Bishop’s Tower, at Dawn

  Sunlight spilled across the balcony of the Bishop’s tower.

  Branden Wood, as ever, rose with the dawn.

  Gray-blue robe, small tea table, black coffee steaming, butter-chocolate cake still warm, a newspaper spread across white linen.

  He lingered over a column on contract-beast evolution, brow faintly furrowed—as though weighing more than words.

  A sound stirred at the door.

  Without looking up, he said lightly:

  “Enter.”

  “Your Excellency, Commander Matthew Craen,” William’s voice came from the threshold. Bootsteps followed.

  “Branden, we need to talk.” Craen’s tone was blunt, clipped.

  Wood folded the paper aside, nodding once at William. The boy slipped out, closing the door.

  “Matthew,” the Bishop said, voice like morning wind—calm, measured.

  “Shouldn’t you be preparing for departure? What keeps you here?

  …Ah. You’ve met the Caelestis brothers. Satisfied with the reinforcements I’ve given you?”

  Craen’s reply struck like iron:

  “They’re fine warriors. They should not be wasted as fodder.”

  Wood chuckled softly, strolling to the window.

  “If not them, then should it be our own men instead?

  I never told you to send them to die, Matthew. I told you only—use them well.”

  Craen’s jaw locked.

  “With talent like this, Your Excellency, you won’t even consider drawing them into the order?”

  “Their faith, their way of life—do not align with the Church,” Wood answered evenly.

  “Even if we brought them in, they would not remain.”

  “Then bind them to a contract,” Craen pressed.

  “No vows. No oaths. Only one agreement: after the mission—you don’t interfere.”

  The Bishop’s smile thinned, almost imperceptibly.

  “You’ve grown attached?”

  Craen met his gaze without flinching.

  “Yes. And when this mission ends, I will fight to bring them into the exorcist ranks myself.”

  A silence stretched.

  Then Wood inclined his head.

  “If you bring them back alive, I will not stand in your way.”

  Craen’s voice stayed flat:

  “For this mission—equipment, spirit-medicine, weapons. All allocations fall under my command. Without limit.”

  Wood’s eyes sharpened, steel beneath water.

  “You mean to shield them?”

  “I mean to finish the mission,” Craen said.

  “And you know as well as I—if the relic slips beyond our grasp, the price will be ruin.”

  Silence pressed heavier.

  At last, Wood returned to the table. He lifted the phone, speaking evenly:

  “Authorize Craen’s unit to access the Cabinet of Judgments and the Soul-Garden.

  No restrictions. Effective immediately.”

  He set the receiver down. His gaze met Craen’s, flat as slate.

  “The resources are yours. Bring me what I ask.”

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  Craen gave no reply. He turned, boots echoing, and left.

  Sunlight inched across the tablecloth, catching the rim of the untouched cake.

  Wood watched the steam rise from his coffee, murmuring:

  “In times like these… men like you are rare.”

  A pause.

  “Which means—I cannot close the door entirely.”

  He reached for the phone again, and dialed another number.

  ?

  The Hall of Sacred Seals

  Three levels beneath the fortress—

  a core no outsider had ever entered.

  Veteran soldiers and rune-smiths guarded its gates in unbroken shifts.

  To the left: the Cabinet of Judgments, arsenal of sacred weapons and war-gear.

  To the right: the Soul-Garden, greenhouse of spirit herbs, holy vines, living prayer-plants.

  When the squad was told they had unrestricted access to both, silence fell.

  Some thought Craen must be joking.

  But no one dared laugh at that iron face.

  Only when the heavy doors opened—revealing the solemn registry desk—did they believe.

  Commander Matthew Craen strode straight to the front.

  Registrar Wade was waiting.

  “Commander. Exorcists.” Wade inclined his head.

  “Authorization confirmed. You may requisition freely. All items must be logged.”

  “Understood.” Craen’s reply was flat.

  “The Caelestis brothers’ requisitions will be filed under your name. You have no objection?”

  “None.”

  “Then begin. Shall we start with the Cabinet of Judgments?”

  Craen gave a curt nod.

  The Hall sealed behind them. Guides and forge-sealers followed close.

  ?

  The exorcists spread through the racks.

  Most already bore their core weapons; they turned instead to survival gear—sigil-armor, life-essence waters, sealing jades.

  Craen led YiChen and ChengYu deeper into the equipment wing.

  Amber lamps glowed across silver-gray racks, lined with uniforms—ranked from standard issue to forbidden grade.

  Every set whispered weight, holy metal threaded with scripture.

  “You’ve been fighting in cloth,” Craen said.

  “Unfit for this mission. Choose full sets—base to outer. At least one spare.”

  A forge-sealer, overhearing, almost faltered.

  The Commander himself choosing gear for outsiders? Unthinkable.

  She lowered her eyes to the ledger, though curiosity tugged them back.

  ChengYu darted first into the fitting room, snatching silver-gray light armor—spirit-silk underlayer, embossed plating gleaming cold.

  YiChen chose a black-gold rune robe—heavy, supple, lined with curse-resist sigils.

  Before the mirror they stood: one silver, one black.

  Blade and hawk.

  For the first time, they wore the garb of true exorcists.

  ChengYu tugged his collar, scowling.

  “Damn… tight. Doesn’t it choke your neck?”

  YiChen adjusted calmly.

  “Channels heat well. Shoulders carry light.”

  Craen watched, arms folded, silent.

  ChengYu glanced up, grin flashing.

  “…Thanks, Commander.”

  Craen arched a brow. Answered with the barest hum.

  “Mm.”

  The forge-sealer’s quill paused. That smile—sharp, bright, utterly sincere—

  she bent back to the ledger, lips curving faintly.

  [Registry 314-A: Silver Sigil Armor ×1. Bearer: ChengYu Caelestis (temporary, logged under Commander Craen).]

  [Registry 314-B: Black Rune Robe ×1. Bearer: YiChen Caelestis (temporary, logged under Commander Craen).]

  ?

  Craen stepped closer.

  “We’ll also need two Windcloaks.”

  “There are five left,” the forge-sealer answered.

  “Bring them. Let the brothers test.”

  She unlocked the cabinet, fingers tracing a chain of runes.

  From the dark shimmered cloaks—gray-black, hems feathered like mist, crystal-thread glinting at the seams, inner linings inscribed with prayer.

  “Feed them spirit,” Craen ordered. “See which accepts you.”

  “Accepts?” ChengYu arched a brow—yet pressed his hand.

  The first cloak turned him half-transparent.

  The second erased him whole.

  YiChen’s first test vanished him instantly.

  The brothers exchanged a quick grin—silent fortune.

  They chose short blades for backup, then moved to tools.

  “Explain to them,” Craen told the forge-sealer. “I’ll speak with Wade.”

  Startled, she nodded.

  “Y-yes, Commander.”

  Her voice steadied as she taught them the uses of blast runes, compact barrier chips, their limits and burn-time.

  Craen soon returned, carrying two long black cases.

  “This,” he said, “is the Sacred Archive Case. Spatial fold. Ten cubic meters of storage. Medicine, armor, weapons—everything fits.”

  The brothers exchanged a look, incredulous.

  They activated the cases. Spirit surged, weight vanished. Across the black surface, their sigils bloomed in silver light.

  The forge-sealer’s pen stilled. Her heart skipped.

  Such cases… even veteran exorcists rarely received them.

  And yet—here they were.

  ChengYu, unable to resist, stuffed Abyssbane inside, pulled it out. Put it in again. Out again. Again.

  His grin spread wider with each flicker.

  The forge-sealer copied the entries, but a smile tugged her lips as well.

  “These two…” she thought, hand moving, “are going to change everything.”