The morning sun over Vatican City cast a beautiful golden glow as it reflected off the white marble of St. Peter's Square. For the thousands of tourists streaming through the colonnades, the St.Peter Basilica was a place of pilgrimage and art. But not for Xenovia Quarta.
She walked with a rhythmic gait, her boots clicking sharply against the cobblestones. Beside her, Irina Shidou was unusually quiet, her head bowed as they bypassed the bustling crowds. They did not head toward the main basilica. Instead, they veered toward a nondescript wrought-iron gate guarded by two men wearing standard priest attire.
They were entering the Hidden Vatican, a sprawling complex of internal gardens and Renaissance structures concealed from the human world by layers of powerful barrier fields. Here, the air was dense with holy energy. This was the heart of the Heaven faction's operations, the Catholic Church's main branch, and one of the largest in the world: the Exorcist Headquarters of the Vatican.
Xenovia felt a bitter knot of shame tighten in her chest. Every time she closed her eyes, she was reminded of what had happened in Hungary. She saw the wounded bodies of her comrades she was supposed to lead, tossed aside like empty husks by the Manthar Noble.
"I failed them," she thought, her jaw tightening until it ached. "If not for that man… we would all have died, forgotten in a forest," she whispered. She and Irina had just returned from the Church's medical facility, where they had gone to visit their wounded friends.
"Xenovia?" Irina's voice was soft, breaking through the dark spiral of her friend thoughts.
"Everyone is going to be okay. The medical department said the blood loss was severe, but the internal damage was minimal, so rest assured. You don't need to blame yourself… Sister Griselda would understand."
"I blame myself because how weak I am, Irina," Xenovia replied, her voice flat. "And as an Exorcist in this supernatural world, weakness is a sin."
They reached a high-vaulted corridor lined with tapestries depicting the Heavenly Father and angels as ecclesiastical decorations. The atmosphere here was a complete shift from the tourist-laden streets outside, quiet and serene.
Both girls had changed out of their shredded tactical suits into more modest attire, the stark black-and-white habit of Catholic sisters.
A young priest met them at the end of the hall, his eyes lingering for a second on the bruises on Xenovia's neck before he bowed. "Sister Griselda is expecting you. Please, enter."
The room was simple with a dark oak desk and shelves filled with leather-bound theological texts, and a single, tall window that overlooked a private courtyard. Standing by the window was a woman.
Sister Griselda.
She was in her mid-twenties, possessing a modest ethereal beauty. Her blue eyes were like frozen lakes, calm on the surface, but possessing a depth that could drown a lesser person. As she turned to face them, a small weary smile touched her lips, but it didn't reach her eyes.
"Xenovia. Irina," Griselda said, her voice like velvet over steel. "Welcome home."
"Sister Griselda," they both said in unison, bowing deeply.
Xenovia felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. Griselda had overseen much of their training, but for Xenovia, it went deeper than that. She had been there since she was a child, the one who raised her, her legal guardian, the woman she took her name from, her mother in all but blood.
"It seems there are quite a lot of things you need to report," Griselda said, her gaze drifting to the bandages peeking out from under Xenovia's sleeve. "The mission in Hungary... the casualties were higher than anticipated."
"Um, Sister Griselda... that's..." Irina started, her voice trembling.
Before she could continue, the heavy oak door behind them creaked open. The air in the room suddenly filled with a massive, overwhelming presence.
An old man stepped into the room. He was a walking contradiction. His hair was snow-white and his face was a map of deep wrinkles and jagged, silver scars that spoke of a thousand battles. Yet, his body was built like a titan's, his muscular frame stretching the fabric of his priest's cassock.
Vasco Strada. The strongest living Exorcist. The man who had once wielded Durandal with such ferocity that the devils itself trembled at his name. The Church's Device of Violence they say.
"Priest Strada!" Irina gasped, her eyes widening in starstruck awe. Even Griselda bowed her head in respect.
"Peace, children," Vasco said, his voice deep and raspy, but there is some gentleness behind it.
He walked toward Xenovia, his eyes surprisingly gentle despite his scarred face as they fixed on her. "I heard the news. You returned from the mission to eliminate one of the Manthar nobles. Congratulations on completing your first real mission."
Xenovia bit her lip, her hand trembling by her side. "Priest Strada... please. I do not deserve your congratulations. I am the successor to your blade, yet I nearly lost it to a beast."
Vasco placed a massive calloused hand on her shoulder. "The blade is just a tool, Xenovia. The soul is the warrior. Tell me what happened."
Xenovia took a steadying breath and began her report. She spoke of the initial ambush, how the coordination they had practiced for years fell apart the moment the first drop of blood was spilled. She described the terrifying speed of the Manthar Noble and the absolute despair that took hold when she was lifted by her throat, certain that Heavenly Father had turned His back on her.
"And then?" Griselda asked, her eyes narrowing. "The report mentions an intervention."
"A man," Xenovia said, though she hesitated. "No… I don't think he was a man. His voice was deep, but there was a youthfulness behind it. I believe he was a boy, perhaps not much older than us. Just taller and… stronger."
She described the black-cloaked man, the way he seemed to step out of the very darkness of the shadows, and also the magic he used.
"He didn't use either normal magic or holy magic," Xenovia clarified, her voice growing more animated. "There was no prayer, no scripture. And the strange thing is, he didn't even use incantations or magic circles. He just… manifested it and manipulate the space around him."
Vasco and Griselda exchanged a sharp look.
"No magic circles?" Griselda repeated, her tone skeptical. "Even the most gifted magicians of the Grauzauberer require some form of magic circle activation. To manipulate space without a visible construct..."
"Is it possible he was a Stray Exorcist?" Vasco asked thoughtfully. "Sometimes those who leave our light retain the speed of our teachings but mask it with pagan arts."
"No," Xenovia interjected firmly. "I know holy magic when I see it, so it definitely wasn't one of our Church's brothers. And Priest Strada… he used Durandal."
Silence fell in the room.
Vasco's eyebrows shot up, his scarred forehead wrinkling further. "He wielded Durandal?"
Even Griselda looked at Xenovia with doubt. Not just anyone could wield a holy sword, let alone one of the caliber of Durandal.
"He didn't just wield it," Irina added, stepping forward. "He treated it like it was his own. At first, he looked clumsy, like he had never held a sword. But by the third strike, the sword is partically his own... even it's aura changed."
Griselda's cold stare fixed on Xenovia. "The aura changed? Explain."
"It turned purplish-blue," Xenovia whispered, the memory still vivid in her mind. "The holy light didn't disappear, but it was tinged with a purple aura, a divine one, but not the kind we are taught. It was… something else."
Vasco Strada reached out his hand. "Show me."
Xenovia reached into the pocket-dimension tethered to her soul and drew the massive blade. The room seemed to brighten as the bluish steel caught the light. She the handed the hilt to her predecessor.
Vasco took the sword with a single hand, his grip effortless, still hasn't lost his touch even after years off of the field mission. He closed his eyes, his massive mana signature flowing into the blade, probing the memory of the blade. For several minutes, the legendary Exorcist stood perfectly still.
Slowly his eyes opened. A flicker of something that looked like genuine concern mixed with perhaps recognition passed through them.
"There is a remnant here," Vasco muttered. "A familiar burning sensation… I've felt it before. It is holy, yes, but it is not holy magic."
He looked at Griselda. "Now i remember, I have felt this heat once before. This cloaked man... he is possibly the wielder of the Incinerate Anthem."
Griselda recoiled as if struck. "The Purple Flame? That's impossible, Priest Strada. The current wielder of that Longinus is Augusta, the Witch of the East. She is a woman, and she is under observation somewhere in the east, possibly near Japan. And besides… what would someone like her be doing in a small city like this, helping our young ones? It doesn't fit. Not at all."
"Then perhaps I'm mistaken," Vasco corrected, his voice grave. "The energy is extremely subtle. Still… it's not impossible that Incinerate Anthem has been wielded by someone else, given its special attribute."
"Special attribute?" Xenovia asked.
"It chooses," Vasco said quietly. "It can change its wielder as it pleases."
Vasco handed the sword back to Xenovia. "He returned the blade to you, even though he could have taken it. A boy with that power could have walked away with one of our greatest relics, yet he returned it and vanished."
"Why?" Irina asked.
"Perhaps he isn't our enemy," Vasco mused, a small, knowing smile returning to his face. "Or perhaps he simply doesn't think he needs our relics. Either way, it works in our favor. I'd rather not imagine what Lord Michael and Lady Gabriel would do to the two of you if Durandal were to go missing."
Vasco laughed lightly at that.
Xenovia and Irina could only break into a cold sweat.
After that, Xenovia and Irina finished their report and were dismissed. They then stepped out of the Exorcist Building and back into the sun-drenched gardens. It was a beautiful morning of which devastating night.
Xenovia stopped in front of a stone fountain, her reflection shimmering in the water. She looked at her long vibrant blue hair. It was beautiful, a point of pride she had carried since her childhood.
She remembered the vampire's hand on her throat. She remembered the gust of wind that had blown her hair across her eyes, blinding her and creating an opening.
"Irina," Xenovia said, her voice steady. "I'm going to cut my hair"
" Huh... You joking right? "
" No, i am serious. "
Irina gasped, reaching out to grab Xenovia's arm. "No! Xenovia, your blue hair is beautiful! It's your trademark! Don't let one mistake-"
"It wasn't just a mistake, Irina," Xenovia said, her eyes burning with a terrifying determination. "It was vanity. I kept it long because I wanted to look like a hero in a fantasy book I once read. But that man in the cloak reminded me that strength doesn't care about appearances… and worse, my hair almost cost you your life."
She clenched her fist with determination.
"I almost died, and I almost got all of you killed because I was too attached to a part of myself that served no purpose in battle. I won't let that happen again... I will become stronger, just like him."
She looked at the Exorcist Building, her gaze piercing through the stone.
"Next time we meet, I won't be the one waiting to be saved."
Irina looked at her friend and realized that the girl who had left for Hungary was gone.
"Okay," Irina whispered. "If that's what it takes... I'll help you."
Xenovia nodded. She would grow stronger, just like that man. Strong enough to stand at the front and bear the weight of responsibility as the wielder of Durandal. Strong enough to protect those she loved, Irina, Sister Griselda, all of them.
That was her creed.