A believer's conflict

The harsh fluorescent lights of the medical ward cast long shadows across the pristine white floors as Zahra watches the promotional hologram flickering before her.

The image shows Azarias—his youthful features belying a wisdom far beyond his apparent years.

"And yes, the new mascot will represent us during next year's Universal Tournament of Retrieval Wars," Azarias announces. Despite his casual attire—a flowing yellow cloth draped over white shorts—his voice carries the weight of authority.

He gestures enthusiastically. "They'll be relatively affordable, only four silk, and available in every district. The farther districts will need a few weeks before receiving shipments. As for the lower layers, you'll need to visit a district with a proper store. Distribution will be widespread but controlled."

Zahra waves her hand dismissively through the hologram. It ripples and distorts. She turns to her side, where Thisbe stands, diligently monitoring a patient whose entire left side is heavily bandaged. The antiseptic scent lingers, mingling with the soft beeping of monitoring equipment.

The hologram flickers back to life. This time Azarias appears in full figure. Despite his boyish face, there's a certainty in his posture and a depth in his gaze—like someone who has lived through decades compressed into seventeen years.

"The mascot—" he begins again.

Zahra slices through the projection with a sharp gesture.

"How many egotistical pricks are we dealing with here?" she mutters, watching Azarias turn to two blonde women behind him.

Then, to her surprise, he speaks.

"I suggest you wear more modest clothes now," he says with a surprising frown. The gentle expression clashes unsettlingly with his cutting tone.

Thisbe adjusts a medical scanner over her patient, her hands steady despite the tension.

"People have quite the mood swings here. Like Valtieri... but all in all, I think he's a great guy," she offers with a bright smile that belies her earlier caution.

"Alright," Zahra responds, her eyes suddenly glowing with a pure, luminous yellow. She turns away, her voice dropping to a strained whisper. "¿Quién est ce gars-là? 最好的逃跑方式 ici?" Her breathing grows labored, punctuated by quiet coughs.

Thisbe immediately sets down her tools and hurries to her side. "Are you alright?" she asks, already grabbing a diagnostic device.

A text flashes before Zahra's eyes, visible only to her: Liga con Valtieri, précieux. As quickly as it appears, it vanishes. Her eyes return to normal with a flash.

"What are you saying? I feel like I understand you… yet I don't," Thisbe presses, glancing at her readings. "How many dialects of Kol-Nic do you know?"

"A lot," Zahra murmurs, slumping back in her chair. Her eyes drift closed.

The hologram springs to life again, Azarias's voice filling the ward.

"Here's the design!" he exclaims.

From a rich red velvet backdrop, a man steps forward, carrying a miniature figure. Azarias beams. "Welcome, Bartholomew, everyone!"

The mascot's design is a masterpiece of religious symbolism. Its ceremonial attire blends sacred elements into timeless reverence. A high, ornate headdress, resembling a bishop's mitre, features intricate filigree and symbols like the Chi-Rho and delicate crosses. The flowing robes, bordered with embroidered patterns, echo the baroque embellishments of Catholic vestments.

Thisbe leans forward, her duties momentarily forgotten. With a practiced motion, she splits the projection into three displays, revealing Bartholomew from multiple angles.

"As you can see," Azarias says, barely containing his excitement, "it took considerable time to design this. I wanted to reflect a believer's conflict while evoking a sense of peace, for God is great."

He pauses, letting the moment settle.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I trust you're aware of the ongoing election—the rumors, the claims, the Sky District's alleged influence over the Below Sky. Two major powers—the Church and Rolls-worth—left the Below Sky to ascend to the Sky District some 1,400 years ago. And now, modern historians dare to deny this."

Azarias paces as he speaks.

"I may not know Rolls-worth's true origins, but I know this: the Church—our oldest institution—stood by the Stem for over 4,000 years. It was our first mass institution, a beacon of unity and wisdom."

He leans forward, his voice growing fervent.

"I come to speak not only of history, but of our future. Next year, the Retrieval Wars will begin. This is our rare chance to reclaim knowledge and heritage. Imagine the wisdom restored if the Church—our first institution across all 21 districts—held the rightful mandate."

He straightens. "Or you could choose not to support us. Let the world slip further into a 'futuristic dystopia,' if that's what you prefer."

A smirk plays across his face.

"Forgive me if I sound blunt. Some say I have a 'bad mouth.' I say it's just unpleasant for rotten ears."

He glances over the crowd. "Thank you. Think carefully."

With a nod, the holograms vanish. Silence settles over the medical ward.

Zahra, eyes still closed, lets a small smile curl at her lips. "I think I like him, he really used a toy for propaganda."

"I suppose so," Thisbe replies, returning to her patient but casting a worried glance toward Zahra. "I wonder why it played in this ward; sometimes even I wonder what Valtieri thinks."

The ward feels colder now, Azarias's words lingering in the air. Dust motes swirl in the hologram's fading glow.

Thisbe's patient stirs. She refocuses, adjusting the nano-bandages on their left side. The smart fabric shimmers with a silver glow as it continues healing. The soft hum of autonomous medical drones adds a steady rhythm to the tension in the ward.

In the upper levels of Rolls-worth, Valtieri's office, a shrine to old-world luxury, is filled with mahogany furniture and leather-bound books.

Valtieri sits back in his leather chair, fingers steepled. Data scrolls across his tablet. A smirk touches his lips—not of amusement, but calculation.

"So," he murmurs, voice low and contemplative, "he thinks he can seize momentum with a mascot, does he?"

He swirls the amber liquid in his tumbler and sets it down with precision.

"Perhaps a delay in the farther districts," he muses. "Or a selective leak to the media. Let the people question his every move."

His fingers tap the desk rhythmically—each beat another piece falling into place.

With a satisfied hum, he leans back, eyes narrowing at the glowing horizon. "Well then, Azarias," he says softly, "let the game begin."

Elsewhere, in the Church's headquarters, Azarias lounges in his chair. Vast holographic displays float beside ancient tapestries. Smart-glass windows overlay real-time data onto views of the districts below.

His smirk returns as he watches incoming feeds.

"Let's see what the assistant manager of a second-rate institution is truly capable of," he drawls, amusement curling each word.

The desk floods with holograms: polling data, sentiment reports, and social media reactions. Blue light bathes his youthful face—until the weight of his experience reasserts itself in his eyes.

Back in the medical ward, Zahra shifts in her bed. The synthetic fabric creaks beneath her. The climate control hums softly, adjusting to her rising temperature.

She whispers again, desperation lacing her voice. "Por favor, 誰是 Azarias?" The mix of dialects tumbles out like water—confused, urgent.

Around her, the ward continues. Junior staff pass by, white coats swishing, eyes glued to holographic tablets.

The occasional ping of incoming messages and equipment alerts creates a dissonant symphony, oddly at odds with the political theater still echoing in the air.

A new message materializes in her mind, cold and final: Non pour toi de savoir. The words drift like smoke—brief, ominous, gone.

Thisbe watches Zahra closely now. Her medical instincts kick in, scanning every nuance of her condition. The device in her hand chimes softly—neural activity in the temporal lobe elevated. Her brow furrows.

"Alright," Zahra says suddenly.