In the shadow of God, sins bred demons. And so, beneath the magnificent and resplendent Cathedral of Saint Naro, mortals carved out a hidden dominion—the Kingdom of Stillness, the Sanctum of Stasis—where the demon hunters who had long waged war against abominations finally laid down their weary steps.
"Do you know of the Night of the Sacred Descent?"
The voice echoed softly in the iron chamber.
"As the newly appointed Archbishop, you ought to know the history of your own order, Anthony… Archbishop?"
"Please… call me Father, Your Holiness."
The priest shook his head. The title of Archbishop weighed upon him like an ill omen. As for the Night of the Sacred Descent—he knew only fragments of its truth, and even those filled him with unease.
The music drifting through the corridors slowly swelled, rising from somewhere deep within the earth. Through the seams of the iron elevator, a crimson glow seeped in, burning brighter with every passing moment. Yet the platform had still not reached the bottom. It continued its descent, sinking deeper into the dim, suffocating dark.
Within that gloom, the Pope finally spoke.
"The Night of the Sacred Descent…"
He murmured the words like a prayer, or perhaps a lament.
"The night when the divine arrived…
If Heaven truly exists, then that night was the closest we have ever come to touching it."
The priest remained silent.
And in that moment, an unsettling feeling crept into his heart.
It seemed as though the man standing beside him was no longer the Pope at all—but something else entirely that had taken his place, speaking to him here in the depths.
"You should know that we captured the final demon.
Scalding holy silver sealed it within an iron coffin. Sacred scripture was engraved upon its prison. Priests prayed day and night, seeking to purify that sinful soul."
The Pope's voice grew distant, almost weightless, as the ancient tale unfolded within the slowly descending darkness.
"We classified that demon as Messiah-Class, codename: The Holy Grail.
According to the Book of Revelation, and by our own analysis, it is the very origin of all demons. If it were utterly destroyed… the very concept of demons would cease to exist."
That was the official doctrine.
Yet even as he spoke, doubt lingered in the Pope's heart.
Would such a grotesque creature truly perish so easily?
"But… humanity is greedy, Father Anthony."
His tone grew colder.
"If we were truly so pure, why would we need a god to save us at all?"
The crimson glow reflected upon the Pope's iron mask. Veins of engraved patterns twisted across its surface like streams of dried blood. The priest found himself staring into the hollow darkness beneath the eye sockets—into a secret older and more terrible than any sin.
His breathing quickened.
"We have fought demons for far too long," the Pope continued softly.
"So long that we have nearly become another kind of demon ourselves."
"Everything the Evangelical Church possesses is built upon the Secret Blood technology described in Revelation—technology derived from demons themselves."
He paused.
"If we kill the last demon… will we not lose that sinful yet powerful technology as well?"
The Pope removed his iron mask.
His face remained hidden in darkness as he lit a cigarette. The faint flame illuminated the surrounding steel walls—but not the man himself.
Gone was the Pope's majesty.
In its place remained only a weary man.
"Of course… no one truly knows if that will happen. We do not even know whether the concept of demons would truly vanish."
"After all, everything changed on the Night of the Sacred Descent."
"To be honest, the moment we captured the Grail was… poorly timed."
He exhaled slowly.
"If we had captured it centuries earlier… or during the era of the Eastern Crusades… that would have been the perfect age. In those days everyone wanted demons dead. The Knights Templar razed city after city. Faith burned bright in every heart."
"Even if destroying the Grail had meant losing every demon-related technology we possessed—everyone would have accepted it."
In truth, that had been the Church's most glorious era.
In those days, every soul believed the world was about to become better.
"But times have changed, Father Anthony."
"The old world is gone."
"Invelvig invented the steam engine. The Age of Steam rose like an unstoppable tide. And in the distant empire of the Far East, Jiuxia began to reveal its own power."
"For centuries, the Church ruled the nations from the shadows through the terror of demons. All it took was to brand someone a heretic—and the demon hunters would knock upon their door."
"We were the shepherds."
"And they… were the flock."
"And every lamb fears the shepherd's dog, does it not?"
He gave a quiet, bitter laugh.
"But now the lambs have learned to fight demons themselves. Warships. Cannons. And the empire of Jiuxia, which appears to possess demon-slaying technologies similar to ours."
"For the first time… the Church's authority trembled."
The Pope flicked away the cigarette. The ember fell into the abyss below and vanished.
Leaning against the trembling steel walls, he slowly placed the iron mask back upon his face.
In that dim, confined world, it felt as though only the two of them remained alive—while the forbidden story flowed between them like a dark river.
"At that time, the Church split into two factions."
"One was the Faith Faction. Loyal believers who believed God's mission was finally within reach. No matter the cost, the Grail must be destroyed."
He chuckled softly.
"They were true zealots. Devout… and perhaps a little naïve."
"The other was the War Faction."
"They argued that if the Grail were destroyed—and if demons truly vanished—then every demon-derived technology the Church had relied upon for centuries would collapse with it."
"And without that power, in this new age… the Church would lose the ability to stand against the rising nations."
"Faith would remain—but only as a decorative relic."
His voice grew colder.
"They believed the Grail should not be destroyed."
"Instead… its power should be harnessed."
"The strength of demons must be firmly controlled. Secret Blood must be mass-produced. And when that day comes, legions of demon hunters will march beneath our banner and sweep across the western world."
Those who slay demons…
often become demons themselves.
The Pope's voice lowered into a murmur.
He still remembered the ferocity of that debate. The War Faction slammed their fists upon the tables, faces flushed with fervor, shouting sacred words with the passion of men marching toward glorious death.
It was as though they had returned to that age once more.
Young again.
Burning again.
"Crusade! Crusade! Crusade!"
"…How terrifying."
The priest exhaled slowly.
Merely hearing the Pope recount the story allowed him to feel the madness of that moment—faith torn apart by greedy desire, with no soul untouched.
"Soon afterward, the Church filled with undercurrents of conflict. Cardinals from both factions confronted one another. For the first time in centuries, the Church stood on the brink of division."
"Truly fitting for the Holy Grail, wouldn't you say?"
"Even captured, it still stirred such chaos—as though fate itself had arranged it."
"In the end, the Pope made his choice."
"He supported the War Faction."
"Truth be told… it was the correct decision."
"Invelvig had already won the War of Radiance, and the terror of the steam engine was clear to all. That technology had also reached Jiuxia in the Far East. Two empires were rising."
"If we abandoned the power of demons now, perhaps we would fulfill God's mission…"
"But it would also mark the final radiance of God's influence in this world."
"And in the torrent of the new age… we would have no place to stand."
Beneath their feet, the crimson glow grew brighter.
It was as if they had reached the molten heart of the earth itself.
"Sometimes fate is cruel," the Pope said quietly.
"You obtain exactly what you desire… only for destiny to mock you with it."
"And so, the militarization of demons was placed upon the agenda."
He paused.
"But humanity's greed knows no limits."
"They did not merely desire the power of demon hunters."
"They wanted something greater."
Something far more terrible.
"They wanted… the power of the Holy Grail itself."
The forgotten past rose again before their eyes.
The priest fell into a long silence. Under the Pope's words, even the most steadfast believer might feel his faith tremble.
"And if it were you—what would you do?"
The question came suddenly.
Beneath the iron mask, the voice hesitated for a moment, then gave a quiet laugh.
"Perhaps I would promise them this: conquer the world first, abandon the demons' power afterward… But in truth, we both know the nature of that thing. It has a kind of magic to it. The moment you use it for the first time, you are already bound to the fate it carries. Abandon it? There is no such thing. No one ever truly lets it go…"
It was a blade of unimaginable sharpness.
So long as it rested in your hand, you were the sovereign of the world. No one could resist such temptation. No one.
The elevator halted abruptly, cutting their conversation short.
The metal folding doors slowly opened, and a stale wind surged in, carrying with it the faint breath of corrosion.
The priest gazed out beyond the doorway.
What lay before him was a vast palace. A curved dome vanished into darkness high above, while grotesque statues filled the field of vision—most shattered, their broken forms scattered across the ground among heaps of stone. Here and there lingered stains that looked disturbingly like dried blood.
Though the palace lay sealed deep underground, faint currents of air stirred from time to time, as if the entire structure were some slumbering creature, breathing in slow and shallow sighs.
Grey-robed monks stood scattered through the hall. They worked in silence. Everything was eerily still; even the sound of breathing seemed to vanish, as though the slightest careless noise might awaken some ancient monster sleeping beneath the stones.
This was the Temple of Stagnation, the stronghold of the Demon Hunter Order.
It lay deep beneath the Cathedral of Saint Naro.
Originally this place had been a natural cavern. Underground rivers once wound through it, eventually joining the surface waters of the Tiber River. In later years it had been reshaped—stone by stone—into a subterranean military fortress.
"This place," the Pope said slowly, "was built to serve as the Final Sanctuary. In the original design, if the Seven Hills ever fell, we would retreat here. It would become both our refuge and the base from which we would launch our counterattack against the demons."
"There are supplies here to last several years. And the equipment for refining Secret Blood remains intact. As long as humanity has not been entirely wiped out, we could continue creating demon hunters without end."
"But wouldn't they lose control?"
The priest asked the question quietly.
The most dangerous flaw of a demon hunter had always been precisely that—loss of control. To deal with such a crisis, the Church had developed the Silver Binding Bolt as a safeguard. But in such desperate circumstances, how could such delicate craftsmanship ever be maintained?
"Father Anthony," the masked man replied, "you still don't quite grasp the meaning of all this."
"You see, the Silver Binding Bolt has a final battle mode. Once the Pope issues the command, it will no longer melt down when a demon hunter begins to transform."
He paused.
"When we are driven into absolute desperation… who will still care whether they lose control or not?"
"Unfortunately, no one ever imagined that the nightmare would erupt from this very place—the battlefield meant for the final stand. Right here, within the Temple of Stagnation."
They stepped forward across the field of rubble.
The stones beneath their feet were fragments of shattered statues. As they moved deeper, the priest finally began to see the enormous structures looming in the darkness—yet most of them had collapsed long ago, as if some monstrous battle had taken place here many years earlier, tearing apart this underground kingdom.
"The previous Pope was a fool," the masked man continued coldly. "Once he made his decision, he was completely sidelined. At the time, the war faction held all real power."
"Their influence spread through every industry. Without their approval, the Pope himself couldn't even leave Saint Naro Cathedral."
"The entire Church became a machine in their hands."
"And then… they performed that forbidden ritual again."
He paused.
"Secret Blood originates from demons. The stronger the demon, the more potent the blood refined from it."
The man stopped walking and looked at the priest.
Both of them understood what came next.
"They seized the power of the Holy Grail… and stole its blood for extraction."
Blasphemy.
An invisible hand seemed to tighten around the throat. Even the beating of the heart grew heavy.
"At that time I had little authority," he said quietly. "What I know now was later dragged out of the previous Pope himself."
"They selected a group of demon hunters—those granted the title of Angels. With them they repeatedly degraded the Grail's power… until finally they launched a project to create an imitation Grail."
They stepped into the ruined palace.
The glory of the past had vanished. Faith and gods alike had been smashed upon the floor. Everywhere lingered the echoes of that night—terror, madness, the lingering rot of corruption that still clung to the air even after so many years.
"It was here."
They stopped at the very center of the hall.
Before them yawned a deep well. Its depth could not be measured. Intricate alchemical inscriptions lined the inner walls—knowledge long since lost, their meanings now beyond comprehension. Beneath it stretched endless darkness.
A darkness like the abyss.
"This is the Well of Ascension," the Pope said. "It was designed to refine the blood of demons into Secret Blood."
"Of course, it only reached such perfection thanks to countless alchemists who spent more than a century modifying and improving it. Sadly… the alchemists themselves have vanished into history."
"I never knew the full extent of that plan," he admitted softly. "But everything began here."
The Pope stared into the black well.
From this darkness had erupted the catastrophe known as the Night of Holy Descent.
From that abyss something hateful had crawled forth.
"From what I later learned," he continued, "this was where the war faction conducted their first experiment to replicate the Holy Grail."
"And during that experiment, Archbishop Lawrence betrayed them."
"The true Grail and the imitation Grail both spiraled out of control."
"Everyone present at the scene was struck directly by the wave of corruption. They transformed into demons instantly… There was no time to save anyone."
The ambitions of the war faction.
The conspiracy of Archbishop Lawrence.
The endless greed of mankind.
All of it fused together, forging an unforgivable catastrophe.
"The sacred descended here," the Pope murmured.
His gaze swept across the vast ruined palace from one end to the other.
Even without witnessing the battle, one could imagine its savagery. In the mind's ear, the echoes of furious roars still seemed to linger.
"Originally, the dome of the Temple of Stagnation was packed with enough explosives to collapse the entire Cathedral of Saint Naro. Once the disaster began, it was meant to be detonated—to bury this place forever."
"But it was never triggered."
"The overwhelming corruption spread upward to the surface, enveloping the entire land of the Seven Hills. The Medanzo demon hunters guarding the perimeter were the first to respond. They stormed inside and fought the demons crawling up through the elevator shafts, battling them near the Gate of Heaven."
Those Medanzo hunters stationed at the outermost defenses had been the first to realize something was terribly wrong.
"That war lasted a very long time," the Pope said. "A war beneath the earth."
"After the Night of Holy Descent, the Demon Hunter Order was dissolved. We returned to this battlefield under suffocating levels of corruption, exploring it little by little. It took several years just to accelerate the decay of the contamination."
"Only last year did the Temple finally return to our control."
It was perhaps the closest the Gospel Church had ever come to the apocalyptic visions of myth.
And yet the end of the world had not come from beyond.
It had come from within.
One mistake after another had led them here. Only years after the Night of Holy Descent did the Church finally reach the Well of Ascension again and recover the Holy Grail.
Just as the old texts had claimed—
demons were born from the shadows of God.
And the most terrifying demonic outbreak in human history had begun beneath the sacred Cathedral of Saint Naro itself.
"Later… other problems arose," the Pope continued quietly. "For instance—the loss of the Holy Grail."
This error had occurred during his own tenure. There was no excuse to offer.
"For a containment artifact of the Messiah-class, our usual method is simple: forget it. All records are preserved only in memory. No written documentation is permitted."
"At the time, the Church could not survive a second Night of Holy Descent."
"So we hid the Grail."
"To avoid suspicion, we secretly transported it to the Viking Kingdom. From there it was to be carried farther north—to the frozen lands beyond civilization."
"In that icy wilderness we once established a monastery. A place where only a handful of devout priests lived year-round. The Grail would be sealed deep beneath the glacial ice, waiting until the Church had recovered enough strength to deal with it properly."
As he spoke, the Pope lifted the folds of his robe.
The white garment outlined a thin frame, its line sharp and straight like the spine of a sword.
"But the ship carrying it met with disaster. It sank."
"The Church no longer held the influence it once did. The nations ignored our warnings entirely. For the first time, I realized how powerless I truly was."
"In the fragments of intelligence we gathered afterward… we learned that it had been taken to Invervig."
The Holy Grail and the False Grail had both been lost.
The good news was that, for the moment, the Pope no longer had to fear another eruption of the Night of Holy Descent.
The bad news was that the Church itself had already begun to sink toward twilight; the Night of Holy Descent had merely hastened what was inevitable.
"Then… why dissolve the Demon Hunter Order?" the priest asked. "By all reason, weren't they the greatest contributors? They were the ones who contained the corruption."
The priest shook his head. He knew too well that none of the hunters had met a good end. Every last one of them was dead.
The Pope seemed to have anticipated the question long ago. The answer had been prepared in his mind.
"In the aftermath, the true Holy Grail remained intact. The demons failed to escape… but the False Grail did. It was an artificial Grail—an artificial catastrophe. For the first time in history, humanity had completely grasped the power of demons.
"For ages it was demons who eroded the will of men, seized their bodies, and twisted us into monsters. Yet according to the fragments of documents that survived, the False Grail did the opposite… though the exact truth remains unclear. Those who truly knew are mostly dead."
The Pope himself had not lived through the entire Night of Holy Descent. Yet the authority he now possessed allowed him to see the situation with greater clarity.
After all, he was the shepherd now—unlike his predecessor, that useless man.
This Emperor of All Kings had walked upon a red carpet soaked in blood before placing the sacred crown upon his brow.
"Humanity succeeded in stealing a power that was never meant to be controlled. Something similar had already happened centuries ago. At first they could control the demon hunters—but on the Night of Holy Descent, everything began to spiral beyond control.
"We know far too little about that artificial imitation—the False Grail. So little that we can only judge it by the containment methods designed for the real Grail.
"It possesses an extreme capacity for transmission. When demon hunters entered the Cathedral of Saint Narro, they could become infected… and in doing so, become vessels through which the False Grail might escape. Some of them may even have been experimental subjects long before that night."
Most of the records had vanished in the inferno of that night.
The Church's knowledge suffered a catastrophic fracture; even what the Pope now spoke had been extracted from the mind of the previous Pope.
"Of course," he added quietly, "there was another reason. The demon hunters betrayed us."
The priest froze.
Demon hunters—betrayal?
Weren't they the greatest heroes of the Night of Holy Descent?
"To be precise," the Pope continued, "it was the hunters of the Shandafon branch who betrayed us. When we cleared the battlefield, we found countless bodies—but none belonging to them. And after that night, they vanished… just as Archbishop Lawrence did."
Lawrence had once been hailed as an angel among men.
And the name Shandafon—
Neither of them needed to say more. They both understood what it implied.
"That was perhaps the only correct decision the previous Pope ever made. He immediately ordered the Core Network to shut down. The entire Stasis Sanctum fell silent. Then he signed the extermination decree against the demon hunters.
"And even today… we are still hunting them."
His voice continued, though by now it felt less like recounting history and more like confessing a burden he could no longer bear.
The slaughter order had been issued instantly. Most of the fleeing hunters were intercepted at the Seven Hills. The majority perished beneath the siege of the Knights of the Holy Hall. Only a handful escaped.
At that moment, a massive gate blocked their path.
Heavy chains bound it shut, their iron links scarred by wounds left from the Night of Holy Descent. Time had stripped the gate of its former grandeur.
The Pope slowly reached out and gently touched the cold surface of the door.
For a fleeting instant, the priest thought he must be mistaken.
Tenderness—on this man?
Though their conversation had been cordial, the priest knew exactly what kind of man stood before him.
The Pope held all power in his grasp and shared it with no one. To secure it, he had orchestrated a brutal purge in the shadows.
Yet suddenly he remembered something people used to say about the Pope.
Those who stood on the brink of death often called him a pitiful man.
Only those who trusted no one—those who lived without any sense of safety—would clutch power so tightly.
Like a knight on the battlefield gripping the blade of his sword so hard that his fingers turned white, such a man only felt alive when the weapon was firmly in his own hands.
The Pope was exactly that kind of man.
Even within the heavily guarded Cathedral of Saint Narro, he had never lowered his guard.
And yet, before this door, he suddenly shed all his armor and allowed emotion to surge through him.
"Lend me your sword."
He extended his hand.
Though the iron mask on his face was cold and expressionless, the priest could sense the quiet sorrow flowing beneath it.
What could lie behind that door?
A beloved woman?
Family he could never let go of?
Or perhaps a dream long buried?
The priest could not know. He simply offered his blade with reverence and watched as the man—who should have been reciting holy scripture—raised it with the force of thunder.
The strike came faster than sight.
It was a flash like divine judgment—irresistible, inescapable.
Rather than a swing of steel, it felt as though he had issued a command of execution, and under that command all matter had no choice but to break.
The next moment the heavy chains shattered and crashed to the ground, sending clouds of dust into the air.
The priest took the sword back in stunned silence, staring at the perfectly clean fracture across the metal.
He had never imagined the blade in his hands could be so sharp.
Then he understood why the Pope had allowed him to enter Saint Narro Cathedral with a weapon.
The man simply did not care whether he carried one or not.
Because he himself was the most dangerous weapon in existence.
"Come."
The Pope spoke without emotion and pushed open the long-sealed gate.
Beyond it lay none of the mystery the priest had expected.
Instead, there was only a quiet circular hall.
No grand decorations—only rows of coffins arranged across the chamber, one after another, each sealing away a silent, departed soul.
The coffins were massive. Sacred words and crosses were carved into their surfaces, as though the Church hoped the scripture might suppress whatever remained inside and grant the dead eternal rest.
"Please bow your head in silence, Father Anthony," the Pope said suddenly.
The priest glanced at him, then obediently lowered his head.
An inexplicable sorrow filled the small chamber like an invisible gas.
It seeped into every corner, swelling, fermenting, rising and falling in the darkness until both men seemed almost swallowed by it.
The moment of silence lasted less than half a minute.
During that time the Pope merely stared at the coffins, his expression unreadable—whether grief or relief, no one could tell.
"These are…?" the priest asked.
"The last Secret Blood," the Pope replied. "They will become the foundation of the new Order."
He pushed open the lid of the coffin beside him.
The stone slab weighed as though it carried a thousand pounds. The moment it slid aside, a wave of overwhelming corruption burst forth, pressing down upon the priest. Even with a will as firm as his, countless fragments flashed through his mind in an instant—memories, hallucinations, visions.
"Long time no see…" the Pope sighed.
Inside the coffin lay a corpse that had been grotesquely damaged.
Flesh and silver-white metal were twisted together. Bones had grown in monstrous distortion. The figure was so grotesque that it could barely be recognized as human. Calling it the remains of a demon might have been more fitting.
"This is… a demon hunter."
After a moment of stunned silence, the priest finally spoke the identity of the corpse.
Then his gaze slowly drifted across the chamber—to the many coffins surrounding them.
This place was a graveyard.
A graveyard for demon hunters.
"On the Night of the Holy Advent, the demon hunters of Medanzo forced the fiends back into the Stasis Sanctum. Soon after, hunters from other branches arrived and joined the battle. Together they sealed the Sanctum completely—every escape route cut off, save for the Gate of Heaven itself."
The Pope spoke of that forgotten war to the death.
"The battle lasted for months… yes, months.
"The previous Pope ordered the Sanctum to remain silent. He refused to initiate the final decisive strike, and so every hunter was bound by the Silver Shackles. To destroy the demons, those hunters allowed themselves to become demons as well. Molten holy silver burned their bodies from within, yet the corruption released by the Grail kept dragging them back from death.
"With only fragments of consciousness left, the hunters continued to fight. In the end the slaughter became a cycle of death itself. The lingering corruption and the monstrous vitality of the demons revived both sides again and again.
"They fought.
They died.
And then they rose once more."
As the Pope spoke, the very world seemed to tremble faintly. Even hearing the tale, the priest could picture it—the dead never finding rest, awakening endlessly only to fight and perish again.
"In the end it became a civil war among the hunters themselves. They slew the demons… and then they slew each other. By then they had become demons completely. During those days, even from deep within the halls of Saint Naro Cathedral, you could hear the slaughter echoing up from hell itself."
Looking down at the corpse, twisted beyond recognition, the Pope slowly closed the coffin lid.
"When we finally reached the deepest chamber of the Stasis Sanctum, nearly half a year had passed. That was where we found Yanar.
"He had become entirely demonic. His body had grown and warped so grotesquely that it filled nearly half the circular hall. Yet he did not attack. Even under such overwhelming corruption, he remained lucid. Calmly, he explained everything that had happened during the battle. It was from his testimony that we confirmed the betrayal and escape of the Shandafon hunters."
A tremor of unease passed through the priest. Suddenly he felt unworthy of bearing the title of Arch-Deacon. For here, beneath the stone, lay the graves of legends.
"He said he wished to see me… to see the new Pope.
"That twisted body of his gave me a great embrace."
The Pope paused.
"In truth, we both knew how it would end. While he held me, I drove a sword of holy silver into his heart. He did not resist. He simply… died."
Perhaps he had waited a long time for that moment—the quiet death he would share with the hunters who had fought beside him.
It was impossible to imagine such unyielding will. Even at the very end, he chose to die as a man.
"Arch-Deacon Lawrence took the Book of Revelation. I myself have never seen it, but the records say that it contains everything known about demons. Its corruption is so powerful that even reading it can drive a person mad. For that reason, the Church never made copies… or rather, it simply couldn't. Only a handful of alchemists knew its contents, and at the time they were stationed near the Well of Ascension."
"We possess the equipment to produce Secret Blood, and our logistical system remains intact. But the essential technique has been lost. We can no longer refine it. At the moment we needed it most, the knowledge vanished in a catastrophic break."
"Then what of the Secret Blood for the new Order?" the priest asked. "Will we arm them industrially, as Inervig does?"
Without Secret Blood, there seemed little choice.
But the Pope laughed softly—a laugh edged with cruelty.
"No. We still have Secret Blood.
"Is it not here?"
His hand gently brushed across the rows of coffins. Even after so many years, the ashes left by those who had burned still held value—embers that could burn again.
Like grave robbers tearing open a tomb, the restless Secret Blood still slumbered inside those long-dead bodies.
"That is also why we hunt the demon hunters who escaped the Seven Hills," the Pope continued. "Secret Blood runs through their veins—living Secret Blood."
"The new Order will be reborn from these burning embers."
Then, suddenly, a woman's voice began to chant softly.
The sound rose without warning.
The priest gazed across the graveyard. Whether illusion or reality, the coffins began to tremble. One by one, blood-smeared arms burst from within, heaving the heavy lids aside.
Like corpses clawing their way out of the earth, the dead returned from hell itself.
Yet this time, they would endure only as Secret Blood.
"There are still many unanswered questions about the Night of the Holy Advent," the Pope said quietly. "What I know is only a fragment. Thus the first mission of the new Order will be to continue the hunt for the surviving hunters."
"The survivors are cowards. Sinners. The Secret Blood they carry is our final supply. And Arch-Deacon Lawrence was a hunter himself—he too is on the list. If anyone truly knows the truth of that night, it is Lawrence. As it happens, only days ago the Core Web of the Stasis Sanctum detected him again. His location… Inervig."
"And of course, there remain the False Grail and the Holy Grail. Those two relics alone could overturn the history of mankind. They must be found and contained at once."
The Pope seemed lost in memory.
Within that circular hall, the demonic body had grown like a withered tree. Branches of flesh spread across half the chamber. Yanar had seemed embedded within that grotesque trunk of living meat.
He had endured all that time… only to deliver those final words.
"Yanar knew the identity of the hunter who carried the False Grail," the Pope said.
"When we processed the bodies, we did not find his corpse.
"He is still alive."
"The primary objective is to find him, then?" the priest asked cautiously.
The Pope nodded.
"This was our mistake. And we will correct it—no matter the cost."
The great doors sealed behind them.
When they stepped outside, the dim corridors were already brighter. The gray-robed monks had begun lighting the lamps, and the Sanctum's functions were gradually returning. It would not be long before the Stasis Sanctum was fully operational once more.
"Tell me," the Pope said suddenly, "do you ever feel that this palace is alive?"
He tilted his head back, gazing up into the vast, shadowed dome. In the darkness it seemed to twist faintly—less like stone than something disturbingly like flesh.
"Alive?" the priest asked, uncertain.
Seeing his confusion, the Pope did not explain further. Instead he sighed.
"In truth, I am grateful for the Night of the Holy Advent. That night purged the upper ranks of the Church. Most of those in power became demons themselves. And so… I was raised up afterward."
"They intended to treat me like a puppet. But, Father Anthony… this is a new age."
His gaze met the priest's. In the darkness, light flickered within his eyes.
"The old generation is dead. A new soil has been left for us."
"I am not a docile lamb. I desire a greater pasture—a pasture that belongs to me alone. Why would I ever bow my head and let them slaughter me?"
His voice struck like a hammer against iron. Every word rang with cold, blood-forged resolve.
"At that time I realized what I must become."
"I would be the Pope—
the supreme Pope,
the Emperor of Emperors."
"No war factions. No faith factions. No disputes. No divisions."
"Only absolute obedience to a single will."
"A single… absolute will."
Seni Lothaire fixed his gaze upon Father Anthony, and with that gaze came an unquestionable command.
"The demons must be eradicated."
Beneath the iron mask, within the darkness of the eye sockets, pale white flames began to burn.
Like phantom suns rising into the sky.
Their radiance illuminated the deep and hopeless hell below.