Chapter 355: Occultism
“These commoners are like the vast and boundless earth, and each guild is like the roots buried deep within it, drawing nourishment and eventually growing into a great tree.” Corleon spoke as if in a chant.
As his words fell, a golden point of light floating in Oscar’s office extended eleven tendrils, like a seed sprouting its first roots.
It was as though Corleon was revealing to Oscar the deepest secrets of this world.
But Oscar was not pleased at all. He forced himself not to look at the sprouting seed and said, “What’s the point of you telling me all this? I can’t share any of it.”
“Isn’t this what you desired?” Corleon asked in surprise. “You’ve toiled so hard managing the monastery, and this is my reward to you — to unveil to you the truth of the world, the paths of its operation, even the distant future itself.”
Hearing this, Oscar became even angrier.
“I desired this knowledge because I wanted to analyze it and spread it to others — to reveal the truth of the world to humanity, not to hoard it for myself.” Oscar’s voice was full of irritation. “Now I know these things, but I can’t speak of them. Do you know how suffocating that is?”
He stood up, tearing at his hair like a madman. Strands of brown hair fluttered down.
“I’ve learned how to avoid lies, and I can still write words with a pen, but now… I don’t even know how to speak to people anymore, nor how to write.” He said hoarsely, “You haven’t even given me a rule to follow. Anything I learn from you that isn’t known by the world’s natural progress — I can’t pass on. Not through words, not through writing.”
“Do you know how painful it is, when I’m talking to those senior scholars or apprentices, and I instinctively want to use what you’ve told me to solve their doubts, only to have to abruptly shut my mouth?!”
His face flushed bright red. He didn’t care about embarrassment — he was used to being scolded by others outside.
At least, given his position, no one dared mock him to his face.
But being humiliated again and again — that was something even he couldn’t accept.
Seeing Oscar’s furious expression, Corleon said lightly, “Of course I know. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have told you these things.”
Oscar froze for a moment, then his rage flared even higher.
“You’re toying with me?!” he growled through clenched teeth.
Corleon smiled faintly. “As expected of the esteemed Dean Oscar — your wisdom is worthy of praise.”
Oscar proved one truth: when a person’s anger reached its limit with no outlet, they could do anything.
He immediately cast a spell, severing a portion of his soul imbued with his fury and shaping it into a small red glass bead.
“How pitiful you are.” Holding the bead, Oscar looked at Corleon. “There are no secrets in your eyes. You’ve already seen the future countless times. I suppose you’ve witnessed my current reaction countless times as well — torn between maintaining humanity and being consumed by divinity.”
“And you also want me to release my control over the bard apprentices, don’t you?”
Oscar’s gaze turned to the magic scribe.
“As long as I have this tool, and you do not intervene, those bards will never escape my control.”
“I use the magic scribe to transmit my will to them, and they spread my will to everyone else.”
“Following the path you told me — that the powerful ascend to godhood through faith — I can use the bards to control deities, construct ascension rituals, or even bring the gods back. Such is the strength of this power — the very power that can at any time shatter the firm yet fragile New Testament.”
Firm, because Corleon stood behind it.
Fragile, because without Corleon, even a single deity could overturn it.
“So the power of the bards must not fall into the hands of a single person,” Oscar declared with certainty.
Corleon said, “It seems you’ve begun studying the gods.”
Oscar replied with a hint of pride, “If it weren’t for your restrictions, I would’ve already tried creating a god.”
“How bold,” Corleon praised, then added, “But I’m merely telling you these things. As for the Bard Guild — even if I don’t intervene, you won’t be able to control them completely.”
“Just as you, upon learning of deities, began attempting to create one — once they know more, they too will start experimenting with new and curious things.”
“Knowledge carries a curse. That curse isn’t decreed by any god; rather, it lies in the knower’s nature — they cannot help but seek to verify what they learn. But verification often brings danger. Otherwise, it would merely be common sense, not knowledge.”
“And you, honorable Dean Oscar, your position has long separated you from the complexities of the outside world. You’ve been so consumed by the study of gods that you haven’t even grasped all the monastery’s accumulated knowledge. This curse of position has blinded you to human nature, leading you to believe that the bards — who have now learned too many secrets — would still obey you as they did when they were apprentices.”
“Remember, back when you became a scholar, you tried to avoid the scholar’s curse by studying magic and becoming a knight.”
As Corleon spoke, Oscar’s expression shifted constantly. His forehead grew hot as realization dawned upon him. He said, “It’s because training bards is easy, isn’t it?”
His voice was raspy, but resolute.
“Even in the barren lands of the North, they can still nurture bards, let alone in the prosperous Greenwood.” Oscar said coldly.
Then he looked at Corleon and added, “But I won’t give up this power so easily.”
“I cannot leave the Church’s domain. These bards are my eyes, and I will not hand over my eyes so readily.”
“Heh.” Corleon chuckled softly. He didn’t press the matter of the bards any further, and instead said, “The monastery must be divided.”
Oscar froze, his recovered composure faltering once again. He frowned. “How do you intend to divide it?”
Corleon continued, “Everyone shall be dismissed. From now on, the monastery will focus solely on theology.”
Oscar’s expression changed. “Dismiss everyone?”
“Yes,” Corleon said calmly. “The current monastery is no longer pure. Too many entanglements of interest gather here. Such things have no place beside the Clock Tower.”
Oscar’s face shifted through complex emotions before he finally asked, “This year’s apprentices were just enrolled. What will become of them?”
“I said divide, not dissolve,” Corleon explained. “Theology will remain, but the other disciplines will be relocated — a new academy will be established.”
“And who will be the dean of this new academy?” Oscar asked, though he already suspected the answer. Still, he clung to a faint hope.
“Naturally, Cicero,” Corleon replied. “His shovel is broken, his magical tools shattered — he’s now merely an ordinary Tier Four Knight. Rather than let him dig holes in the ground, it’s better to give him an academy to run.”
The red glass bead in Oscar’s hand shattered with a crack. His face flushed crimson with visible fury.
But soon, he once again sliced his soul, pulling out a larger red bead.
“And what about me?” Oscar asked flatly, forcing a smirk. “Should I take up the Holy Scriptures and teach the new students how to sing praises to the Lord’s greatness?”
“Of course not. Theology isn’t simply teaching scripture.” Corleon said calmly. “Or perhaps, if I call it Occultism, you’ll understand better.”
Oscar’s stiff expression eased instantly as he pondered the scope of the term.
“Annihilation, Original Sin, divinity, sacred relics, holy artifacts, ritual power — even heroic spirits,” Corleon said. “Everything invisible to humankind belongs to the realm of the occult.”
Oscar’s eyes lit up. This was precisely what fascinated him most.
But he quickly realized something and asked, “Aren’t these what the magi of the past studied?”
Corleon met his gaze. “Yes. And even more dangerously so after the dawn of the New Testament Era.”
“Magic is a gift granted by the world, which is why I permit the existence of magi.”
“Everything that exists in this world is what the world has chosen. Thus, I allow their existence.”
“But they belong to the Old Testament. Now that the New Testament Era has begun, their history must be remembered — but only remembered.”
“The magi of the Old Testament freely wielded the power of magic to dig into the mysteries of that age. That is what I do not permit.”
Oscar felt a suffocating weight. He already foresaw what Corleon would say next.
“So,” Corleon said, confirming his fear, “they must be erased — just as the Old Testament mysteries they sought.”
Oscar swallowed hard. His voice turned dry. “So… the monastery’s future task will be to eradicate magi?”
Corleon smiled faintly. “No need to panic. Although you, respected Dean Oscar, perfectly resemble an Old Testament magus, you have merit. And since I appointed you as dean, your study of past mysteries is permitted.”
Oscar suddenly understood — it meant he could learn but not recreate or reveal them. It was the same as his current torment: knowing countless mysteries but unable to speak of them.
He had truly experienced the curse of knowledge — after all, moments ago, he had nearly lost control and wanted to slap Corleon in the face.
To avoid such self-destruction, he had developed the magic of severing his soul to remove his anger.
Thus, he asked, “If the apprentices studying occultism were to walk the same path as the Old Testament magi?”
“What do you think?” Corleon asked with a smile.