The Seat of the Seven Hills, the Grand Cathedral of Saint Naro.
A frigid evening wind drifted in through the towering windows of the magnificent cathedral. Like an invisible hand, it gently lifted the white draperies and set the clustered candle flames trembling. They flickered and swayed as though alive, breathing with the silent rhythm of the night.
As the very heart of power within the Papal State of the Sacred Gospel, the Cathedral of Saint Naro was far more immense than most could ever imagine. Its soaring spires rose like spears thrust toward the heavens. Within its vast halls, lights burned endlessly, and sacred hymns echoed day and night without cease.
Here stood the most concentrated center of faith in the world—perhaps the most magnificent cathedral humanity had ever built. It was constructed entirely of enormous, perfectly aligned white bricks, inlaid with gold and silver. Beneath this sacred ground rested the tombs of generations of popes. To the faithful, it was the ultimate destination of pilgrimage, a place that stirred longing in every devout heart.
Some whispered that deep within this city-like cathedral lay a hidden gate—
a gate that led to the holy Kingdom of Heaven.
Ascending the steps inscribed with centuries of history, one would find a long crimson carpet stretching all the way to a golden sacred icon. The statue gazed upward toward the great dome above, while the gods carved upon that vault looked down upon the mortal world—and upon it. Even on the coldest winter nights, warmth lingered here. Sweetness filled the air. Melted wax hardened upon the floor, gathering into pale tides that seemed ready to swallow every ounce of faith offered within these walls.
A priest walked through the hall, clad in a black cassock.
With each step, the butt of a musket and the hilt of a sword revealed themselves beneath the folds of cloth.
He seemed utterly out of place here.
Though a priest was meant to be among the most devout of believers, beneath his flesh lurked the soul of a devil.
One would expect that maintaining such a colossal structure would require countless attendants. Yet whenever the priest returned, the cathedral was always like this—perfectly ordered, as though servants had only just finished their duties. And yet, no matter how thoroughly one searched, in the end it always felt as though one were alone here.
As if the cathedral's endless operation was maintained not by people, but by unseen ghosts.
The warmth itself felt unsettling.
The faint scratching of a pen against parchment broke the silence.
Behind a redwood desk piled high with documents sat a figure clad in a simple white robe. There was not the slightest trace of steam technology here. Everything seemed preserved in the solemn stillness of centuries past, like a scene lifted from an ancient oil painting.
A sea of candlelight surged around the man, the flames swaying gently as the wind brushed past.
The interior of Saint Naro Cathedral was vast enough to resemble a labyrinth. Many of the Gospel Church's administrative bodies were housed within its endless chambers—including the Papal Hall itself, the seat of supreme authority. Situated high within the cathedral, it overlooked the city through towering stained-glass windows. From there, one could watch the sun set and the moon rise over the Seat of the Seven Hills.
The priest did not disturb the man.
He knelt on one knee upon the crimson carpet, lowering his head in silence.
Time passed.
The silence deepened until only the scratching of the pen and the occasional drip of wax could be heard.
At last, a weary sigh broke the stillness.
"Father Anthony?"
The man did not look up. He simply continued writing upon the parchment, utterly focused. His pen moved with decisive strength.
Once, the documents written upon this very desk had shaped the fate of the entire Western world.
And now a new fate was being written—by the same hand.
The hand of the current pope.
Seni Lothaire, the one now revered as the Emperor of All Kings.
"Your Holiness," the priest replied.
"Mm. How did the matter turn out?" the pope asked casually, dipping his pen in ink before continuing to write.
"The heretics have all been burned. Their remains were cast into the Tiber. No one will oppose our proposal to build the factories now."
"And the old men?"
"They have realized the tide has turned. Most attempted to flee abroad. The majority were intercepted and executed in secrecy for treason. A few stragglers remain at large, but they are being hunted."
"And those who submitted? Have they tried to resist?"
"No. We have suppressed them repeatedly in secret. Their fortunes have shrunk considerably. Their industries will gradually return to the Church."
It was a brief conversation, devoid of emotion.
Yet such conversations determined the course of kingdoms.
At last the pope finished writing.
He raised his head.
There was no awe-inspiring face waiting beneath the candlelight—only a plain iron mask. Intricate golden patterns were etched across its surface, concealing whatever face lay beneath.
"Father Anthony," the pope said calmly, "I believe it is time for you to step out of the shadows. The nation is stable now. Our gaze should turn farther beyond."
Within the short span of his reign, the pope had succeeded in gathering all power into his hands.
And now that power would be hurled beyond the borders of the realm.
"Your Holiness…?"
The priest hesitated in confusion.
He was a guardian of shadows, the pope's secret emissary.
Yet now something from the shadows was being called into the light.
"This task," said the pope, rising to his feet, "may be one only you can accomplish."
His tone was calm, yet it carried the weight of an unrefusable command.
The priest slowly rose and followed behind him.
"Father Anthony," the pope continued as they walked, "you must have heard the rumors lately."
"You mean…?"
"The Demon-Hunting Order. There is no need to hide it. Speak plainly."
Contrary to the legends that painted him as the ruthless Blood Pope, the man himself seemed remarkably approachable. There was no oppressive aura about him. He spoke with the ease of an ordinary parish priest.
Yet the priest could sense it.
Beneath that calm surface lay a mystery and savagery no mortal could fully comprehend.
He was like a great whale drifting through the ocean. No fangs, no terrifying aura—almost harmless, like a symbol of good fortune.
But when the whale rolled its massive body, it could shatter ships without effort.
"The Demon-Hunting Order has been rebuilt," the pope continued. "Most logistical systems are back in place. Even the long-sealed Temple of Stasis has been reopened."
He paused.
"But Father Anthony… all I have forged so far are armor and warhorses. What it lacks now are knights to ride into battle."
The pope said nothing more.
He simply glanced back.
Within the eye sockets of the iron mask there was only darkness. Were it not for the faint glimmer of light deep inside, the priest might have believed that some unseen specter lurked beneath that mask and robe.
"Come with me."
They entered a long corridor.
Whenever the priest walked these halls late at night, the cathedral felt like an endless maze. Every corner of his vision seemed to stretch into infinity.
It was said that countless secrets were hidden within this labyrinth.
Some doors led to the tombs of past popes.
Some led to unspeakable secrets.
And some whispered of a gate that opened to Heaven itself.
The priest did not know where the pope was leading him.
He had only a vague premonition of what might follow.
A faint sense of danger crept into his chest. Yet before the mysterious Emperor of All Kings, he could not even summon the courage to grasp the sword at his side.
Only the pope knew the full design of this immense labyrinth. The cathedral had been built and expanded over centuries while still in use. Many rooms had long since lost their keys and were forgotten by time.
Only the universal key in the pope's possession could open them all.
"We have arrived, Father Anthony."
They had stopped before a vast stone wall.
Angels and demons were carved upon it, their faces filled with sorrow so lifelike that the priest found himself momentarily transfixed.
He remembered once judging a heretic sculptor whose works were so vivid that some believed he had sealed human souls within the stone itself.
This wall felt the same.
As if angels and demons had both been imprisoned inside it.
"Your Holiness…"
Unease gripped the priest.
"Father Anthony," the pope said quietly, "you are one of the few who have received the gift of Secret Blood. After Bishop Lawrence's betrayal, we nearly lost the technology entirely. That is why I wish you to lead the rebuilt Demon-Hunting Order."
His voice hardened.
"Do not disappoint me."
"You mean… you wish me to become the new Archbishop?"
The priest's voice trembled.
What an honor.
What a terror.
The iron mask nodded.
"During the days you were occupied," the pope continued, "we discovered Bishop Lawrence's whereabouts. He betrayed God. He will pay the price."
From beneath his robe the pope produced a hexagonal iron key.
Under the candlelight, the priest could see that its smooth surface was actually covered with countless tiny grooves—so fine they were almost impossible to perceive.
Yet those nearly invisible ridges formed the universal key that opened everything.
He slid it into a narrow seam within the wall.
Without even turning it, the key began to rotate on its own.
Hidden mechanisms groaned to life deep within the stone. At last the massive wall slowly parted, revealing a rusted, dust-covered elevator within.
"I've heard the rumors," the pope said with faint amusement. "They call this thing the Gate of Heaven."
The priest stood frozen.
The rumors were true.
Deep within the labyrinth of the cathedral there really was a gate that led to Heaven.
And now it stood before him.
The wind rose slowly from the dark passage beyond.
"Father Anthony," came the voice beneath the iron mask, soft and distant, "there is still much you must learn as the new Archbishop."
They stepped inside.
The door sealed behind them.
The long-silent elevator shuddered to life, descending with the grinding of metal. Darkness swallowed them, broken only by the sound of the priest's breathing.
Until a faint red glow began to seep through the cracks beneath their feet.
Then an unseen force seemed to clutch his throat.
Fear and pressure mounted as the elevator sank deeper. A grand orchestral hymn swelled from indistinct murmurs into deafening clarity—as if an entire choir sang within the crimson light below.
The priest suddenly let out a hoarse laugh.
Now he understood their destination.
How absurd.
This was no Gate of Heaven.
It led instead to a burning hell buried in the depths of darkness.
A place forgotten for six long years.
The former stronghold of the Demon-Hunting Order.
The Temple of Stasis.