The White and the Black
I sprinted for the Church as fast as my legs would carry me, but the scene that met my eyes was carnage. The white of the Church had been drowned in black — and then, soon after, in red.
People in priestly vestments of the same cut but different colors were killing and dying by one another's hands, and it was mostly the white-robed priests who fell.
No matter how much blood soaked into the black vestments or spattered across them, they stayed black to the very end; the white took the stain far too easily, fluttering apart like petals bruised and bleeding.
The cries of the black were steeped in madness, grotesque and booming; the voices of the white were noble and grand, yet they climbed higher and higher still.
Something about it felt wrong. However heavily the white Church leaned toward priests, there was no way it should be buckling this badly. The Church's holy knights were few, but each could hold his own against two or three ordinary men, and with the priests' blessings layered on top, they could handle far more than that. Which made this scene all the more incomprehensible — but I decided to shelve the question for later.
"Heheheh... accept it as an honor, little lamb — the embrace of our god..."
"H-Her wrath... I fear... khh..."
"S-somebody, save meee... Mother Superior!!!"
Because just ahead of me stood the back of a bastard holding a small child aloft in one hand with a knife leveled at them, while his boot ground down on a nun who looked to be well advanced in years.
I ran again. Desperate not to be too late, yet silent so as not to be seen. I ran and ran and ran until I was close on him, until it felt as though his back were drifting toward me. And what followed was simply this: a cut. The way one might cleave the very air around him, I drew a single line through it.
The child, startled by the sight of me so near, choked off his crying with a little hiccup — and I spoke, quietly, just loud enough for that child alone to hear.
"Close your eyes."
"Huh? What did you...?!"
It was, of course, a voice the man holding the child could hear as well. I didn't care. He wasn't going to be moving anymore anyway.
The man's head spun through the air. Blood unfurled across the empty sky as though embroidering it — beautiful, almost. No last words followed the severing of his neck; in their place came only the dull thud of something dropping.
The little one, slowly opening squeezed-shut eyes, went wide-eyed all over again, while the nun who had been pinned beneath his boot scrambled up and swept the child into her arms.
There was the faintest trace of fear in her eyes as she looked at me, and when her quivering lips finally parted, a frail voice slipped out.
"W-who... who might you be...?"
"M-Mother Superior, th-that man, he...!"
"One moment, Levin. Get behind me, please."
With that, she strained to tuck the child behind her gaunt, stooped frame — like a mother hiding her young. Trembling like a leaf one breath, demanding an answer in a resolute tone the next; how many people would actually answer a question posed like that? Her courage was almost admirable. There was only one thing I could say to her.
"Run while you can. And if you make it beyond the Church grounds, I ask that you report what happened here."
"I... beg your pardon? W-wait a moment!!"
I heard nothing after that. Before her words could catch up, I was already running.
A little farther on, more of them came into view — two men dressed in the same black as before. The only difference was their quarry: a young nun. What two burly men in the full flush of their vigor meant to do with a young nun was obvious. They were already rubbing their palms together, leering.
I closed the distance once more and cut twice. No last words this time, either — just as before, two dull thuds of something falling spoke in their place.
The nun in front of me seemed to be saying something, but none of it reached me. Words of thanks like those had no room to get through; the chanting and the screaming filling this place had claimed my ears entirely. Without properly hearing her out, I repeated what I'd told the nun before, kicked off the ground, and ran again — toward the place where the screams of the white and the death rattles of the black existed side by side.
"Hercal — is the handling of the Church proceeding smoothly?"
"It is..."
The black-clad man, who had spent a long while in the prayer room praying toward an inverted cross, at last finished and stepped outside, casting his question into the empty air. At that, an old man who had appeared from who knew where materialized at his back and answered in a voice like gravel dragged over his throat.
Someone came slowly toward the black-clad man, who looked well pleased with the answer.
"Hmm? Is the Saintess all finished, Antonio?"
"Yes. I've filled that bracelet of hers as well, so she won't be able to defy us."
"...If you're that certain of it, I won't trouble myself to check."
The black-clad man was Antonio — his white priest's robes, at some point, dyed black. A crescent-moon earring hung from his ear, the one thing shared by every soul clad in the black vestments.
Hearing his answer, the black-clad party walked on without another word. Their destination was the great cathedral at the heart of the Church. Stained glass in every color bore the image of the god the Church served and the symbols of His dominion, and the golden light streaming down from the ceiling could make even an ordinary layperson sink into reverence without meaning to.
And there, alone amid all that gold, stood a figure in white. Cradled tenderly against his chest, a black scripture. An old man in a white cap gone gold beneath the light.
"What business brings you here, honored guests? I have no memory of inviting guests in such a manner."
"Hmm... to think anyone was still left standing. That, too, I did not expect."
"...Kindly answer the question you were asked."
For all his easy, genial appearance, the air around him was savage beyond measure. The Pope's eyes gleamed, and the space about him rippled. Perhaps they sensed on pure instinct that an attack could land at any moment — the hair stood on end for Antonio, the black-clad man, and the old man alike. And yet the smiles never left their lips. Even knowing their lives were not assured, they went on smiling.
It was at this point that the Pope felt his first wrongness.
As the pressure bore down on them, the first to speak was Antonio.
"Your Holiness, it's been far too long. Haha."
"...Priest Antonio, was it not. Under present circumstances, I would hardly call this a pleasant reunion."
"That's a shame to hear. We've no wish to clash with you, Your Holiness."
The Pope exhaled a hollow sigh. To reduce his Church to this, and then speak of wishing to avoid conflict. That man had once served within the Church itself. Everyone had called him diligent. Someone had even cherished the boy like a son of his own, treating him with the deepest devotion. And that same wretch had now wrought this treachery against the very people who had once been his comrades — and he had the gall to speak of not wanting a clash? At that shameless face, his teeth ground together of their own accord and fury came boiling up, and with it the air around them began to shudder.
The holy power spread wide through the cathedral's interior began to rampage without restraint, and Antonio and his companions dropped into ready stances as if to meet it.
"Just asking on the off chance — but you wouldn't consider stopping this assault on us, would you? Hahaha..."
"Close that mouth of yours, Antonio."
Still the man babbled on. With the thought of crushing that mouth shut, the Pope thrust out his palm, and holy power shot forth in answer. They scattered in every direction, and all that remained on the floor was the imprint of a hand.
"If that's the extent of it, this is nothing—"
"I told you to hold your tongue."
Again a palm charged with holy power tore through the air toward them — no, to be precise, toward Antonio. He ducked his head to evade, and this time a deep crater bloomed in the wall.
"Kgh...! Even so, we have you outnumbered! If we make use of that—"
"Hah... hah. Impressive, truly."
"Indeed. He didn't rise to the seat of Pope for nothing."
His companions did nothing but volley admiration back and forth — not one of them moved to help him — so he hurriedly turned his head toward whatever held their attention. What on earth had so captivated them that they would slight him so? He followed their gazes, and what he found there was another palm. No — two colossal arms. Giant arms had grown out from behind the Pope. No — to be exact, they were formless. Colossal arms woven of holy power so pure that any magi drifting near would be purified by mere proximity.
"...For a man such as you, even a place at His side would be a waste. Simply fall to hell instead."
The instant the words ended, the Pope's hands interlocked and came together — and the two great arms came crashing down upon Antonio.
A thunderous boom; the surrounding furniture was flung apart or shattered by the pressure, and dust from the impact billowed far and wide. Before long, wind swept in through the cracks the shock had split across the Church's walls, and the choking dust cleared away entirely.
He had little wish to watch the man be crushed to death, so he turned his gaze — and his arms — toward the old man beside him. But what he found was somehow not what he had expected.
"Our apologies... but we have no wish to go to the one you serve. We mean to go to another. And that one does not dwell in hell, heh heh heh..."
"...How did you stop that?"
What met the Pope's eyes was the black-clad man — the very one who, until a heartbeat ago, had stood shoulder to shoulder with the old man — holding fast against the two colossal arms.
Before long, moonlight streamed through the fissures in the wall and washed the Church's interior in beautiful silver, and what caught the Pope's eye above all was the man's black crescent-moon earring, gleaming brighter than anything else in the room.