Reborn As a Pirate - Chapter 166

Chapter 166: Day Of The Plenty Stars!
“Hope everything is fine…” Freni whispered into the wind, her voice carrying a mix of hope and concern.

Then, turning to Cecilia, she announced, “Let’s go to Santos City.”

Cecilia, ever the silent guardian, nodded and followed Freni, her steps matching the rhythmic crash of the waves as they set off toward the bustling cityscape of Santos.

Meanwhile as the swirling gray mist dissipated, Ryan slowly opened his eyes. Instead of the anticipated grandeur of the “Overthrow Tample,” he found himself in a cave dimly lit by torches affixed to the stone walls, their flickering flames casting long shadows across the rough surfaces.

Beneath him, the light from a large gray teleportation array dimmed into obscurity. Ryan stood composed, his expression unreadable, as the [No. 7] overturned mask reverted to its customary purple hue.

Around him, others had also materialized via the array. Present were No. 4 Green Tide, No. 5 Cyan River, and No. 6 Blue Mountain. The last to arrive was No. 3 Yellow Sand. Ryan’s gaze paused on Yellow Sand a moment longer than the others.

Their initial encounter in the “Temple of Overturning” had left a deep impression on Ryan. Back then, the temple’s chaotic energies had muddied his senses, but now, standing before Yellow Sand, Ryan could fully appreciate the depth and containment of his spirituality, a prowess that surpassed ordinary third-level hero professionals. Ryan speculated internally whether Yellow Ice was touching the cusp of the third limit or had already breached the fourth level. Such strength was rare; only the blood witch Selina had achieved the fourth level, her powers almost mythic in their reach.

Across the array, Ryan’s eyes finally rested on a figure who appeared nearly ethereal, her body translucent and composed of water. It was the Water Drop Princess. The lack of a real body meant no prompts appeared on Ryan’s panel, a minor frustration for him as it meant missing out on potentially valuable information.

With a resigned sigh, Ryan kept his thoughts to himself as the Water Drop Princess, made entirely of liquid, addressed the group softly. “Everyone, in accordance with the agreement with your hall master, I will lead you to the Saint Phile Underground Rift,” she announced. Her voice, though gentle, carried a commanding undertone. “Please follow closely. The secret passage is labyrinthine, fraught with disruption spell. A single misstep could see you lost, beyond even my capacity to retrieve.”

Turning on her heel, Princess Droplet began to lead the way, her form shimmering subtly in the torchlight. The group exchanged wary glances but followed without a word.

The passage wound on, oppressive in its gloom. To combat the darkness, the Water Drop Princess conjured a globe of water that glowed softly in her hand, scattering shadows before them.

True to her warning, the route was fraught with divergences. Every few steps, the path forked, and each exit seemed to branch into several others. Without knowledge of the correct route, navigating the twists and turns to the Saint Phile underground rift would be an impossible task.

Ryan lingered at the rear of the group, his eyes occasionally catching the silhouette of Cyan River moving gracefully ahead. He was intrigued, how had this enigmatic assassin come to know of the third path leading directly to their goal?

After what felt like an eternity in the murky depths, a hint of light finally pierced the darkness ahead. Energized by the promise of reaching their destination, the group quickened their pace, each step echoing slightly louder against the stone as they moved towards the emerging brightness.

As Ryan and his companions navigated the shadowy “secret passage” toward the Saint Phile underground rift, the central area of Santos City was alive with anticipation and crowded energy. Near the main hall of the Libra Temple, a sea of people had gathered for the annual “Day of Abundant Stars” celebration.

This day was not just a testament to the Libra Holy Cult’s influence over the outlying islands but also a critical moment for reinforcing the seal on the underground labyrinth’s entrance, a fact unbeknownst to the laypeople below.

For the common folk, the “sacred ceremony” was a break from the monotony of daily life, a spectacle ripe with excitement and communal festivity. It was one of those rare days filled with vibrant activity, drawing everyone from the city and surrounding areas to partake in the events.

Central to the day’s proceedings was the “trial” held under the auspices of the “sacred scales.” Here, disputing parties would place their symbolic ‘weights’ on the scales, and the divine balance would declare a victor. The loser would make reparations, while the winner claimed their desired prize from the defeated. This event invariably involved prominent figures, and the drama of watching once-powerful individuals face their fate was a thrilling spectacle for the gathered masses.

As the clock neared noon, the air thick with anticipation, the massive doors of the Holy Church Hall creaked open. An old figure emerged, slowly making his way along the red carpet that led from the gate to the platform. His hair and beard were white as snow, and he wore a crown that shimmered with the symbol of supreme divine authority. In his hand, he held a scepter that seemed to channel the silent reverence of the crowd.

Despite his age, there was a vitality in his eyes, a sharpness that belied his frail appearance, enveloped by a faint golden aura that emanated from his ornate robes.

This was Pope Saint Berg Cavendish, the revered leader of the Libra Church.

At his appearance, the bustling square hushed almost instantly. Heads bowed in deference, even among the hidden ranks of professional pirates and adventurers with less than holy intentions. They knew all too well the formidable presence of this ‘frail’ old man was not to be underestimated.

Their plans were simple: infiltrate the underground maze in search of treasure, not a direct confrontation with death.

The Pope surveyed the crowd with a serene expression before his voice, frail yet clear, carried across the square.

“It’s the annual ‘Day of Plenty’ again, time for our ‘Sacred Ceremony’. However, due to special circumstances, the ‘Sacred Libra’ cannot be utilized this year.”

His words resonated through the crowd, sparking immediate confusion and disbelief.

“Can’t open the ‘Sacred Scale’?”

“What a joke!”

“Might it be that even the gods encounter things beyond their control? If so, can they truly be considered gods?”

Murmurs swelled into a cacophony of skepticism and unrest, the populace wrestling with the implications of the Pope’s announcement. The ripples of discontent spread, setting the stage for a day unlike any other in the history of the Libra Temple’s celebrated ceremonies.

It isn’t merely a matter of the people on the outlying islands being overly sensitive or dramatic.

For decades, the revered “Sacred Ceremony” has been conducted annually, unfailingly, through storms and sunshine alike. Over time, this ritual has woven itself deeply into the fabric of life, symbolizing the presence of the “God of Libra” to the islanders. It became a cornerstone of their faith, a yearly reaffirmation of divine balance and justice.

Thus, when the “Holy Libra” failed to commence, it wasn’t just a simple disruption, it was the shattering of an image long held sacred. The once unassailable deity seemed vulnerable, and faith, so painstakingly nurtured, appeared brittle in its wake.

A hushed reverence fell over the crowd as a stern, authoritative voice cut through the murmurs.

“Silence!”

The command echoed from the grand platform where Pope Libra stood, his voice resonant and commanding, quelling the unrest with ease.

“Although the ‘Holy Scales’ remain sealed, we, as devout followers of our gods, must uphold their teachings, even in the absence of their luminous guidance,” he declared, his gaze sweeping across the gathered faithful.

“Today, we shall proceed with the ‘Judgment’ ceremony.”

“Traditionally, the subjects of this trial have been Marquis Winders and Count Emma. However, due to unforeseen circumstances, there has been a change,” Pope Libra announced, the weight of his words palpable in the tense air.

“Under the watchful eyes of the mighty God of Libra, we are gathered here to pass judgment upon a new defendant, the eldest daughter of the Iris Family from the Royal House of Saint Tos, Princess Ariel, known affectionately as the Water Drop Princess.”

“And it is I, Saint Berg Cavendish, Pope of the Holy Libra Church, who initiates this trial.”

As he spoke, a divine light cascaded down from the heights of the Holy Church Hall, Princess Ariel in its ethereal glow. Seated quietly among the audience near the platform, the princess bore the weight of all eyes upon her with a serene dignity.

Annually, during the “Sacred Ceremony” on the “Day of Plenty Stars,” the Royal Family of Santos would send emissaries to witness and endorse the proceedings. In recent years, it had always been the water drop princesses who held this honor.

At the culmination of the silence, with the congregation’s breath held in anticipation, Princess Ariel rose slowly to her feet, ready to face whatever judgment awaited her under the watchful gaze of gods and mortals alike.