Confrontation at the Cathedral

The day after I nuked the paperwork plague, the atmosphere in my office was… different. The usual chaotic rhythm of mismatched personalities was still there, but it was underpinned by a new and deeply uncomfortable current of respect. They had seen what I could do. They were all looking at me differently now.

Eliza, my auditor-turned-analyst, had stopped treating me like a lazy fraud and started treating me like an unpredictable, high-yield explosive device. Her questions were no longer about my work ethic but about my mana capacity, my cooldown times, and the theoretical limits of my power. She was trying to quantify me, to fit me into a box on her spreadsheet, and the fact that she couldn't was clearly driving her insane.

Edgar just looked at me with a permanent expression of wide-eyed terror, as if he expected me to accidentally vaporize him if he handed me the wrong form. Even Marie, during her brief visit, had lost some of her usual teasing edge, replaced by a look of sharp, calculating assessment.

My life was becoming increasingly difficult. It's hard to slack off properly when your co-workers are all convinced you're a walking god of destruction.

The final nail in the coffin of my peaceful afternoon arrived with a flash of light. A small, permanent teleportation circle Marie had installed in my office for "emergency use" flared to life, and Sir Justus stepped out, looking grim. His undercover mission had lasted all of two days.

“I have urgent news,” he announced, his voice tight. “Alistair is making his move. My sources within the Grand Order confirm he is holding a grand sermon at the Great Cathedral in Nazareth, the holy capital. He is using the failure of the paperwork plague as proof that the world is under attack by a chaotic, heretical force—you, Sir Hero. He intends to use this sermon to rally popular support for a holy war against Lysvalde.”

I sighed. Of course he was. I had humiliated him, and now he was doubling down.

Marie, who had been summoned by the portal’s activation, processed the information instantly. “This is our chance,” she said, her eyes gleaming with a dangerous light. “He’s putting himself on a public stage. If we can expose him during his own sermon, in front of his most powerful followers, we can shatter his support base before he can declare a war.”

My blood ran cold. A field trip. To another country. To crash a church service and heckle a priest.

“Absolutely not,” I said. “That sounds like a colossal amount of work. And I’m supposed to be the decoy, remember? My job is to stay here and do nothing. It’s in the mission statement. Probably.”

“Your role as a decoy is now irrelevant,” Eliza countered, already pulling up a map of the Holy Kingdom on her slate. “The target has presented an opportunity for a decisive strike. A cost-benefit analysis suggests the potential reward outweighs the significant risk.”

I was outvoted. I was being dragged along on an international incident against my will. My life was a tragedy.

The journey to Nazareth was a blur of magical teleportation that left my stomach feeling like it was trying to crawl out of my throat. One moment I was in my comfortable office, the next I was standing in a dirty alleyway in a foreign capital, trying not to throw up. The Great Cathedral loomed over the city, a mountain of white marble and stained glass that scraped the heavens. It was beautiful, imposing, and I already hated it.

We donned the simple, hooded cloaks Marie had provided. Mine was, of course, a slightly itchy wool.

“Stay close and keep your heads down,” Marie whispered, her own face hidden in the shadows of her hood. “We are simply humble pilgrims, here to listen to the Grand Cleric’s wisdom.”

We slipped into the cathedral, joining the massive throng of nobles, knights, and citizens who had gathered for the sermon. The place was packed. The air smelled of incense, old stone, and the cloying scent of self-righteousness. We found a spot near the back, melting into the crowd.

On the grand pulpit, under a magnificent stained-glass window depicting some long-dead hero slaying a very surprised-looking dragon, stood Grand Cleric Alistair. He was in his element, his voice booming through the cavernous space, his words weaving a tapestry of fear and piety.

He spoke of the “chaotic entity” in Lysvalde, the “frivolous king,” and the “plague of paperwork,” which he framed as a “divine trial” sent to test the faithful. He claimed that I had overcome this trial not with grace or holiness, but with a blast of raw, untamed, and therefore heretical, power. He was building his case, piece by piece, for a crusade.

“This false hero is a cancer!” he thundered, his voice reaching a fever pitch. “A blight upon the peace we have so carefully guarded! And like any cancer, he must be cut out! For the good of the world, for the glory of the faith, we must march! We must purify Lysvalde of this corruption and restore the proper order of things!”

The crowd was eating it up. Shouts of “Amen!” and “Lead us, Grand Cleric!” echoed through the cathedral. This was it. He was about to declare a holy war.

“Now,” Marie whispered to Justus.

Sir Justus stepped forward out of the crowd, his movements calm and deliberate. He reached up and threw back his hood.

A collective gasp went through the assembly. Everyone knew him. Sir Justus, the Shining Paragon, the youngest paladin to ever join the Grand Order.

“Grand Cleric Alistair!” Justus’s voice, magically amplified by his own holy power, rang out, clear and strong, cutting through Alistair’s sermon. “I, Sir Justus, Paladin of the Grand Order, accuse you, before this holy assembly and the eyes of the gods, of heresy, conspiracy, and treason!”

The cathedral erupted into chaos. Alistair’s face, a moment ago flush with righteous fury, turned into a mask of pure, cold rage.

“Justus?” he snarled. “You dare to interrupt this sacred rite? You have been corrupted by the heathen, your mind twisted by his chaotic influence!”

“My mind has been opened!” Justus retorted. He began to speak, revealing everything. The secret orders he had received. The existence of the Slime Dai Maō Karuto. Their twisted ideology. Their plot to destabilize the kingdoms and start a new war. He spoke with the fire of a man whose faith had been burned away, leaving only the hard, pure steel of conviction.

The crowd was a sea of confused, angry faces. They didn’t know who to believe. Alistair, their respected leader, or Justus, their beloved champion.

“Lies!” Alistair screamed, his composure finally cracking. “These are the ravings of a traitor! He has been bewitched by the Pervert Hero of Lysvalde! Cathedral Guard! Seize this blasphemer! Seize him now!”

Dozens of heavily armored Cathedral guards, the elite knights of the church, drew their swords and began to advance on Justus from all sides. It looked like our gambit was about to end in a very bloody failure.

My internal monologue was screaming. This is it. The big fight scene. The one I wanted to avoid. But if they take Justus, they’ll take all of us. Eliza and Marie can’t fight, and Edgar would probably faint if a guard looked at him too hard. It’s up to me. Damn it.

I sighed. The things I do to avoid getting arrested.

As the guards closed in on Justus, I calmly walked out of the crowd, my own hood still up. I stepped between the paladin and the advancing line of knights.

I didn’t draw a weapon. I didn’t chant a spell. I just… let go. A tiny fraction of my aura, a sliver of the power I’d used to vaporize the paperwork, washed over the cathedral.

It wasn't a blast. It was just pressure. A silent, invisible, and absolutely overwhelming wave of pure, undeniable power.

The Cathedral guards froze mid-stride. Their swords trembled in their hands. Their knees began to buckle, the sheer weight of my magical presence forcing them to the ground. The entire cathedral fell silent, the air suddenly as thick as molasses, charged with my energy. Not a single person in the room could move.

Alistair stared at me from his pulpit, his eyes wide with a mixture of shock and, for the first time, genuine fear.

I reached up and slowly pushed back my hood, revealing my face. I gave him a lazy, tired smile.

“He’s with me,” I said, my voice calm and quiet, yet it carried to every corner of the silent hall. “And we’re not done talking.”

The standoff was set. The game had changed.

Well, so much for being a subtle decoy, I thought, as a hundred armored guards trembled before me. I came here to heckle a priest, and now I'm in a standoff with the fantasy-world pope’s entire security detail. This has officially escalated. Author, you owe me a very long vacation after this.