May 5th, 2012, Tokyo, Early Morning.
The first light of the iconic Japanese rising sun bled into Tokyo's urban horizon, painting the airport's black tarmac in muted hues of rose and slate.
The eastern sky smoldered with the promise of day, clouds catching fire at their edges as the city below stirred from its restless slumber. Fog clung to the runways in patches, dissipating slowly as the warmth crept across the concrete.
Irina Shidou stumbled out of the plane's stifling cabin, emerging from the metal tube like a prisoner granted parole.
The aircraft had been packed to capacity—twelve hours of cramped seating, recycled air, and the ambient noise of a hundred strangers had left her feeling like a wrung-out dishrag.
Her chestnut twintails, usually perky and precisely tied, had frayed into something approaching disaster, loose strands escaping their blue scrunchies to frame her face in chaotic wisps.
The crisp morning air hit her like a slap—laced with jet fuel from the still-warm engines and the faint sweetness of dew coating every surface of the airport.
She inhaled deeply, letting the familiar scents of Japan wash through her system, and felt something unlock in her chest. The trill of alertness sang through her nerves like a clock's chime, snapping her awake with grateful intensity.
"Finally!" she exclaimed, stretching her arms skyward until her joints popped in a satisfying cascade.
A loud sigh escaped her, carrying weeks of anticipation and twelve hours of discomfort. Her violet eyes sparkled as she bounced on her toes, the blue scrunchies in her hair catching the pale morning light like sapphires thrown against the dawn.
Near the arrivals gate, Xenovia Quarta stood rigidly beside a luggage cart, her posture so straight it seemed designed to defy the curvature of the earth itself.
Her blue hair, streaked with that defiant green fringe that marked her as uniquely her, was tousled by the morning wind funnelling toward the building's entrance.
Her brown eyes scanned the crowd with military precision, cataloging threats, exits, potential ambush points—habits drilled into her since childhood and never quite switched off.
Eventually, her gaze landed on Irina's skipping figure, and the ghost of something almost like warmth flickered across her features.
Beside her, Elijah Bouchard leaned casually against a pillar, whistling a tune that might have been Coptic hymn or might have been a pop song—it was impossible to tell with him.
His posture was relaxed, almost lazy, but his eyes tracked the crowd with the same thoroughness as Xenovia's, just with less obvious intensity. When Irina emerged, his gaze sharpened briefly before settling back into its easy observation.
Irina's attention was immediately caught by the unfamiliar face. The Egyptian exorcist's tousled black hair framed features weathered by desert sun, his bronze skin taking on an almost golden cast under the terminal's harsh fluorescent lights.
His white robe, identical to hers and Xenovia's but slightly the worse for wear—sand-stained at the hem, rumpled from travel—hung open to reveal a simple linen shirt beneath. He looked like he'd walked out of a different story entirely.
"Xenovia!" Irina called, darting forward with the reckless momentum of a small missile. Her suitcase wheels screeched in protest against the polished floor.
Xenovia turned, and for just a moment, her lips curled in the ghost of a smile—there and gone, like sunlight on water.
"This is Irina Shidou," Xenovia said to Elijah, her voice clipped and efficient. "She is from the Anglican Branch. She is... enthusiastic, to say the least."
Irina skidded to a halt, bowing so abruptly her twintails swung like pendulum weights, nearly slapping her in the face.
"Irina Shidou, at your service! You must be the Coptic representative! It is a tremendous pleasure to meet another fellow comrade in arms!"
Elijah chuckled—a low, warm sound that seemed to rise from somewhere deep in his chest. "Elijah Bouchard. The pleasure is mine." His voice carried the melody of two cultures, Egyptian cadence winding through French heritage, the words curling around each other like smoke from different fires.
"Did the flight treat you well?" he asked, a clear attempt to break the ice.
Irina grimaced, a full-body shudder that started at her shoulders and worked its way down. "Ugh, planes... I do not exactly like them, you know? But Japan!"
She spun in a full circle, arms wide, nearly smacking a passing businessman who dodged with the practiced ease of a Tokyo commuter.
"I could kiss the ground! I am so happy to be finally back here! My family has been here for generations before we moved to England. Shidou exorcists are basically local celebrities... for the representatives of the Church, of course."
Xenovia pinched the bridge of her nose—a gesture so familiar it seemed carved into her muscle memory. "We are not here for tours, Irina."
Elijah's gaze flicked between them, amusement dancing in his warm brown eyes. "A car is waiting. Kuoh Town is three hours out."
He gestured to a black sedan idling curbside, its tinted windows reflecting the dawn like volcanic glass, hiding whatever secrets might lurk within.
The car's interior smelled of leather and something floral—an air freshener attempting valiantly to mask the scent of previous passengers. The hum of the engine became a dull roar beneath the tense small talk that filled the first few minutes of the journey.
Irina wedged herself between Xenovia and Elijah in the backseat, her knee bouncing incessantly as she stared out the window, watching Tokyo's outskirts blur past.
"So," Xenovia began, folding her arms across her chest. The massive hilt of Excalibur Destruction peeked from her duffel bag at her feet, a constant reminder of the mission's weight. "Bouchard. You have Blessing. How does it handle?"
Elijah unsheathed his sword with a fluid motion, the blade sliding free of its cloth wrapping with a whisper of steel. Excalibur Blessing glowed faintly in the car's dim interior, its blade etched with Coptic script that pulsed with gentle golden light—words of benediction, of protection, of faith made manifest.
"Balanced," he said, tilting the blade so the light caught a pattern like interlocking feathers etched along the fuller. "It is more like a shield than a spear, if you will permit the term. Direct offense is not its primary purpose." He sheathed it just as smoothly, the glow fading. "Yours?"
Xenovia tapped her bag, a possessive gesture. "Destruction, quite straightforward." A pause. "It does pretty much what the name suggests."
Irina brandished her own blade, transforming it from the bracelet on her wrist with a thought. Excalibur Mimic's edge shimmered like liquid mercury, catching light and bending it in strange ways.
"Mine is the fun one! It can copy anything! I usually leave it as a bracelet or a necklace—much easier for travel, you know?"
Elijah raised an eyebrow, genuine interest flickering across his features. "Have you tested that extensively?" he asked Xenovia, nodding toward her bag.
"Mostly in training," Xenovia muttered, her gaze dropping to the floor mat. "In real battle only once. Romania, two years ago. Irina was there too." Her voice tightened almost imperceptibly. "It did not end well."
Irina shook her head, pointedly avoiding eye contact with Xenovia. "It was only an accident, Xenovia..."
The car lurched around a bend, and through the window, Kuoh's forested outskirts finally came into view—trees giving way to buildings, nature retreating before civilization. Xenovia's tone hardened, the softness of memory replaced by the steel of purpose.
"Bouchard." She turned to face him fully. "From what my tutor told me, you have experience dealing with devils. Do you think they are involved? The Fallen Angels can't be working alone."
Elijah sheathed Blessing completely, the glow fading to nothing. When he spoke, his voice was measured, careful—the tone of someone who had learned to navigate treacherous waters.
"The Gremory and Sitri Clans are moderates. They are known supporters of the New Satans' government. They would not risk open cooperation with Grigori to steal Excalibur fragments." He paused, letting the words settle. "I think we can trust their neutrality, at minimum."
Xenovia's knuckles whitened around her seatbelt. "Trusting devils is how exorcists die. History proves this."
Irina's grin faltered, the perpetual cheerfulness dimming for just a moment. She glanced between them, Mimic's hilt softening in her grip as the weapon shifted back into a simple leather bracelet.
'Xenovia and Bouchard are complete opposites!' she thought, the realization striking her with unexpected force. 'Oh well, that means I will simply have to be the mediator! That is what I am good at, right?'
Then something popped into her mind—a memory, a longing, a need she had been carrying since the plane first left English soil.
"If you do not mind," she said, her voice carefully casual, "there is a place I would like to visit before we meet the devil overseers of Kuoh."
Elijah shrugged. "That is fine. Quarta? What do you say?"
Xenovia sighed, a sound that carried the weight of years of experience with Irina's detours. She knew it was useless to debate right now. "Fine. Just make it quick."
Irina clapped her hands together, beaming. "Thank you so much! Meanwhile, I will also look for a place where we can spend the night during our stay!"
"Much appreciated," Elijah said. "I will go with Quarta to the local church."
Xenovia's head tilted, her brow furrowing in suspicion. "A church? Why would devils maintain a church inside a town they oversee? It is not like the pagan shrines, where they are obligated by the Shinto Pantheon to permit them. This is their territory."
"Devils are not the monsters you believe them to be, Quarta," Elijah said, and something in his voice made Xenovia's frown deepen further.
"That is heresy, Bouchard." The words were sharp, automatic—a reflex drilled into her since childhood.
Elijah shook his head slowly, a sad smile tugging at his lips. "I am simply a man who sees the good side of things."
But even as he said it, he knew it was a lie—or at least, not the whole truth. The only reason he held a different opinion, the only reason he could imagine devils as anything other than enemies, was Fatima. If not for her, he might be the one white-knuckling his seatbelt right now.
"How can you be so certain?" Xenovia pressed, her voice rising slightly. "From what we know, the priests killed in this town could have been murdered on devil orders! We have no proof otherwise!"
"As I said, I doubt the Gremory and Sitri Houses would risk such a thing." Elijah met her gaze steadily. "If we were dealing with more radical Pillars I might agree with you. But this situation is different. These are moderates who have everything to lose and nothing to gain from provoking the Church."
The tension in the car thickened, two opposing worldviews pressing against each other like tectonic plates. Irina, sensing the imminent earthquake, dove into the breach with practiced desperation.
"Oh! That reminds me of when I was little!" she began, her voice bright and forced. "There was this one time, back before we moved to England, when my father took me to a festival in Kyoto. You would not believe the size of the taiko drums they had—bigger than both of you put together! And the sound..."
The words spilled out in a torrent, memories tumbling over each other as Irina painted a picture of childhood wonder, of summer festivals and cotton candy, of the Japan she remembered from before.
May 5th, 2012, Land of Oz, Morning.
The dim light of Oz's sun filtered through gauzy linen curtains, casting the bedroom in a soft, purple haze that seemed to breathe with the morning. The light moved across the marble floor in slow waves, illuminating dust motes that danced in the stillness.
Makoto stirred, the sheets slipping off his torso as consciousness returned in gradual stages. His apartment—a seamless blend of ancient Greek grandeur and modern sorcery fused with technology—felt almost surreal in the morning quiet.
Last night had been... unexpected. After revealing the truth to Vali, he had anticipated shock, disbelief, perhaps even rejection. Instead, he had received calm acceptance, as if the White Dragon Emperor dealt with interdimensional threats every Tuesday.
And then there was Kuroka. He still did not know how to approach that situation, how to navigate the tangled web of sisterly bonds and old wounds.
Marble columns framed the space, their fluted surfaces catching the purple light and throwing it back in softer tones. Plush, anachronistic furniture nestled against frescoed walls depicting scenes of Greek mythology—gods and heroes frozen in eternal combat.
A leather sofa dominated the living area, facing a neon-lit minibar that would have looked more at home in a nightclub. Beside a rather primitive stone basin sat an array of tools that resembled common electrical appliances but hummed with subtle magic—an automatic vacuum cleaner that drifted across the floor on its own, a device that might have been a toaster but glowed with runic inscriptions.
'This apartment is not bad at all!' Apollo commented, appreciation coloring his tone. 'It is almost as good as Mount Olympus—though perhaps lacking in ambrosia fountains.'
A sharp rap at the door shattered the calm. "Mr. Yuki? Good morning!" Le Fay's voice chirped through the wood, cheerful yet hurried, carrying the particular energy of someone with a schedule to keep.
"We are waiting in the common room downstairs. Well, most of us. Miss Kuroka is still, um... indisposed." Her footsteps pattered away, the clack of her boots fading down the hall.
'I wonder,' Messiah murmured, his tone gentle and tinged with guilt, 'did we traumatize that poor girl?'
'The Universe did the right thing, hee hoo!' Jack Frost chimed in, his voice like icicles clinking together in a winter breeze. 'The Hanged's sister would have kept hiding forever, hee hoo! Now she must face the music—it is the only way we can help her, hee hoo!'
'That is granted,' Makoto agreed silently, swinging his legs out of bed and reaching for his uniform. The familiar motions grounded him, prepared him for whatever the day might bring. He paused at his doorway, the corridor's enchanted torches flickering to life as he stepped through.
'Do you not find this place uncomfortable, Universe?' Kohryu asked, his voice carrying a rare note of unease.
'What might be the problem, Huanglong?' Yoshitsune inquired.
'Nothing specific. I simply do not care for this... technology,' the Yellow Dragon replied, his ancient sensibilities clearly unsettled by the fusion of magic and machine.
The staircase spiraled downward, each step carved from iridescent moonstone that glimmered underfoot, shifting colors as Makoto descended.
Halfway down, a door creaked open. Kuroka's head peeked out—just her head, ears flattened against her skull, golden eyes wide and wary. A single black tail twitched nervously behind her, betraying the calm she tried to project.
"Good morning," Makoto offered, raising a hand in tentative greeting.
"Hi... nyah." Her voice was barely audible, a whisper carried on reluctant breath. Before he could say more, she retreated, the door clicking shut with soft finality.
'Ugh, this is like a third-rate soap opera!' Loki groaned, his voice dripping with annoyance and boredom in equal measure. 'All this angst and avoidance—where is the action?'
Makoto ignored him, continuing his descent into the common room—a sprawling atrium with vaulted ceilings that seemed to stretch impossibly high. A central hearth crackled with blue flame, the fire casting dancing shadows across the gathered figures.
The Vali Team's morning tableau unfolded like a staged play, each member in their accustomed position.
Arthur Pendragon sat rigidly in a wingback chair, his posture so straight it might have been carved from the same marble as the columns. Excalibur Ruler propped against the armrest, close at hand even in moments of supposed relaxation.
His wire-rimmed glasses gleamed as he scanned a leather-bound book, pages rustling under his precise fingers with the rhythmic precision of a metronome.
Bikou, ever the agitator, orbited him like a hyperactive satellite. The monkey yokai poked at Arthur's shoulder with his golden staff, each jab accompanied by a new suggestion, a new provocation.
"Come on, Artie! Bet I can balance this peach on my nose longer than you can! Or we could arm wrestle! Or—"
Arthur did not look up. "Bikou. Please." The single word carried the weight of long-suffering patience.
Le Fay perched primly on a sofa beside her brother, her sapphire robes pooling around her like captured sky.
She scribbled furiously in a leather-bound journal, occasionally glancing up at Vali, who leaned against a pillar with arms crossed.
His silver hair caught the blue firelight, gleaming like molten steel, and his pale eyes tracked Makoto's entrance with barely perceptible acknowledgment—a nod so slight it might have been imagined.
Kuroka slunk in last, her posture taut as a bowstring drawn to breaking. She claimed the farthest corner, her tails coiled tightly around her legs like armor, like protection, like a barrier against the world.
"We are all here finally," Vali said, pushing off from the pillar. "Our next destination will be the Underworld. Specifically, the former Dragon King Tannin's territory." He nodded at Makoto, a silent confirmation that this was their purpose.
Bikou's staff clattered to the floor, the golden wood ringing against stone. "The Underworld?!" The monkey yokai's golden eyes bulged, his tail bristling like an alarmed cat's. "Vali, you cannot be serious! That place is crawling with—"
Arthur cut him off with a raised hand, his wire-rimmed glasses glinting as he shut his book with a decisive thud.
"Kuroka." His voice was calm but edged with steel—the tone of someone who had already analyzed the situation and found it wanting. "You are a stray devil. Setting foot in the Underworld is tantamount to suicide, and you know that well. So, Vali—why?"
Kuroka leaned against the wall, her posture deceptively relaxed. One black tail flicked irritably, betraying the unease beneath her casual facade.
"Nyaah, relax, little knight. I have slipped in and out of the Underworld plenty of times for Lady Ophis already." Her tone was light, almost playful, but her claws dug into the stone behind her, leaving faint grooves in the ancient surface.
Le Fay, perched on the arm of Arthur's chair, twisted a strand of her blonde hair nervously. "But Miss Kuroka... the risks—"
"Are mine to take," Kuroka interrupted, her hazel gaze darting to Makoto, then to Vali.
'What are these two hiding?' she wondered, the suspicion evident in the set of her shoulders.
The cat-woman was not lying—she had indeed infiltrated the Underworld multiple times despite her wanted status, each journey a knife's edge walk between survival and capture. But she still hated it.
Every visit, even to the most remote territories far from her former prison, dragged up memories she had spent years trying to bury. Memories of chains, of experiments, of her sister's face pressed against glass as they were torn apart.
Vali ignored the tension, his focus unwavering. "Ophis is missing. That is our objective. We must find her."
Arthur adjusted his glasses, his expression shifting into analytical mode. "Why the Underworld? And why does her absence concern us specifically?"
"Albion believes she sought the Dragon Apples," Vali replied, nodding once. "Tannin's domain is the only known source."
Bikou snatched his staff off the floor, pacing like a caged animal, his golden eyes wide with disbelief. "Ophis? Missing? The Infinite Dragon God does not just vanish! Are we even talking about the same Ophis? The one who could unmake reality with a thought?"
Arthur grimaced, pieces clicking into place behind those wire-rimmed glasses. His expression said he understood far more than he was willing to voice.
Le Fay's breath hitched as realization dawned. "The Khaos Brigade... the Old Satan Faction's recent maneuvers... the Wizards of Oz and their intelligence networks..."
"Their moves mean to consolidate power," Arthur finished, his brow furrowing deeply. "If they have discovered how to harness Ophis's authority without her consent..."
"Wait! I do not understand what you are saying!" Bikou snapped, frustration cracking through his usual bravado.
The room chilled. Le Fay's hands trembled as she clutched her grimoire to her chest. "Mr. Vali... you do not think they have bound her, do you? Used her chaos as a weapon?"
Vali searched for Makoto's help, a silent request for explanation. Makoto nodded.
"They already have," Makoto said quietly. "Ophis has been stripped of her powers."
For a moment, the room was absolutely still. Then Bikou burst into laughter, slapping his thigh with his free hand.
"We have to work on your jokes, Makoto!" He threw an arm around Makoto's shoulders, grinning. "That is a good one, really, but—"
"I am not joking." Makoto freed himself from the embrace, his voice flat, serious. "I am completely serious. I already explained the details to Vali, but to summarize: the Khaos Brigade has likely been overtaken by someone—Nyarlathotep. And he stole Ophis's powers in the process."
Every head in the room turned to Vali, seeking confirmation. The White Dragon Emperor nodded once, his expression grim.
"What we are going to do," Vali said, "is retrieve Ophis and then strike Shalba Beelzebub."
"He is a thrall of Nyarlathotep," Makoto added quickly. "A puppet. A Shadow."
At the mention of the Satan descendant, Kuroka hissed—a low, feline sound of recognition and disgust.
"I felt something wrong with that guy the last time I saw him." Her golden eyes narrowed to slits. "Something... off. Like he was wearing a mask that did not quite fit."
"Oh, peaches! You are right!" Bikou shouted, realization striking him like a physical blow. "That is why he was so cocky with Ophis! I could not place it before, but—yes. Something was wrong."
Despite not being as skilled in Senjutsu as Kuroka—not possessing her specialized ability to sense others' life forces and spiritual states—Bikou had still perceived something amiss in Shalba. A warrior's instinct, perhaps, or simply the accumulated wisdom of someone who had faced countless enemies.
"He is not a devil anymore, is he?" Bikou asked, seeking confirmation of his doubts.
Makoto shook his head.
"Then what is he, nyaah?" Kuroka asked, her voice carrying a genuine curiosity beneath the defensive layers.
"A Shadow." Makoto met her gaze steadily. "The manifestation of repressed emotions and feelings. In other words, the other side of the coin that people carry. Every strength has a corresponding weakness; every light casts a shadow. Shalba's shadow has consumed him."
The room absorbed this in silence. Arthur's hand drifted toward Excalibur Ruler, a reflexive gesture. Le Fay's pen had stopped moving, frozen above her journal. Bikou's tail had gone still.
Finally, Arthur spoke. "It seems we have a significant task ahead of us." He rose from his chair, adjusting his glasses with one hand while the other settled on his sword's hilt. "I am prepared for it."
One by one, the others nodded. Bikou's grin returned, sharper now, edged with anticipation rather than bravado. Le Fay closed her journal with a decisive snap. Kuroka, after a long moment, gave a single, reluctant nod.
Going to the Underworld to secure Ophis's position. Then hunting Shalba Beelzebub. That was the plan.