The morning sun over Vatican City was a pale, mocking gold, reflecting off the white marble of St. Peter's Square. For the thousands of tourists streaming through the colonnades, it was a day of pilgrimage and art. But for Xenovia Quarta, the beauty of the Renaissance architecture felt like a heavy shroud.
She walked with a stiff, rhythmic gait, her boots clicking sharply against the ancient cobblestones. Beside her, Irina Shidou was unusually quiet, her head bowed as they bypassed the bustling crowds. They didn't head toward the main basilica. Instead, they veered toward a nondescript, iron-wrought gate guarded by two Swiss Guards who didn't look at their passes as they looked at the girls' souls.
They were entering the "Hidden Vatican," a sprawling complex of internal gardens and renaissance structures concealed from the human world by layers of powerful concealment barriers. Here, the air was colder, saturated with the sterile, sharp scent of high-grade purification mana. This was the heart of the Heaven factions operations, The Catholic Church's Main Branch and one of the biggest in the world, the Exorcist Building.
Xenovia felt a bitter knot of shame tightening in her chest. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the clearing in Hungary. She saw the broken bodies of her comrades that she was supposed to lead, being tossed aside like empty husks by a Vampire Noble.
"I failed them," she thought, her jaw tightening until it ached. "If not for that man... we would all be corpses in a forgotten forest." She whispered, her and Irina just came back from the Church Medical facility to visit their wounded friends.
"Xenovia?" Irina's voice was soft, breaking through the dark spiral of her thoughts.
"Everyone is going to be okay. You said it yourself, the medical department said the blood loss was severe but the internal damage was minimal, so rest assured. You don't need to blame yourself... Sister Griselda would understand."
"I blame myself because i am weak, Irina," Xenovia replied, her voice flat. "And in our world, weakness is the only true sin."
They reached a high-vaulted corridor lined with tapestries depicting the heavenly gods and angels as a ecclesiastical decorations . The atmosphere here was a 180-degree shift from the tourist-laden streets outside. It was silent, heavy with the weight of centuries of dogma.
Both girls had changed out of their shredded tactical suits into more modest attire, the stark black-and-white habit of Catholic sisters. The transition from soldiers to nuns was a jarring reminder of the dual lives an Exorcist like them led.
A young priest met them at the end of the hall, his eyes lingering for a second on the bruises on Xenovia's neck before he bowed. "Sister Griselda is expecting you. Please, enter."
The room was simple with a dark oak desk and shelves filled with leather-bound theological texts, and a single, tall window that overlooked a private courtyard. Standing by the window was a woman who seemed carved from alabaster.
Sister Griselda.
She was in her mid-twenties, possessing a chilling ethereal beauty. Her blue eyes were like frozen lakes, calm on the surface, but possessing a depth that could drown a lesser person. As she turned to face them, a small weary smile touched her lips, but it didn't reach her eyes.
"Xenovia. Irina," Griselda said, her voice like velvet over steel. "Welcome home."
"Sister Griselda," they both said in unison, bowing deeply.
Xenovia felt the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. Griselda had overseen much of their advanced training. No, for Xenovia, it went further than that. Griselda had been there since she was a child. She was the woman who had raised her, her legal guardian, the woman that shared her name with her, her mother in all but blood.
"It seems there are quite a lot of things you need to report," Griselda said, her gaze drifting to the bandages peeking out from under Xenovia's sleeve. "The mission in Hungary... the casualties were higher than anticipated."
"Um, Sister Griselda... that's..." Irina started, her voice trembling.
Before she could continue, the heavy oak door behind them creaked open. The air in the room didn't just change. A massive overwhelming presence filled the space, a weight of mana so dense that Irina nearly lost her footing.
An old man stepped into the room. He was a walking contradiction. His hair was snow-white and his face was a map of deep wrinkles and jagged, silver scars that spoke of a thousand battles. Yet, his body was built like a titan's, his muscular frame stretching the fabric of his priest's cassock.
Vasco Strada. The strongest living Exorcist. The man who had once wielded Durandal with such ferocity that the devils itself trembled at his name. The Church's Device of Violence they say.
"Priest Strada!" Irina gasped, her eyes widening in starstruck awe. Even Griselda bowed her head in genuine respect.
"Peace, children," Vasco said, his voice a deep, resonant rumble that felt like thunder in a far-off valley, but there is some gentleness behind it.
He walked toward Xenovia, even his eyes surprisingly gentle despite his scarred face as it fixed on her. "I heard the news. You returned from the den of the Manthar Noble. Congratulations on completing your first real mission."
Xenovia bit her lip, her hand trembling by her side. "Priest Strada... please. I do not deserve your congratulations. I am the successor to your blade, yet I nearly lost it to a beast."
Vasco placed a massive calloused hand on her shoulder. "The blade is just a tool, Xenovia. The soul is the warrior. Tell me what happened."
Xenovia took a steadying breath and began her report. She spoke of the initial ambush, how the coordination they had practiced for years fell apart the moment the first drop of blood was spilled. She described the terrifying speed of the Manthar Noble and the absolute despair that took hold when she was lifted by her throat, certain that her God had turned His back on her.
"And then?" Griselda asked, her eyes narrowing. "The report mentions an intervention."
"A man," Xenovia said, though she hesitated. "No... I don't think he was a man. His voice... it was deep, but there was a resonance to it. A youthfulness. I believe he was a boy, perhaps not much older than us. Just taller, and... colder."
She described the black cloak, the way he seemed to step out of the very fabric of the shadows and alsp the magic he used.
"He didn't use Holy magic," Xenovia clarified, her voice growing more animated. "There was no prayer, no mention of the heavenly father, no scripture. And he didn't use incantations or magic circles. He just... made the world move. Space folded around him as he blinked through the air as if the distance didn't exist."
Vasco and Griselda exchanged a sharp, fleeting look.
"No magic circles?" Griselda repeated, her tone skeptical. "Even the most gifted magicians of the Grauzauberer require some form of magic circle activation. To manipulate space without a visible construct..."
"Is it possible he was a Stray Exorcist?" Vasco asked thoughtfully. "Sometimes those who leave our light retain the speed of our teachings but mask it with pagan arts."
"No," Xenovia interjected firmly. "His magic felt different. It wasn't derived from the grace of Angels, so it definitely not one of our Churches brothers. And Priest Strada... he used Durandal."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Vasco's eyebrows shot up, his scarred forehead wrinkling further. "He wielded Durandal?"
Even Griselda looked at Xenovia with a calculating gaze. Not just anyone could wield a holy sword, let alone one of the caliber of Durandal.
"He didn't just wield it," Irina added, stepping forward. "He treated it like it was his own. At first, he looked clumsy, like he had never held a sword. But by the third strike, the sword is partically his own... the aura changed."
Griselda's cold stare fixed on Xenovia. "The aura changed? Explain."
"It turned purplish-blue," Xenovia whispered, the memory still vivid in her mind. "The holy light didn't disappear, but it was dyed. It felt frightening. It felt divine, but not the kind we are taught. It was... something else."
Vasco Strada reached out his hand. "Show me."
Xenovia reached into the pocket-dimension tethered to her soul and drew the massive blade. The room seemed to brighten as the bluish steel caught the light. She handed the hilt to the old master.
Vasco took the sword with a single hand, his grip effortless, still hasn't lost his touch. He closed his eyes, his massive mana signature flowing into the blade, probing the "memory" of the metal. For several minutes, the legendary Exorcist stood perfectly still.
Slowly his eyes opened. A flicker of something that looked like genuine concern mixed with perhaps recognition passed through them.
"There is a remnant here," Vasco muttered. "A familiar burning sensation… I've felt it before. It is holy, yes, but it is terrifying."
He looked at Griselda. "Now i remember, I have felt this heat once before. This cloaked man... he is possibly the wielder of the Incinerate Anthem."
Griselda recoiled as if struck. "The Purple Flame? That's impossible, Priest Strada. The current wielder of that Longinus is Augusta, the Witch of the South. She is a woman, and she is under observation somewhere in the east, possibly near Japan. And besides… what would someone like her be doing in a small city like this, helping our young ones? It doesn't fit. Not at all."
"Then perhaps I'm mistaken," Vasco corrected, his voice grave. "The energy is extremely subtle. Still… it's not impossible that Incinerate Anthem has been wielded by someone else, given its special attribute."
"Special attribute?" Xenovia asked.
"It chooses," Vasco said quietly. "It can change its wielder as it pleases."
Vasco handed the sword back to Xenovia. "He returned the blade to you. He could have taken it. A boy with that power could have walked away with one of our greatest relics, yet he stuck it in the ground and vanished."
"Why?" Irina asked.
"Perhaps he isn't our enemy," Vasco mused, a small, knowing smile returning to his face. "Or perhaps he simply doesn't think he needs our toys. Either way, it works in our favor. I'd rather not imagine what Lord Michael and Lady Gabriel would do to the two of you if Durandal were to go missing."
Vasco laughed lightly at that.
Xenovia and Irina could only break into a cold sweat.
Xenovia and Irina finished their report and were dismissed. As they stepped out of the Exorcist Building and back into the quiet, sun-drenched gardens. It was a beautiful morning of which devastating night.
Xenovia stopped in front of a stone fountain, her reflection shimmering in the water. She looked at her long vibrant blue hair. It was beautiful, a point of pride she had carried since her childhood in the training camps.
She remembered the Vampire's hand on her throat. She remembered the gust of wind that had blown her hair across her eyes that blinding her for that fatal microsecond.
"Irina," Xenovia said, her voice steady. "I'm going to cut my hair"
" Huh... You joking right? "
" No, i am serious. "
Irina gasped, reaching out to grab Xenovia's arm. "No! Xenovia, your blue hair is beautiful! It's your trademark! Don't let one mistake-"
"It wasn't just a mistake, Irina," Xenovia said, her eyes burning with a terrifying determination. "It was vanity. I kept it long because I wanted to look like a hero in fantasy book that i read. But that man with a cloak reminded me that strength didn't care about looks. My hair almost cost me your life."
She clenched her fist, her knuckles turning white.
"I almost died, and I almost let you die, because I was too attached to a piece of myself that served no purpose in battle. I will not let that happen again. I will become stronger. I will learn to move like he did. Not with grace, but with the cold intent to win."
She looked at the Exorcist Building, her gaze piercing through the stone.
"Next time we meet, I won't be the one waiting to be saved."
Irina looked at her friend and realized that the girl who had left for Hungary was gone.
"Okay," Irina whispered. "If that's what it takes... I'll help you."
Xenovia nodded. She would grow stronger, just like that man. Strong enough to stand at the front and bear the weight of the wielder of Durandal. Strong enough to protect those she loved, Irina, Sister Griselda, all of them.
That was her creed.