The abyssal night sky hung above like an iron curtain, sealing the city of faith within its vast and silent shroud. From somewhere beyond that dark veil came the heavy rumble of thunder—distant at first, but drawing nearer with every passing moment, until at last it burst forth from the darkness.
Out of the night emerged a jet-black warhorse. In the frigid air its breath poured out in pale clouds of mist. Delicate iron armor covered its powerful frame, the metal catching the faint glow of the moon so that it streaked across the dark like a falling star—only by that glimmer could one distinguish it from the night itself.
It galloped relentlessly until it reached the very heart of the city. What at first seemed like a twisted forest grew larger and clearer in the rider's sight, until one realized that the "trees" were rows upon rows of upright lances. Knights stood before the sacred stairway like an unyielding wall of iron.
No words were needed. The warhorse slowed to a halt, its dark eyes reflecting the splendor and sanctity that lay beyond the steps.
The priest dismounted.
His face was hard, as if carved from marble, bearing the weathered firmness that comes with middle age. He did not hurry forward. Instead, he calmly removed a flintlock and a sword from the saddlebag. Weapons were forbidden near this place—yet he possessed certain privileges. He slipped them beneath his black clerical robe.
Flecks of wind-blown snow clung to the dark cloth, as though he had only just stepped out from a storm.
Upon his chest hung a mottled iron cross. As it swayed in the wind, it rang softly like a silver bell.
"Still holding up? This place grows colder every year."
At the priest's arrival, one knight stepped out from the formation. His helmet bore the engraving of a brass cross-sword. The blade of that symbol was etched with sacred scripture, the kind meant to nail twisted monstrosities to their graves. Even in stillness it carried the solemn menace of divine judgment.
They were Templar knights.
Since the incident known as the Night of Descent, this order had taken responsibility for guarding the Cathedral of Saint Naro. At their waists hung knightly swords, and beneath them rested finely crafted modern pistols—capable of piercing armor at close range.
They seemed to be old acquaintances. After a routine verification of the priest's identity, the knight spoke with casual familiarity.
"Not bad," the priest said slowly, lighting a cigarette. "Working for the Pope has its benefits. The treatment is the finest—those so-called great men even kneel when they greet me."
The ember flared briefly, casting a dim glow across his face. The light followed a terrible scar that began at the corner of his mouth and stretched all the way to the back of his neck.
It was the kind of wound that should have killed a man.
One could scarcely imagine what this priest had endured—nor what stubborn will had allowed him to survive it.
"Oh, they don't fear you, Anthony," Charles replied with a teasing tone. "They fear the Pope you represent."
His voice carried amusement, though beneath the helmet that cast shadow across his face, his heart held something closer to reverence.
This was the land of the Seven Hills.
Here, when one spoke of that man, reverence was inevitable—like instinctively closing one's eyes when staring into the blazing sun.
The Pope shone with the brilliance of daylight itself. After the chaos that followed the Night of Descent, he had dragged the entire Evangelical Church back onto its rightful path. Many had attempted to manipulate the newly enthroned pontiff, believing his authority unstable.
Every one of them had been cut down with thunderous swiftness.
Under his command, the Templar Order purged the enemies of the church in a single night. Those who defied him were accused of unspeakable crimes and nailed to crosses. Both sacred authority and worldly power were clasped firmly within his grasp.
Some whispered that he was the least priestly pope in history—that faith itself was merely a tool in his hands.
Others hailed him as the Emperor of Emperors, the most ruthless and decisive pope ever to rule.
Had he risen during the church's age of greatest strength, they said, the entire Western world might already lie beneath the dominion of the Evangelical Church.
And perhaps fleets like tidal waves would already be sailing toward the mysterious Far East.
"I know," the priest replied with a faint smile. "Want one?"
He offered the cigarette case, but Charles shook his head.
"I'm on duty. No point inviting trouble."
This was the land of the Seven Hills—a sacred place. Life here required obedience to countless unwritten rules. Beneath the holiness lingered a suffocating pressure. Only the most fervent zealots could stand beneath the burning sun here and feel gratitude rather than pain.
"…By the way," Charles said quietly.
His voice dropped almost to a whisper, yet in the silent night it still sounded like thunder.
"I've heard… His Holiness wants to rebuild that thing."
For a moment the air itself seemed to freeze.
Beneath his armor Charles felt his breath falter. The instant he spoke the question, regret crept into his chest.
Before him stood a man shaped by wind and hardship, cold as forged steel. The priest's gaze pierced through armor and flesh alike, unsettling the very soul.
Charles remembered the burning night.
The sacred Seven Hills had turned into a crimson hell, as if gods and demons themselves had chosen this place for battle.
Back then he had only been an apprentice knight. All he saw were countless Templars rushing into the cathedral.
None of them ever returned.
No bodies. No traces.
It was as if they had vanished from existence itself—forgotten by the world.
Ever since, that nightmare night had haunted him. Some claimed it involved a mysterious institution within the church. Others insisted the organization had been dissolved after that night.
Yet recently whispers had begun again.
The new Pope, they said, intended to resurrect it.
Whether the rumors were true or false, this was knowledge Charles had no right to pursue. If Anthony were to declare him a heretic here and now, he would hardly be surprised.
A rough hand settled on his shoulder.
"Charles," the priest said quietly. "Isn't asking questions like that the real trouble?"
His eyes were cold, though he did nothing more than lean close and murmur a warning.
"Sometimes it isn't so bad to be a fool who knows nothing. At least you get to live."
The priest tried to smile.
But the monstrous scar across his face twisted the attempt. Only half his mouth moved, trembling unnaturally. Rather than warmth, the expression inspired a creeping chill.
"Forget about it, Charles. It's for your own good."
That terrible smile remained.
"I—I'm begging you, stop smiling like that," Charles muttered after a stunned pause, forcing a laugh. "Just go inside already. Don't keep His Holiness waiting."
Truthfully, he could barely remember what Anthony's normal smile had once looked like.
He vaguely recalled that it had felt like warm sunlight.
Now, however, the priest resembled something closer to a grinning demon.
They had once been apprentice knights together. Yet with time Anthony had become the Pope's right hand, while Charles remained a mere guard.
At times he had felt a trace of resentment.
But after hearing those words, the feeling suddenly faded.
Perhaps being a fool who knew nothing was not such a bad life.
At least he would never become as solitary—or as frightening—as the priest before him.
Charles had a wife and children waiting at home.
He was not like that unloved priest.
He stepped aside, allowing the man to pass.
The armored knights shifted like a living wall, opening a narrow path. Beyond it rose tier after tier of stairs, climbing ever upward toward a colossal structure half-hidden in the darkness.
It was immense beyond comprehension.
Its black silhouette resembled a gigantic beast crouching upon the earth—one could scarcely imagine the day it might awaken.
Some called these stairs leading to the Cathedral of Saint Naro the Road to Heaven.
At first the priest had never understood why.
But as he began climbing them himself, step by step, he finally did.
With every step upward, the dusty world below seemed to fall farther away. In the quiet night, distant hymns drifted through the air. Towering white structures slowly emerged from the darkness.
The outer walls were covered in reliefs of gods and demons. Whoever had carved them must have been a master beyond compare—the figures seemed almost alive beneath the moonlight.
At the highest point were depictions of Heaven and its angels.
Yet as the sculptures descended along the walls, the style gradually changed. Gentle lines sharpened into fierce motion. Angels wreathed in flame descended into the battlefield of the mortal world.
At the base of the walls writhed countless grotesque arms—stone figures stained with soil and moss—nailed into the abyss by fiery spears hurled down from Heaven.
The white marble glimmered faintly.
It felt as though this battle had truly happened once, only to be sealed forever within stone by some miraculous power, forming the Heavenly Kingdom of the mortal world.
Without realizing it, the priest's expression grew solemn.
Reverence filled his heart.
And with that, he stepped across the final stair.