Many years later, whenever snowstorms descended, Cyren Delante would always recall that beautiful afternoon in Londinium, the gentle sunshine and sickeningly sweet toffee black tea making him drowsy.
At that time, he had just been respectfully "escorted" out by the unfortunate officers of Scotland Yard, and at the roadside glass café where flowers bloomed profusely, he ordered afternoon tea, exchanging the last few silver pennies in his pocket for a brief respite of mental blankness and comfort.
As for being arrested by officers right after transmigrating, Gu Jun didn't take it to heart at all, because he was the victim.
In memories tinged with pain, he had died in a car accident. As a Lacanian psychoanalyst, he had just finished a consultation session, but that gentleman's peculiarities were truly too bizarre. While driving home after work, he was still analyzing his symptoms, which led to him charging straight off a cliff.
When he awoke again, he was shocked to discover himself in his own home, hosting a private dinner party with three noble ladies and two priests. This kind of private dinner party typically carried ambiguous undertones, especially with six people, and one furious-looking noble lady was gripping a bloodstained glass lamp, standing right behind him.
Gu Jun touched the back of his head. It was covered in blood.
Then the officers from the nearby Scotland Yard arrived.
A servant had ed it. Previously, he had been lying on the table covered in blood for a full half hour.
"Esteemed Father Delante." The middle-aged, balding superintendent touched his sparse hair with pity and asked helplessly, "We've already interrogated Lady Payne. Do you have any other requests? But I must say, the examination shows you're actually fine, so compensation might be difficult to demand..."
He had already checked the files and knew that the young priest before him was to be promoted to bishop today and would be taking up his post in the northern diocese. However, being a bishop in the north certainly offered less lucrative opportunities than Londinium, which was why he had been so angry and had arranged an evening gathering with friends and mistresses to vent.
But this sort of matter, involving both aristocratic privacy and the Church's new bishop, meant he couldn't afford to offend either side. If this became a scandal, he would certainly be the first to go.
"I have no requests," Cyren Delante said, snapping out of his daze. "Since everything's fine, I'll take my leave. The train departs at seven this evening."
The balding superintendent breathed a huge sigh of relief, as if granted amnesty. He hastily scribbled down something about "a verbal dispute" and then escorted Gu Jun out the main gates of Scotland Yard.
Gu Jun walked aimlessly through unfamiliar streets, then was attracted by the brilliant purple irises at the entrance of a glass café. He decided to get some fries first, so at the counter he ordered toffee black tea and freshly made French fries.
Over the course of one cup of tea, Gu Jun reminisced about his previous brief life of twenty-some years in the warm afternoon sunlight, then began seriously contemplating his current predicament.
His name now was Cyren Delante, the priest of Gloucester Parish in the Londinium district of the Messiah Church, also called a parish priest. This position was already excellent for a young man.
Moreover, he was in Londinium, the capital and heart of this vast empire.
Not only that, Cyren had beautiful wavy black hair and a handsome face as three-dimensional as an ancient Greek sculpture. He was deeply beloved by local noble ladies and young misses. Perhaps his only flaw was that his shoulders weren't broad enough, lacking a sense of security and giving people an impression of frailty, but this made some strong-willed female aristocrats all the more eager to support this young priest.
Therefore, before Gu Jun transmigrated, Father Cyren was a notorious socialite with a record of taking gold pounds from noble ladies to support young men.
But no matter how deplorable Father Cyren's behavior was, God would still forgive him. The best proof of this was—
Cyren casually snapped his fingers, and hymns began to resound in the void, as if many holy sprites were circling by his ear, sprinkling pure white notes.
"Divine will..." Cyren murmured, watching the miracle leaping at his fingertips, experiencing the peculiar rhythm of divine will flowing around him, momentarily speechless.
Raising his head, Cyren looked at the stone buildings full of classical atmosphere. At the top of the clock tower, enormous steam airships slowly drifted past. The Queen's royal knights wore heavy gold-red plate armor, bearing mechanical wings, guarding the brown airships. Pale red steam emanated from the gaps in their armor.
On the street ahead, a strange inventor sat in a crude four-wheeled vehicle charging recklessly about. The blue magical light orb at the center of the axle continuously poured fluorescent light into the steam chamber, driving the connecting rods and rotating the wheels.
This place resembled the nineteenth century, but all signs indicated this was another world.
The newly embodied Father Cyren Delante finished the last sip of tea, wiped his mouth with a white silk napkin, then rose, adjusted the white Roman collar at his neckline, and sorted through the fragmented memories in his mind, most importantly those concerning the scriptures, he had to pretend to be a genuine priest.
But just then, the surrounding pedestrians let out cries of alarm. Cyren looked up to see a huge shadow descending from the sky, accompanied by deafening steam roars and the sound of grinding machinery!
Cyren instinctively raised his arm to shield himself, but the expected impact never came, only a large amount of steam mist spraying his face.
Hovering before him was an armored knight over two meters tall, entirely covered in platinum plate armor engraved with ancient, complex metallic patterns and Messiah crosses, decorated with golden metal like entwined thorn vines. Large amounts of steam gushed from the gaps in the joints. Enormous white mechanical wings spread behind him, with precision gears wrapped in translucent pure white crystal, emitting rhythmic clicking sounds.
He looked at Cyren, then reached up to press a hidden mechanism at his neck, opening the platinum knight's visor to reveal a young, handsome face.
The man smiled brilliantly at Cyren, "Long time no see, Cyren. I heard you were arrested and taken to Scotland Yard?"
Cyren searched through the memories in his mind and finally found the corresponding information: Anthony, a senior from the seminary, and they shared the same mentor.
So his face showed a trace of relief and joy, then he scratched his head, expressing embarrassment, "Don't mention it, just a small problem. But what about you, why did you come here? Should we find another place to talk?"
Anthony laughed heartily, "No problem. The mentor asked me to bring you some things, he should have written you a letter."
At the mention of "mentor," Cyren's expression became more serious. That venerable gentleman was the Cardinal Archbishop of Florence. If not for Cyren's excellent performance at the seminary years ago, he wouldn't have received this elder's favor to become his spiritual disciple.
His current position as district priest of Londinium was also thanks to his connections.
And that "mentor's letter" was precisely what had caused the body's original owner to become depressed and then create that incident.
Cyren fell silent for a moment, then said somewhat downcast, "Yes, I received it."
"Don't be sad," Anthony patted Cyren's shoulder. "It's just a transfer to Spessay to be a bishop. At least it's a promotion. Becoming a bishop before age thirty is an extremely rare honor."
He stuffed the package from his back into Cyren's hands. Inside were the purple shirt exclusive to bishop rank, a black robe with purple accessories, a small round cap, a ring of authority, and a pastoral staff.
Generally speaking, one could only become a bishop at age thirty at the earliest, and a cardinal at fifty. Cyren was donning purple at such a young age, his future prospects were limitless.
"But that place..." Cyren hesitated, leaving his words unfinished.
Spessay was a small northern city, a bitter, cold land. It had no plains and wasn't near a harbor. Its only advantage was abundant coal mines, but this also meant the entire sky was filled with gray particles and haze.
Being a bishop in such a place, how could it compare to being a priest in the capital?
Moreover, for the original owner, this meant he would be far from beautiful streets, trendy pleasures, lovely ladies, and adorable gold pounds.
Seeing Cyren's troubled expression, Anthony sighed inwardly. Remembering the mentor's instructions before departure, he patiently coaxed, "Don't blame the mentor. Although Spessay is a bit harsh, this appointment concerns a great plan of the entire Holy See. Besides, in Londinium you have people managing you, but once you go north, the endless mountains and wilderness will all be your jurisdiction. You can do whatever you want."
"A great plan?" Cyren asked in surprise.
"Well... you'll find out when you get there anyway, so I'll reveal a bit," Anthony carefully looked around at the crowd of onlookers gathering nearby, then chanted softly in his pleasant baritone voice:
"Whether sooner or later, all shall see."
"The great transformation is occurring."
"Blood and frozen terror,"
"Then vengeance."
"The moon thus guided by angels."
"Heaven approaches Libra."
When Anthony recited this verse, some sacred and solemn presence seemed to rise at his side. Even the flowers outside the café bowed slightly, as if this were some predestined prophecy.
Cyren searched through his mind for the source of these words, then blurted out, "The Centuries, Chapter Fifty-Six? Doomsday prophecy, Nostradamus... wasn't he a fraud?"
Anthony was shocked and quickly covered Cyren's mouth, "Silence! How can you speak of the great prophet that way!"
Only then did Cyren realize his mistake. He had projected the world before his transmigration onto this world.
Searching through Cyren's memories, he discovered that Nostradamus had lived for four hundred years and was still in good health. All his prophecies had been proven true. He was an honorary bishop, widely respected.
So he laughed awkwardly, "...May the Lord forgive me."
Then he made the sign of the cross on his chest somewhat clumsily.
Anthony looked at this somewhat strange junior, attributing it to not having seen him for too long, then instructed, "The [Northern Holy Seat Train] will arrive in just over an hour. Don't miss it, or the mentor will be angry."
"Alright, I understand," Cyren nodded.
Looking once more at the junior before him and confirming he truly understood, Anthony closed his visor. He lightly tapped the side of the armor, and the steam pack on his back began operating. Numerous precision mechanical structures rotated under the propulsion of steam. Brown mechanical wings spread out, like a steel angel. The platinum armor appeared and disappeared in the steam.
The surrounding crowd all knelt down, praying to this guardian of the Lord.
After a five-second warmup, large amounts of steam gushed out. Brilliant holy light flowed over the mechanical structures. The sacred patterns on the armor bloomed with ancient, solemn starlight. Anthony leapt up, flying into the sky, then quickly became a tiny speck.
Cyren watched Anthony depart, patted the water droplets on his black priest's robe, then hastily left before the crowd could surround him.
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