Long before blood stained the altar and crimson light tore through stone, a quiet conversation took place far from the young lord's estate.
Candles burned low within the inner sanctum of the Grand Church, their flames bowing as if in reverence. Tall pillars cast long shadows across the marble floor, stretching toward a solitary figure clad in white.
The Pope stood with his hands folded behind his back, his aged face carved with lines of wisdom and worry. Before him, darkness pooled unnaturally shadows bending and folding until they took form.
A voice broke the silence.
"My children are strong," the Pope said softly, his tone heavy with restraint. "Their potential is undeniable."
The shadows shifted.
"But the Grates family has long been under suspicion of dark magic," he continued. "We cannot afford blind faith. Not when the cost may be their lives."
The darkness receded, revealing a man kneeling on one knee.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and carried himself with the stillness of a honed blade. Majestic silver hair fell past his shoulders, framing sharp features and piercing blue eyes that burned with quiet resolve. Golden armor encased his form ornate yet battle-worn, marked by countless trials.
"I cannot deny the chance of growth to those boys," the Pope said after a pause. "So I entrust you to follow them. Watch from the shadows. Intervene if things go… south."
The warrior lowered his head.
"Warrior Hendric."
The Pope turned, finally facing him.
Hendric pressed his fist to his chest. "Yes, sir."
The Pope exhaled slowly, then stepped forward. From within his robes, he produced a ring golden, heavy, set with a deep red jewel that seemed to pulse faintly.
"This is an emergency signaling ring," the Pope said as he placed it into Hendric's outstretched hands. "If you judge the situation beyond your control, activate it. The Church will dispatch forces immediately."
Hendric accepted the ring with both hands, still kneeling.
"I shall take responsibility for the young boys," he said solemnly. "If things go south… I will protect them. Even if it means risking my life."
The Pope nodded once.
"Go," he said quietly.
The candles flickered.
And the shadows swallowed Hendric whole.
Now.
Steel screamed against stone as the gates of the young lord's estate exploded inward.
Soldiers barely had time to shout before a massive figure burst through the entrance like a living siege engine. Hendric moved with terrifying precision his greatsword alone was nearly as large as himself, its weight cleaving shields, armor, and resolve alike.
Bodies hit the ground before they understood what struck them.
"INTRUDER!!!"
The warning died in a dull thud.
Sir Lance stepped forward, sword raised, Sir Damon flanking him without hesitation. The two knights moved in perfect coordination, blades flashing as they intercepted Hendric's advance.
The clash was thunderous.
Sir Lance grunted as he barely deflected a downward swing that cracked the stone beneath his feet. Sir Damon darted in, striking at Hendric's flank but the warrior twisted, parrying with the flat of his blade and forcing both men back.
"You're strong," Lance growled, breath heavy. "But you won't pass."
Hendric said nothing.
His next swing came faster.
And far below the estate, Dante and Nolan woke with a jolt.
The air burned.
Demonic energy flooded the underground corridors like a foul tide thick, choking, impossible to ignore.
"Lucas," Dante breathed.
They ran.
Finding the ritual hall was effortless. The energy called to them.
They arrived to chaos.
Lucas lay unconscious on the fractured stone floor, his body faintly illuminated by silver light pulsing from the necklace at his chest. Nolan dropped to his knees beside him instantly, hands glowing as he began to heal.
At the center of the chamber, Alaric knelt.
The holy circle pressed down on him like the judgment of heaven itself. Crimson energy writhed against the radiant gold sigils, sparks tearing through the air as the two forces clashed violently.
Alaric trembled.
Not from fear.
From resistance.
Dante stepped forward, blade raised, placing himself between the altar and Nolan.
Then....
Heavy footsteps echoed.
A massive silhouette emerged from the shadows.
John.
The moment Dante and Nolan recognized him, their blood ran cold.
"…You?" Dante whispered.
John stopped a few paces away, his presence alone suffocating. His eyes swept over the scene Lucas unconscious, Alaric restrained, the shattered ritual hall.
"You children," he said, voice low and authoritative, "should step away. Before you get hurt."
Before they could respond, the robed cultists raised their hands.
Their chant began anew.
The ground shook.
From the crimson sigils, armored figures clawed their way into existence empty suits of armor animated by demonic force. They moved with unnatural coordination, their stances precise, disciplined.
Not mindless.
Warriors.
Dante tightened his grip on his sword.
John stepped forward, placing himself between the summoned armors and Alaric, who remained on his knees beneath the crushing holy pressure.
The cultists' chanting rose, echoing through the chamber like a death knell.
Above, steel continued to scream.
Below, holy and demonic forces converged.
And the night had not yet finished claiming its due.