Sariel's Point of View
She stood beside Cardinal Ars, a silent shadow cast in silver and crimson, her form unmoving save for the subtle flicker of her cloak in the passing draft. Her presence was known yet unnoticed, like the stillness of statues in a cathedral—present, watchful, emotionless.
And yet, the name Raikou.
The syllables carried no weight to most. But to Sariel… they echoed, like a chime from deep within the corridors of her sealed mind, striking against a door long thought rusted shut. The faintest flicker of recognition sparked—not in her face, for it remained a mask of porcelain and calm—but in the pressure behind her eyes, and the whisper that brushed across the still waters of her mind.
She didn't feel surprise—Sariel did not feel, not as others did. Her heart had withered years ago, snuffed out in the cold corridors of the Sacrament, during the endless training, the reconditioning, the mechanical wars she was bred to fight. Her emotions had not merely been hidden—they had been locked away, sealed behind thick walls reinforced with logic, duty, and repetition. What remained was function. Purpose. Silence.
But the name had done something. A shiver through the machine.
Raikou.
There was a moment—no longer than the breath of a candle flame—where the air in the room shifted. Something tugged at the base of her skull, a weightless pull. Her mind, efficient and honed like a weapon, filed the sensation away. Not emotion. A reaction. A stimulus. Nothing more.
Still, she turned her gaze—precise, mechanical—toward the woman.
Raikou stood poised, like a blade sheathed in flesh. There was a familiarity in her stance, in the tilt of her head, in the tension of her shoulders that spoke of shared systems, perhaps a common origin. Or something older.
A thread frayed loose in the design.
Was she known to Sariel?
It was a question asked not with yearning, but with the cold efficiency of data gathering. The same way one would ask if an old file had been deleted or simply misplaced.
A sharp sensation flared beneath her ribs—not pain, not truly. Just pressure. Like something trying to move after being still for too long.
That should not be.
She catalogued it.
Sariel did not move. Did not speak. But she made a decision.
This warranted analysis.
And yet she would not pursue it like a child chasing a dream. She would observe. Measure. Calculate. Then she would know—if there was something worth knowing.
"Do you know her?"
The Cardinal's voice cut gently through the air. Not suspicion—curiosity. A measured tone. He understood Sariel, as much as any man could understand a machine pretending to be human.
She tilted her head with mathematical precision.
"No. But I may need to."
Her voice was smooth, free of inflection. It did not betray thought or interest. But Ars, ever perceptive, merely nodded.
"As you wish."
She turned away then, returning to stillness. But her mind, cold and precise, continued to churn beneath the surface. She would study this Raikou. Not because she felt anything. But because something had moved within the silence. And that was... irregular.
And Sariel had been made to correct irregularities.
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Judas's Point of View
The heavy oak doors closed with a muffled thud, and silence returned to the chamber.
Judas remained still for a moment, his eyes fixed on the space Cardinal Ars and Sariel had occupied mere seconds before. It was not reverence he felt, nor envy. Merely… calculation. The kind that hummed beneath his skin whenever he was alone with his thoughts.
He slowly turned to face the four individuals kneeling quietly on the crimson-and-gold rug beneath the altar dais—his servants, though he rarely called them that aloud. They were more than simple assets. They were his tools, his weapons, his responsibility.
They were also—bluntly—underwhelming.
"Saitou." His voice was calm, as always. Almost fatherly.
The young man raised his head, his eyes wary.
"Your swords shattered."
There was no accusation in Judas's tone, but the words alone cut deeper than steel. Saitou flinched. He didn't speak.
"I enhanced them myself. I used materials salvaged from the corpse of a Wyrmspawn. And still, they failed. A poor showing, wouldn't you agree?"
"Yes, Master," came the reply, soft, ashamed.
Judas sighed, not out of anger, but of disappointment drawn from unrealized potential. These four were meant to be Heavenly Soldiers, paragons of the human edge in a world ruled by magic, monsters, and miracles. But raw flesh and tempered will alone were not enough. They lacked the polish of war. They lacked artifacts. They lacked scars.
He turned, walking down from the dais with slow, echoing steps, robes whispering behind him like wings folded in silence.
"The Pandora event," he said, gaze faraway. "A cursed land that devours the foolish and rewards the bold. You will go there, all of you. You will fight, bleed, grow—and you will return with relics powerful enough to challenge Apostles."
He looked to each of them in turn. Three bowed their heads. But one… looked up.
Raikou.
Her smile was calm, graceful. Almost disarming. A mask of civility over something cold and hard beneath. She was always the most composed of the four—but lately, something else had begun to stir within her.
She had been completed six months ago. The experiment had been a success. More importantly, her mind had survived. Unlike the others who bent under pressure, who forgot who they were in the transformation, Raikou remembered. Her sense of self, her identity, had clung to her soul like a stubborn ember refusing to die out.
Judas stepped closer. Her smile did not falter. He found it fascinating.
"Raikou," he said, voice lowering. "I look forward to your growth."
His eyes gleamed. "Show me that you can surpass that little girl."
A flicker—perhaps a memory, perhaps not—flashed in Raikou's pale violet eyes. Her smile widened.
"Yes, Master."
There was something undeniably beautiful about her obedience—refined, effortless, graceful. But Judas had learned long ago that beauty was often where danger waited to bloom.
He turned away.
Soon, the project would resume. The whispers of the other world had grown quiet, and the Church's attention would shift once more. Soon, the Arc continent's sterile emptiness would give way to the untouched ruins across the sea. Secrets of immortals. Forbidden knowledge. Perhaps even living specimens. The White Lord had erased much, but he had not erased everything.
They would find it.
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The morning light filtered gently through the sheer curtains of the inn, casting long beams of gold across the stone-tiled floor. Birds chirped beyond the open window, their melodies incongruous with the anxiety that settled like mist in Shirou's chest.
He sat up slowly, testing his body, rotating his shoulder. No pain. The bruises were gone, his skin smooth once more. The priest who'd treated him had called it a minor miracle, but Shirou knew better—this world thrived on miracles, and more often than not, they came with a price.
Kurono was already up, tying his hair with deft fingers, his eyes distant but alert. He offered him a quiet nod and gestured to the basin where water steamed slightly, warmed by gentle fire runes embedded in the walls. They went through their morning routine in silence, not out of coldness, but an understanding born of unspoken trust.
By the time they reached the common room, the scent of spiced bread and roasted meat lingered in the air. They ate with care, eyes scanning the hall. The city around them was in flux, tides of travelers, mercenaries, peddlers, and pilgrims churning toward the same shore—the storm of war.
The guides were friendly, and one young man—a dark-skinned youth with boundless enthusiasm and terrible directions—offered to show them around. Shirou accepted, partly to observe, partly to learn.
The city was built like a fortress but behaved like a carnival. Stalls sold talismans blessed by long-forgotten gods. Statues of dragon-riding Apostles stood proudly beside relics claimed to be gifts from the Immortals. Everywhere, Shirou saw signs of power—and signs of worship.
And with every step, he understood more of the world they had entered.
There were many servants here, as they were called—those touched by gods, gifted with fragments of immortal might. But it wasn't the power that alarmed him. It was the system. The people of Pandora worshipped their Immortals like monarchs, and their blessings were given only to those deemed worthy.
The White Lord, in particular, held terrifying influence. Shirou learned quickly from whispered conversations and veiled books that the White Lord's blessing was both divine and absolute. Yet… it came with a peculiar requirement.
Purity.
Only virgins could receive the blessing. Only they could become Apostles. Which meant...
"All the Apostles are virgins," he muttered under his breath later, sitting beside Kurono in the shadowed garden of the inn.
He glanced at him, eyebrow raised. "You sound like that's a strategy."
"It is a weakness," Shirou replied, voice low. "If the blessing is tied to purity, then losing that purity breaks the bond. Or at least weakens it."
Kurono tilted his head. "You planning to seduce one?"
"I said it's a weakness," he replied dryly. "Not that I'm insane."
Still, it was a weakness that someone else could exploit—someone less… morally constrained.
But that thought led him to something else: Ai.
He had only heard whispers. Platinum-blond hair. Green eyes. A sweet voice and a sweet smile. And yet, beneath that delicate façade, she was known as the most ruthless hunter in the Church's arsenal. Not because she was the strongest. But because she never failed.
And she was coming.
"She's probably already here," Shirou said, eyes scanning the port as he and Kurono moved through the bustling crowd, heads down, cloaks pulled tight. "If the Bishop passed on the data, Ai's already tracking us."
"Then we give her nothing to track," Kurono said. "No patterns. No traces."
They had received permission to explore the city under supervision, though that leniency had more to do with the confidence of their observers than kindness. Still, it gave them the opportunity they needed.
Shirou fingered the space ring tucked inside his inner coat pocket. It shimmered faintly with concealed magic. William, ever the helpful mage, had handed it over with a warm smile and a few vague warnings. But Shirou had already sensed the trap.
"Tracking rune," he muttered to Kurono as they slipped down an alleyway. "Buried under the space magic."
He smirked. "Good thing you copied it."
The original ring was now lying peacefully in their room, amidst clutter and clothes, giving off just enough presence to fool a scrying spell.
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The path to the port twisted like a serpent through the city, its stones worn by generations of sandals, boots, and hooves. Shirou and Kurono moved with purpose, cloaks drawn, eyes forward—but the rising murmur of a crowd made them pause at the edge of a sunlit square.
There, before the old Temple of Mercy, a man in white robes stood upon a raised dais, arms outstretched like wings. His silver stole shimmered in the morning light, embroidered with the sigil of the White Lord—a brilliant sun rising behind a seven-pointed star.
A priest.
"We should keep moving," Kurono muttered, her gaze scanning the rooftops, the alleys.
But Shirou held a hand up, his expression unreadable. "Listen."
The crowd was mixed—merchants, beggars, soldiers—and then there were the others.
Slaves.
Some wore collars. Others, simple brands on their necks or wrists. Their ears, their eyes, their tails—all marked them as non-human. Beastkin, merfolk, giants in chains. One lizardkin boy—no older than ten—clutched his mother's clawed hand as the priest's voice rolled over them all like thunder from the heavens.
"People of Arc! Children of the Empire!" the priest cried, voice ringing with righteous fervor. "Today, I bring tidings of holy war—not against your neighbors, not against your kin, but against the shadow across the sea! The demon king rises once more in Pandora! The dark immortals stir in their heathen temples!"
Murmurs rippled through the crowd, like waves over still water.
"The White Lord, in His infinite mercy, has called upon His faithful to cleanse the world of darkness!" The priest pointed eastward, across the great sea. "To strike down the tyrants who once enslaved you! The Lords who fed you lies and dragged you into sin!"
He turned now, deliberately, to the slaves.
"To you, the broken and the bound! The White Lord sees your suffering! He weeps for your chains! But you are not beyond redemption!" His voice softened, nearly trembling. "Fight for Him. Cleanse the darkness. And you shall be freed. You shall become citizens. Not beasts. Not sinners. Brothers and sisters in His light."
The reaction was immediate.
Shirou watched as a beastkin girl dropped to her knees, tears streaming down her striped cheeks. A centaur man clutched his fist over his heart and roared his approval. The crowd surged with new energy—hope and desperation twisted together into a living thing.
"And hear this!" the priest called, gesturing behind him where armored soldiers stood in ceremonial formation. "All who serve faithfully in this crusade shall be rewarded! Land shall be yours—yours! Take the enemy's towns! Their farms! Their wives and husbands, should you desire! The White Lord grants you this right!"
Shirou flinched. Kurono's hand slid to her dagger.
"The Church will sanctify your conquests! You shall carry His light across the sea and root out the old evils! Let none remain who defy Him!"
For a moment, silence held the square like a breath caught in the throat.
Then cheers erupted.
Even among the slaves.
"They… believe it," Kurono whispered, stunned. "They actually believe it."
"They have to," Shirou said quietly. "If hope is the only thing you've got left… you'll drink any poison that smells like salvation."
His eyes swept over the crowd. Most were too busy cheering to notice him. But a few weren't. A cloaked figure leaned against a column nearby, unmoving. Their gaze met his—and held it for a beat too long before vanishing into the crowd.
Kurono touched his arm. "We should go."
As they moved on, the priest's voice faded behind them, still thundering through the streets.
"And when the war is won, the sun shall rise on a new world—pure, unified, and glorious! Blessed be the White Lord! Glory to the Empire!"
Shirou didn't look back.
But his heart was heavy.
They weren't just fighting an army. They were fighting faith.
And that… was harder to kill than any soldier.