Origin Artifact World, afternoon, Hoburn City.
Two sedans cruised along the street. In the rear car Harold sat in the passenger seat, gazing at the bustling scene outside.
"Harold, you'll come with me to the Church Holy Soldiers' quarters in a moment; that's where you'll be working from now on." In the back seat Oliver had removed his bandages and reverted to his languid self.
"Yes, Lord Oliver!" Harold replied with respectful deference.
After threading through the city for half an hour, both cars halted at a street junction.
Eight church sentries in black bodysuits and long boots, long guns on their backs, guarded the intersection; in its centre stood an iron gate.
The front car's window slid down. Klan stuck his head out, spoke to the lead sentry, and the man's expression turned deferential as he swung the gate open.
Mirror Demon peered curiously from the car. In his borrowed memories this compound was Patriarch Malo's stronghold for the Church Holy Soldiers; the original Harold had never been important enough to enter.
"By the way, Lord Oliver, what exactly will I be doing here?" Harold turned to ask.
In his understanding the place was full of Source-Artifact Users; a commoner like him should have no front-line role.
Oliver lounged back, eyelids drooping. "Not every Holy Soldier is a Source-Artifact User. We still need ordinary folk for logistics—intelligence, for instance. The old man used to have two Archpriests running intel; one's now too senile to work. You'll take his place."
He paused, recalling something. "Oh, right—the old man promoted you to Archpriest and forgot to mention it. Drop by the cathedral in the next couple of days and sort the paperwork."
"Thank you, Lord Oliver and Patriarch Malo, for your trust! I'll give it everything I've got!" The words sent colour rushing to Harold's face—and inwardly Mirror Demon could barely contain his glee.
Intelligence was second only to the Holy Soldiers in importance, and more importantly it offered levers he could quietly pull at crucial moments.
The rank of Archpriest also placed him in the Church's middle management—elsewhere that meant governing a city and its satellite towns.
Screech!
The car stopped. Oliver pushed the door open. "We're here. Follow me to the Intelligence Institute first."
Harold stepped out and glanced around: rows of joined white three-storey buildings, and at the far end a snow-white five-storey citadel with pointed roof and a statue of the eternal goddess on top.
They had parked in front of a three-storey building whose golden plaque read "Intelligence Institute."
Its gates stood open; staff in varied attire moved about. The adjacent left and right buildings were also open, personnel shuttling between the three.
"Lord Oliver!"
"Lord Oliver!"
Seeing him, people halted and greeted him respectfully.
Oliver nodded and walked inside.
Harold hurried after him. Inside, some analysts were collating files; others spoke into brown desk phones.
All work stopped the moment Oliver entered; staff bowed. "Lord Oliver!"
He merely nodded. The two men crossed the hall, climbed the stairs to the third floor.
The third floor was quieter. Oliver led Harold to the innermost office and pushed the door open without ceremony.
A spartan office greeted them. A septuagenarian in a suit was poring over documents on his desk.
Hearing the door, he looked up; seeing Oliver, he rose with a slight tremor. "Lord Oliver!"
He then smiled at Harold. "So this is Harold, my replacement? He looks… ordinary."
"Old Emi, thank you for your years of service. Show Harold the ropes for one day, then go home and enjoy retirement," Oliver said.
He turned to Harold. "This is Mr. Emi George. Get familiar with the work; I'll be off."
"Yes, take care, Lord Oliver!" Harold watched him leave with a respectful bow.
Once Oliver was gone, Emi slowly sat back, smiling. "Harold, saving Lord Oliver's life—who'd have thought? Sit, let's hand over the files."
Harrod took the opposite chair, grinning. "Just luck, Mr. Emi."
Emi chuckled. "From today you're one of the two chiefs of Patriarch Malo's Intelligence Institute. Compared with your past, it's a meteoric rise. Here all you need do is drink tea, play cards, and forward the summaries your underlings compile."
Harold feigned surprise. "That simple? I pictured intelligence chiefs plotting grand schemes and planting spies everywhere!"
Emi gave a helpless shrug. "I'd love that, but the other fellow hoards all authority. Capable, ruthless—and a Source-Artifact User. Beside him, I can only mark time till retirement."
"The other Archpriest?" Harold asked.
"Exactly. With him around you'll sip tea, approve leave forms and payroll slips—easy living." Emi reclined, sipped his cup, and sighed contentedly.
Mirror Demon's brows knitted. A sinceure was not what he wanted; he meant to control the entire institute.
Yet Harold said nothing, chatting idly until five o'clock chimed.
Emi produced a golden plaque of the eternal goddess and a key. "This office is yours now. Archpriests are allotted quarters—ask downstairs."
He shuffled out. Harold pocketed the items and rose.
He intended to tour Hoburn City and familiarise himself with every street.
But the moment he stepped into the corridor he met a stern, broad-shouldered, cropped-blond man of about one-eighty.
The man regarded him, extended his left hand and said curtly, "Harold, I presume? I'm Houseman—also an Archpriest of Intelligence. Welcome."
Harold smiled and shook. "Archpriest Houseman, a pleasure."
Though they shook hands, Houseman's eyes kept sizing Harold up.
Suddenly Houseman's gaze turned cold. "Emi will have told you what you may and may not do. I trust you won't make things difficult. Saving Lord Oliver does not grant licence for recklessness."
Mirror Demon seethed inwardly, but Harold kept smiling. "Rest easy. I'm no intelligence man; tea suits me fine."
Houseman's stern face relaxed; he clapped Harold's shoulder. "Sensible fellow."
With that he strode away.
Mirror Demon watched him go, eyes narrowing. A mere native daring to threaten me!
He itched to eliminate Houseman—whether to seize the institute or avenge the affront.