Extra's POV: My Obsessive Villainous Fiancee Is The Game's Final Boss-Chapter 233: The Pope’s Curse

A lot of officials of the Creation church had been to the holy cathedral in Edenhold. It was seen as a thing of joy when they leave their own homes to go on such a pilgrimage.

Many have visited as many as ten times, but very few had ever been to the cold halls that were beneath the cathedral.

This was a place where few entered and fewer came out. A place where even the light of the day dared not touch. And that was currently where the Pope was.

His footsteps echoed softly along the narrow corridor as he descended deeper into the earth, his white robes trailing behind him like the shroud of a ghost.

Two elite Chosen followed behind him, their expressions grim, and the golden embroidery on their cloaks glinting faintly in the torchlight.

A minute later, they stopped before a thick door that was literally vibrating, a soft humming sound filling the air. This was one of the most protected places in the whole kingdom of Elnoria.

With a single gesture from the Pope, the guards began the lengthy process of unlocking the heavy slab. After a few minutes, the door clicked open, and they stepped aside.

Inside, the air literally wavered with resonance suppression. The walls of the cell shivered faintly with humming energy, a specially prepared symphony of disruptive fields specifically attuned to blood.

At the center of the cell, shackled by wrists and neck to a stone pillar, sat the Blood Chosen.

He was pale, emaciated, but conscious. His long dark hair hung in clumps around his face, and his eyes glared with a single overwhelming emotion.

Hatred.

The Pope stepped in alone, waving the guards to wait outside. As the door closed behind him, he allowed himself a slight smile.

"You've grown quiet." The Pope said, his voice calm and disdainful. "How unlike you."

The Blood Chosen's head tilted slowly, a crooked grin stretching across his lips.

"Takes effort to speak when you've got the resonance of half the Church drilling into your marrow." He rasped. "But I wouldn't want to disappoint you, Grandfather."

The Pope's face remained still, unreadable. "You never were one for gratitude, were you?"

"Gratitude?" The Blood Chosen barked a bitter laugh. "You butchered my pair. You tore out my anchor to the world and you expect gratitude?"

The Pope's face hardened. "She was a liability."

"She was my soul." The Blood Chosen snapped, chains rattling as he strained forward. "And you cut her down like she was nothing."

"Because she was." The Pope said, voice cold. "A weakness you clung to. And weakness has no place in my Church."

The Blood Chosen snarled, his eyes blazing. "And what about this Church of yours, huh? You built it on blood. On stolen power."

"You think I can't hear the secrets in the blood just because you chained me up? The plague, the riots, the war with King Mikael, all of it. This isn't divine will. It's yours. Your hands are red, and you're drowning in more blood than I can ever control."

For a moment, something flickered in the Pope's eyes and his resonance loop wavered. The words had struck deeper than he intended to show. But he recovered quickly, tightening his grip on his loop with authority.

"Be careful with your tone, boy." He hissed.

But the Blood Chosen leaned in, eyes glittering with malice. "No, let's speak the truth. All of this... your grand tower of lies, your puppet Synod, your 'divine' decrees. You're the rot in the root, grandfather."

"You think you've won, don't you? But you've already lost." He laughed. "Because whatever you build, you'll destroy yourself with your own hands."

The Pope's lips thinned. "Still pretending you hold insight? You, who couldn't even keep your partner alive?"

His eyes narrowed. "You cling to your pain like a child to a broken toy. I kept you alive because I have use for you, not because I care what nonsense leaks from your mouth."

The Blood Chosen chuckled darkly. "And what happens when I decide not to be useful anymore?"

"Then you will suffer." The Pope replied simply.

The Blood Chosen's smile faded, replaced by exhaustion. His voice grew softer. "Just let me die. End this farce. You've taken everything. What else do you want?"

The Pope stepped forward, but before he could touch him, the Blood Chosen spoke again.

"What about my parents?" He asked suddenly, voice rough. "What did you do to them?"

The Pope paused. His voice was cool. "They passed. Peacefully. In their sleep, as devout Chosen of the Creator."

The Blood Chosen stared, then laughed bitterly. "Peacefully? I'd hoped they suffered. They were both cowards. They watched me get hunted like a dog and did nothing. Nothing!"

"They obeyed." The Pope replied with a smile of satisfaction. "That is more than you ever did."

"Obedience isn't holiness. It's fear. They let you do this to me. Let you kill her. I curse them, and I curse you. You shall never find peace. Whether in this life or at the bosom of the Creator."

The Pope's gaze hardened, but he did not rise to the bait.

"Enough. Your words mean nothing. You are what I made you to be. And until you're needed, you'll remain where you are."

"You want to die?" The Pope finally reached forward, placing a hand on the man's head. Light flared around his fingers, a radiant corona that slowly wrapped itself around the Blood Chosen's skull.

"You don't get to choose when." The Pope said coldly. "Not yet."

The Blood Chosen tried to resist, but his body trembled, and his eyes fluttered as the light seeped deeper. A moment later, his body slumped, and he was unconscious.

The Pope drew back, breathing evenly, his face returned to that familiar mask of serene authority.

He turned and left the cell, the door closing behind him with a soft echo. Outside, the guards fell into step behind him as he ascended the steps.

The Blood Chosen would not die. Not until the Pope willed it. Not until he had served his purpose.

And when that day came, it would not be mercy.

It would be judgment.