Three days later, Ayanokoji found himself standing before the Royal Archives—a massive stone building in the heart of the capital, its walls lined with shelves that stretched from floor to ceiling, filled with documents that dated back centuries.
He had been granted access, as promised, but with restrictions.
He could only view documents related to the Witch’s Cult, and he was accompanied by a supervisor—a stern-faced scholar named Magda, who watched him with the wary suspicion of someone who had been told to guard a dangerous prisoner.
“You have two hours,” Magda said, her voice flat.
“You may examine documents in this section only.
No removing items from the room.
No writing materials.
No contact with other scholars.”
“Understood.”
Ayanokoji moved through the shelves with practiced efficiency, scanning titles and dates.
The documents were organized chronologically, with the oldest records—from the era of the Witch’s War—kept in special climate-controlled cases.
He found what he was looking for within twenty minutes: a leather-bound volume titled “Chronicles of the Fall: The Witch’s Cult and Its Origins.”
He opened it carefully, his eyes scanning the yellowed pages.
The text was dense, written in an archaic version of the common script, but he had studied enough old documents to decipher it.
The Cult had been founded in the aftermath of the Witch’s defeat, by a group of fanatics who refused to accept her imprisonment.
They believed that she had been betrayed—that she had been a force for good, unjustly sealed away by those who feared her power.
Standard fanatic rhetoric, Ayanokoji thought.
Nothing new there.
But as he read deeper, he found something interesting.
The original Cult had been organized around seven Archbishops, each representing one of the deadly sins.
These Archbishops had been given a portion of the Witch’s power—a gift that allowed them to command Mabeasts and manipulate the Witch’s miasma.
The Archbishops are more than just leaders, Ayanokoji realized.
They’re living conduits for the Witch’s power.
As long as they exist, the Cult can continue its work.
He read on, searching for information about the Archbishops’ fates.
The records were incomplete, but a pattern emerged.
The Archbishops could be killed—permanently—under specific circumstances.
Their power, however, did not die with them.
Instead, it transferred to new vessels.
Kill one, and another takes their place.
That’s why the Cult has survived for so long—as long as the Witch’s power exists, the Cult will continue to exist.
It was a troubling revelation.
Defeating the Cult wasn’t just a matter of killing their leaders—it meant finding a way to sever their connection to the Witch’s power entirely.
He continued reading, looking for clues about the Witch’s power and how it might be countered.
The text mentioned ancient wards and seals, magical constructs that could contain and neutralize the Witch’s influence.
There were artifacts created during the Witch’s War, he read.
Sacred relics designed to counteract her power.
Most were lost or destroyed, but some may still exist, hidden in places where the Cult cannot reach them.
The two hours passed quickly.
Magda announced the end of his session with obvious relief, and Ayanokoji was escorted out.
As he walked back to the mansion, his mind was racing.
The Witch’s power was the key—to defeating the Cult, to understanding the Selection, perhaps even to understanding why he had been brought to this world.
I need to find those artifacts, he decided.
They’re the only way to permanently neutralize the Cult’s threat.
But where to begin?
The documents had mentioned several possible locations, but most were vague or contradictory.
Only one name had appeared repeatedly—the Sanctuary.
“Not the Sanctuary,” Puck said flatly.
They were in the library, gathered around a table.
Ayanokoji had shared his findings with Emilia, Rem, and Puck, expecting them to understand the importance of his discovery.
“The Sanctuary is dangerous,” Puck continued.
“Even I don’t know what’s in there.
It’s protected by ancient magic—the most powerful wards in existence.
Anyone who enters might not come back.”
“The artifacts are likely there, protected by the wards.
If we can find a way to break through—”
“We can’t.” Puck’s voice was firm.
“The Sanctuary wasn’t built to be entered.
It was built to contain something—something the Witch herself was afraid of.”
A chill ran down Ayanokoji’s spine.
“What could scare the Witch of Envy?”
“I don’t know.
And I don’t want to find out.”
Emilia, who had been listening quietly, spoke up.
“If there are artifacts that could help us, we should try to get them.
But I agree with Puck—the Sanctuary is too dangerous.
We need another way.”
Ayanokoji nodded slowly.
He didn’t like it, but he understood the logic.
The Sanctuary was a potential solution, but it was also a potential death sentence.
“Fine.
We’ll look for another way.
But we can’t ignore the possibility that the Cult is also searching for these artifacts.
If they find them first—”
“They won’t,” Rem said confidently.
“The Cult has been looking for centuries.
If they could have reached the Sanctuary, they would have done it already.”
“Then we have time.
But not much.”
Ayanokoji stood, his mind already moving to the next phase of his plan.
The archives had given him valuable information, but there was still much he didn’t know—about the Cult, about the artifacts, about the Selection itself.
The game was becoming more complex by the day.
And Ayanokoji was determined to stay ahead.