DKIE CH22: The Holy Tower

The word Saint seemed to carry its own innate solemnity. At least, aside from surprise, the reporters didn’t dare wedge in questions about why the Saint wanted to see Luka.

Luka himself was baffled too. The Saint wanted to see him?

“Now?”

The law enforcement captain nodded.

Luka glanced at the steward. The man, reliable as always, immediately stepped forward: “Leave the livestream to me.”

Today’s goals had been all but achieved. Luka only prayed that sales in the city shops would also go smoothly.

Under everyone’s eyes, Luka gave the steward a couple of instructions, then prepared to follow the captain away.

Before leaving, he caught sight of Berlanie and Leo staring fixedly at the shelves, their urge to sweep them clean obvious. Alice was still loudly plotting to storm other shops across the city herself.

Luka’s mouth twitched faintly. Unless they wanted scalpers—forget it. Impossible.

To prevent opening‑day chaos and customers going without, Cullen had carefully hired mages with photographic memory in every store—plus a highly intelligent dog demon—to memorize buyers’ appearances and auras.

A primitive facial recognition system.

The captain opened the way, stepping across the plaza with Luka in tow. Luka didn’t see either the Saint or the Demon King en route. Armadillo Plaza was simply too vast—teleport arrays were set every three thousand meters, ferrying crowds smoothly away when the fair ended.

Captain: “We head to the High Tower.”

They stepped onto the circle. Within scarcely three seconds, bright white light engulfed them, and all of the plaza vanished.

When sight cleared—the silhouette of a spire towering into the clouds appeared far ahead.

Luka soon realized he had misjudged. That so‑called “tower not far away” was like a mountain. You see it, but never reach it. He trudged nearly ten kilometers before finally reaching its base.

“No teleport circles here at the tower perimeter,” the captain explained.

Inside, Luka felt worse than when using the teleport arrays. Crossing the threshold was like stepping into the starry sea—his awareness scattered, every image overwhelming, yet impossible to recall afterward.

By the time he sat down on a futon, his gaze slowly focused again. Through the nearby window he saw clouds right outside—he was very high up.

Looking around quickly—no captain. He was alone.

Yet the small chamber warped strangely. Supposedly only a few dozen square meters, yet he glimpsed thousands of bookshelves. Musical instruments everywhere. Jars of prized teas filling alcoves. Even… a live ferret.

“The human Saint really has mastered spatial arts. Opened up space inside here.”

The feather quill, silent all day, finally spoke up.

Even it was impressed—this meant the Saint was remarkable indeed.

Luka rubbed his temple. “This room alone would give anyone with 3D vertigo no chance of survival.”

He was about to explain what “3D” meant when suddenly the atmosphere shifted.

Light beams coalesced—and three figures appeared.

The Saint, clad in plain white robe, long silver hair trailing almost to the floor.

The Demon King, armored in black scales, time‑weathered horns crowned over his brow. An existence impossible to ignore.

And lastly Alec—so ignored at first that Luka didn’t even notice him until the youth blurted out, shocked:

“You… what are you doing here!?”

“It was I who invited this young friend.”

The Saint smiled, gesturing. “Whenever lesser‑known fields shine brilliantly in the Assembly, I invite their representatives to sit.”

Well known custom. Alec had only asked a foolish question. The demons could hardly be blamed—they were used to dismissing this cast‑off child as worthless blood.

Plainly, the Saint had not done this just for amusement.

That earlier plea for intervention had left a half‑finished chess game.

The Demon King now sat opposite, gaze on the board, not even sparing Luka a glance.

The Saint took the white stones. Alec placed his hand on his chest, dipping his head in demon salute. Very sincerely, he offered:

“Just now—my mistake caused interruption. Allow me to play a song to atone.”

Luka thought that odd. Other people play chess—he plays music? What’s next, should Luka breakdance on the side?

But he refrained, and only sat silently.

He soon realized, however, this was no ordinary chessboard. Clouds swirled over its face, each stone placed swallowed in mist. At times wind and rain actually stirred. Even cranes conjured from fog fought giant serpents above.

Meanwhile Alec’s curly hair fluttered despite no wind as he plucked a lute‑like instrument from the Saint’s collection. Its tone was pure, its melody deeply sorrowful—not his usual style.

At certain passages, the Demon King’s hand slowed. The music was flowing into the board, like water. Alec’s third current of power entered the game—yet had no strength to push into the battlefield.

The Demon King placed a stone then, gently nudging it forward, granting the power entry.

The Saint shook his head slightly. A parent guiding a child might be tender; but before another child? Cruel.

Instinctively, he glanced toward Luka.

But Luka seemed half elsewhere—though his eyes lingered… not on the game, but on Alec’s instrument.

Thus distracted, the Demon King gave the Saint the edge. The Saint won.

Alec’s heart leapt. His father had not abandoned him entirely.

Luka meanwhile muttered: “That instrument’s tone… unusual.”

“The Liu-Jiao Qin,” explained the Saint. “Also once an Assembly submission—hailed the greatest instrument of the past thousand years.”

He reminisced: “A vagabond created it. Thanked Alec specially in his speech.”

Alec answered modestly: “I only happened to offer him some support.”

Luka arched a brow. No wonder. He had staged this all—show off through ‘music‑into‑chess’.

“All just for flair,” Luka thought.

So he added coolly, “Greatest of the millennium is far too exaggerated. Give me one month, and I can build an instrument that outclasses it.”

Alec blinked. Then sneered. After the Assembly, non‑residents had to leave within three days. Build a new instrument? Lies. He’d be dead before ever finishing.

The Saint studied Luka: “An instrument’s worth lies in being heard and seen. Are you certain?”

Luka nodded.

The Saint lifted the board himself and, with easy tone, declared: “So be it. I grant you one month inside the city. If, after one month, I do not see this instrument—you will be judged guilty of illegal entry and punished accordingly.”

Softly spoken, but indisputable.

To Alec, prey had just walked willingly toward the noose.

The Demon King, utterly disdainful of this farce, flicked his sleeve and vanished. He had come mainly to consult an astrologer, and would not tarry longer.

Alec followed, glancing back at Luka as one already dead.

Luka rose too. “Then I—”

“Stay.”

When they were gone, the Saint opened his palm. At once a spatial scroll appeared.

His silver hair and white sash blended as one, vast as snowy plains.

“I once had ties to the sacred court. Consider this a senior’s gift.”

Luka’s lips twitched. Gift, my ass. There’s always a trick.

But he snatched it with both hands regardless. “Grateful, my lord.”

Feather quill: …

Halfway to stuffing it in his storage ring, Luka’s spine stiffened—worried the Saint might take it back.

The Saint regarded him, then suddenly smiled.

“The first time I saw you, I thought—you look neither like your mother, nor like your father… you are more like me.”

Such poise. Such cunning.

Luka’s hand jerked—the scroll nearly dropped.

First time he’d heard someone call flattery and self‑praise in the same breath!

The Saint chuckled, waved his sleeve. Luka felt the world spin—and suddenly found himself already back in the inn.

“Terrifying teleport ability,” Luka muttered. “But what did he mean by that last line? That I have the bearing of a Saint?”

“More like… he thinks you’re as sly as he is,” the quill snorted.

Ignoring the insult, Luka chose virtue instead of retaliation.

He shoved thoughts of Demon King, Alec aside, and first went to find Cullen.

No luck—Cullen absent. Luka left a note: please discreetly acquire some beast blood for him.

On the way back, he opened humbly: “I have some cultivation questions. May I ask you?”

“You keep playing me.” The quill sounded weary. “You give me blood, make me feel grateful—and then you extract knowledge.”

“I deny this.”

“Hah—if you’re innocent, let me read your mind.”

Warmth seeped faintly through thin fabric. The quill’s true form was a deformed heart. Just flesh apart, he could feel strange swelling in his veins.

“Say it properly. Don’t stick to my chest!” the quill snarled.

Luka laughed. “I spend money because I have money now. Nothing else. As for questions—who better to ask than the greatest teacher before my eyes?”

Greatest.

The word stroked the quill’s pride.

“Very well. I shall stoop to teach you.”

Immediately, Luka confessed his trouble:

“Since revealing my identity, the golden energy inside me is soaring. But I daren’t absorb recklessly—afraid it might collapse my magic framework.”

“That’s not collapse,” the quill sneered. “That’s outright death by explosion.”

Luka stiffened.

“Faith cultivation isn’t so easy. When you’re weak, weaklings’ faith barely matters. But the mighty—your body can’t absorb theirs. You must expel what you cannot take. Completely dissipate it.”

No disappointment crossed Luka’s face—he had half‑expected it.

“I knew it.” He’d already sensed his body repelling some of it.

“So those expelled energies—could they be—”

“No,” the quill cut him off. “Like blood—once outside, it fades rapidly.”

“But in the instant of release?” Luka pressed.

“Extremely short. Yes. But why ask? Shouldn’t you be scrambling to build an instrument fast enough to survive?”

“Strength is the root of everything. As for the instrument… I’ve already thought of it. Cultivation comes first.”

That, the quill admitted, was sound.

Still, curiosity rose: “An instrument surpassing the Liu-Jiao Qin? Truly?”

Luka had said “build,” not “invent.” Knowing this slippery brat, chances were—he already had something prepared.

Luka raised six fingers. “Not just surpass. Surpass by six whole tiers.”

What he planned was not mere string or pipe.

For old monsters who had seen everything, music alone hardly stirred them anymore.

As the quill said earlier: spying crystals hidden in his room had been shattered the moment the Saint teleported him. So Luka now practiced openly.

He summoned violet smoke, wreathed by gentle blue water glow.

Faith‑cultivation was harsh, but once conditions met—it was easy: a process of borrowing strength.

The problem—like a goldfish never sated—he could keep devouring endlessly, till he burst.

The quill monitored, guarding against danger.

Every time veins ballooned near rupture, the quill smacked his head with its shaft to clear his mind briefly.

So guided, Luka stayed on course.

But then it stopped.

Deliberately letting him near the brink.

Use a man’s tricks against him.

The quill had reconciled somewhat, but admitted—its blood was cold. Help must be paid back, even multiplied.

Luka, deep in trance, sweat flooding down, blood boiling within.

He sensed his limit. Tried desperately to stop—but was paralyzed.

Like sleep paralysis. Struggling, yet never breaking free.

Wake.

He forced his will to move. And then—

Hic.

A strange sound tickled his ears.

“…Hic.”

What was that?

Then came the quill’s childish lilt:

“It’s me. I… hiccuped a little.”

Specifically, it used the squelch of its heart tubes to mimic.

“!”

Soft and sticky, repeating endlessly, echoing with magic into Luka’s skull.

Startled awake, Luka opened his eyes. In hallucination he saw—the quill’s deformed heart form… actually drinking milk.

Hallucination intensified: heart‑chambers smeared with milk, wriggling veins like legs wiggling. It hiccuped again.

Luka’s face darkened, stomach churning.

The quill, ecstatic, elaborated. Now the heart vomited milk across its fresh new outfit.

“Luka, I spit up milk…!”

Frozen, Luka stared.

Finally, when the illusion faded, he leapt, seizing a pillow and hurling it skyward at the floating heart:

“Die with me, bastard!”

Meanwhile, the sky over Holy City had darkened. Energies of earlier battles had even twisted the weather.

The Demon King sat cross‑legged beneath the twilight, voice cold:

“You delay your words. What have you seen?”

Opposite him—an old man in star‑patterned robe, strange hat, seated with him upon a celestial chart.

“I did not speak,” the man answered, “because night had not fallen. I must observe the stars.”

Dark clouds clogged half the heavens. The Demon King glared. “Then why summon me daytime?”

The elder smiled. “Because waiting alone is boring.”

“… …”

No killing intent moved. The Demon King knew—even striking might not slay him at once.

The Astrologer was not human. His race gone extinct. Astrologers rarely ended well. Yet this one had lived over a thousand years. Proof of his art.

“You said at year’s start—the pilgrimage this time might yield opportunity. Yet nothing appeared.”

The Demon King had deduced otherwise, tracing signs to the Exile Lands, long whispered to seal a catastrophe. Even after spilling oceans of blood, lingering till it grew stale—he found nothing.

“Fortune’s gifts are like a labyrinth,” the old man’s voice held uncanny rhythm. “Any slight deviation pushes you down another path.”

“For example—every pilgrimage of yours, no witnesses survived. Yet this time, one did.”

Clearly, he knew of the Assembly’s child who now rocked the city. Unusual—even for him—he looked intrigued.

“Who you kill—or spare. Where you linger, or hasten. Every deviation means opportunity lost.”

Then his eyes turned translucent—piercing black clouds, tracing star‑paths too deep to bear.

At length, blood trickled from the corners of his eyes and nose.

He spoke, in a voice cold as steel:

“In the song of music… the Saint-Magic Continent will enter a new civilized era.”

The Demon King jerked his gaze to him. Civilized era—a phrase meaning full upheaval, reshuffling of all powers.

“Will it be tied to… instruments?” he asked lowly.

The Astrologer was still bleeding, confused.

Whether exile, or “song of music”—each recalled for the Demon King one figure. Luka, and his one-month boast.

The Astrologer chuckled faintly. “Prophecy… is never literal.”

Every word had layers. “Music” might mean life. Might mean a man. Even a smile. Never just one meaning.

The Demon King fell silent—staring at the stars, thinking.

Author’s Note:

Luka’s Diary:
Feather Quill—you vile evildoing bastard!

Alex: laughs