The Hidden Monster of House Vale

Chapter 73: Chapter - 73 - The Divine Origin Key

Lucien reached into his void and withdrew a key. It was the size of his hand, completely golden, with pearls embedded along its length—a treasure that seemed to hum with ancient power.

Before Lucien could speak, Callista’s eyes went wide with recognition.

”Divine Origin Key?” she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper.

”You know it?” Lucien asked, curiosity flickering in his gaze.

”Yes. I read about this key in divine texts.” Her fingers twitched as if longing to touch it. ”Why do you have it?”

”I found it in the Ancient Breach.” Lucien turned the key over in his palm, studying its intricate craftsmanship. ”But I had no idea what it truly was. I knew it was some divine artifact, something connected to the Church—but the specifics eluded me.”

Callista’s expression grew solemn, her voice dropping to an almost reverent hush. ”This Divine Origin Key is said to be the passage to the Heavenly Realm. For us, the Heavenly Realm has always existed only in fantasy—mere myth and legend. No one has ever encountered anyone from that realm, and no one has ever discovered a path to cross into it.”

Lucien’s mind immediately drifted to Zarah. She had been from the Demonic Realm but had lived most of her life in the Heavenly Realm. The memory of her presence—the sheer weight of her power—sent a chill down his spine.

So this key is a path to reach the Heavenly Realm... His thoughts churned like storm-tossed seas. But knowing how formidable Zarah was, I should focus on my cultivation before I venture into other realms. My goal should be to first conquer this Human Realm... and yet...

His gaze lingered on the golden key, fascination warring with caution.

”If you seek more information,” Callista continued, breaking through his reverie, ”you should speak with the High Saintess. She knows far more than I do.”

Oh... interesting... A slow smile crept across Lucien’s face.

”How can I meet the High Saintess?” he asked, his voice warm and honeyed, the smile on his lips utterly disarming.

At the Astral Academy, the disciples trickled out from the Trial of the Ancient Guardian in various states of disrepair. Some bore grievous wounds—deep gashes that wept blood, limbs bent at unnatural angles. Others sported only minor injuries, superficial cuts and bruises that would heal within days. None of it truly mattered, though; the Realm Master would arrive soon to heal every disciple, regardless of their affliction.

Celbeth emerged from one gate first, her expression utterly bored, as if she had just finished a particularly dull chore rather than a grueling trial. Evelyn followed shortly after from the adjacent gate, her movements fluid and unhurried.

”Well, it seems you completed as well,” Celbeth observed, stifling a yawn. ”I expected you to come out sooner.”

”I would have,” Evelyn replied, her voice cool as winter frost. ”But I was teaching a lesson to a rat.” Her gaze drifted pointedly toward a disciple from her team—a young man who flinched violently under her attention, his face draining of color.

”What about you, Miss Celbeth?” Evelyn asked, tilting her head. ”Why were you late?”

”I got caught up with a few retarded individuals,” Celbeth said, yawning again with theatrical disinterest.

”Were they from your team?”

”Yes.” Celbeth’s lips curved into a predatory smile. ”What about you? What kept you so long?”

”I got caught up with a retarded as well...” Evelyn’s smile turned sharp, dangerous. ”...but I don’t think they’ll get in my way again.”

Behind both women, their randomly assigned teams huddled together like frightened sheep. They watched the two young prodigies with barely concealed terror, their faces pale and expressions haunted.

Behind Evelyn, Merrick’s face was a mask of absolute horror—as if he had witnessed the most terrifying thing imaginable. His hands trembled at his sides, and he seemed unable to meet anyone’s gaze.

Evelyn turned slowly, her eyes finding him. ”So, Merrick,” she said, her voice dripping with casual indifference, ”it seems I have to go now. Be prepared for the rest of the year.”

The threat hung in the air like a blade suspended by a thread.

Behind Celbeth, Sable and her fiancé Wren stood frozen in mutual terror. Wren’s face was a sickly shade of pale, and he seemed to still taste the leather of Celbeth’s shoe on his tongue—a memory he would never forget. The only genuinely happy person was Una, who bounced on her heels with unbridled enthusiasm.

Evelyn and Celbeth walked side by side, their conversation carrying in hushed tones as they distanced themselves from their terrified groups.

”Who was that?” Celbeth asked, curiosity flickering in her bored gaze.

”The one I told you about,” Evelyn replied.

”Oh... that’s interesting.” Celbeth’s smile widened. ”Let’s go ask about our ranks.”

The instructor responsible for recording the trial’s events was Nerissa Grim—a stern-faced woman with eyes that missed nothing. She stood behind her desk, quill in hand, meticulously documenting the results.

Celbeth and Evelyn approached with measured steps.

”So, what’s my rank, Instructor?” Celbeth asked, her voice carrying that same bored nonchalance.

”You are second,” Nerissa replied flatly. ”And your friend here is third.”

”And who is first?” Celbeth asked, though a knowing smirk already played on her lips.

”It was Lucien Vale.” Nerissa’s expression remained impassive. ”He came out first and left long ago.”

”That fucker never waits for anyone,” Celbeth muttered, shaking her head. ”Where did he go?”

”He was escorted by royal soldiers,” Nerissa said.

”Ah.” Celbeth nodded as if she had expected precisely this. ”It’s already happened, then. I thought they would wait longer.”

Her tone suggested she had known about this eventuality all along.

Somewhere in Valtheria, a colossal cathedral dominated the landscape. It rose from the earth like a mountain carved by divine hands—majestic pillars supporting its immense weight, a giant clock embedded in its exterior serving as a constant reminder that time in this realm was finite. The clock’s hands moved with inexorable purpose, a memento mori for all who gazed upon it, yet also a symbol of hope—a promise of salvation for those deemed worthy.

A few kilometers away, a humble village nestled in the shadow of that grandeur. Within the village stood a small church, shabby and unassuming compared to the cathedral’s magnificence. From this vantage point, one could easily see the cathedral and immediately grasp the stark contrast—the towering monument to divine authority and the modest sanctuary built by mortal hands.

This church was not affiliated with the cathedral. It had been constructed by a woman—a village priestess who had dedicated her life to helping the villagers in any way she could. With her own effort and the assistance of the community, she had built this humble place of worship.

But now, the village’s situation was dire.

A plague had swept through the population, infecting mortals with diseases they didn’t understand. They had no realm masters to heal them, no cultivation to protect them from illness. They were poor, vulnerable, and desperate.

Xandra, the village priestess, wore a long skirt that covered her legs completely, paired with a brown leather robe that didn’t fully conceal her form. Her clothes weren’t dirty or poor—not by normal standards—but compared to the nobles who might visit the cathedral, they appeared shabby and worn. Her brown hair fell in gentle waves around her fair-skinned face, and her eyes—though filled with hope even in the darkest moments—presently betrayed her exhaustion.

”Verek, take care of the village chief,” Xandra instructed, her voice weary but determined. ”I’m going to visit the other houses now.”

She had been trying to cure the plague-stricken villagers for weeks now, pouring her healing skills into every afflicted person she could reach. But her efforts only provided temporary relief—a fleeting respite before the illness returned with renewed vigor.

She had begged the cathedral for aid. They had refused.

Healing skills, they explained, were expensive. They couldn’t simply heal anyone who asked; recipients needed to be worthy. A village full of mortals did not qualify.

Xandra remembered her childhood dream with painful clarity. A priestess had once visited this village and helped countless people, inspiring Xandra so deeply that she had dedicated her life to becoming a priestess herself. She had studied relentlessly, teaching herself as much as she could. The cathedral had even accepted her—but there was a condition. She would have to sever all contact with the village forever.

She had refused.

”What should we do, Xandra?” a villager asked, his voice cracking with fear. ”The plague keeps getting worse.”

”Don’t worry,” Xandra assured him, forcing warmth into her voice. ”I’ll think of something.”

She always carried her burden alone. The villagers didn’t realize that casting healing skills—even for a realm master in the cultivation world—wasn’t an infinite resource. Each spell drained her mind and body, leaving her weaker with every effort.

”Xandra,” Verek said gently, stepping closer. He was a young man with earnest eyes and a heart full of devotion—though she remained oblivious to the nature of that devotion. ”You don’t have to carry this alone. We’ll figure something out together.”

Verek had loved Xandra since childhood. He had helped her build the small church, supported her dreams, and remained by her side through every trial. Xandra, however, saw only a loyal friend who shared her love for the village.

”Don’t worry, Verek,” she said, patting his arm. ”Tomorrow, I’ll visit the cathedral again.”

”But last time...” Verek’s brow furrowed with concern. ”They insulted you. They said the village was a dark spot for the cathedral and refused to send any help. Are you sure they’ll assist us now?”

”I-I don’t know.” Xandra’s voice faltered for just a moment before steel returned to it. ”But it’s my only hope. I can’t cure them myself, and I can’t abandon people to die. Even if I have to beg, I’ll do whatever it takes for my village.”

Fire blazed in her eyes—a righteous flame that refused to be extinguished.

”I’m coming with you,” Verek declared firmly. ”I don’t trust those cathedral people.”

”Perhaps it would be better if I went alone?” Xandra suggested gently.

”No.” Verek shook his head, his jaw set with determination. ”I won’t agree to that. Please, Xandra. Let me come with you.”

It seems I can’t convince her to leave this village, Verek thought, his heart heavy. We could just leave this place and start anew somewhere else—live happily together. But she’s so fixated on saving this village. If we don’t leave soon, the plague will catch us too...

”Are you thinking about something, Verek?” Xandra asked, noticing his distant expression.

”No, nothing important.” He forced a smile. ”Oh, I almost forgot—I heard that some noble might be visiting the cathedral tomorrow.”

Xandra’s expression soured. ”Oh... I really hate nobles.”

Her voice carried the weight of bitter experience—nobles had never shown kindness to her village, only contempt and indifference. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, and she would face them as she always did: alone, exhausted, and unwavering in her faith.