Chapter 259: Castor was the Pope’s Successor

​"A corruption," Elian replied, already turning to lead the way. "One of the priests in training... his power has inverted. He’s tearing the garden apart, and the Purifiers cannot get close enough to bind him."

​Julian’s heart dropped. For some reason, when hearing that, his mind went to one specific chestnut boy.

Julian turned to a reluctant Lucius.

"Lucius, you have to stay behind," he said, placing his hands on the boy’s shoulder. "It’s dangerous so I don’t want you getting hurt, okay? Lock the door. I’ll be back soon, do you hear me?"

Lucius’s eyes were wide and filled with worry, burned into Julian’s mind, but the manifestation grounds were no place for a child right now.

"Come back," Lucius muttered, holding Julian’s hand. "Soon, Master."

"Yes, I will," Julian said and then got up to face Elian. "Please position two guards to watch Lucius. I do not want an inevitable situation to happen."

He didn’t want Lucius to be exposed to danger in any way, and leaving him here might seem the safest, but he had no idea if this was a plot to keep him away from the boy.

If it were, and Lucius got hurt, he would definitely show them hell.

The corridors felt narrower as Julian hurried after Elian, his heart thudding against his ribs.

The worry for Lucius had subsided, and what he was thinking about now was the child who was going through a manifestation.

​As they reached the archway leading to the garden, Julian saw that the situation was far worse than a simple energy leak.

​The air was thick with some sort of charged energy that made Julian’s hair stand on end.

The vibrant white lilies and the Great Cedar were being choked by dark, jagged crystalline growths that pulsed with a sickly violet light.

​In the center of the wreckage stood Castor.

​The boy’s white head-wrap was gone, his chestnut hair whipping around his face in a wind that shouldn’t have existed. He wasn’t screaming.

He was silent, his eyes glowing with an intense, blinding white light that leaked out like tears down his cheeks. Every time he breathed, a shockwave of raw energy shattered the marble tiles beneath his feet.

​"Stay back!" a Purifier shouted, his hands outstretched as he tried to cast a binding circle.

But the moment the golden light touched Castor, it was swallowed by the violet corruption and spat back out, knocking the priest off his feet.

​"It’s been like this for a while now. He is rejecting the Sanctum’s light," Elian muttered, his jaw tight. "He’s been suppressed for too long and hasn’t used his Holy powers. If he isn’t stabilized in the next ten minutes, his core will shatter, and he’ll take this entire wing of the spire with him."

"Then how do you expect me to stop it?" Julian asked, watching Castor and the white streak of tears tracking down his cheeks with pity. "If every other method had failed, why am I any different?"

In the end, they might just have to watch the child corrupted and then destroyed.

​Elian turned to Julian, his eyes desperate.

"It’s because you... Your Light is different. It’s... as the Council says, grounded in the physical world and not of purity itself. He might accept yours where he rejects ours."

​Julian looked at Castor—the boy who didn’t understand a kiss, the boy who just wanted to feel ’warm.’

Right now, he was a terrified kid drowning in a sea of his own power.

​"I don’t have a focus," Julian said, his voice steady despite the chaos and he looked at the purifiers who held staff while trying to contain Castor. "I don’t have a staff or a holy relic."

​"You don’t need one," Elian said. "Use your hands. Use your intent. You are not like the rest of us. You... you are a Saint."

​Julian didn’t know that a day would come when being called a Saint would give him relief. The title was heavy, unwanted, and too much for him to accept, but it was his anyway.

And today, it seemed like being a saint was the only way to save this little friend of his. And so, if he could save Castor, the boy who wished for warmth, with his hands, then he would step forward.

He would embrace his title and his position.

Julian finally stepped forward, crossing the threshold into the garden. The pressure in the air hit him like a physical wall, trying to push him back.

​"Castor!" Julian called out.

​The boy’s head snapped toward him. The glowing white eyes were devoid of recognition, but the jagged violet crystals near his feet stopped growing for a split second.

​"It’s Julian," he said, taking another step. A shard of stone sliced through Julian’s blue sleeve, drawing a thin line of blood on his arm, but he didn’t flinch. "I’m not here to bind you, so don’t be scared. I’m just here to help you breathe. Will you breathe with me?"

​He stepped into the eye of the storm and reached out his hand.

The air was so heavy it felt like he was walking through water, and the stinging sparks of light bit into his skin.

Despite the distortion the sparks created, Julian could hear the priests complaining from the edges of the garden, their voices barely carrying over the roar of the wind.

​"What a headache," one of them grumbled loudly, sounding more annoyed than worried. "Even if he’s the Pope’s successor, he shouldn’t have let it get this far. Now look at the mess he’s made."

​Julian’s hand faltered for a split second. Successor? He looked at Castor, who was shaking in the center of the wreckage. Castor was... the Pope’s Successor?

Suddenly, it all clicked. Castor wasn’t just an acolyte; he was the one meant to take the Pope’s place. But to do that, he had to be ’purified’, which meant losing his hair color, his personality, and everything that made him an ordinary human.

And Castor had made it clear that he hated the idea. He loved his chestnut hair. He loved his rebellious life. He loved himself just as he was.

He did NOT want to become a priest, and much worse, the Pope’s successor.