The bells of the Holy Church rang without rhythm.
They were not calling for prayer.
They were screaming.
Across the city, sirens wailed in endless overlap—ambulances, police, emergency broadcasts bleeding into one another until sound itself became meaningless noise. Smoke rose beyond the cathedral spires, darkening the afternoon sky into a sickly gray. Helicopters hovered like insects over distant districts, their searchlights cutting through ash-filled air.
The world was no longer pretending.
Thousands of people crowded the plaza before the Holy Church.
Men, women, children—some clutching phones, others holding religious icons, some bleeding from wounds they hadn't yet processed. Faces twisted between terror and fury. Barricades had been erected hastily, iron fences bending under the weight of humanity pressing forward.
"ANSWER US!"
"WHERE WERE YOU?!"
"YOU SAID THIS COULDN'T HAPPEN!"
Stones struck the cathedral walls.
A burning car lay overturned near the plaza fountain, its flames licking upward as if trying to consume the heavens themselves.
Inside the Church, panic reigned.
Priests ran through marble corridors, robes stained with sweat, prayers breaking down into incoherent muttering. Executors armed themselves in silence, tightening grips around Black Keys and relics whose efficacy they no longer trusted.
Deep within the inner sanctum, the Pope sat before a ring of cameras.
The lights burned hot.
His expression was calm.
Too calm.
A senior cardinal leaned in, voice trembling.
"Your Holiness… the crowds are becoming violent. They're demanding answers. If we don't say something now—"
"We will," the Pope replied gently.
He adjusted his gloves.
"Broadcast."
The red light blinked on.
Across the world, screens flickered.
The chaos paused—just slightly.
The Pope appeared before humanity, seated upon a simple white throne, hands folded as though in prayer. Behind him, banners of the Holy Church hung untouched by smoke or ash, an image of stability carved from illusion.
"My children," he began softly, his voice carried by speakers into ruined streets and trembling homes alike. "I know you are afraid."
The crowd outside the cathedral quieted, if only by a fraction.
"You look upon the world and see suffering," the Pope continued. "Fire. Monsters. Death. You wonder why God has allowed this."
A woman sobbed openly in the plaza.
"I am here," the Pope said, "to tell you the truth."
The word truth rippled through the masses like a drug.
"We are living in the End Times."
Gasps spread.
"The Book of Revelation warned us," he said solemnly. "Of beasts walking the earth. Of blood-drinking abominations. Of false miracles and hidden sins festering beneath civilization."
The camera slowly zoomed in.
"This is not God's failure," the Pope declared. "This is humanity's."
Behind the scenes, a cardinal stiffened.
"Your Holiness—"
The Pope raised a finger.
"For centuries," he continued, "we have tolerated those who meddle with forces beyond divine permission. Those who twist the laws of creation. Those who summon power not granted by Heaven."
The Pope's eyes hardened.
"Mages."
The word landed like a match thrown into gasoline.
"They call it magecraft," the Pope said. "We call it what it truly is—witchcraft. Deals with demons. Knowledge stolen from Satan's whispers."
The crowd erupted.
"Mages brought this!"
"They summoned them!"
"They opened the gates!"
The Pope's lips curved ever so slightly.
"These mages," he continued, "have long worked in secret. Shielded by governments. Protected by lies. And now—when vampires walk freely through our cities—when our children are slaughtered—they hide."
The camera cut briefly to footage of devastated city blocks.
"We of the Holy Church have fought these abominations in silence," the Pope said. "We have bled to keep you safe. But even we cannot hold back Hell itself when humanity allows sin to flourish unchecked."
Outside, the mob's anger shifted.
From fear—
To direction.
A man screamed toward the cathedral doors.
"Where are the mages now?!"
A woman clutched her rosary tighter.
"They caused this…"
The Pope bowed his head.
"Pray," he said. "Pray for salvation. Pray for judgment. And trust that God's chosen servants will cleanse this world."
The broadcast ended.
The red light turned off.
Silence filled the sanctum.
Then—
The Pope smiled.
Not kindly.
Not mercifully.
Satisfied.
"Remarkable," he murmured. "Even at the end of the world, they still crave someone to blame."
A cardinal swallowed. "Your Holiness… what if the Mage's Association retaliates?"
The Pope rose from his throne.
"Let them," he said. "Fear unites people far better than truth ever could."
Outside, the crowd began to chant.
Not prayers.
Accusations.
Elsewhere.
Far from the cathedral.
Far from speeches and lies.
Omega Heinriel stood amid ruins.
Once, this district had been a residential block. Now it was a graveyard of concrete and twisted steel. The smell of blood hung thick in the air, heavy enough to taste.
Omega wiped crimson from his blade.
It didn't stop.
The blood kept coming.
Around him lay bodies—vampires reduced to ash, their remains scattered like black snow across shattered streets. His breathing was steady, controlled, but his hands trembled just slightly.
Not from exhaustion.
From realization.
"They're not slowing down," muttered a Holy Knight beside him, armor cracked and dented. "We killed dozens. Hundreds."
Another scream echoed nearby.
Omega turned.
A vampire emerged from the smoke, body burned yet regenerating, its eyes glowing with something new—something adaptive.
"Formation!" Omega commanded.
The remaining Holy Knights moved instantly, years of training snapping into place. Black Keys flew. Sacred bounded fields activated. Light carved into the creature's flesh.
It laughed.
Then it tore through the barrier like paper.
The scream that followed cut off abruptly.
Omega reacted faster than thought—blade flashing, severing the vampire's head. It hit the ground, dissolved—
And reformed.
Omega's eyes widened.
"…That's new."
The creature lunged.
Omega countered, pouring everything into a single strike—conceptual reinforcement layered atop divine reinforcement, a technique only a handful of Holy Knights could execute.
The vampire exploded into ash.
This time, it stayed dead.
Omega exhaled sharply.
But when he looked up—
There were more.
Dozens.
Hundreds.
"They're learning," the surviving Knight whispered. "They're adjusting to us."
Omega clenched his jaw.
Heroes weren't supposed to fail.
That was the lie humanity clung to.
That strength, faith, or preparation would always be enough.
Omega had killed demons since childhood. He had slaughtered monsters that wiped out armies. He had been called a prodigy. A weapon. A miracle.
Yet standing here—
Watching humanity crumble—
He understood something terrifying.
This war wasn't winnable by heroes.
The ground shook.
From the horizon, something vast moved—an entire district swallowed by darkness as vampiric forces regrouped, reorganized, advancing not like beasts…
But like soldiers.
Omega tightened his grip on his sword.
"…So this is how it ends," he murmured.
Not with a final stand.
Not with glory.
But with realization.
That the world had outgrown its protectors.
And somewhere—
Beyond the chaos—
An outlaw watched.
The heroes had arrived.
And still—
They were losing.