NOVEL NEXT Chapter 7: The Archbishop
Aleister Crowley was a man of profound flaws and contradictions, far from what anyone might call a "perfect person."
Yet, despite his many shortcomings, there was one trait that elevated him to a level of unparalleled respect: his unwavering love for his family.
To the outside world, Aleister appeared cold and emotionless, almost devoid of human sentiment. But this was merely a façade, a mask concealing the profound depths of his affection. He was a man willing to give up everything, even stand against the entire world, for the sake of his family.
Aleister's crusade to eradicate magic and destroy the Magic Gods was not born of grand ambition or lofty ideals. Instead, it was driven by something heartbreakingly simple: the death of his first daughter, who never even had the chance to be born.
For the sake of this unborn child, Aleister chose to rebel against the very fabric of the magical world, to shatter the fate he so despised.
In the moment Roy vanished from existence, he saw Aleister's true nature:
Aleister Crowley was a man perpetually mired in failure and defeat. No matter how meticulously he planned or how long he spent crafting his strategies, he was destined to falter. Each of his endeavors ended in collapse, only for him to rise again, relentlessly chasing after an impossible victory.
It was both pathetic and admirable—a man so pitifully trapped in a cycle of futility that it inspired a sort of tragic respect.
When Roy came to understand the true essence of his father, he couldn't help but laugh.
For a man like Aleister, who loved his family so deeply, to unknowingly kill his own son—even if it was a mistake—would undoubtedly become a nightmare that haunted him for the rest of his life.
This negligent father, now burdened with unbearable guilt—what greater revenge could there be?
…
"Brother… Brother? Roy?"
Laura Stuart stepped out of the storage room, drying her delicate hands with a towel that had been washed to threads but remained meticulously clean. Confusion clouded her face as she called out her brother's name.
Roy always answered immediately when she called. But today, the house was eerily silent.
When Laura entered the living room, her gaze fell on the chair where Roy usually sat. It was empty.
Her puzzled expression gradually faded, replaced by an unsettling stillness. She walked to the table in silence.
Upon it lay the Book of 777, burning without flames, slowly crumbling to ash.
Laura knew that for a grimoire, such spontaneous combustion meant its knowledge had been completely absorbed. The Book of 777 had fulfilled its purpose and ceased to exist.
The final remnants of the book to disintegrate were its author's name: Aleister Crowley.
Laura gently touched the chair, still warm from Roy's presence. Then, without a word, she turned and left the house.
…
St. George's Cathedral stood tall, a symbol of the Church of England's power. The English Puritan Church was one of the three major branches of Christianity, boasting over 900 million adherents worldwide.
When Laura arrived at the cathedral, she was no longer wearing her simple, worn dress. Instead, she was clad in the pale yellow vestments of a clergywoman.
The outfit seemed oversized for her petite frame, as though it wasn't tailored for her. Yet as Laura ascended the cathedral's grand steps, her body underwent a startling transformation.
Her ankle-length golden hair grew rapidly, extending to more than twice her height. Her previously frail and malnourished physique blossomed, her once childlike figure maturing into the breathtaking elegance of an eighteen-year-old woman.
Laura coiled her impossibly long hair around her waist, folding it back over her shoulders multiple times. Even after three loops, her shimmering locks still cascaded down to her hips.
From somewhere unseen, she produced a silver-white hair clip, using it to secure her tresses. This arrangement neatly concealed the grotesque demonic visage hidden within her golden mane.
The interior of St. George's Cathedral was dark and silent, exuding an eerie stillness.
Laura walked down the nave with measured steps, her gaze fixed on the large crucifix at the far end. She stopped beneath it, bowing her head in what seemed like prayer. After a long moment, she raised her left hand and snapped her fingers.
"Snap!"
One by one, candles throughout the cathedral flickered to life, their flames chasing away the darkness.
Unbeknownst to Laura, several men and women clad in clerical robes had entered the cathedral behind her. They knelt reverently, their postures suggesting both awe and devotion.
"Archbishop, what are your orders?"
Laura Stuart—the Archbishop of the English Puritan Church—was not only the Church of England's highest-ranking official but also the spiritual leader of 900 million believers worldwide.
Despite the sweet innocence of her voice, her words carried an icy finality.
"Find that wretched, despicable magician," she ordered. "And kill him."
Her voice remained pure and melodic, like that of a carefree child. Its warmth and charm could easily disarm anyone, making them forget the staggering power she wielded.
But beneath her gentle tone lay an unyielding severity.
"Kill him," Laura repeated, "at any cost."
The kneeling clergy hesitated briefly. One of them scratched his head awkwardly before speaking up.
"Archbishop… your order seems beyond our capability. The entire magical world has been searching for that man. If his whereabouts were so easily discovered, he'd be dead by now."
"...Even with all of our resources, we can't pinpoint his location. We'd need to join forces with the Roman Catholic Church and the Russian Orthodox Church to stand a chance."
The clergy spoke casually, as though conversing with a friend rather than addressing the supreme leader of their faith. This was precisely the atmosphere Laura had cultivated—a dynamic where her subordinates could speak freely.
"Aleister Crowley will return to England," Laura stated with quiet certainty. "He must. There's a reason he cannot stay away."
Her voice carried an unshakable conviction.
"Mobilize all of our resources. Ensure that the moment he steps foot on this soil, we find him. Track him. Destroy him."
The clergy exchanged glances but refrained from questioning her confidence. Though their outward demeanor lacked formal reverence, they held unwavering trust in their Archbishop.
"Yes, Archbishop!"
As the clergy dispersed to carry out her orders, the candles in the cathedral extinguished one by one. Darkness reclaimed the space.
Laura stood beneath the crucifix, her expression unreadable as she gazed up at it.
"This is all going according to plan," Laura murmured to herself. "Everything is progressing as I intended. Using… to draw Aleister Crowley out will fulfill the contract."
She paused, her voice faltering.
"...But why does my heart feel so empty?"
Pressing a hand to her chest, she whispered softly:
"Roy… my brother… my brother…"
In the darkness of St. George's Cathedral, the Archbishop's voice quivered with unspoken sorrow.