POV: ???
From the rooftops above the square—where Fortuna's pristine skyline met rising trails of smoke—a figure stood watching.
Gray coat. High collar turned up. A silver half-mask concealed everything above his mouth, and a lone lock of white hair dangled over his brow, catching the sun like a shard of glass.
Below him, the chaos was already fading. The demons? Gone. The Hellgate? Sealed.
And the one responsible?
Vanished—like smoke in the wind.
The masked man didn't move. Arms crossed. Boots firm against the stone. His gaze stayed fixed on the spot where the firebrand in black had stood. He watched the dazed civilians, the slow-moving enforcers, and the ruined street that had just tasted hell.
"Who the hell is this guy?" he muttered, gravel-voiced and cold. "That sword… doesn't belong here."
His knuckles flexed.
"He's not one of ours."
He stood there as the cathedral bells rang out across the skyline.
And whispered to no one, "I don't like him."
POV: Michael
He moved through Fortuna's upper terraces with his hood drawn low and coat trailing behind him. His footsteps made no sound on the polished stone.
Order had returned fast. Too fast. The Church had that kind of control—clean up the mess, repaint the scene, reset the act. But beneath the songs and sermons, beneath the tolling bells, something had shifted.
Eyes watched him from behind curtains.
Doors shut a little quicker than usual.
Michael walked on—quiet, composed, listening.
He passed beneath a massive mosaic of Sparda, the hero saint, rendered in gold-leaf and marble. The statue stood triumphant over a horde of demons, sword raised, eyes calm.
The old myth.
But Michael wasn't thinking about Sparda.
His mind circled back to the fight—short, vicious—and the pieces left behind.
Tucked in the lining of his coat were three crystals. Small. Still glowing faintly. Each one pulsed in his hand with its own rhythm—like a heartbeat that refused to die.
'Demon cores,' he thought. 'Makes sense. What's left of their will.'
And power.
Even unused, he could feel it.
'If I absorb one… I gain something. Speed? Claws? Wings?'
His brow twitched.
'And if I grow four arms—'
He shrugged.
'I'll just shapeshift back.'
He reached the cathedral district. Quieter here. Streets swept clean. Shrines perched in corners like silent watchers.
Michael kept moving.
Then—footsteps.
Soft. Measured.
He didn't turn right away.
"Excuse me, sir?"
The voice was gentle. Curious. Not scared.
He stopped. Looked over his shoulder.
A woman stood a few paces behind him, dressed in the white-and-gold robes of the Fortuna Church. Sharp features. Hood halfway back. A silver emblem rested on her chest—Sparda's sigil, glinting in the sun.
No weapons.
Michael turned fully. Calm. Neutral. "Yes?"
"You were at the western square earlier, weren't you?"
He said nothing.
She stepped closer, voice low. Controlled. "There was an incident. Some of us… heard. A few even claimed they saw."
Michael raised an eyebrow, barely. "And?"
She folded her hands neatly. "You acted fast. Decisively. When the Church arrived, it was already over."
Still silence.
She didn't back down. "We'd like a word."
Michael glanced past her toward the cathedral spires. Glass shimmering. Guards in white armor posted near the gates. The distant hum of sermons echoed across the plaza.
He looked back.
"Am I under arrest?"
Her eyes widened a little. "No. Nothing like that. We're just… curious. About who you are. Why you're here."
He gave a faint shrug. "Just passing through."
"Fortuna doesn't get many strangers."
"Maybe it should," he replied.
She tilted her head. Almost smiled.
He met her eyes for a second longer, then nodded once.
"Alright."
He gestured. "Lead the way."