Chapter 4

After the last logs rolled down the ramp leading out of the ravine and fell into the barge's hold just below, the vessel slowly moved away, yielding its position to the next ship in line.

The captain of the new barge waited for the signal from his lookout, who was closely watching the signaling flags at the top of the ravine.

When the green flag was finally replaced by an orange one, and the STOP flag by the ADVANCE flag, the lookout on deck raised his voice with the distinct accent of a seasoned seafarer in his rough Britannic English.

"Captian! We can move in now. There's also a change in the cargo—this time, we're taking minerals and coal."

The captain nodded firmly and turned to the men on the bridge.

"Alright, we have 20 minutes before the convoy leaves the Iberian coast. Let's get into position quickly and notify the loading crew."

The barge moved forward, approaching the rocky wall of the ravine until it was positioned beneath the rusted ramp jutting out from the stone, twenty meters above sea level.

Following his crew's instructions, the captain carefully maneuvered the vessel, aligning its open hold with the thick iron link descending from the ramp, serving as a guiding chain.

With a flash of light from a spotlight outside the cabin, the barge signaled that it was in position.

A few seconds later, from the top of the ravine, another flashlight signal responded.

Then, with a metallic crash, the ramp gate opened, and a cascade of coal and minerals began to fall, striking the bottom of the hold with a dull, dusty thud.

The barge trembled under the impact, but the crew—well-informed and accustomed—paused only for a moment before continuing their work, evenly distributing the load.

"Even though we're in a 'safe' zone, behind the Saint Michael Ring, I don't want a single eye closed," the captain growled, his voice rough from years of salt and smoke. "If something moves where it shouldn't, I want it blown to pieces before it reaches the hull."

The sailors stationed behind the .50-caliber machine guns, strategically mounted along the hull, nodded without hesitation.

Despite the endless kilometers of mines in The Saint Michael Ring—surface, deep-sea, floating, and anchored—stretching from Cape Finisterre, in the Kingdom of Hispania, to Portmagee, in the Kingdom of Éire, forming the explosive barrier that kept the greatest horrors of the Atlantic at bay...

The 'small' ones… those were another story

Elusive, agile… and dangerous enough to force the sailors to keep their eyes on the water, fingers resting on the triggers.

(*Éire: Ireland in Gaelic)

For the next few minutes, the resources continued to fall until the hold was completely full.

The barge moved aside, making way for the next one patiently waiting behind it.

This process repeated for another twelve minutes until, from the mist where the rest of the waiting convoy lay, a blue flare rose and burst in the purple night sky, signaling departure.

The last barge, its hold still open, waited until the final materials tumbled down the ramp.

Once it was done, it slowly drifted away, joining the rest on their return journey—bound for the various factories and foundries spread across multiple kingdoms, feeding the vast war machine of the Regnum Christianum in its endless war against the Monoliths and her corruption.

Each kingdom contributed whatever it could—resources, factories, or labor—all meticulously overseen by the Church.

As was evident inside the cliffside station, where a brown-robed Friar Accountant checked and recorded entries in the massive, gold-embroidered leather ledger, barely held up by his struggling disciple.

"All right, three barges full. On the last day, but within the deadline. Quarterly quota met. Congratulations."

The silence was shattered by an explosion of cheers.

The miners, who had been holding their breath until that moment, raised their fists and roared with relief and joy. Hoarse laughter, pats on the back, jubilant shouts echoing against the cliffs and vanishing into the salty air.

Amid the commotion, a indiferece voice of the Friar rose above the rest:

"Not just the lumberjacks… you lot as well. Seems like your village is luckier than most."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say..." Cael huffed, still smiling. "But you know what we're waiting for."

With a weary sigh, the Church's accountant pulled out a form, filled it out with mechanical movements, and handed it to the miners with indifference—despite its immeasurable value to them.

"Take it to the priest to have it stamped. With this, having fulfilled your duty as citizens of the Regnum, you and your families won't have to atone for any… Pilgrimage to Santiago, the Andalusian front, or the European one for the next quarter."

The moment they heard it, more cheers erupted.

Some fell to their knees, others laughed with tears in their eyes. It wasn't just a piece of paper. It was a life sentence—for them and their loved ones, at least for three months.

-

Meanwhile... on the ravine just above them.

The small "gear" that had helped them all survive...

Upon hearing their cheers... their infectious happiness reached him, making him—rare as it was on emotionless faces—smile slightly beneath his helmet as he watched the sea and the departing barges.

Ignoring his master and the person he was negotiating with behind him.

"1,000 Pesetas of the Kingdom would be a fair price." The priest offered calmly.

The old forester scoffed, crossing his arms.

"A thousand? For an Alpha in nearly perfect condition?" His tone was that of someone who had just heard a joke. "I highly doubt it."

The priest sighed and clasped his hands together in that conciliatory gesture clerics used when trying to pacify their flock.

"Don't be so harsh. You know well that a humble priest from a small village like mine doesn't have that kind of money."

The old man smirked, but without a trace of humor.

"Do you think I'm one of your cowardly lambs, the kind you take advantage of in exchange for protection?" His voice sounded like wood creaking in an old trunk. "We don't even live in your 'little' village."

The priest kept his composure, but the ranger didn't give him a chance to respond.

"And we both know that a 'humble' priest like you—" The old man paused, his gaze suggesting to the two knights protecting him the words left unsaid. "—is capable of blessing the... Sacreds I want. Unless, of course, you'd rather I process the Alfa myself... as I've been doing so far."

The priest blinked, his posture tensing.

"Have you hunted other Alphas without informing me?" 

The old man shrugged.

"A couple in the past few years. We turned them into Diesel-C ourselves," the old man said, tapping the coil connected to the harness on the lower part of his back. "And if you don't give me the price I want, I'll do it again..."

The priest pressed his lips together. He knew that the Church and the Cardinal would highly value his acquisition of an Alpha's body—their glands were coveted by biologists and alchemists, and their flesh and bones were the main ingredient in the fuel that kept the war against the Monoliths going.

The cleric clicked his tongue, shaking his head.

"Well... as much as I'd love to bless the Sacreds you ask for... there's a problem."

The ranger raised an eyebrow. "And what would that be?"

"You are not the one who has the right over its remains."

The priest moved, and when the old ranger tried to follow, the two Church knights stepped forward, blocking his path.

Ashe watched the scene in silence.

'The old man never reacted well to these kinds of things... but this time, he's surprisingly calm.'

The thought crossed his mind as he saw the priest approach the edge of the cliff.

When he reached it, he spoke to him in a serene, almost paternal tone:

"Ashliath, my son, I'm sure that a soul as sacrificed as yours understood my decision not to put more lives at risk... Still, I offer you my apologies."

He paused before adding with a slight smile:

"And at the same time, I'm glad you overcame adversity on your own..."

His gaze drifted to the grayish cloth resting between the young man's boots, inscribed with Latin seals he had written himself, pinning down the Alpha's head.

Then, lifting his eyes—with a faint glimmer of admiration... and perhaps, for an instant, something akin to desire—the priest finished:

"In such an impressive way."

The salty wind rustled the folds of his robe as he extended his hand with the same conciliatory gesture as before.

"Through your actions, you have shown that you care about the miners' lives. And now, wouldn't you do another favor for the Church, the village, and its people?"

He asked rhetorically before continuing. "Will you sell us the remains of the Alpha you hunted?"

The priest turned and raised his arms toward the flickering flames burning in the tall torches behind him—the very source of the protective glow that allowed them to speak on the surface after sunset.

"With the Crystallized Diesel we produce, the Sacred Flame that guards the village will be secured for the entire season..."

Sensing the young man's silence as hesitation, the priest continued speaking.

"Of course, I understand the value of your hunt. I can offer you up to 1,000 pesetas. It's a fair price, and given the Vatican's support in the Kingdom of Hispania to strengthen the Andalusian front, the Church has set the current value of the Peseta at three-fourths of a Sacro"

"That means you could exchange 1,000 pesetas for 750 Sacros later on..."

Ashe remained silent, staring expressionlessly beneath his helmet at the nighttime sea—dangerous, yet eerily beautiful. The moonlight, reflecting off the Earth's partially corrupted atmosphere, gave the waters a subtle violet hue.

"Well then, what do you say? Not everyone gets the chance to come closer to the salvation of their soul—simply by helping the Church in our fleeting earthly existence... with something as trivial as a fair transaction"

The priest waited for his response through long, uncomfortable seconds of silence, and just as he was about to insist...

The distant young Ranger turned to him, interrupting him with the answer he had been waiting for—but not the one he wanted.

"Since the Great Reconquest of the peninsula by all the kingdoms of the Regnum in 2080... the attacks from the strait have only increased. Each year, the no-man's land expands, and neither the Crown nor the Church has been able to stop it completely... only delay it."

Despite his youth, his experience on a front—where his master had taken him every season since he was twelve as part of his harsh training—echoed in every word he spoke

"If the border falls... the Kingdom of Hispania will collapse..."

Letting his heavy words linger in the damp sea breeze, the young man concluded with a grim certainty:

"And the value of those 1,000 pesetas will plummet... like bullets in a trench."

The priest blinked, startled by the bluntness of his response.

If the young man standing before him were not an officer—someone beyond his reach in more ways than one—but instead a mere villager, he would have already ordered his capture and punishment.

His words, though sincere, were dangerously heretical, casting doubt on the Church's

The priest's tone hardened, leaving behind his paternal patience.

It quickly shifted into something that sounded dangerously close to a threat.

As he warned him: "Be careful with your choice, my son."

Ashe gave a slight nod, as if acknowledging that he had overstepped.

Or at least, that's what the priest thought...

Until, with eyes devoid of expression or emotion, after seen too many deaths and survived enough horrors, even at his young age, to lose their glow.

Leaving in their place an eerily serene, opaque light filtering from the crevice of his helmet, Ashe replied in his usual flat tone.

"I'll take the Sacros... though 750 is too little."

To prove his point, he tapped the dented part of his blessed metal breastplate.

"I spent too much sacred metal ammunition to bring down the Alpha. And, as you can see..." His dull gaze fixed on the priest with an almost threatening intensity. "...to survive it as well."

The priest held his firm posture, but something in the gaze that filtered through the slit of his helmet... unsettled him.

He had seen fanatics defy the authority of the Church. He had heard far more dangerous words from the lips of men who later ended up at the stake.

But this was different.

There was no defiance in his words.

He was merely stating a fact.

After facing the Alpha alone— feeling its jaws graze his throat and its claws dent his armor nearly to the point of piercing it—the threats of the clergyman before him no longer carried the same weight...

Before the priest could respond, a brief, dry chuckle escaped the old ranger—mocking the his attempts to take advantage of the young man by wielding his power as a member of the Church.

Without a word, he turned and walked away from the two knights blocking his path, leaving his apprentice to negotiate the sale of his own kill while hiding the faint smile that crossed his face for the second time that night.

"I taught him well... I have nothing to worry about."

The thought crossed his mind like a whisper, accompanied by a strange sense of nostalgia. Perhaps because, deep down, he knew his time as a mentor was coming to an end.

IIt all brought him back to his first encounter with a seven-year-old boy, his ash hair blending into the ruins of a collapsed building...

A boy who had lost all trace of memory... Or had only just begun.

-

Reluctantly, the priest extended an Ecclesiastical Promissory Note worth 1,024 Sacros. The exact number revealed just how fierce the negotiation had been.

Ashe took it unhurriedly, tucking it away without ceremony beneath the red sash around his waist.

The priest, his brow furrowed, gestured toward the Alpha's head, still on the ground.

"Hand it over."

But before he could even touch it, Ashe planted his boot on it, holding it firmly in place.

With his usual flat tone—effortlessly hiding his audacity—he let the words fall with the natural ease of someone merely stating a fact:

With his usual flat tone—effortlessly masking his brashness—he let the words fall with the naturalness of someone merely stating a fact.

"What you just bought are the Alpha's remains. At dawn, you can collect its body. If you want the head as well… you'll have to pay extra."

The priest's face flushed red with fury. His fingers clenched over his robe, and for a moment, he seriously considered ordering his knights to strike down the insolent young man he saw as a swindler.

But if he resorted to violence…

The old ranger, watching the scene with barely contained amusement, would step in.

And that man carried weight.

Not only in the village, but across several crowns of the Regnum and even—despite the clear disrespect he had instilled in his disciple toward the Church—within the high ranks of the Vatican itself.

A confrontation with him could cost far more than the priest was willing to pay.

Besides, Ashe wasn't really swindling him…

In the rare cases where a body was nearly intact, it was common practice to sell the head separately... But not when the buyers were members of the Church, as most sought to earn their favor one way or another.

The glands that developed in the brains of Alphas were extremely valuable.

Even their stench was prized—the very reason Ashe had been able to cross the forest, exhausted, without other Drexers daring to attack him.

With the right measures, it could be distilled to create powerful repellents and various tonics, highly valued by all kinds of caravans—merchants, arms dealers, and pilgrims alike.

The priest clenched his teeth, holding back his frustration in a way he rarely had to. A low growl escaped his lips before he turned sharply and stormed away, his robe billowing with his furious stride.

His knights followed closely, disciplined shadows at his back, while a simple gesture ordered the acolytes carrying the torches to withdraw.

He entered the station begrudgingly, ignoring the miners and loggers still celebrating, and stepped directly onto one of the underground trains bound for the village, ordering its departure without waiting for it to fill.

-

Meanwhile, atop the cliff…

Ashe, standing near the edge, watched the approaching silhouette.

The old ranger advanced with measured steps, leaning slightly on the stock of his rifle.

"Master…"

The old man's expression was hard to read due to his wrinkles and age-worn features, but a barely perceptible smile appeared on his lips.

"You did well… I had already lost the ability to make the priest wrinkle his face like that."

His tone, usually firm, carried a hint of mockery, though his sharp eyes still scanned Ashe from head to toe, assessing him.

Then, his voice hardened.

"Now tell me… How much did you really spend to take down the Alpha? I taught you how to squeeze the Church in negotiations, but this… this was reckless. Even for me."

Ashe held his gaze without hesitation.

"I used my Crimson Bullet."

The old man nodded slowly, unsurprised, as if he had expected the answer.

"I figured… And what else?"

There was a brief silence before Ashe sighed and reached for his back.

His fingers wrapped around the hilt of his sword, and with an automatic motion—one accustomed to the weight and length of the blade that was no longer there—he drew it in a horizontal motion through the semi-open section of the sheath, designed to facilitate a swift draw from his back.

The metal scraped softly as it slid free, but instead of the majestic 120 cm Montante, only a shadow of what it once was emerged…

A steel blade, half its original size, ending abruptly as if it had been deliberately broken.

Despite its condition, golden flecks still shimmered across the width of the blade, glinting between the layers of its damascened steel—a glow that revealed the vast amount of sacred metal used in its forging… as well as its immense value.

Ashe presented the remnants of his sword to his master with a mixture of respect and resignation before "explaining."

"I had to break it."

The old ranger lowered his gaze to the shattered weapon, then to the dull eyes watching him through the slit in the helmet.

So unwavering that he had to ask:

"You broke your Toledan Sword yourself?"

"Yes."

The old man narrowed his eyes.

"Do you know how valuable it was?"

"More than most lives."

"That's right… and yet you broke it."

"Yes."

This time, Ashe added in his usual tone, without a trace of emotion:

"But it was necessary."

The old man let out a faint grunt, holding back the turbulent emotions bubbling inside him, urging Ashe to continue.

Ashe obeyed, with the same indifferent calm of someone recounting another's deeds.

"The Crimson Bullet wasn't enough to stop the Alpha's regeneration. Before it could expel the fragments from its body, I used the sacred metal of my sword to pierce its heart and halt its regeneration for an instant."

As he spoke, memories of the battle echoed in his mind…

The Alpha's furious roar as the blade sank into its chest.

Then, the retaliatory strike.

The sound of his own armor groaning under the weight of the blow.

The metallic taste of blood in his mouth as the creature's force shook his body from within—like every organ had been crushed all at once.

He remembered how desperately he had clung to the hilt.

The silent scream of his arms piercing through his clouded mind, resisting the pressure of the impact. Keeping his body—and his consciousness—from being flung away like a ragdoll…

After withstanding the blow without losing consciousness…

He forced every muscle in his body.

Every neuron in his brain.

Every hook of his harness.

To move forward.

"I had no time. So… while the sword was still embedded, I broke off what remained of the blade outside the Alpha's chest… and used it to decapitate it."

He dodged the claws as he ran across the Alpha's own body, using its arms as bridges, and its back as ground.

The beast's talons tore through the space he had occupied just moments before, missing his flesh by mere centimeters.

As he moved, he looped the cables of his harness around the hilt of his sword, still embedded in the creature's chest. The cables tightened little by little until, with a sharp snap…

The blade broke… and the hilt was sent flying, spinning through the air.

After using the Alpha's bald head as a platform to leap—At the precise moment his fingers closed around the hilt midair—He activated the full-force retraction of his grappling hooks, still lodged in the Alpha… and let himself be pulled, spinning through the air… like a top.

Transferring all that momentum into the broken edge of his sword.

Harnessing the momentum into the broken edge of his sword, the remnant of the blade sliced through the air—just as it had cleaved through the Alpha's thick neck—in a clean 360-degree cut.

Once he filled in the gaps left by Ashe's brief words—and finished processing what had transpired—the old ranger let out an almost imperceptible sigh.

He felt no disappointment, nor anger—only a painful monetary stab.

"Take off your helmet," he ordered wearily.

Ashe blinked behind the slit of his visor.

For a moment, he thought his master was about to punish him for breaking such a valuable sword. Maybe a punch. Maybe something worse.

Reluctantly, he brought his hands to the sides of his helmet and began to lift it.

As he did, strands of ash-colored hair fell to the sides of a young but battle-hardened jawline, where a long, clean scar rose from the edge of his right jaw, cutting through the shadow of his unshaven beard.

However, just as he was about to remove it completely, revealing the black mark emerging beneath his left eye…

A sharp 'Beep-Bepp-Beep' echoed through both helmets.

Including his master's, strapped to his hip.

A brief chime that made Ashe, without needing to ask, let the helmet fall back over his face and slide the visor—resting on his forehead—down to cover his eyes.

A faint hum greeted him as the green screen flickered to life, projecting a black grid with an oscillating wedge at its center.

An echo appeared at the edge of the display.

It wasn't a new signal—it was a registered one.

The identification code blinked in the top-right corner of the interface.

"It's a ping from S-117…" Ashe reported, slightly surprised.

"Drawk…" The old ranger exhaled, a sigh escaping somewhere between relief and unease. "That damned lizard has finally returned, huh?"

It had been too long since he'd heard from his companion. And while his return was reassuring, he couldn't ignore what it implied.

Ashe, however, frowned behind the visor.

Something didn't add up.

'If the signal was coming from the sea…'

"Why didn't we pick it up sooner…?" he asked aloud.

As if answering his question, from the same direction as the S-117 ping, a flash cut through the mist.

A flare shot up into the night sky, leaving behind an intense, artificial glow.

Announcing its arrival to the coastal artillery… along with its identity.

The color was unmistakable—one used exclusively by a single organization in all of Regnum.The old ranger's jaw tightened as his suspicion about his time running out, became reality.

From the mist emerged a beast of metal and steel. Its silhouette was angular and aggressive, slicing through the waves like the edge of a blade. Fans of cannons jutted out at multiple levels, covering different angles.

Beneath its towering smokestacks, Christian crosses of various designs gleamed under the crimson light of its flare.

Each one represented the favor of the great kingdoms of the Regnum that the ship carried.

The Cross of Santiago, of the Hispanic Kingdom.

The Fleur-de-lis Cross, of the Franco Kingdom.

The Iron Cross, of the Germanic Reich.

The Cross of Saint George, of the Britannian Kingdom.

And the double cross… representing the United Kingdom of America.

All of them were crowned by the Vatican Cross, larger and more prominent than the rest, symbolizing the supreme authority of the Church.

But, like the flare, the Vatican Cross was a deep, intense red. A color worn not only by the Church… but by its executive branch.

The one that no one expected, nor wanted to...

The Inquisition.

Ashe barely opened his eyes, as much as his expressionless face allowed him.

Throughout his 18 years of life, with six spent on the battlefield, he had never come face to face with the Inquisition.

He only knew of its reputation.

'Feared. Revered,' he thought.

It was said that they were "pure" souls chosen by God, capable of performing miracles at will. The Church taught them to wield their power and granted them absolute authority.

They were the judges, executioners, investigators, and generals of the Vatican—serving no king.

They answered only to God and the Pope.

But what truly unsettled Ashe was not the ship.

It was his master's reaction.

The old ranger observed the imposing vessel without surprise.

As if he had been expecting it. As if he knew who was on board and why they were here.

With an almost imperceptible sigh, he murmured to himself:

"So… the time has come."

Ashe glanced at him, confused.

But his master gave no explanation. Instead, he placed his helmet on and fired his grappling hook toward the nearest branch.

"Grab the Alpha's head and follow me," he said before launching himself through the trees.

Ashe said nothing.

Under the moon's corrupted light, he picked up the Alpha's head, still dripping with foul, dark blood, and followed his master toward the nearest bay.

The same bay where the intimidating Inquisition warship was headed

-

At the Same Time...

Aboard the intimidating ship.

In an office far larger and more elegant than that of the ship's captain.

A measured knock rapped against the door.

"With your permission."

The door opened, and a woman with short, dark hair stepped inside with firm, professional strides. Her military uniform was sleek and form-fitting—feminine yet functional: a tailored skirt, heels that accentuated her stunning figure, and elegant stockings that added a touch of sophistication.

She also wore gloves, metal greaves, and shoulder guards, giving her military attire an armored edge.

Both her appearance and demeanor were impeccable—devoted and disciplined.

She stood at attention, offering a crisp military salute. It was neither acknowledged nor returned.

Unfazed, she crossed the office, where the warmth of wood struggled to soften the cold steel of the battleship. Hand-carved furniture, crafted with meticulous artistry, exuded a blend of elegance, power, and the opulence of the Church.

Beneath her feet, red silk carpets with golden tassels muffled the echo of her heels until she stopped in front of a grand oak desk. Its polished surface, worn by the years, remained as majestic as ever.

There, a figure sat, writing with fluid movements...

Everything about him was red—from the fabric of his cassock and shoulder cape to the mask that concealed his face, making the white of his tight ringlet curls, reminiscent of a judge's wig, stand out even more.

His hands, wrapped in bandages inscribed with healing psalms, held a quill with hypnotic dexterity. His handwriting was so exquisite that, though she knew she shouldn't... his assistant found herself captivated by the dance of ink across the paper.

Only when the man set his quill aside with meticulous care and looked at her through the narrow slits of his mask, waiting for her report...

Did the woman react, clearing her throat.

"Inquisitor, as you ordered, I have released the... 'winged creature', and we are ready to disembark at your command, once the ship nears the coast."

The Inquisitor observed his assistant before nodding softly.

He knew she would not trouble him with stating the obvious, and he detected hesitation in her.

The Inquisitor's voice—deep, far too deep to be natural—escaped from behind his mask, asked with the calmest tone he could muster.

"What is the matter?"

The woman straightened her posture even more.

"Inquisitor… it is about Rosemary Ke-"

"I know who Miss Mary is." His tone did not waver, but the interruption was absolute. "As I ordered, the identity of the Watcher designated by the American royal family is not a matter to be discussed, not even in my office... and given her circumstances, simply 'Mary' is more appropriate."

The woman realized her mistake instantly. Her lips pressed into a tense line before she spoke hastily:

"My apologies!"

Regaining focus, she continued her report.

"Miss Mary is having trouble adjusting. Upon learning of the travel plans, she has been rather... insistent in requesting a meeting with you."

The Inquisitor meditated in silence...

'For her to hesitate over something so trivial.'

'Did she believe it unworthy of my time?' he wondered.

Answering himself: 'A correct decision.'

After concluding his brief internal dialogue, the Inquisitor let out a quiet sigh. As he carefully folded the letter he had just finished writing, he spoke in his irreparably broken voice.

"Very well. There are still a few minutes before departure." Aware of the presence waiting outside, he added, "Let her in… Lena."

Lena nodded in silence upon receiving the order.

With measured steps, she made her way to the reinforced door sealing off the elegant office. As she turned the mechanism, the sound of metal echoed with a dry resonance before yielding.

As the door opened, a cold hallway greeted her. Just outside, a young woman stood waiting, arms crossed, her gaze impatient.

Lena stepped forward, her expression serene yet weighted with authority.

"The Inquisitor will grant you a few minutes of his time…" Seeing the fervor with which the young woman moved forward, Lena murmured, her words a blend of reprimand and cold warning, "Mind your tone… your highness."

"Tch."

An irritated click of the tongue escaped the young woman's lips as she stepped into the elegant office.

The first thing that stood out upon seeing her were her eyes—so pale a shade of blue they seemed to pierce through the walls that caged her.

Her blonde hair was neatly gathered, held in place by a beret adorned with the emblem of the Watchers:

A pyramid, its tip containing an all-seeing eye.

Yet a rebellious strand fell over her delicate face, marred by fine scars crossing her cheek and eyebrow—silent testaments to a turbulent past, or at the very least, rigorous training.

As she took in the change in atmosphere, her powerful stride faltered. The confidence with which she had crossed the threshold faded, and her posture grew humbler—almost submissive.

After the elegant, near-intimidating decor had fulfilled its purpose, its owner finally greeted her…

"Miss Mary... I'm pleased to see you. Lena has informed me that you are facing a problem no one else can solve."

Despite the Inquisitor's unnatural voice, not in an ominous way—rather… wounded. The faint, razor-thin edge of veiled reproach within his serene tone made Mary hesitate before responding.

"Y-yes."

"Good. Take a seat," he continued, motioning toward the chair before him with a simple gesture of his bandaged hands.

"Lena, please… prepare us some tea."

"Of course," the assistant replied, moving gracefully toward a cabinet where a full tea set rested.

A few seconds later...

The soft clink of the spoon broke the silence in the room.

Mary held her cup with both hands, feeling the warmth seep through the leather gloves covering her palms. The aroma of herbs and spices floated in the air, blending with the scent of aged wood and dried ink that permeated the study.

"Lord Inquisitor—" Mary began, her voice hesitant, as if the words refused to come out.

However, the Inquisitor interrupted her with a subtle gesture after sipping tea through the metal straw protruding from his cup.

The ingenious design of the straw allowed him to drink without removing his mask, a detail that had always intrigued Mary. The soft sound of liquid being drawn up resonated in the room, followed by expectant silence.

"Tell me... have you fully recovered from your injuries?"

Mary blinked, surprised by the question about her health.

"Hm? I-yes, but still—"

The Inquisitor didn't need words to interrupt her again; it was enough to shift his attention away from the tea and focus entirely on her.

As he fixed his gaze—hidden behind the red mask—the dim light of the office danced across its grooves, distorting the shadows until they resembled tense muscle fibers.

Forcing Mary to stop.

"Do not worry..." The broken voice behind the mask shattered the silence. "I am sure that, in time, you will recover them. Surviving a zeppelin accident like that..." A brief pause, almost calculated. "Believe me, as a professional on the matter, when I say that it is, without a doubt, a miracle."

Mary lowered her gaze. Her blue eyes got lost in the golden liquid of her cup. The Inquisitor's words, though wrapped in kindness, carried an idea she... disagreed with.

'A miracle...?'

The echo of that question resounded in her mind.

'Is that what it is—to have survived with barely any memories, to the point of not even knowing my own name?'

'Could that really be called a miracle?'

Something inside her resisted accepting that idea, as if her own instincts warned her that the truth was far darker.

'I find it hard to believe...'

Unlike in her mind, Mary responded with a monosyllable, barely a whisper.

"Yes..."

The Inquisitor, with the same impenetrable calm, spoke again.

"Then tell me... if nothing has changed, what is so urgent?"

Mary took a deep breath. She knew she couldn't afford to hesitate—not in front of him.

"Lena ordered me yesterday to pack my things and prepare to leave… I don't understand. I thought we were heading to reinforce the European front against the Monoliths…"

Her voice did not waver; on the contrary, it regained the strength it had lost upon entering.

"According to the orders I carry, I am to assess the state of New Constantinople!"

Upon hearing the source of Miss Mary's dissatisfaction, the Inquisitor shifted his gaze toward the cup of tea on his desk and let out a long, bored sigh.

"Ahmm… is that all?"

Mary opened her mouth to respond, but before she could utter a word, he interrupted her with the same measured, unhurried cadence as always.

"I understand that you are eager to return, hoping to recover your memories in a 'familiar' environment…"

He paused briefly, letting his words hang in the air. "But tell me… do you truly believe that you, I, Lena, and the few hundred men on this ship count as sufficient reinforcements to support the Regnum's largest battlefront?"

Mary felt a knot in her stomach. Her response burst out before she could contain it.

"You are an Inquisitor! One of the Church's greatest forces."

The Inquisitor tilted his head slightly, as if amused by her words.

"That is true. And I am also just one man. My mission, given by the Viceroy of Constantinople, whom the Pope ordered me to serve, is to bring a wave of reinforcements from all the Kingdoms."

Mary frowned.

"So you're saying that before reaching Constantinople, we're going on a tour of all the kingdoms, begging for men?"

The Inquisitor let out a faint huff, as if he found her impatience amusing.

"Not exactly. But tell me, what did you think we would do after leaving the shores of Britannia? Sail straight there?"

Mary crossed her arms.

"Why not?" she exclaimed, having assumed exactly that ever since they set course for the Hispanic coasts.

There was a brief silence—this time heavier, almost irritated—before the Inquisitor finally responded.

"Your memory loss… does not justify wasting a Regnum Inquisitor's time with foolishness."

The Inquisitor's "inquisitive" voice echoed through the room, while in the silence of his mind...

'But yes… her blood…'

That thought remained suspended as he averted his gaze from Miss Mary, turning instead to his assistant and continuing with disapproval:

"I thought I ordered you to oversee Miss Mary's re-education."

Lena bowed her head, accepting the blame, and responded in a professional tone—though tinged with self-criticism:

"I apologize… Perhaps I've focused too much on history and neglected the more... obvious parts. Do not worry, I will make sure to increase her tutoring hours from now on, so this does not happen again."

Mary robotically brought the rim of her teacup to her lips, attempting to evade Lena's veiled, yet dangerous gaze—hidden from the Inquisitor as she remained bowed.

The Inquisitor opened one of the drawers in his desk and retrieved a rolled-up parchment. He spread it out over the wooden surface, revealing a map of the European Regnum.

Without a word, he slid his bandaged finger along the route Mary had suggested, tracing the path from Britannia southward. Ignoring the Ring of Saint Michael, he skimmed the peninsula, following its coasts until stopping at the entrance of the Mediterranean.

"At the very least, you remember where the Monoliths are… don't you?"

"Of course…" Mary responded, puffing out her chest with pride—causing the two small protrusions beneath her leather vest to press slightly under the strain. "Except for the one in North America, the remaining five Monoliths are located in:

Ankara, in Eastern Europe…

The Congo, in the heart of Africa…

The Amazon, in South America…

Tibet, in Southern Asia…

And lastly, the Monolith of Indonesia."

"Correct… and what lies between the Monoliths of Ankara and the Congo?" the Inquisitor asked, keeping his finger firmly on the Strait of Gibraltar.

"The… Mediterranean Sea," Mary answered, her voice faltering as she finally grasped the "alternative" route she had been complaining about.

"Exactly… Ever since the Monoliths reopened more than 150 years ago, the Mediterranean has been plagued by heretic vessels, corrupted beasts, and beings that continue to emerge from 'Hell'…" The Inquisitor's broken voice took on a bitterly self-critical tone as he finished, "While we sip tea."

Mary took a deep breath, feeling the weight of reality settle on her shoulders.

Realizing that completing her mission and returning home would take far longer than she had hoped.

After a few bitter seconds of silence, with no choice but to accept it, Mary asked with a mix of resignation and curiosity:

"So… will we be meeting with the various courts of the kingdoms?"

The Inquisitor shook his head, causing the unsettling grooves of his mask to come alive once more, distorting the shadows cast by the dim light of the room.

"No. The Church has already made the arrangements and contacted the Great Crowns. Most of the forces will join us along our way to Constantinople."

Mary nodded slowly, finding some small comfort in the news as her eyes wandered over the map spread across the table.

Noticing the red line that divided the southern part of the Hispanic Kingdom—almost resembling an open wound on the paper—she asked:

"The Hispanic Crown… can it afford to send forces to support other fronts?"

The Inquisitor leaned forward slightly, seeming almost surprised by her insight despite her lack of memories.

"Since they hold one of the two open fronts of the Regnum…" he replied, his voice deep yet calm. "They are the ones who can spare the fewest forces. However, they have agreed to support us with complete order of Andalusian Penitent Knights.

In exchange, they have been granted permission to establish a branch of their order in Constantinople, where they will be able to teach their… 'customs and ways.'"

A shiver ran down Mary's spine at those last words.

Among Lena's intense lessons, she had learned about the different orders of knights and monks within the European Regnum.

Among them, certain groups deeply unsettled her with their… 'customs and ways'—such as the Andalusian Penitents.

Described by Lena as men and women who believed that through pain, they demonstrated their devotion to God.

Their weapons were designed to pierce their own flesh with every strike, and their armor was crafted to inflict as much pain as possible without incapacitating them. It seemed like madness to her. Every failure in combat, every mistake, was paid for with self-inflicted suffering.

The Inquisitor observed her reaction, noting the discomfort on her face, and continued.

Aquí tienes la traducción al inglés con correcciones sutiles para mejorar la fluidez y la puntuación:

"Also, at the request of both myself and the Viceroy, the Church has managed to negotiate with the Crown of Toledo to release one of its most experienced Scouts."

"The Church had to negotiate for a single Scout?" Mary asked, slightly surprised.

"That's right..."

'Because, in reality, they won't be losing just one, but two,' the Inquisitor thought as he pulled a file from his desk and carefully placed it on the table.

"Here, take a look. They're of similar age. If everything goes well, he'll be one of your travel companions."

Mary opened the file, and the first thing that caught her attention was the young man's eyes in the photograph.

The opposite of hers:

Green, dull, and lifeless.

Beneath his right eye, a mark piqued her interest. At first glance, it seemed like a simple tattooed cross—a common misunderstanding, as many people etched crosses into their skin as protective seals or prayer totems.

But upon closer inspection, she realized it wasn't a cross. The mark was shaped like a 'T.'

A downward-pointing sword, with a hilt composed of ancient seals that rose up, disappearing into his hair—something more common among knightly orders.

In the photograph, the young man wore a tired expression, as if he lacked sleep or had just woken up.

Even so… his features were symmetrical, his lips and jawline sharp, and the scars crossing his face only served to highlight his attractiveness—even in Mary's eyes.

Mary found herself surprised more than once as she read through the report, but she said nothing. Not even when her eyes stopped on his extensive and premature combat record, which began at the age of twelve.

His performance had grown exponentially, season after season, on the southern front. Even doubling his activity and confirmed kills in recent years.

However, when she reached his social status, she couldn't hide her astonishment.

"He's an officer? At such a young age?"

"That's right..." the Inquisitor replied calmly. "I didn't recruit him for his skills as a Scout, but because of the research his mentor was conducting."

Mary narrowed her eyes before falling into his trap and asking:

"In what field?"

As she posed her question, Mary could feel the Inquisitor's smile behind his mask as he answered...

-

Concepts/inspirations/references.