Hope ended up taking me back to the Inquisition HQ—the same damn place we’d just left to go visit the museum.

  The private salon I was told to wait in had thick velvet curtains and expensive-looking chairs that creaked if you even thought about sitting down. The Inquisitor entered a few minutes later, rubbing her temples like I was the physical embodiment of a migraine.

  “You again? What is it now?” she sighed. “Sorry. I’m just... tired. Let’s just say rest has been short since you arrived in town.”

  “Well, I apologize,” I said, hands raised in mock surrender, “but I think you’re actually not gonna like what I’m about to tell you.”

  She didn’t flinch. Just sighed deeper.

  “Just spill it. The faster you tell me, the faster I know, and the faster I can act.”

  “The Axe of the Hero—the one in the museum? It’s a fake.”

  She blinked once.

  “I doubt it,” she said coldly. “It was given to us by the Hero’s best friend—Emperor Melenor the First—after the final battle.”

  “Well... yeah. I get that. But the real one’s shaft is supposed to be hollow. Like this.”

  I pulled Handy from its holster, carefully keeping it pointed away from anyone—finger off the trigger, barrel down. half cocked the hammer and pulled off the primer before showing the empty barrel inside.

  Her tired expression vanished, replaced with the sharp, dangerous stillness of a predator about to pounce.

  “How sure are you, Samael?” she asked. No more sarcasm. No sighs. Just cold focus. “This is a serious accusation.”

  “I believe the dream I had wasn’t just some random vision—it was a memory. A fragment of the last Hero’s final battle. There were a lot of little things wrong with that axe, but the barrel? That’s the smoking gun. Literally.”

  She didn’t respond for a moment. Then nodded once.

  “We’ve already confirmed the authenticity of your visions with the Dreamancer,” she said, standing. “Come with me. There’s someone you need to meet.”

  Instead of heading toward the office wing like I expected, she led me straight out the front door—past rows of carriages stationed like cavalry waiting to be unleashed.

  She snapped her fingers at one of the drivers. “Saint Gabriel Basilica. Fast.”

  The carriage door slammed shut behind us. The horses kicked up dust. We were moving.

  And suddenly, I had a very bad feeling about where this day was going.

  "Why aren't you wearing the coat we gave you?" she asked as we made our way down the street.

  I shrugged. "Well... it was a class activity. Didn’t wanna stand out."

  She sighed, exasperated. "Have you never used enchanted gear before?"

  "Not really. I use a translation bracelet—though I think I’ll be able to ditch it soon. Other than that, not much."

  "But your wands?"

  "Aren’t magical. At all. Just… good craftsmanship and alchemic powder."

  She gave me a look halfway between disbelief and amusement. “Huh. Well. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised anymore.”

  We disembarked at the main gates of a colossal building carved from a seamless mountain of green and white granite. Every inch of it was art—walls covered in intricate carvings, vast stained glass windows showing scenes of apocalyptic battles, and seven massive statues placed equidistantly along the outer grounds. Each depicted a six-winged angel, the wings stretching skyward like blades of judgment.

  The place radiated authority. Respect. Fear.

  Grey-robed monks moved in slow processions, their chanting echoing off the stones in haunting waves—like Gregorian hymns layered in a thousand voices. Some held censers trailing incense smoke from their left hands; others clutched thick books in their right. Their fervor filled the air like pressure. The building didn’t just look sacred—it felt alive, and aware.

  I swallowed hard. The whole place had that heavy atmosphere you get before a thunderstorm, only this one didn’t break. Just kept pressing in.

  We didn’t slow down. The Inquisitor marched forward like she owned the place, cutting through the cathedral's sacred silence with her heels and presence. No one stopped us. No one dared.

  We reached a winding stairwell spiraling clockwise around the inner tower. It stretched high, too high, the kind of stairs designed by people who don’t believe in elevators or mercy. By the time we reached the top, my legs were burning.

  “Good training,” I muttered, trying to act like I wasn’t dying.

  She smirked.

  The waiting room was more modern than I expected—plush leather chairs, stone floors polished to a mirror sheen, a large desk manned by an assistant in an immaculate grey robe.

  “Brother, we need to speak with the Pontifex Maximus. It’s urgent,” the Inquisitor said, straight to the point.

  “State your business, Inquisitor,” the man replied with the calm disinterest of someone who’d seen a thousand urgent requests before lunch.

  “The Hero’s Axe has a problem.”

  That made his pen pause for just a moment.

  “Please have a seat. Someone will come pick you up.”

  He didn’t even look up. Just waved vaguely toward the chairs.

  I sat, leaned back, and tried to calm the growing knot in my stomach.

  Pontifex Maximus, huh? Wait… isn’t that like the pope or something? So, what—his name’s Max?

  Eventually, a young human girl—probably barely out of school—approached and led us to the far end of yet another long corridor. This place was clearly designed by sadists with a fetish for grandiosity and foot pain.

  The moment we stepped into the room, the Inquisitor dropped to one knee like someone had yanked a string on a puppet.

  "Pontifex Maximus Aurelia," she said, voice tight as a drawn bow, "I come bearing urgent news."

  So, Aurelia was her name. Maximus the title. Bit pedantic, if you ask me, but hey—not my circus, not my monkeys. Right. Mental note: don’t call her Max.

  Standing behind a vast marble desk, the woman radiated something that wasn’t quite holiness and wasn’t quite menace—somewhere in the uncanny valley between divine judgment and military general. She had to be eight feet tall, if not more. Built like a blade—slim, elegant, lethal. Her features were sharp enough to cut steel, and her hair wasn’t hair at all, but long flowing feathers, pale like snow under moonlight. Her eyes were a cold, unreadable grey, and the massive white wings folded behind her didn’t so much rest as loom.

  She looked like an angel carved out of threat and silence.

  I didn’t kneel.

  Not out of disrespect, but because I don’t kneel for kings or gods or cosmic tax auditors. Only one person ever earned that kind of devotion from me before betraying my trust.

  Gods? Popes? People who think their titles matter more than their actions? Nah. I stand until I decide someone’s earned more, and no one ever did.

  She didn’t react. Not a twitch. Not a breath of offense. Just a cool, assessing glance—like she was trying to figure out if I was here to clean her windows or poison her tea.

  "And who is this with you?" she asked the Inquisitor.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  "A… civilian seer, from Norestria named Samael" the Inquisitor replied smoothly. “A witness, with relevant insight to what I’m about to report.”

  "Hmph. Proceed."

  “The Axe of the Hero displayed in the seventh sanctum of the Talaria Museum… is a fake.”

  The silence that followed felt heavy. The kind of silence that had corners. Sharp ones.

  Aurelia's face didn’t change, but something in the room got colder. She slowly stepped out from behind the desk, her wings shifting as she moved. Not dramatic. Just… precise. Every movement said: I could level this city if I wanted, but I won’t. For now.

  “You understand,” she said softly, “what you are implying, Inquisitor.”

  “I do.”

  “You are accusing the memory of the Emperor Melenor the First—Hero’s closest comrade—of deception. Treason, perhaps.”

  “I am stating a fact that I believe must be investigated. My source is… compelling.”

  Her eyes flicked to me. Just briefly. And again, that subtle thing happened—the sense that I wasn’t being looked at, but through. Like she was searching the spaces behind my eyes.

  “Very well,” she said at last. “If this claim proves true… then we may be standing at the edge of something vast.”

  She turned, walking toward an arched doorway at the rear of the chamber.

  “Come,” she said without looking back. “I will see this evidence for myself.”

  Instead of storming out the room like some divine hurricane, Aurelia simply turned, stepped over to a wide ivory sofa, and sat with regal grace. The kind of grace that said she'd never once sat awkwardly or fumbled with a cushion in her life. Then—without even asking—she patted her lap and looked at me.

  “Come. Rest your head. I will see your truth for myself.”

  I blinked. Looked at the Inquisitor. She didn’t say a word. Didn’t even flinch. Just stood there like this was a regular Tuesday.

  So, fine. When in Rome, right?

  I shuffled over and laid down, careful not to scuff her pristine robes with my not-so-pristine self. Her lap was… surprisingly warm. Comforting, even. And somehow smelled faintly of wildflowers and old parchment.

  “You will feel a pressure in your mind,” she warned softly, her fingers brushing my temple. “Do not resist. I will not harm you.”

  “Sure. No big deal. Just lemme know if I start drooling or talking about my weird high school years.”

  She didn’t laugh, but something about the corner of her mouth almost twitched.

  The Inquisitor remained standing, eyes forward, as if carved from oak. Poor woman looked like she hadn’t blinked in ten minutes.

  Meanwhile, I lay there like some divine cuddle experiment, thinking: If I survive this, I’m definitely telling the boys. Best classified pillow ever.

  Then the pressure hit—like a wave crashing just behind my eyes. Gentle at first. Then deeper. Searching. Pulling not just the memory, but the feeling—the weight of the axe in my hands, the ring of the shot, the blood in the air, the roar of something ancient and terrible screaming from a mountain of corpses.

  Aurelia inhaled sharply.

  Her wings tightened behind her.

  “I see it,” she whispered. “I see the truth.”

  She looked down at me then, eyes no longer distant—but sharp. Focused. And maybe, just maybe, a little… afraid.

  “You are not what I expected,” she said quietly. “You are not just a witness.”

  I gave her the most charming crooked smile I could manage under telepathic scrutiny.

  “Nope,” I said. “I’m the goddamn plot twist.”

  The angelic woman then gently lifted my head from her lap.

  “You are a powerful seer—one without mana or runa. You may be the Herald of Change. I will assemble a team, since it’s now clear that whatever is happening is demonic in nature. Thank you for your time, Samael. I will be keeping an eye on you.”

  With that, she plucked a feather from her right wing and bent it into the shape of a circlet. As she did, it shimmered and transformed into a golden band that wrapped itself around my wrist, warm and humming with divine energy.

  "Say, you wouldn't happen to have an arm gathering dust in a corner, would you?" I asked.

  "Sorry, Samael," she replied, "but nothing that would work without mana."

  I looked at the Inquisitor with pleading eyes that screamed Come on, help me here, but she ignored me.

  "Well, I guess it was worth a shot," I sighed, the unscratchable itch of my left arm driving me mad.

  “Pontifex,” I said, standing tall. “Before I take my leave, there’s something else I’d like to discuss with you. Something even the Inquisitor isn’t worthy of hearing—for now.”

  The Inquisitor’s eyes snapped to me, full of warning, but the words were already out.

  “Inquisitor,” the Pope said calmly, “wait outside.”

  There was a moment of hesitation—brief, but real. Then the Inquisitor gave a respectful nod and exited the chamber without a word, the heavy doors clicking shut behind him.

  The silence that followed was tense.

  The Pope gave me a curious, measured look. “Go on.”

  I took a breath, then began.

  "Your Inquisition is under your command, but I doubt my case has reached your ears yet. I also carry information I’ve withheld from them—intel that should fall into your hands alone, or those you trust most."

  She nodded silently, her gaze sharpening.

  "Let me tell you a bit about myself. First of all... I’m not from this world. And I believe the artisan who forged the Hero’s Axe wasn’t either. The place I come from—Earth—is hundreds of years ahead of this one in terms of technology. And while I don’t claim to know your heart, I believe your Church seeks to protect its people. That’s why I’m offering you something no one else can."

  "Not from this world?" she asked, surprised.

  "Indeed. This planet is called Valia. Mine is Earth. And if you allow me and my chief engineer to work with your resources, I believe we can usher in a new era—resource gathering, transportation, and yes... war. I’m no fool. I’ve seen the vision of the Hero. It was a warning of what lies dormant in the North. The Cult’s activities only confirm it."

  I leaned forward slightly, eyes locked with hers.

  "Without the Hero and his weapons, we’d normally stand no chance. But that’s where I come in. I’ll need a team—expert alchemists, engineers, smiths—and a mountain of materials. But that’s the cost of progress."

  "And you simply expect me to take you at your word? To commit valuable resources to a stranger during times like these?" she asked, voice level but edged.

  "With or without you, I will succeed, Aurelia," I said, locking eyes. "This isn’t about possibility. It’s about time and resources. And I hold proof of my claims."

  I pulled Handy from my coat and held it up for her to see.

  "This little piece of engineering? It can take down a stage two with ease. Arrows can barely catch them. And this—this is only a primitive firearm. On this planet, I’m the only one who understands how to design and build what comes next. Weapons that can fire hundreds of projectiles in rapid succession. Weapons that can hit targets miles away with precision. I’m not saying they’ll kill a stage five—not yet. But they will turn the tide of a battle. They will save lives from evil bastards that deserve no mercy."

  "And this engineer of yours?"

  "Miss Lilith Makina. Director of the Artificery Department at the Grand Academy. She’s already proven what I say is more than possible. The only question is—do you want your forces equipped sooner, or later?"

  She studied me for a long moment, then said, "This is quite the offer. I’ll visit Miss Makina and see the truth for myself. If what you say holds up, I’ll approve the first phase. However—"

  She narrowed her eyes slightly, lips pursed in thought.

  "—I see you wear the Academy coat. Even the greatest minds still need honing. You will continue your two-year academic course. I don’t intend to strip you of such a rare opportunity. If I deem your work worthy, I’ll authorize a budget for the first year. After that, we’ll evaluate whether to proceed."

  "Thank you." I stepped back, nodded in respect, and turned to leave without another word.

  As soon as I passed the door, the Inquisitor punched me in the stomach. I doubled over, coughing.

  "Tabarnak! What’s your problem?" A pulse of energy surged from my chest with the word.

  "What’s your problem, Sam?" she snapped. "Do you have a death wish? Not bowing or kneeling in front of the Pontifex? I get it—you’ve got issues with authority—but your attitude is suicidal. I don’t even know how you walked out of that office in one piece."

  She glared at me, all fire and steel.

  "Take your ego down a notch. Otherwise, you might drag other people down with you." Her tone was sharp, serious. "You’re lucky what you said was enough to get her attention on your case. Otherwise..."

  She didn’t need to finish.

  "And never—and I mean never—pointlessly invoke the power of the Hero’s Artifacts. You’re treading a fine line with heresy, and if you don’t correct yourself, I will."

  “By the way,” she said casually, “your coat—just push a bit of mana into it. You can change the colors and style however you like. It's that simple.”

  “Noted,” I replied, still clutching my stomach and scowling. I was not over that punch.

  “By the way, Inquisitor,” I said as we started walking, “I still don’t have your name. Would you mind spilling the beans, or am I gonna have to call you ‘Inquisitor’ forever?”

  “Valery,” she replied coolly. “Now get moving. I wanna go home.”

  I got back with Hope at HQ to grab Hope before heading to the dorms. Once we reached my door, she asked me to wait a second and began silently chanting a prayer spell before turning invisible.

  “You still there?” I asked.

  “Yup,” she whispered in my ear.

  “Are you gonna stay in my room?”

  “Indeed,” she whispered again.

  “Well, that’s a bit creepy, but suit yourself, I guess.”So that’s what she meant when she said she’d be my shadow.You know, I’m starting to wonder if she really did find me by accident…

  Must be on a need-to-know basis.

  I sat there on the floor, heart racing, trying to convince myself not to be embarrassed. Not that it helped. My face felt hot enough to cook breakfast on.

  “Sorry,” I muttered, dragging myself back to my feet. “You’re the one who went invisible and climbed into bed uninvited. I thought I was alone.”

  “You were,” she replied, voice teasing now. “And then you weren’t. Besides… I said I’d be your shadow. I'll be following you everywhere for a while get used to it.”

  “Yeah, well, your shadow nearly gave me a heart attack.”

  I climbed back under the blanket, this time staying well on my side of the bed. Wojtek let out a grunt in his sleep, like he was judging me for something. I exhaled and let my body start to unwind.

  Silence settled between us, warm and a little awkward.

  Then, just as my breathing started to slow and sleep began to creep in, I felt it—arms gently wrapping around me from behind. Hope’s body pressing against my back, careful and soft.

  “You are not alone,” she whispered.

  I didn’t answer. I didn’t have to. I just let her hold me, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I didn’t dream of fire or blood or failure.

  Only warmth.

  Aurelia's POV:

  As soon as the strange duo left my office, I took a deep breath, trying to calm my trembling heart after the shocking vision I had just witnessed. As I exhaled, the ornate portable chapel—the Tabarnacle—sitting along the wall of my office pulsed with a wild surge of power. The Artifacts were calling for their master.

  I would need to assemble a team for the summoning as soon as possible. We needed the Nameless Hero more then we ever did in the last two thousand years.I couldn’t summon him myself—too old now, and no longer fertile. The list of Stage 4 and 5 candidates who were both powerful and young enough to survive the ritual was short.

  But one stood out.

  A young Mother named Katrina, living within the Empire. Her profile was promising. According to her records, she had gone non-verbal after a classified mission. That silence might be a blessing—it would help keep the summoning secret for a little while longer.