The dimly lit chamber was utterly silent and solemn. The only sounds that echoed through the darkness were the heavy breaths of an old man and the faint scratching of a pen dragging across paper.
Schermans did not even realize that beads of sweat had already covered his forehead. With every thought he pieced together, he felt himself drawing closer and closer to the truth. Upon the thick pages of his journal, he recorded everything that surfaced within his mind.
"Where did this plague known as demons truly originate? When did it begin? We have slain countless numbers of them, so why have we never found a single 'pure' demon?"
Fear and exhilaration existed within him at the same time. Schermans felt as though he had become young again. His thoughts raced faster and faster as his mind continued to unravel the mystery. He even believed that what he had just discovered had pushed humanity's understanding of demons forward by another step.
Then, as if remembering something, he suddenly lowered his pen and flipped back through the pages of his journal.
The notebook contained countless records. Most of them were his own research into theology, but as one of the cardinals, although he had no authority to interfere with the Demon Hunter Order, he was still capable of obtaining fragments of their internal information.
Staring at his own handwriting from years ago, Schermans began piecing together a horrifying truth from those scattered fragments.
"Is it really true that, in this world, only the Demon Hunter Order possesses the power to fight against demons?"
His aged body trembled uncontrollably. Schermans picked up the water cup and forced himself to take a sip. His eyes were filled with terror as he suddenly looked around the room, as if something unnatural was hiding in some forgotten corner, silently watching him.
But in reality, there was no one else here.
Only him.
Alone.
He continued writing. Yet as the words flowed from his pen, he could feel a burning sensation rising within his body.
It was a kind of frenzied fear. Nothing had happened, nothing had changed, yet his blood began to rush faster, his pupils widened slightly, and his heart pounded violently, placing an unbearable burden upon his aging body.
"No… this is wrong…"
Schermans' voice trembled.
"Given the terrifying corruption of demons, this should have become a plague far more devastating than the Black Death. Yet throughout these centuries of war, we survived. Not only did we survive, but we even established kingdoms of such magnificence."
"This does not make sense. According to the spreading ability of demons, even during the most prosperous era of the Gospel Church, we should never have been able to suppress their growth. They should have only multiplied endlessly… killing one would create two more. When one Demon Hunter fell, something even more terrifying should have been born from its ashes!"
His body grew heavier.
It felt as though a black tide was slowly rising around him, covering his flesh and bones. That strange ocean was impossibly thick and viscous, like countless hands entangling themselves around him, desperately trying to drag him beneath the darkness.
A thin stream of blood flowed from his nose, dripping onto the paper and staining it crimson.
But Schermans noticed none of it.
He continued writing.
The black ink and red blood mixed together, leaving behind a twisted trail of dark crimson. The liquid seeped along the texture of the paper, spreading like countless withered branches reaching out in all directions.
"This world is wrong. Even if the Demon Hunter Order expanded tenfold, a hundredfold, it would still be impossible to suppress the corruption of demons beneath this endless plague."
"If that is true, then aside from a few magnificent cities, the vast majority of this world should have already been devoured by demons. It should not look like this… not like the world we see today."
His body became heavier and heavier, yet the speed of his writing only increased.
Schermans could feel something rotten and viscous gripping him. It twisted around his body, trying to pull him down into the abyss beneath the darkness.
He even felt that if he merely shifted his gaze away, he would see those hideous and terrifying faces staring back at him.
But he refused to look.
His eyes remained fixed upon the paper before him, and with ink stained by his own blood, he continued writing.
"Yet we survived. The influence of demons upon this world gradually weakened… even disappeared. The steam engine that changed the world was invented. One kingdom after another was established…"
"We gained a foothold within this plague. But it was not because of our own efforts…"
The tip of the pen stopped.
It remained there for a long time, carving a dark hole into the paper.
Schermans stared at that tiny black mark, as though something existed beyond it.
After a moment, he let out a fearful laugh.
"Isn't the answer obvious? All we need to do is reason backward."
"We survived. Therefore, aside from the Demon Hunter Order, within this vast world there must exist another force. An unknown power. They are the true force suppressing demons."
This was a truth capable of destroying the entire understanding of the Gospel Church.
And yet today, Schermans had written it down so easily.
Even he found it difficult to believe.
If he had not witnessed so many impossible things throughout his life, perhaps his faith would have collapsed at this very moment.
But this was the only reasonable explanation.
Schermans would never believe that demons had somehow slaughtered each other and allowed humanity to survive.
They were the embodiment of madness itself.
He breathed heavily, almost desperately trying to force all the air within the room into his lungs.
Schermans needed to calm himself.
Only then could he continue writing.
His face, dry and withered like decaying wood, carried a faint smile. More than anything, it was the expression of someone who had glimpsed the truth.
He had discovered a flaw within history.
Perhaps this discovery would become the key to uncovering the true nature of demons.
But that joy did not last long.
Schermans' expression gradually turned cold.
He reached into his chest and touched the delicate flintlock pistol hidden beneath his robes. The familiar feeling brought him a measure of security.
Schermans was not an extraordinary man.
Aside from his devotion and fanaticism toward his faith, he was, in truth, an utterly ordinary person.
Perhaps one could even say he lacked ambition.
He did not desire power, nor did he care for wealth.
If he had not clearly understood the ominous nature of Ceni Lothaire, he would never have joined hands with Miguel. If Ceni Lothaire did not possess that strange and forbidden power, Schermans would not have cared in the slightest if he became the next Pope.
He did not know who this newly emerged Pope truly was.
But Schermans knew one thing clearly.
Beneath that iron mask rested a forbidden power.
Something ominous and unnatural had placed itself upon the holy crown of the Pope.
And that was something Schermans would never allow.
"Then what about them?"
"What about those people who were far more intelligent than me?"
Schermans wrote the question upon the pages of his journal.
Every person whose name had been carved into history had been an extraordinary genius of their era.
And the Gospel Church had never lacked such individuals.
Because of their efforts, the Gospel Church had gradually come to dominate the entire Western world and launched the sacred crusades.
"They were far smarter, far more powerful than me. If someone as insignificant as Schermans could discover these flaws in history, how could they possibly have failed to notice them?"
Yes.
That was the true question.
The Gospel Church had existed for countless centuries. Throughout its long history, countless unparalleled figures had emerged.
By all logic, the questions Schermans had just uncovered should have been discovered by them as well.
Yet the records of the Gospel Church contained nothing.
Nothing at all.
As if these truths had been deliberately erased.
"Or perhaps… they did discover them."
"But for some reason, they chose not to tell their descendants…"
"Or perhaps…"
"They never had the chance to."
Schermans stopped writing.
He no longer dared continue.
Because he felt that if he wrote even one more sentence, a terrifying possibility would become reality.
He could feel it.
He had always been able to feel it.
An invisible boundary.
A boundary of thought.
A boundary of perception.
An unknown boundary that existed above every human mind, imprisoning the will of mankind itself.
Schermans was certain that he had not reached this conclusion because of a sudden flash of inspiration.
Rather…
A restriction had disappeared at this very moment.
And because of that, he was finally able to glimpse forbidden knowledge.
The truths that had been hidden away.
Why now?
Why was he able to think of these things at this exact moment?
Did that unknown force not fear him spreading this knowledge?
A drop of sweat fell onto the paper, blurring the ink that had not yet dried.
And suddenly, Schermans understood.
Slowly, he raised his head and looked toward the darkness of the room before him.
He could not see it.
But he knew.
It was there.
Watching him silently.
Carrying an expression he could not comprehend.
"I am going to die, aren't I?"
Schermans spoke toward the empty darkness.
This was the only answer.
He was going to die.
And the dead could not tell their stories.
That was why these obvious flaws had remained undiscovered until now.
Because everyone who knew the truth had already died.
An iron curtain of darkness covered this world.
Anyone who stepped beyond the boundaries of its knowledge would meet the same fate.
Schermans did not know what those beings were.
Perhaps he would never have the chance to find out.
But one thing was certain.
They were connected to demons.
They were connected to the truth of this world.
He had come so close.
Yet he also understood that he would never be able to go any further.
Slowly closing his journal, Schermans calmly drew out the flintlock pistol that had already been abandoned by the age.
Though it had endured the erosion of countless years, it could still fire.
And it was always ready.
This was the only weapon Schermans possessed.
He could die.
But he would die like a saint.
With trembling hands, Schermans raised the flintlock and aimed toward the vague darkness.
The cold sensation remained.
He knew that thing was still watching him.
That ghost-like existence.
Perhaps in the next second, it would launch its attack and kill him through some unknown method.
Yet the empty phantom did not move.
The standoff continued for a long time.
Then suddenly…
A faint laughter echoed through the room.
The next moment, that strange presence disappeared.
It had left.
Schermans remained frozen, still holding the pistol aimed forward.
He could hardly believe it.
But before relief could even rise within his heart, something far deeper swallowed it completely.
Beyond the darkness, a light appeared.
A pure white, blazing light.
No.
He was destined to die.
It was simply not that strange thing who would deliver the final blow.
A Demon Hunter stepped out from the darkness, a nail sword gripped tightly in his hand.
And at that very moment, a horrific scream erupted from outside the window.
Countless Demon Hunters had invaded the manor.
And they began their massacre.