Fortuna hadn't changed.
Still bright. Still polished. Still drowning in rituals.
Michael stood at the edge of the cathedral courtyard, watching a line of white-robed celebrants weave between marble columns, scattering flower petals as bells tolled overhead.
A wedding.
The priest, draped in gold-lined vestments, spoke of Sparda's grace and divine order. Two young knights were getting married—both high-born, both raised on the Church's version of glory.
Michael stood near the altar, clad in ceremonial armor. Silver plates. A crimson sash. A sword he hadn't drawn in months.
He looked like a statue.
He was meant to be one.
A symbol of "honor."A reminder that loyalty could earn you a place in something greater.
No one knew what he really was.
And no one asked.
One year.
That's how long it had been since he returned.
After Echidna. After the poison. After the forest nearly swallowed him whole—he disappeared for a time. Far from the city, away from watchful eyes. Testing what the crystals had done to him. Understanding what he'd become.
The illusions. The teleportation. The mist.It wasn't limitless. But it was enough to rewrite a battlefield.
When he returned to Fortuna, it was quiet. No fanfare. No announcement.
Angela had only raised an eyebrow.
"You didn't send word."
"I'm here now," he said.
The Church hadn't questioned him. Too busy. Or too cautious. Maybe both.
Instead, they offered him a new role—quiet, unofficial. Trainer.
No title. Just a courtyard, a handful of recruits, and an understanding.
He trained them hard.
Not cruelly. Realistically.
He taught them to move, not march. To survive, not pose. To expect tricks demons actually used—not the ones whispered in bedtime sermons.
Some listened.Some didn't.
Credo did.
Older now. Sharper. Still asking questions with his eyes first, mouth second. Michael liked that.
Applause echoed through the courtyard. Doves scattered into the sky. Rose petals drifted across polished stone.
Michael didn't move.
His thoughts were far from the altar.
POV: Michael – Later That Day
He walked the city wall after the ceremony, helmet off, sash tucked into his belt, hands deep in his coat pockets.
Here, the wind smelled cleaner. Less like incense, more like sky.
He paused near the east-facing tower, eyes drifting toward the forest.
The same forest he'd vanished into a year ago.
He didn't feel tied to Fortuna. Not really.
It had been a place to regroup. To heal. To think.
But not to stay.
He hadn't told anyone yet. Not Angela. Not Credo. Not Morrison.
But the thought had been building for weeks.
And now, it was settled.
It's time.
He didn't belong here. Not behind temple walls. Not among statues of angels or songs of salvation.
He had bought himself peace.But peace wasn't purpose.
He turned from the wall.
Footsteps echoed behind him.
"Sir?"
Michael glanced back.
One of the younger recruits stood at attention, shifting his weight, clearly nervous.
Michael raised an eyebrow.
"There's a message for you. From the southern port. Delivered by hand."
Michael said nothing. He just nodded once.
The recruit stepped forward, offering a sealed envelope, then quickly retreated.
Michael turned it in his hand.
No insignia. No seal he recognized.
He didn't open it yet.
Instead, he stood there, the wind tugging at his coat, eyes on the horizon.And the path he already knew he was about to take.