Dorothy’s Forbidden Grimoire Novel - Chapter 426

**Chapter 426 – Restoration**

The night enveloped the Conqueror Sea in pitch-black silence as the commandeered passenger ship cut through its vast, empty waters. Inside the vessel’s lower deck, Vanessa, after hours tending to the injured, finally found a moment to speak with the hijackers. Yet the conversation had barely started when Barboda’s accusations rendered her speechless.

“Brutal oppression… merciless killings… like pirates? Are you… seriously claiming this is the Church’s doing? That can’t be right. This has to be some sort of mistake, surely?”

“Mistake?” Barboda’s voice was like stone. “There’s no misunderstanding, Sister. Your so-called Glorious Church has long crushed anyone it deems heretical. Countless islanders—men, women, children—have been erased from existence for refusing to kneel to your saints. You ask how many have perished? How many lives have been extinguished under your holy banners? I’ve seen it myself. The Church, together with the powers of the Mainland, has ravaged entire island clans. And you ask if there’s been a misunderstanding?”

Barboda’s bitter words hung in the air. Vanessa, stunned, struggled to find an answer.

“Then… perhaps… something’s been miscommunicated. I mean… anyone who doesn’t revere the Scriptures and honor the Trinitarian Saints is usually—mmph—”

She bit her tongue mid-sentence, the old doctrine rising automatically before she caught herself.

Raised by the Church since childhood, Vanessa had always believed that those who didn’t serve the Three Saints were dangerous cultists to be eradicated. That had been the unshakable truth of her faith. Until Akasha’s Revelation reached her. Until Dorothy entered her life.

What she had witnessed since then made it impossible to keep believing that those outside the Church were automatically evil. She couldn’t even claim her own devotion was spotless anymore.

Barboda mistook her silence for defeat and pressed forward, his voice gaining force.

“Hmph. Even you hesitate to defend the Glorious Church now. Doesn’t that tell you something? Your Church has no right to dictate its faith to others. No authority to extinguish lives on a whim. From our perspective, *you* are the cult. The dangerous ones we must fight.”

“…Even if you’re right, even if the Church has done wrong,” Vanessa said, clutching her hands to her chest, “these passengers shouldn’t be your targets. They’re just pilgrims. Ordinary people who worship the Saint Mother. They’re not involved with Church administration. On these three ships, I’m the only official agent. The sailors—yes, they serve under the Knights’ Order, but their roles are minor. So… could you let the others go?”

Barboda’s eyes went cold. “When your Church exterminates islanders, it doesn’t care who’s a soldier or not. It doesn’t pause to ask who’s innocent. We’re only returning what we’ve received. We’ve lost too much to pick and choose who suffers now.”

The firm weight in his tone made Vanessa flinch. Still, she spoke hesitantly, “So… this is retaliation? You’re retaliating against the Church now?”

Barboda’s patience waned. He cut her off. “That’s none of your concern. Just do your duty. Heal those wounded. That’s all you’re needed for.”

With nothing more to say, Vanessa lowered her head and resumed tending to the injured sailors lying across the hold. Meanwhile, far from the ship, in a cabin lit only by soft lantern-glow, Dorothy listened in through Vanessa’s senses, digesting every word.

‘These hijackers… they’re likely islanders from the remote corners of the Conqueror Sea. Tribal peoples, like Kappa’s kin in the New World, clinging to older beliefs the Mainland calls primitive…’

‘But unlike the New World, these island chains sit closer to the heart of Mainland influence. That puts them squarely within reach of the Glorious Church’s missions. It makes sense. The Church has clearly teamed up with colonial regimes, pushing forced conversions through military force. The people of Summertree Island must be resisting one of these conversion campaigns. These hijackers are trying to stop it.’

‘So, this hijacking… it’s calculated. They’re using the pilgrims as bargaining tools, hostages to coerce the Church into backing off. The captives on these three ships are pawns to hold leverage.’

But Dorothy knew better than to hope. ‘It won’t work. The Church would never negotiate. They see yielding to demands as an unforgivable sign of weakness. Even if these hostages die, the Church won’t change course.’

Dorothy leaned against her cabin wall, unease creeping through her like smoke. Hundreds of lives, including Vanessa’s, hung in the balance. Rescue attempts might fail, and if they did, execution was a certainty.

But another question gnawed at her mind.

‘How did the islanders find these ships so precisely? They hit them during the exact window of vulnerability—after the Nawaha incident stripped them of major magical defenses. From Nawaha to Iyviggare, there’s no heavy escort. It’s their weakest stretch. And the hijackers struck at *that* exact time?’

‘That timing’s too perfect. Did they have inside help? A leak within the Church? It’s unlikely… but not impossible. Could the islanders have a spy embedded?’

Dorothy’s frown deepened. She lacked clarity. Yet the urgency to act had never been stronger. ‘Vanessa’s my first follower. I chose her. I trained her. I will not let her fall to this.’

With that firm thought, she shifted her perception fully into Vanessa’s surroundings, seeking another opportunity—some unseen thread to pull.

In the ship’s hold, Vanessa quietly continued treating the injured sailors, her healer’s gift and medical training allowing her to work quickly and with precision. Her skills caught the captors’ attention.

More and more of the native hijackers began to gather. Some bore minor cuts and bruises from the earlier scuffle. Though minor, the pain lingered. While “Cup” cultivators could heal using White Ash resonance, most of the captors were only Black Earth level—unable to regenerate on their own unless they had rare tools. Watching Vanessa, many stared at her glowing hands with unconcealed interest.

As she finished treating the last of the sailors, one of the islanders turned to Barboda and spoke in a language unfamiliar to both Vanessa and Dorothy. Barboda replied tersely. The islander nodded, clearly dissatisfied.

Ed, observing from nearby, rubbed his chin, deep in thought.

Vanessa stood, having completed her work. Her white robes shimmered faintly in the dim light, drawing attention from the surrounding captors.

“You’re done?” Barboda said gruffly. “Good. You may return to your quarters. No wandering. No tricks.”

But Vanessa shook her head.

“No. My task isn’t finished. You asked me to treat *everyone* injured in this hold. I’ve treated the sailors. But some of your men are hurt too.”

Barboda stared. “You’re offering to help *us*? Your enemies?”

Vanessa met his gaze calmly. “Does it matter? The Saint Mother teaches compassion, no matter who stands before you. You’ve shown mercy by sparing the innocent. That tells me you still have humanity. Let me repay that mercy by easing your pain.”

Barboda didn’t answer immediately. Suspicion sharpened his eyes.

“You’re not plotting something? Healing can be dangerous. A patient under a healer’s care is at their most vulnerable.”

“I understand your worry,” she said evenly. “Watch every movement I make. Test every one of your men I treat. If anything seems off, arrest me immediately. I won’t resist.”

“I’m not here to harm. I’m here to heal.”

Barboda hesitated, then slowly nodded. “You’re not like other Church dogs, I’ll grant you that. I’ll give you this one chance. Betray it, and you’ll regret it.”

He barked an order in the native tongue. A young man stepped forward, clutching a bleeding hand.

“Sit down. Let me look at your injury,” Vanessa said gently.

She began treatment under Barboda’s watchful glare. Every movement of her hands was measured, transparent. She used standard ship medicine—nothing strange. Golden-orange light suffused the wound as she worked. The injury mended cleanly. No signs of tampering.

In fact, she worked with even more care than she had with the sailors. Ten minutes passed before the man’s wound vanished entirely. He stood, staring at his hand in disbelief, then flexed it and muttered excitedly to Barboda.

Barboda inspected it personally, using a Lamp-class scan. Sensing no abnormality, his posture eased.

“No impurity… Seems I misjudged you. You healed him properly. I owe you an apology. Please, continue.”

Vanessa nodded with a calm smile. “This is my duty.”

She moved down the line, treating one captor after another. Word of her skill spread quickly. The men lit up with amazement as old aches vanished and deep cuts sealed seamlessly. Soon, more approached, even showing her scars long faded in the hope she might mend them.

None of them realized that within their newly restored flesh, subtle transformations had taken root—transformations invisible to every test.

Dorothy whispered from her cabin, “It’s working… my Imprints.”

Using her Living Puppet technique, she had already established two links—now she could see and hear through the eyes and ears of two of the hijackers. Her awareness stretched through them, her influence seeded silently beneath the surface.

Vanessa’s healing had acted as a cover for something far more precise. With each recovery, she had embedded a Living Puppet Imprint deep inside the tissue, using the final burst of regenerative energy to guide the skin’s growth into complex, microscopic patterns. These patterns couldn’t be detected. No magic signature. No visible trace. Even Lamp-level scans couldn’t pierce them, and if they ever did, Dorothy could cloak them.

This was no ordinary sorcery—it was biological surgery of supernatural precision, guided by Vanessa’s extensive medical prowess. While impossible in battle, this secure environment allowed her to craft each Imprint with care.

Through these secret anchors, Dorothy now had her foothold.

…

Far away, hidden within the jungle shadows of Summertree Island, a crude hut stood in darkness. At its heart rose a grotesque altar—an amalgam of warped bone and twitching flesh, adorned with pulsating mouths and ears.

Kneeling before it, a figure spoke with reverence.

“Lord Scalefang, the Summertree plan unfolds as expected. The intelligence I provided was accurate. They struck during the Church’s moment of weakness. Three ships are now in our control. They near home.”

“There is no path back. The conflict between Summertree and the Church is now beyond healing. Dancer’s Arch awaits…”