Cyren passed through the cinder-covered roads filled with yellow-green fog like a bowl of thick pea soup, returning to the residence adjacent to the church.
The interior was full of signs of daily life, aning clothes and stockings strewn everywhere and a ssy bed. Only the wardrobe was relatively tidy, after all, Father Delante always maintained the appearance of a gentle and upright person in front of others.
After barely clearing out a place to stand, Cyren changed into the purple shirt and black robe and shawl embroidered with purple trim, tied a purple silk sash around his waist, and put on the ring of authority engraved with the Latin motto "Sub Cruce Vigilo (I watch beneath the cross)."
Serving as Bishop of Spessay, while the original owner might have been unwilling, Cyren was very willing indeed.
Londinium had too many eyes and they were all people Cyren knew. One careless move would expose him.
Although the north was harsh and cold, that couldn't stop him from having room to spread his wings!
Although in his previous life he was just a liberal arts graduate from the philosophy departnt who couldn't find work and taught himself to beco a clinical psychoanalyst, he had similarly fantasized about bringing Earth's technology to climb the tech tree in another world and do things that would shock the people of this world.
However, before that, he still needed to confirm another matter.
Catching sight of a large black rat suddenly darting out from the corner, Cyren imdiately grasped the cross at his chest and quickly chanted, "You shall not pass beyond!" (Job 38:11)
Golden light mist and blurry, tiny images appeared behind Cyren, and that rat imdiately hit so transparent wall, violently flying back a few centiters before fainting on the ground.
Cyren felt the warm current surging within his body and smiled with relief.
Fortunately, he hadn't lost the power to perform divine arts due to his own disbelief in God, though the original owner hadn't really believed either.
Then he said to the rat, "Jehovah Rapha!"
This was a spell from the Book of Exodus, aning "The Lord is my healer."
A few seconds later, the rat twitched its tail, climbed up from the ground, then quickly scampered away.
Cyren sat down on the sofa with satisfaction.
He currently mastered a total of eight divine arts. Besides the [Holy Healing] that could rapidly restore injuries and [Halt] that created transparent walls, there were also [Guardian Art], [Exorcism], [Hymn Chanting], [Light], and [Pain Soothing].
"They don't seem very strong..." Cyren thought about it, but this wasn't his problem. According to his mories, even the ntor couldn't beco an army of one. The Church mainly relied on special resources and runic chanical technology.
What Senior Anthony wore was the Church's developnt called [Sacred Powered Armor], and these knights were called [Steel Angels].
Unfortunately, he hadn't passed the physical examination back then and couldn't take the martial path, so he could only go to Florence University to study theology. However, in general assessnt, this was definitely a more promising path than joining the Steel Angels, because while a Cardinal Archbishop couldn't defeat Steel Angels, he could command them.
The ti on his wristwatch had already turned to six in the evening. The sun was gradually sinking toward the Wendington River. The clouds and cargo ships furling their sails were all urging him to hurry, so Cyren pushed his already-packed luggage and hastily boarded the public carriage at the door.
The body's original owner had long prepared for departure. The brass leather suitcase contained his bank letter of credit, passbooks and deposit slips, so cash, clothes for all seasons, and a grooming kit.
On the cobblestone road woven with carriages and horses, his bishop's robe drew sideways glances from passersby. When Cyren boarded the carriage, the people inside were amazed that "such a noble gentleman" would take a public carriage.
Because the first-level compartnt was already full, Cyren climbed up to the top using both hands and feet. A lady wanted to leave the compartnt to offer her seat to the lord bishop, but Cyren firmly refused, then sat on top of the carriage holding his suitcase, panting and letting the wind blow.
The worker beside him wearing a rough brown shirt wanted to say sothing, but his face flushed red and after a long ti he still couldn't speak. Instead, Cyren struck up a conversation with him, asking where he lived, how much his wages were, what the factory environnt was like, how many children he had at ho, and so on.
The golden glow of the distant sunset scattered on the Wendington River and the do of St. Paul's Cathedral. Countless chimneys like enormous pipe organs played the anthem of a prosperous empire. Airships pulled advertisents for the exposition, and on the huge steam gear structures, lights blazed in the parliant chambers... Cyren quite wanted to experience the charm of this world's most prosperous city.
But the train was already roaring on the rails. The Church's white train headed toward the northern wilderness. Knights paced anxiously, waiting for the new bishop's arrival.
"I'll co look again in the future," Cyren thought to himself.
But he would never realize that this scene would beco eternal in his heart and the hearts of many others. This was the last silhouette of the empire of old, the golden age that could never be returned to, a mory that people would forever cherish but never touch again throughout the coming millennium.
…
The Northern Holy Seat train crouched on the black rails like a white earthly python. Its steam was mixed with specks of red, representing the Church's exclusive precious fuel, [Red rcury].
A knight clad in white plate armor stood outside the carriage compartnt, alternately checking his wristwatch and looking at the clock in the subway station.
"Five minutes left," he said, tapping the train conductor's window beside him. "When the ti cos, we leave."
"Not waiting for the bishop?" the conductor hesitated sowhat.
"Not waiting," the knight said coldly.
"Alright then." The conductor shrugged through the transparent glass.
The knight looked at the station clock and adjusted the hands of his wristwatch again, winding the mainspring that had just been wound, ensuring every second was completely consistent. His footsteps matched the second hand, and even each step precisely crossed the gaps between two floor tiles.
"Depar—"
"—Wait!"
Cyren squeezed out from the crowd covered in sweat, pushing his huge brown suitcase and walking quickly to the front of the train.
"You're late, Mr. Delante." The knight showed a displeased expression. "Were you delayed in so mistress's bed? This isn't the Middle Ages anymore. Your reputation makes us lose face..."
"Sorry, I an, sorry." Cyren smiled embarrassedly and patted the knight's shoulder.
The knight's expression froze, then his deanor relaxed considerably. This was the first ti he'd seen a bishop apologize to a guard captain. But supposedly this Bishop Delante was notoriously arrogant and looked down on servants.
Cyren placed his luggage in the compartnt, watching the knight's precise steps, even grasping the door handle exactly in the center between two welding points.
"You haven't told your na yet, Sir Knight," he said with a smile, glancing at the station clock. "Don't worry. This train will cross 0.025° longitude eastward to Spessay, arriving exactly 6 seconds early."
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