Armageddon's Whisper
The trio—a young woman, a man, and a little girl—made up a combination that was utterly commonplace in daily life. An East Asian man paired with a blonde white woman, and a white girl whose head looked just a tad too large to pass for their daughter? That was far rarer. Yet the three melted into society as if they belonged, putting on the act of a perfectly banal family you could spot anywhere. There were plenty of prying eyes to dodge, after all.
"Sorry we're late."
As the three, who looked for all the world like a happy family, sat enjoying their meal, a middle-aged man in a bowler hat approached their table, doffing it with a polite greeting. A silver badge on the gentleman's lapel marked him as affiliated with some institution under the British royal family. It could pass for an ordinary brooch or button if you didn't look closely, but the trio clocked it instantly and cleared a seat for him.
"It's been a while, Zao Bin Long. And Mrs. Vanessa. Lize, you too."
"Coming here in person like this? Must be pretty damn urgent."
"In our line of work, is there ever anything not urgent? Haha. We're all just trying to make a living—wouldn't it be great if we could wrap things up a bit faster and get some rest?"
His words were smooth as silk, but Vanessa knew better than anyone they weren't sincere. The British royal family was as fixated on South Korea as the Vatican—precisely because of something currently residing there, demanding their undivided attention.
The gentleman who joined them so naturally plucked a roll from the bread basket at the table's center, sliced it neatly with his knife, spread it with jam and butter, and savored it. If you nitpicked table manners, there were a few spots to call him out on, but no one at that table was about to. They hadn't exactly grown up in environments that obsessed over such formalities.
"We've received reports of someone acting like the Messiah himself—absolving sins, granting salvation, and sending people straight to heaven on a whim, without discrimination. Was it true?"
Zao Bin Long set down his knife and fork first, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin like a light tap.
"They showed similar behavior."
"Similar behavior... What exactly do you mean by that?"
"That's why we call it similar—we don't know. We couldn't tell if it was true absolution, genuine salvation, or a shortcut to heaven. It happened in a flash, and all we could vaguely sense was that something had occurred. No comparable cases to reference, and no evidence secured in the first place."
"Didn't you record it with body cams?"
"Body cams, audio recorders, even micro-cameras pinned to shirt buttons—we threw everything at it, and it was all useless. You know full well that strong spiritual energy fries electronics."
"That's why our agency provided you with specialized gear."
"It didn't make a difference. We had to fall back on sketches and audio logs of what stuck in our memories, but honestly, I doubt it'll help much. What the higher-ups want is direct, irrefutable proof—pure, unadulterated, no room for tampering."
Which we can't provide. Because nothing was left.
Zao Bin Long's answer drew a bitter groan from the gentleman, followed by a moment of silence.
"What about Mrs. Vanessa's psychometry? It's not direct evidence, but it can share memories, can't it?"
"If you want to watch a bunch of people drop dead, be my guest."
Vanessa took a sip of wine to wet her throat before firing back.
"Never mind what I paid to glimpse those memories tied to it. To even decode them, we had to put Lize's body into a temporary out-of-body state. And even then? Nothing. We scraped a few fragmentary memories and a scrap of info... but perversely, just holding onto them acts like lethal poison. The instant we dug in, headaches like my skull was splitting, brains boiling over. Ever felt poison seeping into your gray matter?"
"...So what did you do in the end?"
"Sealed it. Psychometry's my specialty—reading memories is what I do—and even that couldn't handle it. Just possessing them was a burden. Sealing was the only option short of jamming electrodes into my brain and frying the things outright. We can't erase memories completely."
"At the very least, share those fragments or that scrap of info. You know how badly the bigwigs upstairs are waiting for even crumbs."
Vanessa paused, as if weighing her words, then spat out a single, flat term.
"Har-Magedon."
"...The Book of Revelation?"
"Forget that a normal human's memory acted like poison—what are the odds that decoding a sliver of it points to the end times? What I saw was unmistakably one man's memories, but that man was fated for a path no other human walks. Something changed him. Divine providence? The embodiment of evil? Or just the sheer force of his own will? No clue."
"That's your personal take?"
"If you want serious advice, I'll give you a bit more. He's human. But human on another level entirely. Like how Jesus Christ came down in a human body like ours, yet was the unique Son of God—that one's human, but something else too."
"The Second Coming?"
"If it were, we'd be lucky. At least he wouldn't drag the world to ruin. But calling him the Antichrist or the Beast? His core disposition's too damn good for that."
The gentleman snorted at her final words.
"Good disposition? Why not say devil worshippers are the true faithful while you're at it."
"Anyone with that kind of power would've bent the world to their whim or forced weak humans to worship them like a god. But he didn't. He acted against Christian doctrine as if it were the most natural thing, embracing and saving sinners. Whatever his actions, his intent and purpose? Pure good."
"Enough blasphemy."
"Nobles with full coffers see Robin Hoods as scum worth exterminating, but the poor see them as heroes sharing the wealth. Depends on the viewpoint."
"Anything else?"
"Crows. They popped up a lot in the memories. That's it. Honestly, I don't even want to dig deeper."
The gentleman tsked softly, pulling out a cigarette. Smoking indoors was banned, but this place had been "cooperative," so who cared? He inhaled deeply, gazed at the ceiling, and exhaled a thick cloud that hazed the air.
"Humanity deserves a proper Judgment Day. Sinners to hell, the righteous to heaven, the reprieved to purgatory—a cold, precise reckoning. But grim rumors from the Vatican are shaking the faithful. Why endure agonizing days, hearts in our throats waiting for judgment, when it can just save us?"
"Human worries."
"Heresy."
Forgiving sins, granting salvation, opening heaven's gates—all by His will alone. No other can do it, nor is it permitted. Yet suddenly, rumors from some tiny Eastern nation claim the Messiah's descent, the Antichrist's rise—absurd lies and fake news stirring chaos. If the Vatican had handled it quietly before it blew up, fine. But their inquisitors got reversed, complicating everything.
Not that Vatican inquisitors are invincible. Even the elite fall to cunning traps. The problem? Who they fell to. When the prime suspect—Messiah, Antichrist, or whatever—takes down Vatican inquisitors, what does that scream?
'Wait... what if it's real...?'
Enough to fuel terror. Now talk of mobilizing executioners en masse or declaring a formal crusade. The royals want no chaos. With Her Majesty designating her end as the rightful "Judgment Day," everyone under the crown must ensure the world meets its proper finale.
'Evil must be quelled with evil. The little Eastern nation may crumble, but no choice.'
Even if it floods this land with mysteries—someone had to do it.