The corridors were unnaturally quiet—wide and high-arched, lined with tall windows and tapestries so luxurious they could've belonged in a palace. The maid guiding them was eerily silent, gliding ahead with the poise of someone used to navigating power, never once looking back to check if they were following.
Shirou and Kurono were eventually led to separate doors, each gilded at the handle and carved with swirling patterns of vines and beasts in motion. The castle—if it could even be called that—was unlike anything they'd known. It whispered old magic through its stones.
Kurono's door creaked open to reveal a chamber that seemed to stretch forever. The walls were paneled with dark polished wood, the bed was a four-poster with silver-trimmed curtains of midnight blue, and the carpet beneath his feet was so plush it nearly swallowed his boots whole.
It's like one of those luxury suites you only see in magazines, he thought, blinking in disbelief. A grand chandelier of floating crystals swayed gently above, casting a warm golden glow.
Shirou's room mirrored the elegance, but to him, the grandeur wasn't surprising. He had grown used to fine surroundings after years of accidentally becoming the center of attention for women with ancient bloodlines and bottomless fortunes. Rin's modern mansion, Sakura's inherited estate, Illya's literal castle—each had prepared him for settings like this. But still… this was different.
The walls hummed with enchantments, and the fire in the hearth—though no logs were visible—crackled warmly, heated by runes carved delicately into the stone. The temperature never shifted, and there was no draft. Magic, naturally.
Kurono was still muttering under his breath about the absurdity of it all when they found themselves inspecting the bathrooms.
"Blimey…" Kurono exhaled as he stepped inside. The marble floors gleamed like moonlight. Basins of white porcelain sat beside gilded taps shaped like dragon heads, which poured steaming water with a mere wave of the hand. There was even a crystal tub large enough to swim in, its water already infused with some fragrant herb he couldn't name.
Shirou gave a small nod, arms crossed as he surveyed the room. "Lavish," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else. "She takes care of her own, at least."
Whether it was genuine hospitality or clever manipulation, neither of them could tell. But one thing was certain—Semiramis didn't force loyalty. She cultivated it.
The two bathed in silence, each deep in thought, the warmth of the water easing the tension from their bones after a long, exhausting day of appearances, caution, and survival.
Afterward, clad in the softest robes they had ever touched, they settled into their respective beds.
The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable. It was the silence of strangers who had shared a strange journey but had yet to cross into familiarity.
Shirou lay on his back, staring at the canopy above. His mind, ever active, plotted and planned. So many strong servants. Too many. I need to adapt fast if I'm going to make it out of here. He wouldn't make the mistake of underestimating anyone again. Not in this world. His gaze flicked briefly to the corner of the ceiling, where a faint shimmer suggested the presence of a surveillance enchantment.
Kurono, meanwhile, turned onto his side, one hand beneath his cheek. He hadn't grown up with magic and mystery—he was more accustomed to noisy streets, rustling manga pages, and online games. All of this—servants, duchesses, madwomen with knives for love—felt like stepping into a JRPG he hadn't agreed to play.
Still, both of them were too sharp to ignore the truth: they were being watched.
So they kept it light.
"Not bad," Kurono muttered eventually, his voice muffled by the pillow. "I mean, all things considered… this is the best bed I've ever had."
Shirou gave a quiet snort. "Yeah. Beats a tent in a forest."
"Or a back alley behind a convenience store," Kurono added with a half-smile.
There was a pause.
"Let's… not talk about anything important tonight," Shirou said, his voice barely above a whisper. "We don't know what kind of surveillance is on us."
Kurono made a vague noise of agreement. "Yeah. Tomorrow."
They drifted off one by one, lulled by the warmth and unnatural comfort of the enchanted rooms.
The stars above the tower glittered faintly behind the high windows.
And in the quiet, unseen corners of the stone walls, the enchantments watched… and listened.
----------------
In the quiet cathedral-like chamber lit by ever-burning lanterns of pale silver flame, Judas stood rigid, arms folded behind his back, as if bracing for a storm that had long been on the horizon. The silence was heavy—not due to any lack of sound, but because of what stood behind it. The failure of his plan. The quiet mockery of Shirou's unexpected performance. The unmistakable interest beginning to stir in the higher seats of power.
He hated the sensation—not fear, no, he had outgrown that—but the prickle of uncertainty. That cursed unknown that curled like smoke around everything Shirou Emiya touched.
Two Four-Ring Mages, routed without a weapon drawn. Fascinating. Dangerous.
Judas's jaw clenched.
And worst of all… effortless.
The Pegasus Knights had returned only hours ago with the bloodied remains of his pride—his elite soldiers, now bruised and humbled, even after healing rituals. Their physical wounds were gone, but the break in their confidence could not be mended with magic alone.
"They fought as they were trained," Judas muttered under his breath. "Like dolls on a stage."
He had no time to wallow in his thoughts. A ripple in the room's ambient magic made his head turn, just as a voice, smooth as glass and carrying the weight of command, called to him.
"What troubles you, Bishop Judas?"
The voice didn't ask out of concern. It never did.
Cardinal Ars had entered as if he owned the air itself.
Tall, composed, and youthful enough to be called handsome by every court lady in the Empire, Ars was a man whose gaze could make veterans of war flinch. Golden hair, neatly swept back, shone with the sheen of some celestial crown. His robes, woven from Mithril-thread and white dragon silk, caught the light with every movement, lending him an almost ethereal air.
He sat upon the White Chair without invitation, the ancient symbol of the ruling seat in the inner sanctum, as though it were made for him—and perhaps it was.
Behind him came the soft steps of something far more dangerous.
Sariel.
She was like the breath before snowfall—quiet, cold, and cruel in her beauty. At a glance, she looked like a girl, barely more than sixteen. But her crimson eyes held centuries of silence and slaughter. She didn't smile, didn't frown—she simply observed, as if cataloging every soul in the room and silently deciding whether or not to erase it.
Her white uniform fit her like a second skin, perfectly tailored and absent of any insignia—because someone like Sariel needed no name to be feared.
Of all the Apostles, Sariel was the one he understood the least. Created from a human girl whose name had long since been stripped from the records, she had been rebuilt piece by piece—mind, body, soul. She had once served as an executioner, then a saint, then a weapon. And yet, she had never once raised a hand against Judas, not even after gaining freedom from the slavery seal that once bound her.
Why?
Sometimes he wondered if she simply forgot to hate him.
Other times… he feared she remembered all too well, and was merely waiting.
Judas bowed his head respectfully. "Cardinal Ars. Apostle Sariel. You honor this place with your presence."
Ars leaned forward slightly, lacing his fingers beneath his chin.
--------------
"Apologies for showing such poor form," Judas began, forcing his voice to steady, "but two of the subjects have escaped the laboratory. Both... exceptional. One of them is a mage. A true magician from the other world."
The words hung in the air like a curse.
Even Sariel blinked.
Ars did not shout. He didn't need to. The silence around him tightened like a noose, and the atmosphere rippled with controlled fury.
"Bishop Judas," Ars said slowly, "do tell me there are countermeasures."
Judas bowed lower, like a tree against a coming gale. "Yes, Cardinal. The summoning circle was dismantled. I sealed the chamber with anti-magic wards and relics. Their escape was... unforeseen. The magic from the other side is older. Hidden. Its principles diverge from our understanding."
He gestured subtly, and behind him stepped the fruits of his work—four perfected soldiers that represented the very peak of the Sacrament's dark genius.
Kotaro and Saitou—assassins bred from silence and steel.
Tawara Touta—the marksman, untested but promising.
And finally, Raikou.
She stepped forward with the grace of a immortaldess of war—taller than all others, clad in enchanted latex that shimmered faintly with protective spells. Her garb was both armor and symbol: a chest-cloth with a heart-shaped sigil linked to her collar, a waist-wrap fastened with a ceremonial rope, gauntlets and greaves of spiritual steel. A sword hung at her side, and a tall, ornate bow was slung across her back. She was elegance and lethality made flesh, a weapon crafted to strike awe and terror alike.
"She is our finest," Judas added with reverence. "Only Sariel surpasses her."
Ars raised an eyebrow as his eyes moved from Raikou to Tawara, the younger warrior—dark-haired, black-eyed, radiating quiet power like a volcano still sleeping. The Cardinal nodded.
"Geniuses," he murmured. "All of them. Miracles in flesh. You have outdone yourself, Bishop Judas."
Judas's chest swelled with pride, just for a moment—until Ars continued.
"But a magician from another world... That is not a miracle. That is a declaration of danger. Do you know what this could mean?"
Judas nodded solemnly. "Yes, Cardinal. If they decide to wage war on us... we would not survive. A month, perhaps, if we are fortunate."
He paused, letting that horror hang.
"But... this magician's presence also offers us an opportunity. His magic is unlike ours. His system... structured, elegant. If we study it—if we dissect it—we may be able to reach the Tenth Circle."
The words were whispered like a prayer.
The Tenth Circle.
A realm forbidden to mortals. A place where Apostles and dragons walked, where the laws of magic bent like reeds before the wind. Where death was no longer certain, and miracles were routine.
Judas's hands trembled now, not from fear—but from yearning. The Tenth Circle. Immortality. Ascension.
Ars regarded him for a long moment, then turned to Sariel. She gave no answer—only a faint, nearly imperceptible nod.
That was enough.
"Pass me the information," the Cardinal said, his tone returning to a silky calm. "I will deploy the Eighth Apostle. We will retrieve them. Quietly."
Judas bowed again, his heart thundering. This was the beginning of something—he felt it deep in his bones. The magician, Shirou, was not a threat. He was a door.
And Judas would be the one to open it.
--------------------
The Tenth Circle—whispers of its power and grandeur swirled around the halls like an intoxicating perfume, a fragrance of eternal potential. It was a place so beyond mortal comprehension, so far removed from the world as it was now, that even the bravest of souls hesitated at the mere thought of it. This was not a realm for the ordinary; this was a realm for beings forged of fire and blood, for dragons, for Apostles, for the rarest of magical creatures who had transcended the boundaries of the mortal coil.
To reach the Tenth Circle was to step into the domain of immortals, those who had mastered the art of bending reality itself to their will. To them, the world was like clay in the hands of a sculptor. Miracles were their bread and butter—things that mere mortals would revere for centuries, these immortals did with but a flick of their fingers, casually, as though they had done it all before.
Judas could feel his pulse quicken, his chest tighten with a feverish longing, as his gaze darted between the figures before him. The Cardinal, Ars, sat with his hands folded neatly on the table, his calm demeanor betraying no sign of the whirlwind of thoughts swirling beneath the surface. His eyes—blue, unyielding—were fixed on the report in his hands, yet Judas could sense that the man was entirely aware of the tension that hummed in the room. It was a tension thick with the scent of ambition, with the promise of greatness.
Ars, ever the composed figure, seemed to wear his calm like a cloak of fine silk, but Judas knew better than to be deceived. Behind that facade was a mind as sharp as a blade, calculating, always calculating. The thought of reaching the Tenth Circle had no doubt stirred something primal in him—something that would not be easily contained. The Cardinal may have been controlled on the outside, but Judas had seen the way his jaw clenched ever so slightly when the possibilities of such power had been mentioned.
And then there was Sariel. The Seventh Apostle, silent and statuesque, as always. She stood beside Ars like a sentinel, her presence both a comfort and a challenge. Her silver hair cascaded like liquid moonlight, and her crimson eyes held no warmth—no human warmth, at least. She was a being apart from the world they inhabited. A homunculus, a creation of flesh and magic, stripped of her past life, now a vessel for divine power and pure intent. She was the one who had saved Ars's life when he had been nothing more than a lowly Bishop, on the brink of death. That single act had changed the trajectory of his entire existence.
Judas could not help but wonder if she ever thought of her origins. Did she long for the memories that had been ripped from her? Or was she content to be what she was now—a weapon, an avatar of the White Lord's will? But then again, Judas had learned long ago not to question Sariel's silence. It was her way, and to probe it would be to risk something more dangerous than just the loss of her trust.
"Please pass me the information, and I will have the Eighth Apostle track them down," Ars's voice was smooth, like the sound of a flowing river, calm and serene—but there was a steeliness to his words that could not be ignored. It was an order, and one that left no room for refusal.
Judas hesitated only for a heartbeat, before handing over the report. It was a well-constructed piece of work, prepared by Kotaro, Saitou, and the Pegasus Knights—an intricate account of the subjects' escape and the details of the mysterious magician from another world. The mention of the Tenth Circle had set Ars's mind ablaze, but it was clear that the Cardinal's next move was to contain the immediate threat.
"Well then," Ars continued, his tone softening into something almost affectionate, "Please excuse me, Bishop. I will handle this case personally and present the results of your project to the Pope. You may expect a raise soon, so you should take some time to relax. Visit your family, enjoy some peace. We have much to discuss in the future."
Judas's heart swelled with pride, and despite the gnawing discomfort of the situation, he managed a smile. "Thank you for your kind words, Cardinal. Please do pass along my greetings to the Pope and my desire to participate in the Golem Department."
"I will pass it on," Ars responded, rising from his chair with an effortless grace that suggested he was born for this position, "and you can look forward to a positive result."
With those final words, Ars turned on his heel, his robes flowing behind him like the trailing banner of some great king. Sariel followed silently, her steps soft but deliberate, like a shadow following its master. Together, they made their way towards the door, and Judas watched them go, a curious mix of emotions stirring within him.
He had been given a blessing, a chance to rise higher in the ranks. But even as his eyes tracked the Cardinal's departure, Judas could not shake the feeling that this was merely the beginning of something much larger—something that would reach far beyond the confines of the White Sacrament and their walls of white stone.
The Tenth Circle loomed on the horizon. And Judas was no fool. He knew that in his quest for immortality, he would not be alone. Others would seek it too. And in the end, only the most powerful would claim it.