Lucien de Valois.
The name echoed once through Fan Zhuo’s mind, but there was no information related to it in his memory.
Yet, that was irrelevant.
What mattered was the other party’s identity—the Heresy Inquisition.
This was a special department within the Holy Papacy, even more troublesome than tax officials, wielding power that was barely restrained by any authority.
Their sole duty: to judge and purify all “heretics.”
However, the definition of “heretic” was entirely up to them.
“Taking over Zones B and C?”
Old John sobered up halfway from his drunken state, forcing a smile on his chubby face that was uglier than crying.
“My lord, you… you must be joking? This is the Warden’s jurisdiction. Even if you’re from the Inquisition, you still need a formal Judgment Edict from the Papal Hall and the joint council of wardens to…”
“Judgment Edict?”
Lucien leisurely pulled a scroll from his bosom, stamped with the blazing Holy Sword and scales insignia.
“This is the Judgment Edict.”
He didn’t even unfold it—just gave it a slight shake.
An overwhelming holy pressure, as if capable of burning one’s very soul, immediately forced Old John and the surrounding guards to step back in unison, their faces draining pale as paper.
Such domineering Holy Power.
This force was pure, sharp, and filled with an undeniable sense of judgment, completely unlike the gentle and life-infused Holy Power that Fan Zhuo possessed.
It was like a surgical blade forged to perfection, existing solely to cut away and remove all “diseases.”
A chill ran through Fan Zhuo’s heart.
Old John completely lost his temper. He recognized that purple-gold scroll—it was the highest-level Silent Secret Order within the Inquisition, granting its bearer the power to act first and report later.
Any unauthorized disclosure of its contents to outsiders would result in immediate purification by Holy Power.
No wonder… no wonder they could storm into the prison without prior notice.
“Assistant Warden of Zone C, Fan Zhuo.”
At that moment, Lucien’s icy blue eyes landed precisely on Fan Zhuo.
His gaze was like a spotlight, sweeping inch by inch over Fan Zhuo’s body, as if trying to see right through him—from soul to flesh.
Yet Fan Zhuo’s heart remained utterly calm, even feeling a bit sleepy.
He hadn’t done anything wrong, so naturally, he had every right to be confident.
Even if… he had some beneficial intimate contact with the adorable monster girls, that could easily be brushed off as “Holy Light healing” and “academic research.”
Just healing, not training…
To Fan Zhuo’s surprise, Lucien’s pressure—enough to make ordinary priests kneel in confession—did not cause him any discomfort.
That sharp, knife-like Holy Power, the moment it touched his body, quietly melted away like an ice shard dropped into warm spring water.
No, more accurately, it was gently assimilated by the lively, sweet-scented Holy Power within him—just recently “transformed” from Alfea.
“Hm?”
For the first time, a subtle flicker appeared on Lucien’s flawless face.
A hint of surprise flashed in his azure eyes, as if he hadn’t expected his divine pressure to be completely ineffective against a nameless exiled assistant.
He increased the intensity of his pressure again.
This time, Fan Zhuo even felt that the Holy Power carried a unique mental shock peculiar to the Inquisition, capable of stirring the deepest layers of guilt within a person’s soul.
However… still no effect.
The Holy Power inside Fan Zhuo was like a vast, warm ocean—no matter how sharp the stones the other side threw in, they would only be gently enveloped and swallowed without stirring even the slightest ripple.
After all, this was a spiritual pressure, not a real fight.
Fan Zhuo maintained a respectful and holy expression on the surface, but inside, he was quietly delighted.
So this is what enhanced Holy Power feels like? Love it, love it.
“Your Holy Light… is quite unique.”
Lucien finally withdrew his pressure, his voice still cold but tinged with curiosity.
He sensed that although Fan Zhuo’s total amount of Holy Light was far less than his, its “texture” was somewhat unusual.
Orthodox Holy Light was pure, solemn, and orderly.
But Fan Zhuo’s Holy Light carried a kind of… vitality that Lucien had never felt before.
It was like a brilliant wildflower suddenly sprouting in a sterile, spotless laboratory.
Illogical.
But it was indeed happening to Fan Zhuo.
This guy…
“Blessed by the Lord, and well taught by my mentor,” Fan Zhuo bowed slightly, skillfully attributing everything to his cheap mentor, Mentor Nolan the Sage.
After all, that sage was under house arrest in the Holy City—you couldn’t very well rush back to question him face-to-face now, could you?
Lucien snorted coldly, unconvinced by such a perfunctory excuse.
He ignored Fan Zhuo and shifted his gaze toward the depths of the corridor.
“I’ve received confidential reports that this prison has recently experienced extremely abnormal energy fluctuations,” his voice echoed down the hallway, carrying an unmistakable tone of command.
“That energy is filthy, chaotic, reeking of the Abyss’s stench, yet also carries a… twisted order. It is a high-level sign of ‘heresy.’”
“John Smith, Warden,” Lucien glanced sideways at Old John, who was sweating profusely,
“Now, show me in person exactly what you have locked up here.”
Abnormal energy fluctuations? Filthy and chaotic?
Fan Zhuo’s first thought was himself? But “filthy” and “chaotic” didn’t match Alfea or him at all.
Alfea’s energy, though wild, was pure life essence—exceptionally clean.
Old John’s chubby face creased further with worry but he still gritted his teeth and led the way.
You couldn’t afford to offend the Inquisition.
Especially someone like Lucien, clearly born noble and destined for greatness, the cream of the crop.
The corridor was filled with a long-standing mix of rust and dampness, causing Lucien’s perfectly arched eyebrows to furrow ever so slightly without leaving a trace.
He walked steadily, but his steps carried a deliberate lightness, as if afraid his precious boots would touch something unclean.
Fan Zhuo, walking behind, keenly caught that detail.
This guy… has OCD?
Soon, the group arrived before cell C-07.
“This is it,” Old John pointed at the heavy alloy door, his voice dry, “The strongest energy fluctuations recently have been from the containment here… Slime Queen Alfea.”
Lucien said nothing, just lifted his chin slightly.
Two Judgment Knights behind him immediately stepped forward, one aiming a complex compass-like device at the cell door.
“My lord, the energy peak is confirmed here. Chaos level: Grade B. But activity is extremely high and fluctuating violently.”
“Open it.” Lucien’s tone was utterly calm.
Old John trembled as he pulled out the key card and swiped it on the gate.
“Ssshh—”
The heavy alloy door slowly slid open.
What lay beyond made everyone except Fan Zhuo instinctively step back half a pace.
No charming pink-haired girl.
Inside was a massive, more than three meters in diameter, constantly writhing mass of pink gel-like substance.
It was like a pot of boiling, viscous porridge, wildly slapping the walls and floor, emitting disgusting “splatter, splatter” sounds.
Chunks of slime were flung against the walls, slowly sliding down and leaving sticky trails.
The entire room was filled with a sour-sweet, fishy stench.
“Ugh…” A young guard immediately lost his composure, covering his mouth and running to the side to retch.
Even Old John wore a face of disgust and confusion.
What happened? It was fine just a moment ago—why has it suddenly turned back into this mess?
Lucien’s handsome face showed the first clear and unhidden expression of disgust.
He looked as if he was staring at a pile of rotting garbage, his blue eyes brimming with cold contempt.
“This is what you call ‘abnormal’?” Lucien sneered, his tone dripping with disdain, “It’s just a low-level chaotic creature out of control. Such filth doesn’t even qualify as ‘heresy.’”
Lucien didn’t even want to step into the cell, standing at the entrance instead, forming an invisible barrier of Holy Light in front of himself to block that offensive smell.
Fan Zhuo looked at the frantically swirling pink slime, his heart suddenly clear.
In his eyes, he could clearly see that at the core of that raging energy, there was a faint, lucid consciousness maintaining this “out-of-control” state.
Amid the chaotic splattering, a small drop happened to fall on Fan Zhuo’s boot.
At that instant, a weak thought, tinged with grievance and a hint of seeking credit, entered his mind.
【Fan Zhuo… did I do well?】