Maids from Star Luo Residence were scouring every street for Mr. and Mrs. Charlie. Bella alone walked the street where they’d been separated more than ten times—unaware the people she sought had already trailed a freight caravan all the way to the city gate.
They hadn’t meant to slip away without notice. Siria’s streets were a spider web of branching alleys; turn after turn left them disoriented until they simply ended up here.
Seeing the gate, Bartley Charlie brightened and kept telling his wife, “Look—the city gate! Look, it’s the gate!”
Mrs. Charlie grinned wide. “It really is the gate!”
Darm, squeezed between them, stretched on tiptoe. Far off, he spotted a silver carriage gleaming—his mouth fell open in a silent wow.
It was the most magnificent carriage he had ever seen: two pitch‑black horses in front, their harness ribbons and reins embroidered with golden floral patterns.
The crown‑shaped coach was set with transparent glass windows and opulent painted panels. Even the driver wore silver boots that flashed in the sunlight so brightly Darm had to squint.
“Make way!”
“Clear the road!”
“His Grace the Bishop—make way!”
A stir rose inside the gate. City guards and temple monks, spears and iron swords in hand, pushed people to either side. A gold‑plated, silver‑inlaid open‑top carriage rolled out, bearing an elderly man in a purple robe gripping a scepter.
The crowd parted. Terrified, the Charlie family backed all the way outside the gate and, thump, dropped to their knees, bowing with reverent, fearful devotion as the Bishop’s carriage passed.
The Bishop of the Siria Temple did not glance at the kneeling commoners. His cloudy eyes were fixed on the silver carriage approaching head‑on.
That was the carriage of St. Teno Divine College. Everyone inside was immeasurably exalted—future central leaders of the Church.
Especially Prince Alfried’s godson, Prince Feiru Bu'erwei'er—the very reason for this reception.
As the silver carriage neared, the Bishop could wait no longer. Clutching his scepter, he shakily descended.
Since his demotion by the Church, his body had weakened day by day. The night he received the decree he knelt in prayer till dawn, catching gout; every step now hurt.
Supported by monks, he hobbled forward a few paces. The College carriage slowed and came to a gentle stop.
Clearing his throat, the Bishop called loudly, “Honored guests—are you from St. Teno Divine College?”
A side door opened. A noble‑looking youth stepped down the carved steps, halted before the carriage, and offered the Bishop a graceful bow.
“Good day, Your Grace. We are indeed students of the Divine College.”
The Bishop, voice quivering, asked, “Are you His Highness Prince Feiru?”
The youth smiled politely. “Your Grace, I am not Prince Feiru. His Highness and the other classmates are still inside.”
Awkwardness froze the Bishop. He had come out in person—yet Prince Feiru would not even alight to meet him.
He tightened his grip on the scepter and forced a stiff smile. “Ah—I mistook you. May I ask your name, sir?”
“Sylvester Emerson. You may call me Sylvester.” His warm smile was like a spring breeze.
The Bishop’s face went even stiffer. Only then did he realize his grave mistake.
Sylvester Emerson—Emerson. The youth before him was the younger brother of the Holy Knight Commander!
He had ignored him, intent only on currying favor with Prince Feiru!
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