The Catacombs of Thread and Steel

Beneath the dunes, past the cracked altar of the Shrine of Threads, lay a world forgotten.

The catacombs opened with a hiss—ancient stone layered over bronze and flickering lights that had no visible source. Every step echoed through a tunnel older than either Vatican or Ministry. The very air vibrated with dormant power, thick with particles from ancient tech.

Ren placed his palm on the wall. Glyphs responded, glowing softly.

"It's not mana," he whispered. "This place isn't magical. It's… programmed."

Icarus brushed off a plaque etched in Old Tongue. His voice trembled.

"It says 'Bastion 7: The Cradle of the Threaded.'"

Daiki's grip tightened on his sword. Haru drew both pistols.

None of them liked the word cradle.

They passed through chambers that seemed built for giants—armor suits twice their height lined up like forgotten kings, their helmets cracked, their chests glowing faintly with pulsing red. In one room, a cracked dome revealed an ancient control panel with a map of the continent before the Reign Wars.

Ren pressed a button.

A projection burst to life: blue light, glitching slightly.

"Subject: Threaded No. 4… status: ALIVE."

Then another voice followed—calm, inhuman.

"The demon codex lies beneath the Vatican. Initiate retrieval protocol... Project Exorcism was never completed."

Icarus stepped back. "They were building weapons."

Ren added, "No. They were building us."

Far from the dunes, in the sunless chambers beneath Saint Galentium, Cardinal Seraphiel stood before the Council of Thrones—twelve faceless cardinals masked in silver and gold. Behind them stood a sealed gate, marked with demonic glyphs long outlawed by scripture.

"Eva failed," said Seraphiel, voice cold.

One cardinal's voice rasped. "You were warned. The Threaded always evolve faster in proximity to the Cradle."

Another added, "If the boys discover the other bastions—our lies end."

Seraphiel didn't blink. "Then we erase them from history."

He turned to a cage of light at the center of the room. Inside floated a figure, limbs bound in celestial rings—wings torn, body scorched.

"Release Azaliel. Let the exiled angel finish what we began."

Back in the catacombs, the boys stood before a massive chamber shaped like a spiral galaxy. In its center: a crystalline archive, humming gently.

Ren, still dazed from his brief visions in Chapter 22, walked slowly toward it.

"This was a city once. The real kind—clean energy, sky farms, AI-monks. Before it all fell."

He placed a hand on the console.

Suddenly—screams echoed in their minds. Thousands. Children. Mothers. Soldiers.

They saw the rise of demons, not as beasts, but as memories corrupted by human grief. Beings born from forgotten prayers and broken oaths. Demons, in this world, weren't just monsters.

They were failed dreams.

The Truth About Demons

A holographic woman—tall, robed, with a silver halo—manifested above the archive. Her voice was gentle, mechanical, divine.

"Greetings, Descendants of the Threaded. I am Core-3, Guardian of Bastion 7. You are the last hope against the Demon Pulse."

The boys froze.

"The Demon Pulse," Core-3 continued, "is not a race. It is an echo. When too many humans suffer, when belief breaks, when love rots—those echoes take form."

"And the Vatican," she said, "feeds it."

Icarus stepped forward. "But… they fight demons."

"Yes. But they also breed them. With fear. With lies. With crusades."

"You four were designed not to destroy demons… but to silence the Pulse."

The room pulsed as if reacting to the truth. Light shot into the boys' bodies.

Daiki collapsed—memories flashing: a city in flames. A girl's hand slipping from his. A whisper: "Find the others."

Icarus saw a battlefield of glass and blood, a demon with eyes like his. "You are my heir," it had said.

Ren's mind shattered into images of timelines—millions of deaths, betrayals, red skies. All repeating.

And Haru—he stood before a burning church. Inside, someone waited. A boy who looked exactly like him… but smiled like a demon.

"I don't want this fate," Haru muttered.

"Then change it," Ren whispered.

Azaliel Awakens

At the peak of the Vatican's spire, lightning struck thirteen times.

The cage shattered.

Azaliel, once the Seraph of Mercy, now wore a halo made of broken swords. His wings bled smoke. His eyes—eternal gold—stared into the West.

"Threaded… you carry what we lost."

His whisper cracked stone.

"Now I will take it back."