The air inside the Cathedral of Mercy curdled. Silence, thick and suffocating, pressed against the stained-glass windows until they seemed to bow under the strain. At the pulpit, Grand Prelate Sovann stood, his posture a masterclass in performative serenity. His robes, woven with threads of genuine starlight, shimmered as he shifted, yet his eyes, cold, slate-grey, and devoid of genuine warmth, were locked onto Baskara with the intensity of a predator contemplating a difficult kill."You bring filth into the house of the Divine," Sovann intoned, his voice amplified by the acoustics of the hall until it sounded like the rumble of a mountain collapsing. "You mistake chaos for justice, boy. You are a clerk playing at divinity."Baskara didn’t flinch. He didn’t even glance at the guards surrounding them. He stood with his hands tucked into his pockets, his posture unnervingly casual. "A clerk counts, Prelate. I’ve

The floor beneath them shivered, a low-frequency hum vibrating through the soles of their boots. It wasn't the sound of an earthquake; it was the sound of a system screaming as its core protocols were forcefully rewritten. High above, the crystalline chandeliers, once shimmering with the captured ambient mana of the city’s populace, flickered violently. They dimmed, flared, and then sputtered into a cold, lifeless gray."The light," Johan gasped, his hands trembling as he stared at his own fingertips, which had begun to lose their faint, holy glow. "The connection… it’s being severed. Baskara, what have you done?"Baskara didn't look at the High Priest. He was watching the air, his eyes tracking the rapid-fire flickering of his interface. "I didn't cut the light, Johan. I just stopped the tax collection. The mana isn't gone; it’s finally returning to where it was actually harvested from. Check your palms

The silence in the Cathedral was absolute, a stark contrast to the roar of the city that had begun to rise outside. Grand Prelate Sovann’s voice had died in his throat, a pathetic, thin sound swallowed by the cavernous reach of the sanctuary. He lunged toward a heavy, gold-inlaid chest, his fingers trembling as he attempted to hoist it."Mine," Sovann hissed, his face contorting into a mask of pure greed. "All of this belongs to the Cathedral. It is written in the Tithe Laws. It is the foundation of our stability!"Baskara took a slow, deliberate step forward, the faint blue light of his interface fading from his retinas. He didn't reach for a weapon. He didn't need to. "The laws you wrote were built on the premise that the inventory was sacred, Sovann. But I’ve reclassified the entire ledger. You aren’t a steward anymore. You’re just a looter in a drafty building."Sovann strained against the

"The distribution protocols aren't responding," Mayari said, slamming her palm against the iron-plated terminal set into the eastern gatehouse wall. Her breath plumed in the frigid morning air, turning white before hitting the cold stone. "I’m typing the override sequence, but nothing is routing to the district silos. The grain elevators are jammed."Baskara didn’t look up from his handheld slate, his thumb dragging across the flickering glass to clear a cascade of cascading warning codes. "They aren't jammed, Mayari. They’re empty. We didn't just turn off the Tithe system yesterday; we severed the automated intake entirely. Without the central Cathedral pulling resources from the outer provinces, the local reserves are taking the hit.""Taking the hit?" Mayari spun around, her eyes sharp with disbelief. "Baskara, the central market is completely paralyzed. People are standing in front of the granary doors with gold coin

The heavy oak doors of the central nave blew open with a violent bang, letting in the gray, biting wind of a dying morning."High Priest! Where are the morning rations?"The voice belonged to Corin, a minor deacon whose vestments were stained with cheap wine and ink. Behind him pressed a ragged crowd of junior clergy, acolytes, and shrine sweepers, their faces twisted between righteous indignation and sheer, animalistic panic. They didn't look like men of faith. They looked like looters who had lost their keys.Johan did not flinch. He sat behind the massive mahogany table that had once served as Sovann’s private altar, his old hands carefully folding a coarse woolen blanket. The gold-plated chalices and jeweled incense burners that usually littered the surface were gone, replaced by stacks of ledger books and crude copper tally tokens."The morning rations are currently being inventoried, Corin,"