The morning sun rises weakly over the slate rooftops of the town, its golden rays filtering through the mist that still clings to the cobbled streets. Dew gathers on the windowsills and the iron gates of the small church, the only place in this war-torn settlement that seems untouched by time. Inside, the air is thick with the smell of incense and dried herbs, mingled with the metallic tang of blood and the faint sweetness of candle wax. The choir's faint echo of a dawn hymn fades into silence as Aldo and his remaining comrades stand near the entrance, boots leaving faint prints on the marble floor.
The church is a sanctuary, but not for peace—its silence feels too heavy, like it's hiding cries that were once too loud. Rows of pews are occupied by the wounded: high-ranking military officers, their uniforms torn, insignias soaked in blood, faces ghostly pale. Nuns in white habits move among them with mechanical grace, binding wounds, whispering short prayers that sound more like chants of obedience than words of faith. The soldiers' bodies twitch occasionally under the nuns' hands, some half-conscious, others barely alive.
Aldo's eyes travel across the rows of cots until they fall upon the children kneeling at the front, heads bowed in prayer. Their tiny voices blend in a fragile harmony:
"Let those from the lower sphere serve in gratitude, for through their toil the Gate remains pure."
The sound chills him more than the morning air ever could. Their words are pure, innocent—but their meaning isn't. The children's teacher, a nun with silver hair and an unreadable face, watches them with serene pride. Aldo's gaze sharpens. He and his comrades understand perfectly what "those from the lower sphere" means. It means them—the Earthlings. Slaves who are to serve, to be cleansed, to be used.
Bojing, the Chinese boy who always carries a quiet spark of defiance behind his calm face, steps closer to Aldo. His boots scuff softly on the marble. His whisper cuts through the still air.
"When we ran back here… I saw a priest 'purifying' a group of Earthlings," he murmurs, eyes darting toward the confessional. "Their foreheads glowed, like a symbol lighting up. What was that?"
Aldo's expression remains composed, but his jaw tightens. He answers in a tone so soft that even the air seems to hold its breath.
"I saw it too. It's the Glowing Sigil," he replies. "A control mark. The purification must recharge it."
Bojing frowns, confusion flickering in his eyes. "But… why don't we have one?"
Before the boy can say more, Aldo's hand moves swiftly, covering his mouth. His palm is cold, firm. His eyes, behind the glasses glinting faintly in the dim light, are calculating but strangely gentle.
"Because," Aldo whispers, "our summoner was lazy. Forgot, or didn't bother to carve one. So we keep quiet. Pretend we have it. Don't draw attention."
Bojing nods, swallowing hard as Aldo's hand lowers. The fear on his face is unmistakable—not fear of Aldo, but of being noticed in a world that hunts difference. Across the nave, a priest begins a sermon. His voice carries the weight of conviction and madness.
"Purity is the chain that binds the lower to the higher. They serve, and in service, they are sanctified."
Bojing drifts toward the sound, his curiosity pulling him closer to the wall where the sermon echoes. He presses his ear against the cold stone, his breath shallow. Aldo, meanwhile, stares ahead, unmoving. His mind is turning over quietly, his face expressionless. [This is the kind of faith that sustains the system… slavery dressed as sanctity… and they teach it to children.]
He lets out a slow breath and looks up. The dome above the altar catches the sunlight now, painting the entire hall in faint hues of blue and gold. The ceiling is a swirl of holy murals—angels ascending, beasts bowing, radiant gates opening to a blinding world. It's beautiful, almost painfully so, but Aldo sees something tragic behind that beauty. [If faith looks like this… maybe that's why no one questions it.]
As his eyes trace the frescoes, the face of a man flashes in his memory—the Swedish revolutionary, his expression fierce and hopeless as he led a doomed revolt. Aldo's heart trembles for a brief moment, though his expression remains unchanged. [They knew they couldn't win… yet they fought. Why? What were they protecting? Freedom? Dignity? Or just the idea that they still owned themselves?]
He doesn't know. He doesn't understand. His thoughts grow heavier, his gaze more distant. [If they fought for something intangible, something I can't see… maybe I'm missing what it means to live here. Maybe I need a reason too. A goal.]
The light from the dome falls directly on his face, and for a heartbeat, Aldo almost feels it—something stirring, like a whisper too faint to hear. The world outside the church seems to fade, as if time has paused to listen to his inner silence. Then, a soft noise breaks it. The wooden door to the side creaks open. Bojing steps out of the small room where he'd been taken. His face is pale. His eyes are red, wet. He's shaking—his hands clutch the edge of his tunic as if holding himself together. Tears slip silently down his cheeks, leaving faint trails of salt on his skin. He walks as though afraid the floor might crumble beneath him, tiptoeing toward the church's garden. The nuns don't notice. Aldo does. He turns slightly, eyes narrowing behind his glasses, following Bojing's uneven steps.
In the garden, morning light filters through leaves of lemon trees, their fruits glowing faintly yellow amid the green. Bojing stands still, staring at a patch of soil where peas are sprouting. Tiny green shoots curl upward from the earth, trembling slightly in the breeze. His lips part, and he lets out a soft, broken sound—a sob that he tries to swallow but can't. He crouches, his hand hovering above the peas, fingers trembling. His tears fall onto the leaves, glistening like dew. [Why… peas…?] The thought is unspoken but written all over his face. Something about them—perhaps a memory of home, of meals shared, of a simpler life—has shattered what little strength he had left. His eyes drift to the lemon tree beside him, its blossoms white and pure, its scent heavy and nostalgic. He exhales shakily, and for a moment, the world seems to collapse into his grief.
Aldo watches from the doorway. His posture is composed, yet his eyes soften. He doesn't move to comfort Bojing—he knows better than to break the silence of someone grieving something only they understand. But he feels it too, a dull ache somewhere deep, somewhere human. [This world breaks people in quiet ways.]
The sound of footsteps interrupts the stillness. Heavy, deliberate, echoing. From the corridor, a figure emerges—tall, cloaked, the hood shadowing his face. The Inquisitor. Her mask glints faintly under the church's dim light, featureless and cold. The nuns step aside instinctively, bowing without a word.
"Aldo," the voice calls, distorted behind the mask, low and commanding. "Come in."
Aldo rises slowly, brushing the dust from his cloak. His comrades glance toward him, but no one dares speak. The air feels heavier now, the incense sharper. He gives Bojing one last look—the boy still kneeling among the peas—and then turns away. His footsteps echo softly as he walks toward the shadowed doorway. The air grows colder with each step, the light from the garden fading behind him. He stops before the threshold. For a moment, he closes his eyes.
Then, without hesitation, he steps inside.
The door closes with a dull, echoing thud that rolls down the stone staircase like the dying heartbeat of something ancient. The corridor ahead is dimly lit—just a single line of candles running along the wall, their flames bending and trembling with every step Aldo takes. The Inquisitor moves first, her cloak brushing against the rough stone, each footstep measured, deliberate, almost ritualistic. Aldo follows, silent and watchful, counting the echoes. The further they descend, the colder it becomes—the air turns heavy, soaked in dust and the faint scent of iron and wax. At the end of the staircase, a door made of dark oak waits, its surface scarred by age and use. The Inquisitor pushes it open. A thin beam of light cuts across the floor—pale daylight filtering through a small window with three iron frames. The room inside feels claustrophobic despite its moderate size; its walls are lined with shelves of parchment, instruments of measurement, and a scale placed prominently on the table between two chairs.
Three others are already inside. One stands by the window, writing notes in a black ledger, his face half-covered by the shadow of his hood. Two more stand guard, each holding a weapon—a long rifle and a longsword—both pointed downward, yet their posture makes it clear that their readiness is absolute. The faint scrape of steel against armor hums beneath the silence. The Inquisitor gestures for Aldo to sit. She takes the opposite chair, the faint glimmer of silver embroidery catching the light as she settles her cloak around her. Her mask hides most of her features, but her voice, when it emerges, is smooth and controlled—too smooth, almost mechanical.
"By Unity, Dominion, and Faith — the World is Reforged."
The words come out like a creed, rehearsed countless times. She continues in the same unwavering rhythm.
"Issued under the Tri-Monarch, ratified by the Committee of Aristocrats, and sanctified by the Parliament of Mikhland…"
Her tone doesn't rise or fall. It's steady, almost devoid of life, as if spoken by a living machine repeating an ancient law. Aldo lowers his gaze to the table, studying the strange apparatus placed between them. A small, old-fashioned balance scale—its pans polished but worn at the edges, like it's been used for decades. The Inquisitor notices his glance. "This device," she says evenly, "is a detector of deceit. It will not tilt if your words align with truth. It will tilt when you lie."
Aldo nods slightly, though inside his mind races. [Truth… or what they define as truth? That's the question. If they judge by thought, then truth is mutable. If they judge by intent, then lies are just another shade of belief.] He studies the scale's base—tiny runic symbols carved along the brass edges, faintly glowing. The device hums faintly, reacting to the air, to breath, to energy.
As he looks up again, his eyes catch the small silver tag on her chest: Marjorie Westleye. He files the name quietly in memory. The Inquisitor's gaze, unseen behind her mask, remains fixed on him.
"The interrogation begins."
Her hand gestures to the note-taker, who flips open a second page. The scratching of his quill fills the silence.
Marjorie spreads a few papers across the table—handwritten reports, each stained with fingerprints, some smudged with ink and blood. "These," she says, "are the confessions of your slave-soldier comrades. Their statements contain contradictions." She leans forward slightly, gloved hands folded over the documents. "Explain."
Aldo straightens his posture. His face is neutral, his voice calm. "They are inexperienced," he answers after a moment. "They panicked. Shock affects memory. The contradictions may come from that."
The scale remains still. Its pans do not tilt. Silence returns. Only the scratching of the quill continues. The other Inquisitors exchange brief glances—professional, cold, detached.
Then Marjorie asks, her voice as steady as before, "Were you conscious that night?"
Aldo nods once. The scale stays balanced. The questioning quickens—sharp, precise, like the rhythm of a metronome.
"You are the team leader."
Aldo shakes his head. "No. I was vice-captain, unofficially. The captain defected—to the Former-Slave side."
The scale remains motionless.
"If you did your best," Marjorie continues, "why did most of the Lieutenant Colonel's regiment get wiped out?"
Aldo exhales slowly, choosing his words. "Laziness. Complacency," he says. "The regiment left the fighting to us—the Earth-born soldiers. Most of them deserted halfway through. We began with one hundred fifty. By the middle of the battle, only eighty remained. The rest joined the Former-Slaves."
The needle of the scale quivers faintly, then steadies again. Aldo's eyes flick toward it, his mind taking note. [So it measures my own conviction, not the truth. Interesting.]
Marjorie pauses. Her next question lands like a stone dropped into still water. "You saved the Lieutenant Colonel and his commanders. The regiment was wiped out. Why didn't they counterattack or resist at least? "
Aldo's tone doesn't change. "They were drunk after the party."
The Inquisitor's tongue clicks softly against her teeth, a tiny sound of irritation. She mutters something under her breath about The disgraceful discipline of Lord Heilop's troops, then returns to formality.
"What was the occasion for this… party?"
Aldo tilts his head slightly, his eyes distant as if replaying the scene. "After hunting the Apacha bear," he says. "Or rather—my old platoon killed it. The regiment had assigned it to us. The bear had been eating livestock near the settlement."
…
Marjorie lowers her gaze, shuffles through her documents, then draws out a scorched, leather-bound notebook. Its corners are brittle, its pages slightly warped from heat.
"Is this yours?" she asks.
Aldo's breath catches—not visibly, but in a faint shift of his shoulders. His eyes narrow. "How did you get that?"
"Recovered from the battlefield," she replies calmly. "Restored with purification solution. We found your Given name written inside." She opens a few pages, scanning the faint script. "You've written about a 'Communication Orb.'"
Aldo's heartbeat quickens, but he keeps his tone steady. "It's part of my record. Nothing secret."
She studies him for a moment, the silence stretching thin. Then she closes the notebook and pushes it across the table toward him. "You may keep it."
He takes it with a controlled movement, his fingers brushing the charred leather. The other Inquisitor keeps writing, the pen scratching endlessly, as if translating human tension into ink.
Finally, Marjorie waves her hand. "You're dismissed."
Aldo stands, bows slightly, and walks toward the door. The guards don't move; their eyes follow him until the heavy door creaks open once more. The air outside feels lighter, as though the underground chamber has exhaled him back into the world. He walks through the narrow hall, up the stone staircase, each step drawing him closer to the sunlight. When he emerges, the brightness almost blinds him.
The countryside stretches wide and calm before him—the kind of peace that feels unnatural after the interrogation's suffocating silence. The rice fields ripple in the breeze, golden and soft, like the earth itself breathing. A few houses cluster in the distance, smoke rising from chimneys. Aldo exhales long, his shoulders sinking.
[So tranquil…]
He walks toward the gathering soldiers near the teleportation gate, where the Lieutenant Colonel—bandaged, pale, but standing—addresses them. His voice is firm but hoarse.
"The gate will project you. A protective enchantment will shield your bodies during transit—resistance to impact, complete phase permeability. Stabilization and spell removal occur at the destination."
A younger lieutenant steps forward, his tone clipped and reassuring. "Ignore the false rumors. The gate does not erase or recreate you. It simply displaces. Understand that."
Aldo watches the light shimmer across the platform—a circle of polished green stone engraved with spiral glyphs. When the Lieutenant Colonel and his staff step onto it, the runes blaze to life, flooding the area in emerald radiance. Then, in a heartbeat, they vanish—absorbed by the light, gone without a trace. The soldiers follow in small groups, their armor reflecting fragments of green as they disappear. The air hums faintly with residual magic, like a held breath that never fully releases. Aldo steps up last. For a moment, he looks back at the horizon—the village, the fields, the church tower barely visible beyond the haze.
The glyphs ignite beneath his boots. A rush of wind, a surge of light—and Aldo's figure dissolves into the glow, carried toward the main barracks near the mansion of Heilop's domain. The last thing that remains is the faint echo of his breath, swallowed by the silence of the countryside.