Chapter 48

That was enough.

He didn’t mind if the commission was unconventional, so long as the one behind it was genuine. Everything else, he could handle. After all, intent mattered more than presentation.

After a night of deep, dreamless sleep in a bed that felt like sleeping on clouds, Curtis  awoke refreshed. The morning sun gleamed through silk curtains. He enjoyed a sumptuous breakfast provided by the inn—eggs soft as clouds, fresh bread, herb butter, wild berries—before setting off.

Today, he had a destination in mind: the Church.

The Church in this world was nothing like the solemn cathedrals of Earth. It wasn’t just a place of prayer. It was an institution—a chaotic nexus where the roles of city hall, hospital, orphanage, cemetery, and sanctuary merged.

Weddings were held here. Funerals. Healing rites. Adoption. Feeding the hungry. Counseling the hopeless.
They did everything.

And in a world ruled not by empires but by city-states, the Church was the only truly global organization.

That didn’t mean it was unified—far from it. But its tendrils reached every city, and its authority could crush minor noble houses with a single decree.

Especially in a place like Abaca, where death and injury from the frontier poured in daily, the Church reigned supreme.

As Curtis  arrived, he stared at the structure before him.

It wasn’t a chapel.

It was a monument—a sprawling compound of marble halls, golden spires, and towering glass mosaics depicting saints and miracles. It looked more like a palace than a place of prayer.

The clerk at the guild had said, “Just go to the church. She’s there.” But standing now before this labyrinth of sacred corridors, he realized: he had no idea where to start.

There were no guards. People flowed in and out freely—pilgrims, beggars, widows, scribes, and healers. It was open, alive, overwhelming.

Curtis  stood awkwardly, scanning the crowd for guidance.

That’s when he saw her.

Jenny.

The same priestess who had scolded Lilia the day before. She was walking briskly across the courtyard, robes swaying, her eyes set on some unseen goal.

“Excuse me!”

Curtis  jogged after her, calling out.

She paused, turned, and blinked at him. Then recognition dawned.

“You’re the mage from yesterday. The one Lilia approached at the guild.”

“Correct. Apologies for the intrusion—but could you tell me where to find Lady Lilia?”

“Is this about the commission?”

“Yes.”

The moment Lilia’s name passed his lips, Jenny’s expression tightened. She sighed.

“I warned you yesterday: read the details carefully before you decide.”

“I did. And I’ve decided to speak with her directly before making my choice.”

Jenny narrowed her eyes for a moment. Then she shook her head with a sigh that was half amusement, half resignation.

“You’re the first to come back after reading the whole thing. Most vanish and never return.”

She turned.

“Come. I’ll take you to her.”

“A Trial of Healing, A Glimmer of Steel”

“Thank you,” Curtis  murmured as he bowed respectfully, falling into step behind Jenny.

Though the church grounds stretched vast as a noble’s estate, their pace did not falter; she knew the way well. Soon, they reached a spacious courtyard, modestly adorned but orderly and clean—functional, not ceremonial.

Three large tents stood arranged at one end, their front flaps tied half-open to let in the light. Inside, Curtis  glimpsed desks, chairs, and the flowing silhouettes of white and gray robes—clergy and monastics at work.

People stood in line, one by one entering and exiting the tents, their gaits uneven, some leaning on canes or clutching at ribs. It did not take Curtis  long to discern what this place was.

“A field clinic,” he said softly.

The wounded came here to be seen. Clerics took the roles of doctors, while the gray-robed monastics assisted—nurses, workers, guardians of the sacred grounds.

Jenny nodded, scanning the tents.

“Indeed. Sister Lilia has been volunteering here since early morning.”

“Volunteering?”

“No one assigned her. She simply appeared, rolled up her sleeves, and got to work. That’s how she is. Ah, there she is now—go on.”

Jenny gestured to the rightmost tent.

Curtis  thanked her and stepped toward it just as a patient emerged, blinking against the sun. From within, a clear voice rang out, bright and sincere:

“Next patient, please!”

Curtis  and the man passed each other at the tent’s threshold. The moment Curtis  stepped inside, he found himself in a simple makeshift infirmary with three occupants.

One monastic stood attentively nearby, hands clasped. Another cleric sat nervously in the corner—fidgeting, awkward, looking thoroughly out of place.

That one probably had the seat taken right out from under him, Curtis  guessed.

And then there was Lilia.

“Oh! You’re the brother from yesterday!”

She lit up like a rising sun, radiant with recognition. Curtis  returned her smile with polite formality.

“A good morning to you.”

“And to you, Brother! Are you feeling unwell? What brings you here?”

“Not here for healing. I came to speak about your commission—”

“You’re thinking of accepting it?!”

She sprang to her feet before he could finish, eyes glimmering so brightly it seemed they might shoot light.

But before he could reply, a gruff hand slapped down on his shoulder.

“Hey now,” rumbled a rough voice behind him. “You can’t just cut the line like that, pal. It’s my turn next.”

Curtis  turned to find a broad-shouldered man with the face of a veteran brawler. Before the situation could escalate, the monastic stepped forward, lips parted to intervene.

But Lilia beat him to it, calm and gentle.

“Oh, this gentleman isn’t a patient. He just stopped by to talk. Could you wait just a moment longer, please?”

Her voice, though soft, carried the unmistakable weight of authority. The man scowled but relented, pulling his hand back and glaring daggers at Curtis .

Curtis  let it go. The misunderstanding was irritating, but not unreasonable. And Lilia had diffused it quickly.

Once the tension passed, she turned her attention to the man.

“Now then, Brother. What’s troubling you today?”

“It’s my back,” he muttered. “Been aching when I swing a blade.”

“Any recent injuries? Blades, arrows, magic wounds? Maybe an aberration attack?”

“Uhh… not really. Just sore, I guess…”

“Alright then. Please remove your armor and lie on the table, face down.”

The man obeyed, lifting his shirt. Lilia leaned in, her hands glowing with soft, pure white light—the signature hue of divine healing. Her fingers pressed along his spine.

“Let me know if it hurts,” she said cheerfully.

“Oof! Ugh! Ow!”

Each time she pressed, he grunted and groaned with exaggerated wails.