composure faltered for the first time on the journey, her brow furrowing in concentration, her golden eyes narrowing as she focused her senses, attempting to decipher the unsettling anomaly. ‘Divine power,’ she thought, her mind racing, her heart pounding against her ribs. ‘But… twisted. Heretical. How can this be?’

A chilling realization began to dawn within her, a shocking possibility that sent a tremor of disbelief through her very being. ‘A growth ability system,’ she thought, the words echoing in her mind like a thunderclap. ‘It cannot be… can it?’

As a Saintess of the Radiant Church, Ceanna Paxton possessed knowledge that was closely guarded, secrets whispered only amongst the highest echelons of their order. She knew of the existence of transmigrators, souls from another realm, inexplicably drawn to their world, imbued with a unique and potent gift – the growth ability system.

These chosen ones, blessed (or perhaps cursed) with this extraordinary power, possessed the potential for rapid, almost unnatural advancement. Their abilities, both innate and acquired, would accelerate at an astonishing pace, fueled by a mysterious energy that defied conventional understanding. And, crucially, their growth ability systems were known to radiate a distinct, albeit subtle, divine energy, a faint echo of the celestial realm from whence they originated.

But the energy she was sensing now… it was anything but divine. It possessed the raw power, the unmistakable signature of a growth ability system, yet it pulsed with a dark, unsettling undercurrent, a heretical taint that sent shivers of revulsion through her soul.

‘Impossible,’ Ceanna thought, her mind reeling, struggling to reconcile the contradictory sensations. ‘A heretical growth ability system? Such a thing… should not exist. The growth ability is a gift of the God of Reincarnation, a divine blessing bestowed upon chosen souls. How could it be… corrupted?’

A more disturbing possibility began to creep into her thoughts, a chilling hypothesis that sent a wave of icy dread through her veins. ‘Stolen,’ she thought, the word echoing in her mind like a death knell. ‘Could it be… stolen? Taken, forcibly, from the heavenly realm? Twisted, corrupted, perverted into something… unholy?’

The implications were staggering, terrifying. If a growth ability system, a power of such immense potential, could be corrupted, could be twisted to serve malevolent purposes, the consequences were unimaginable. It could unravel the very fabric of their world, unleash chaos and destruction on a scale previously unthinkable.

Ceanna Paxton, Saintess of the Radiant Church, harbinger of divine grace, felt a cold dread grip her heart. She had come to Eloriath seeking to combat a demonic invasion, a tangible, external threat. But now, as she approached the Steele Family mansion, she sensed a different, far more insidious danger, a darkness lurking beneath the surface, a heretical power emanating from within, a threat that could prove to be far more devastating than any demon horde.

Despite the turmoil raging within her, Ceanna maintained her outward composure, her serene mask firmly in place. She could not reveal her shock, her apprehension, not yet. Not to the princes, not to anyone. This was a matter for discreet investigation, for careful observation, for a measured approach, not rash pronouncements or panicked accusations.

‘I must meet this individual,’ she resolved, her golden eyes hardening with a steely resolve beneath their serene surface. ‘I must understand the source of this heretical power. I must determine… the truth.’

As the convoy drew to a halt before the imposing gates of the Steele Family mansion, Ceanna Paxton, followed closely by the trio of princes, disembarked from her carriage. She approached the gate, her movements graceful, her demeanor regal, her inner turmoil carefully concealed.

A pair of guards, clad in the Steele Family’s livery, stood watch at the entrance. Ceanna addressed them with a voice that was both commanding and courteous. “Greetings,” she announced, her voice carrying with an effortless authority. “I am Saintess Ceanna Paxton, of the Radiant Church. I have come to call upon the Steele Family.”

Prince Borche, ever eager to assert his princely status, stepped forward, puffing out his chest. “And I am Prince Borche, heir to the throne of Eloriath,” he declared, his voice booming unnecessarily loud. “These are my brothers, Princes Radoslav and Krunislav. We accompany the Saintess.”

The guards, initially stoic and impassive, visibly stiffened at the mention of the Saintess and the princes. One of them, slightly more senior in appearance, bowed deeply, his voice respectful, tinged with a hint of apprehension. “Saintess Paxton, Your Highnesses,” he stammered, “we… we were not expecting such esteemed guests. Please, allow me to inform the Matriarch and the Young Master of your arrival.”

Before the guard could even turn, the heavy mansion gates swung inward with a resounding groan, revealing a scene of unexpected grandeur. Emerging from the mansion, flanked by a veritable army of servants in immaculate livery, were two figures who commanded immediate attention.

Matriarch Lyra Steele, her long blonde hair flowing like spun moonlight, her blue eyes sharp and assessing, moved with an effortless grace, her regal bearing radiating an aura of quiet power. Beside her strode Alaric Steele, the heir to the Steele Family, his short blonde hair a stark contrast to his mother’s, his ruby eyes burning with an unnerving intensity, his presence radiating a palpable aura of… something that made Ceanna’s senses tingle with alarm.

As Ceanna’s gaze locked onto Alaric Steele, a jolt of realization shot through her like a lightning strike. It was him. He was the source of the heretical energy. It emanated from him, a subtle yet unmistakable aura of corrupted divinity, a dark echo of the growth ability system she had sensed from afar.

‘Alaric Steele,’ she thought, her mind reeling, her carefully constructed composure threatening to crumble. ‘The prodigious mage. The artificer of the Phone. The pride of Eloriath. And… a possessor of a heretical growth ability system.’

The shock was profound, almost paralyzing. The implications were staggering. This young man, lauded as a genius, a prodigy, a beacon of hope for the kingdom, was potentially a source of unimaginable darkness, a conduit for corrupted power, a threat far more insidious than any demon horde.

Yet, Ceanna Paxton, Saintess of the Radiant Church, was a master of composure, a virtuoso of serene facades. She schooled her features, masking her inner turmoil, her expression remaining calm, gracious, utterly betraying none of the seismic shift that had just occurred within her understanding of the situation.

This was not the moment for confrontation.

This was the time for observation.

The truth, she knew, lay hidden beneath layers of carefully constructed appearances, and she would need to peel back those layers, one by one, to uncover the darkness that lurked within Alaric Steele.

Meanwhile, Lyra Steele, radiating an aura of regal hospitality, approached Ceanna with a warm smile, her blue eyes assessing the Saintess with a keen, intelligent gaze. “Saintess Ceanna Paxton,” she greeted, her voice melodious and welcoming, “it is an honor to receive such a distinguished guest at our humble estate. Welcome to Steele Manor.”

Alaric Steele, his ruby eyes fixed intently on Ceanna, offered a polite bow, his expression carefully neutral, yet Ceanna could sense a subtle undercurrent of something… unreadable, lurking beneath the surface. “Saintess,” he echoed, his voice smooth and resonant, “a pleasure to finally meet you.”

Ceanna Paxton returned their greetings with a gracious smile, her voice calm and composed, betraying none of the tumultuous thoughts swirling within her mind. “Matriarch Steele, Master Alaric,” she replied, her voice radiating warmth and sincerity, “the pleasure is entirely mine. Thank you for your gracious welcome.”

She subtly shifted her gaze to the princes, who were vying for position behind her, their princely egos momentarily deflated by the Steele Family’s unexpectedly grand reception. “And these are Princes Borche, Radoslav, and Krunislav, who have kindly accompanied me on this visit.”

Lyra Steele’s smile widened, encompassing the princes with regal courtesy. “Your Highnesses,” she greeted, her voice perfectly modulated, “Steele Manor is honored by your presence. Please, come inside. We have prepared refreshments and a repast befitting such esteemed guests.”

With a sweeping gesture, she gestured towards the open mansion gates, inviting Ceanna and her princely entourage to enter the domain of the Steele Family, a place that now, in Ceanna’s eyes, held a secret far darker and more significant than she could have ever imagined.

Lyra Steele, with a regal bearing that belied her Earl-ranked noble status, gracefully gestured for Saintess Ceanna Paxton and the princely entourage to precede her into the grand hall of Steele Manor. As she led the way, her voice, smooth and cultivated, filled the brief silence. “Saintess Paxton, Your Highnesses,” she began, her tone a careful balance of deference and aristocratic poise, “we are truly honored by this unexpected visit. May I inquire as to what brings such esteemed guests to our humble abode?”

Her blue eyes, sharp and intelligent, swept over the group, pausing momentarily on each prince, then settling back on Ceanna with a polite, expectant gaze. She was a seasoned matriarch, accustomed to navigating the intricate currents of courtly life, and this sudden, high-profile visit was certainly piquing her astute curiosity. ‘A Saintess and three princes,’ she mused internally, her mind already working to decipher their motives. ‘This is no mere courtesy call. There must be a purpose, a significant one, behind such a delegation.’

The three princes, however, seemed utterly deaf to Lyra’s polite inquiry, their princely gazes fixed, not on the Saintess, but on Lyra herself. A palpable silence descended, broken only by the soft rustle of silk and the distant murmur of servants preparing for their arrival. Each prince, lost in his own thoughts, seemed to have forgotten the presence of the Saintess entirely, their attention wholly consumed by the unexpected vision of beauty that was Matriarch Lyra Steele.

Prince Borche, his usual booming pronouncements silenced for once, simply stared, his eyes tracing the elegant lines of Lyra’s figure, the subtle sway of her hips beneath her noble gown, the graceful curve of her neck. ‘By the Heavens,’ he thought, his mind momentarily blank, ‘another beauty of comparable radiance to the Saintess herself! And with such… mature allure. A matriarch, yes, but a matriarch who could easily grace the royal bedchamber.’

Prince Radoslav assessed Lyra with a more analytical gaze, his mind already spinning with political possibilities. ‘Matriarch Lyra Steele,’ he mused, his thoughts sharp and opportunistic, ‘head of a rising noble house, mother of the famed Alaric, and… undeniably captivating. An alliance with the Steele Family, secured through… personal connections, could prove invaluable. And such a… connection… would be most… pleasurable.’

Prince Krunislav, the most impulsive of the trio, simply licked his lips, his gaze frankly lascivious as it lingered on Lyra’s generous curves. ‘A milf of this caliber,’ he thought crudely, his mind already envisioning scandalous scenarios, ‘wasted on a mere Earl’s family. Such a prize should belong to royalty. Once the Saintess is… occupied, I shall ensure this Steele matriarch understands her true place. A night, or perhaps many nights, spent… educating her… would be most… enjoyable.’

A silent, unspoken tension crackled amongst the princes, a silent battle of wills waged through narrowed eyes and subtle shifts in posture. Each prince, in his own arrogant entitlement, believed himself the most deserving, the most capable of ‘taming’ this unexpectedly alluring matriarch. They glared at each other, a silent warning, a territorial growl exchanged without a single word uttered aloud. Lyra Steele, oblivious to the crude machinations swirling around her, remained serenely unaware of the silent auction being conducted for her person by the royal princes of Eloriath.

It was Saintess Ceanna Paxton who finally broke the awkward silence, her voice calm and clear, drawing the princes’ wandering attentions back to the present moment, and more importantly, back to her. “Matriarch Steele,” she began, her tone polite yet purposeful, “we thank you for your gracious hospitality. Our purpose in visiting Steele Manor is twofold. Firstly, to express our profound admiration for the… groundbreaking artifact that your son, Master Alaric, has developed – the ‘Phone.’ Its potential for communication is… truly revolutionary.”

Lyra’s blue eyes widened slightly, a flicker of pride illuminating her features at the mention of Alaric’s invention. “Indeed, Saintess,” she replied, her voice warming with maternal pride. “Alaric has always possessed a… unique talent for artifice. We are, of course, immensely proud of his accomplishments.”

Ceanna nodded, her gaze shifting subtly, almost imperceptibly, towards Lyra, a keen observation flickering in her golden eyes. Even in this brief exchange, she sensed it again – that faint, unsettling heretical energy, emanating from Lyra herself, though significantly less potent than the aura she had sensed from Alaric. ‘As I suspected,’ she thought, her mind confirming her initial hypothesis. ‘Alaric Steele is the source, the epicenter of this… corrupted power. And it seems… his own mother has been touched by it as well.’

A wave of conflicting emotions washed over Ceanna – concern, apprehension, and a nascent sense of… pity for Lyra Steele. ‘Poor woman,’ she mused, her heart softening slightly despite her unease. ‘Unknowingly tainted by this heretical energy, likely manipulated by her own son. She is a victim, as much as a potential threat. She must be… purified. But discreetly, carefully. I must not reveal my suspicions prematurely.’

Outwardly, however, Ceanna maintained her serene facade, her interaction with Lyra perfectly normal, perfectly respectful. “And secondly, Matriarch,” Ceanna continued, her voice regaining its purposeful tone, “we have come seeking Master Alaric’s… expertise. In these… troubling times, with the demonic incursions plaguing our kingdom, we believe his talents could be… instrumental in bolstering our defenses.”

While Ceanna addressed Lyra, the three princes, their initial fascination with the matriarch momentarily sated, now turned their collective attention to Alaric Steele, who stood silently beside his mother, observing the exchange with an enigmatic expression. A fresh wave of princely anxiety washed over them, a renewed surge of competitive jealousy.

Prince Borche narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing Alaric with undisguised suspicion. ‘That smug look on his face,’ he thought, his jaw clenching, ‘does he dare to think himself worthy of the Saintess’s attention? A mere noble scion, no matter how… talented. He must be put in his place.’

Prince Radoslav’s gaze was more calculating, his mind already assessing Alaric’s potential threat level. ‘A genius artificer, yes,’ he mused, his thoughts sharp and pragmatic, ‘but also… undeniably handsome. And with that… air of quiet confidence. Precisely the type of… unconventional charm that might appeal to a woman of the Saintess’s… unique disposition. I must ensure he does not… monopolize her attention.’

Prince Krunislav simply glared at Alaric with open hostility, his thoughts crude and possessive. ‘Stay away from her, Steele,’ he mentally snarled, his hand instinctively clenching into a fist. ‘The Saintess is far too radiant, too exquisite for the likes of you. She is meant for royalty, for me.’

The princes, united by their shared desire for Saintess Ceanna and their collective unease at Alaric Steele’s presence, formed an unspoken, temporary alliance, a silent pact to ensure that this handsome, talented commoner did not encroach upon their princely pursuit of the Saintess’s favor. Their gazes remained fixed on Alaric, a silent, simmering animosity radiating from their royal persons.

Unbeknownst to the princes, or even to Saintess Ceanna herself, Alaric Steele was also engaged in his own form of observation, his ruby eyes subtly scanning Ceanna Paxton, his mind actively engaging with the unique capabilities of his Harem God System. He had been intrigued by the Saintess’s arrival, sensing her unusual aura, her potent divine energy, and he had instinctively turned to his system for more information.

But this time, the familiar interface of the Harem God System responded in an unexpected, and frankly, frustrating manner. As Alaric attempted to access Ceanna Paxton’s stats, a stark error message flashed across his mental screen, displayed in bold, crimson lettering within the system’s characteristic square brackets:

[Error: Target Immune To System Analysis.]

[Saintess Ceanna Paxton’s Divine Blessings Preclude System Interference.]

[Stats Unavailable.]

[System Abilities Ineffective.]

Alaric’s brows furrowed slightly, a flicker of genuine surprise registering in his ruby eyes. ‘Immune?’ he thought, a rare moment of genuine intellectual curiosity overriding his usual self-assuredness. ‘Completely immune? That’s… unprecedented.’ In all his interactions with the Harem God System, he had never encountered such an absolute barrier, such a complete negation of its abilities. Even individuals with strong magical defenses or powerful artifacts had yielded some information to his system’s analysis, even if partially obscured or distorted. But complete immunity? That was a new, and intriguing, phenomenon.

‘Saintess blessings, it says,’ Alaric mused, his mind already dissecting the system’s cryptic message. ‘Her status as a Saintess, her connection to the Radiant Church… it grants her some form of… divine protection? A shielding against… heretical systems like mine, perhaps?’ The irony was not lost on him. A Saintess, a beacon of divine purity, proving to be immune to the machinations of a self-proclaimed Harem God. The cosmic humor was almost… palatable.

However, Alaric did not dwell on this unexpected system failure. He was not one to be easily deterred, nor was he prone to wasting time on fruitless endeavors. The Harem God System might be ineffective against Ceanna Paxton, but his own powers of observation, his own intellect, remained unimpaired. ‘System or no system,’ he thought, his ruby eyes narrowing slightly, focusing intently on the Saintess, ‘I shall observe and decipher her. And I must uncover her secrets that she is concealing.’

Time, however, was pressing. Lyra was already ushering their guests towards the manor’s opulent dining hall, her voice drawing Alaric back to the present moment. “Please, Saintess Paxton, Your Highnesses,” she invited, her smile warm and welcoming, “join us for a meal. We have prepared a modest repast in your honor.”

As they settled around the lavishly set table, laden with delectable dishes and fragrant wines, the atmosphere shifted, becoming more convivial, more relaxed. The initial tension, the unspoken anxieties and rivalries, began to subtly dissipate, replaced by the more mundane rituals of polite conversation and shared sustenance.

It was during this meal that Saintess Ceanna Paxton finally revealed the full extent of her purpose in visiting Steele Manor, her words carefully chosen, her tone diplomatic yet earnest. “Master Alaric,” she began, her golden eyes focusing intently on the young artificer, “as I mentioned earlier, we are deeply impressed by your invention, the ‘Phone.’ But beyond mere communication, we believe your genius could be… even more invaluable in the current crisis facing Eloriath.”

She paused, allowing her words to sink in, then continued, her voice taking on a more urgent tone. “The demonic incursions, as you are undoubtedly aware, are escalating rapidly. Our kingdom, and indeed, the entire continent, is facing a threat unlike any we have seen before. We are preparing to mount a grand campaign against these demonic forces, a unified effort to purge them from our lands.”

Ceanna leaned forward slightly, her gaze unwavering, her sincerity radiating outwards. “And we believe that powerful, magically enhanced artifacts will be crucial to our success. Artifacts capable of bolstering our warriors, enhancing our mages, and providing a decisive edge against the demonic hordes.”

She paused again, her eyes meeting Alaric’s directly, her unspoken request hanging heavy in the air. Then, she articulated her specific need, the true purpose behind her visit, the reason she had sought out Alaric Steele above all others. “Master Alaric,” she stated, her voice clear and purposeful, “we are here to beseech your assistance in developing such artifacts. And in particular,” she emphasized, her gaze intensifying, “we are in dire need of an artifact capable of storing, and perhaps even transmitting, holy energy. If such a device could be created, Saintess Ceanna Paxton, leading the combined forces of the Radiant Church, could amplify her blessings across the entire battlefield, turning the tide against the demonic darkness.”

Alaric listened intently, his ruby eyes thoughtful, his expression betraying none of the inner turmoil her words might have evoked. He considered her request, weighing the implications, assessing the feasibility, his mind already racing, dissecting the technical challenges, envisioning potential solutions.

After a moment of contemplative silence, he responded, his voice calm and measured, devoid of hesitation. “Saintess Paxton,” he began, his tone respectful yet confident, “your request is… ambitious, but not without merit. Developing artifacts of such power, especially one capable of manipulating holy energy, is a… complex undertaking. I would require time, of course, to consider the… intricacies, to develop suitable blueprints, to formulate a viable approach.”

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the expectant faces around the table, his ruby eyes finally settling back on Ceanna Paxton, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “But,” he concluded, his voice laced with a quiet assurance, “I am… intrigued by the challenge. I will endeavor to assist you, Saintess, to the best of my abilities.”

A collective sigh of relief seemed to ripple through the dining hall, the tension easing perceptibly. Lyra Steele beamed, her pride in her son radiating outwards. The princes, momentarily forgetting their petty rivalries, exchanged glances of cautious optimism. And Saintess Ceanna Paxton, her serene facade unwavering, offered Alaric a gracious nod, a subtle flicker of… something unreadable, lurking within her golden eyes.

“Excellent, Master Alaric,” Ceanna replied, her voice smooth and appreciative. “Your willingness to assist is… deeply valued. To expedite this crucial endeavor,” she continued, her gaze shifting towards the princes, a subtle undercurrent of expectation entering her tone, “perhaps Your Highnesses would be so kind as to ensure that Master Steele is provided with… all necessary resources? Materials, funding, whatever he may require to… experiment freely and develop these artifacts with all possible haste.”

Prince Borche, eager to demonstrate his royal generosity in front of the Saintess, immediately puffed out his chest, his voice booming with princely largesse. “Of course, Saintess!” he declared, his hand waving dismissively, as if resources were mere trifles to a royal treasury. “The Eloriath Kingdom will spare no expense! Master Steele, you shall have whatever you require! Name it, and it shall be yours!”

Princes Radoslav and Krunislav, not to be outdone by their elder brother, echoed their agreement, their voices vying for Ceanna’s attention, their princely coffers seemingly overflowing with readily available funds. “Indeed, Saintess,” Radoslav chimed in, his voice smooth and persuasive, “consider the royal treasury at your, and Master Steele’s, disposal.”

“Anything, Saintess, for the sake of the kingdom, and for your… noble cause,” Krunislav added, his tone dripping with sycophantic charm.

Ceanna Paxton offered each prince a serene, appreciative smile, her golden eyes betraying none of the calculation that lay beneath. “Your generosity is… most commendable, Your Highnesses,” she replied, her voice perfectly modulated, her gaze returning to Alaric Steele, a silent message passing between them, a subtle understanding forged in the unspoken undercurrents of their first, fateful encounter.