The Divine Armor of the Old Century（Book 1）

Chapter 114

The cold air was thick with the sense of history, a lingering mustiness that seemed to seep into the very stones. As his hand brushed the icy wall, Honar moved slowly forward, finally seating himself on a worn bench.

He felt an overwhelming exhaustion, the kind that made him wish he could sleep and never wake. Yet he knew too well there were many tasks left unfinished. With great effort, he lifted his head, and a cascade of colored light bathed his face.

Following the direction of the light, he saw a warm, multicolored mosaic. Scenes from mythology were depicted in large stained glass windows, though they were covered in a fine layer of dust. Saint Mary's Cathedral had long been abandoned, the influence of the Evangelical Church in Inlverig steadily waning. Nowadays, few remembered the church's name; they simply called it the White Chapel due to its pristine appearance.

Honar stared into the sunlight for a long time, until the glare turned his vision into a painful white. Tears escaped the corners of his eyes, and only then did he turn his head, breathing calmly and savoring the tranquility.

He was from the lower district. Childhood for Honar was a distant, blurry memory. By the time his clear memories began, he was already scraping by on the streets of Old Dunlin. Unfortunately, the harsh environment hadn't honed his ability to read people; instead, it had made him more withdrawn.

Later, Honar learned the craft of repair from an old master and became one of the countless repairmen in Old Dunlin. The city needed people like him; its steam pipes and machinery wove through every corner, constantly breaking down and in need of immediate repair.

This unassuming repairman had never been to school. In his worldview, he didn't even understand what faith was, but he didn't care. He liked it here. In between jobs, he would come to this place, the only spot where he could escape the cacophony of machinery.

The rare peace didn't last long. A man entered through the cathedral's large doors, approaching Honar with a familiar smile as if he knew him well.

"Master Lawrence."

Honar raised his head stiffly, his gaze vacant as if his soul had long since disappeared into the darkness of his pupils.

Lawrence nodded and sat beside him, his demeanor as gentle as the light flooding the church.

"You look like you're about to lose control."

Honar's condition was poor. Although he maintained a human form, Lawrence knew the wicked blood was rampaging through his body.

Honar nodded, his movements as stiff as his personality.

"Is that why you've come this time? To seek my help?"

Honar nodded again.

"I'm almost there. I just need one more person, my master."

For a moment, emotion touched Honar's usually monotonous voice, almost as if he were smiling, his tone rising and falling.

"My justice is almost achieved, almost."

"But gifts come with a price, child. You've already asked too much."

Lawrence shook his head, troubled. But Honar quickly replied.

"Then take everything. Whatever you want, I'll give it to you. I'll dedicate myself to your god."

Honar's thick hand grabbed Lawrence's clothes, his eyes resolute and urgent.

Lawrence looked at him helplessly, then sighed deeply.

"Yes, child, you are about to succeed."

Lawrence spoke softly, then injected a potion into Honar's body. The liquid coursed through his veins, and Honar's tense body gradually relaxed as the raging beast within him was lulled back to sleep.