Dorothy’s Forbidden Grimoire Novel - Chapter 427

## Chapter 427 Critical
The chamber was expansive, lavishly appointed with a pronounced religious theme. An elaborate carpet adorned the floor, and the walls were hung with imposing portraits depicting priests and nuns. A colossal bookshelf dominated one entire wall. Tall candelabras, their candles flickering, stood sentinel in each corner, accompanied by small angelic figures.

Set toward the back of the room was a massive desk, buried beneath piles of documents. In the chair behind it sat a figure.

She seemed a mature woman in her late twenties, with sharply defined features and long, pale blonde hair. Clad in voluminous, ornate crimson robes, she slumped wearily in her chair, eyes closed. Deep exhaustion marked her expression. Scattered across the desk before her were fountain pens and a sheet of stationery covered in graceful script.

In the quiet office, the crimson-clad woman seemed to be resting after strenuous labor. Abruptly, as if detecting a presence, she slowly opened her eyes. Her deep blue gaze fixed on the empty space before her desk. There, a faint spectral image gradually coalesced.

It formed a translucent, ghostly outline resembling a pale nun, her shape hazy. Once fully manifest, the phantom nun turned to the seated woman and spoke in a cool, distinct voice.

“Half an hour past, Archbishop Antonio of the Iwig Diocese reported. A pilgrim convoy under the protection of the Third Escort Fleet of the Order of Holy Rites was seized en route to Iwig. Hostages comprise pilgrims, crew, and knights’ marines—totaling 625 souls.”

The woman in red did not react at once. After a moment, she spoke deliberately.

“The Third Escort Fleet… I remember they recently tangled with a significant Dream Realm disruption near Nahwa.”

“Correct. Prior to that, they were implicated in a passenger liner sinking tied to the Abyssian Cult. The Nahwa affair is now tentatively connected to the ‘Shadow’ faction, the Black Dream Hunters.”

The phantom nun continued her respectful account. Having listened, the woman massaged her temples and retrieved other reports concerning this fleet from her desk, remarking with a sigh.

“In barely over a week, this single fleet has endured so many incidents… tangled with destiny? So… what precisely transpired during this seizure? Fleet casualties? Any intelligence on the assailants?”

“Per the Iwig Diocese, the hijackers employed sea fog and manipulated currents to evade the escort ships, isolating and capturing solely the three pilgrim transports. Aside from the loss of those vessels, no further harm occurred. The hijackers conveyed a ransom demand to the Purity Heart Cathedral. They declare themselves residents of the Summertree Islands in the Conqueror Sea. They insist the Iwig authorities halt forced conversion efforts against them and swear to honor their faith, otherwise the hostages’ safety cannot be assured.”

The phantom nun maintained her focused delivery to the crimson-robed woman. Hearing this, the woman frowned.

“Summertree? If memory serves… they are lingering adherents of the ancient Plenty faith, are they not?”

“Affirmative. Numerous surviving pockets of the Plenty faith endure on remote islands southwest of Kellogg Isle. Over recent decades, the Iwig Diocese has prioritized missionary efforts in that sector, successfully guiding many islands under the Trinity’s light.

“Owing to the deep-rooted and persistent strength of the Plenty faith there, the Iwig Diocese resorted to forceful methods during conversion. Records indicate that under former Archbishop Justin’s nearly thirty-year tenure, the southwest islands near Kellogg witnessed 43 purifications, 42 forced relocations, and merely 7 successful voluntary conversions.

“Compared to dioceses dealing with other indigenous beliefs, this represents an exceptionally high rate. Consequently, widespread bitterness towards the Church saturates that region, with Summertree being a focal point of defiance. Since succeeding Justin two years ago, the current Archbishop Antonio promotes a more moderate approach, yet measurable progress remains absent.”

The phantom nun continued her report. Listening, the woman holding the documents sighed heavily.

“The accumulated resentment runs so profound, how could progress manifest so swiftly? Antonio requires a decade to make inroads, not instant solutions. And now this… it will grievously undermine his original strategy.”

The red-robed woman sighed. The phantom nun hesitated briefly, then ventured.

“This outcome… is likely precisely what Lord Sibert desired.”

“Naturally, it serves his aims. A minor incident. An incident provoked by those heathen followers of the old faiths themselves. A minor incident he can leverage to posture and expand his sway. Ha… He will undoubtedly orchestrate a grand display before the Primal Seat tomorrow.”

The crimson-clad woman responded, her eyes revealing unconcealed weariness. For her, this event was deeply unwelcome.

“The timing feels suspect. The Third Holy Rites Escort Fleet had only recently changed command due to the Nahwa incident when the Summertree hijacking transpired. Tonight’s event furnishes Lord Sibert with ammunition to pressure you. Given Lord Sibert’s connections to the Tribunal… might this be his covert…”

The phantom nun speculated cautiously. Hearing this, the woman’s eyes narrowed sharply, responding instantly.

“Do not speculate rashly about a Cardinal. The peril is excessive; Sibert has no cause to hazard it… Beyond him, this affair *is* dubious, but more than Sibert, I suspect the Abyss has intervened.”

“The Abyssian Cult… You believe followers of the Abyssal Serpent are behind this?” inquired the phantom nun, her brow slightly furrowed. The red-robed woman confirmed.

“Unquestionably. A third of maritime troubles stem from their interference. Another third involve connections to them. Stirring conflict between natives and us aligns perfectly with their interests.

“In the decades since Archbishop Justin governed the Iwig Diocese and imposed severe measures on the islanders, many islands *did* convert. Conversely, Abyssian activity in those waters has exploded. Covert agency statistics from the northern coastal states bordering the Conqueror Sea verify over 542 confirmed extraordinary incidents involving the Abyss last year—a hundred more than the year before.”

“Our missionary endeavors… have *bolstered* the heretics’ power…”

“Exactly. Under Justin’s oppressive tactics, the natives secretly embraced the Abyss. Countless survivors of ‘purifications’ and forced relocations were assimilated by the Abyssian Cult. Acquiring ample recruits, the Cult also gained numerous sacred Plenty relics in the process. Hah… While our ‘missionary’ drives surged, genuine heretical forces burgeoned swiftly. This occurs not solely in Iwig, but in other peripheral dioceses as well.

“Evidence indicates the Abyss has acted as a provocateur in numerous clashes between us and the islanders. This is *precisely* why I championed a softer policy. Yet now, this occurs…”

Rubbing her temples, the red-robed woman spoke, exhaustion thick in her voice. The circumstances were profoundly unfavorable.

“To my understanding, the natives of the Summertree islands are among the most intractable in the southwest cluster near Kellogg. Prospects for reconciliation are slim. Even Archbishop Antonio intended forced relocation. Following this crisis, relocation will almost certainly escalate to ‘purification’.

“Currently, Archbishop Antonio is organizing the pilgrims’ rescue. Regardless of the rescue’s result, Summertree’s doom is certain. Archbishop Antonio’s strategy will be derailed, our policy will face significant hindrances…”

The phantom nun continued her report. Upon hearing this, the woman’s expression grew grimmer.

“A desperate situation…”

“Is there… truly no escape?” the phantom nun inquired tentatively. Leaning back in her chair, the woman shook her head.

“None, unless Summertree instantly declares conversion, repents, and freely releases every captive. For them, politically roused enough to commandeer ships to defend Plenty against relocation… such capitulation is unthinkable. Therefore… no escape exists…”

Murmured the red-robed woman with quiet resignation. Summertree’s destruction seemed inescapable.

Though a minor affair for the mighty transnational entity of the Glorious Church, the Summertree incident carried disproportionate weight by striking at a critical moment. It could be wielded by opposing factions within the Church to exert deep influence.

“Understood. I grasp the situation. You may depart. I must now ready myself to confront the others tomorrow before the Primal Seat.”

The red-robed woman dismissed the phantom nun. The nun began to fade, then paused, her voice tinged with worry.

“Lord Sibert and his faction will come at you fiercely tomorrow. I fear for you…”

“Peace… While Sibert wields minor incidents as blades, I have my own… The Tribunal’s detention of the Third Escort Fleet commander provides me leverage. With that, I won’t be entirely backed into a corner. Please withdraw.”

The crimson-clad woman reassured the phantom image. Bowing silently, the phantom nun gradually dissolved from sight.

Alone in the quiet room, the woman stared into the emptiness. After a moment, she murmured to herself.

“Plenty…”

Saying this, she pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. Placing it on the desk, she began to write. After covering the entire page with her elegant script, she signed at the bottom: Amanda Petit.

……

Time flowed unceasingly. The moon descended, the sun ascended. Dawn swiftly illuminated the dark sea.

The three seized liners sailed onward across the boundless ocean. Propelled by magically steered currents and the churning might of their steam boilers, they raced southward, leaving the mainland far behind.

After the prolonged voyage, the pilgrim passengers comprehended their captured state. Tension flared into minor revolts, quickly suppressed by Summertree captors displaying weapons. Nearly all pilgrims were locked within their cabins to prevent movement. Trapped and terrified, the pilgrims offered desperate prayers for deliverance—the Holy Mother’s divine intervention.

Valania, unable to fulfill her duties, received slightly better quarters and stricter monitoring. Following Dorothy’s advice, Valania avoided hostility. Instead, she interacted with the Summertree captors, striving to build rapport.

Meanwhile, Dorothy had reached Tivian on her own vessel. Setting aside her initial plan to contact the Stone Mason’s Guild, she secured a hotel room, spending days monitoring the three ships through Valania and the three captors marked with puppet seals.

Initially, Dorothy sought opportunities to retake command. However, recognizing the formidable power a water adept could wield at sea, she abandoned forceful tactics. Shifting to intelligence gathering proved equally sluggish. The Summertree captors conversed mostly in their native tongue, obscuring critical information.

Time pressed forward relentlessly. By twilight on the second day, the swift vessels neared their journey’s end.

Through the eyes aboard, Dorothy saw a large island materialize in the sunset’s glow. Dense, verdant forests covering the land partly obscured stone structures within. Dominating the vista was a colossal tree, rising amidst the woodland like a giant from a dream.

The islanders defied Dorothy’s assumptions. They appeared not as primitive tribespeople, but bearers of distinct culture. A sturdy lighthouse crowned a cliff face. Within a sheltered bay lay a sizable, stone-walled harbor bustling with fishing boats—predominantly wooden sailboats, yet one clearly metal-hulled with a steam stack. The island showed clear links to the wider world.

An hour of bustling harbor activity cleared berths for the large liners. Squads of native soldiers, clad in patterned robes and bearing firearms of varied types, hurried ashore. Working with the captors, they marshaled the frightened pilgrims off each ship. Organized into groups, the pilgrims stumbled along cobbled paths toward unknown locations. Meanwhile, jubilant islanders crowded the main street, hailing the returning hijackers with cheers—a celebratory feast awaited them.

Far away on the mainland, Dorothy settled in her hotel. Night approached. She waited for the sleep that would inevitably claim these exhausted captors—wearied, unsleeping for two long days.