Three days evaporated. The bruise on No. 7's face had mellowed to a sickly yellow, a faint ghost lingering on his cheekbone. He stood in line, adrift in a sea of students buzzing about the exam results. No. 3, hands clasped, radiated an uncharacteristically fervent devotion.
"Sweet Jupiter, just let me pass. I can't face those latrines again."
These past few days, the sight of No. 7 had become a source of pure terror for No. 3. Post-class, No. 7 would invariably drag him to the library, practically ramming knowledge into his skull. Then came the nocturnal "private lessons" in the training ground, grueling one-on-one Tidal Force drills that left No. 3's hands still screaming in protest. He shot a resentful sideways glare at No. 7's intensely focused profile, mentally cataloging a fresh litany of curses.
No. 7, observing his chattering peers, felt a familiar curl of disdain. *What's all the fuss? Obviously, I aced it ag—*
"The results of this examination: First place… No. 3."
Silas's voice, amplified from the platform, cut through the din. His gaze swept the assembly, finally locking onto a bewildered No. 3.
Every head in the hall swiveled. No. 3 himself looked utterly poleaxed, jaw slack. *That cheat sheet… did it work a little *too* well?* A cold dread washed over him. *This is way too obvious! What if they make me retake it?* He whirled to No. 7 for an S.O.S. and recoiled. The guy's face had taken on a greenish pallor, his eyes boring into No. 3 with an unreadable, unnerving intensity.
No. 6, teeth gritted, jabbed No. 3 sharply. "Told you not to copy! Now look at the mess you're in!"
The Cardinal Sin Bishop's colossal form materialized from the shadows, his gold-embroidered robes whispering across the stone. A beatific smile graced his lips, but his small, piggy eyes glinted with a deeply unsettling light.
"Regarding this examination, No. 3's paper was… exceptionally insightful." The Bishop's voice, unctuous yet booming, resonated through the grand hall, making the very air thrum. "I reviewed it personally. His… scientific exegesis on the theological validity of indulgences was truly revelatory. Mmm, yes. It seems the great Jupiter has finally smiled upon your devout little heart."
No. 3 wrung his hands, a cold sweat breaking out. He had zero recollection of writing any such thing. The Bishop droned on, "As a reward, you are granted the singular honor of pursuing advanced studies at the Most Holy Sanctum in the capital."
A wave of murmurs rippled through the students. The Most Holy Sanctum—the absolute pinnacle of Church academia, a hallowed institution whose gates opened only for the crème de la crème. No. 3's breath hitched. No. 7, however, found his gaze snagged by the Bishop's fingertips, which were absently, almost compulsively, worrying the gold thread of his cuff.
"Furthermore," the Bishop's tone shifted, a subtle undercurrent now audible, his finger tapping lightly in No. 3's direction, "I received a fresh decree from the Sanctum only yesterday. Before your departure, through the Church's sacred Holy Covenant Platform, you shall be permitted to commune with your family. A divine artifact, gifted by Jupiter himself, it bridges the chasm between lost souls and their kin, allowing them to witness the… exceptional individuals their children have become under our enlightened guidance."
A violent tremor wracked No. 3. The blood drained from his face, leaving it a mask of waxy terror. "F-family? But… I don't remember… any family."
"Precisely! And thus, all our esteemed faculty shall be present, to bear witness to this joyous reunion, this profoundly moving reconnection of blood!"
The Bishop's gaze slid, like oil on water, over No. 7 and No. 6. His voice dripped with synthetic sorrow. "A pity, though… that some, despite evident talent, consistently fall… just short." He punctuated this with a slow, mournful shake of his head.
No. 6's fingernails bit into her palms, crescents of white against her skin, though her expression remained a placid mask. No. 7 stared at the Bishop's cuff, at that relentlessly twisted gold thread, now frayed and deformed. It looked, he thought with a sickening lurch, like a hangman's noose about to snap.
His mind, a frantic whirl of calculations, replayed his idiotic jest about fried angels, the instructors' bizarre leniency towards No. 3's blatant cheating…
*No. 3. A traitor. He sold me out. Traded friendship for favor…* An icy rime coated his heart.
"I'm not going."
No. 3's voice, though barely above a whisper, detonated in the stunned silence like a thunderclap on a cloudless day.
The hall froze. No. 7 and No. 6 gaped, their faces masks of disbelief. The Cardinal Sin Bishop's smile faltered for the barest fraction of a second before reasserting itself, wider and more predatory than before.
"Oh?" The Bishop canted his head, a parody of polite interest. "You have no desire to unearth your past? No curiosity about the identity of your kin?"
No. 3's Adam's apple worked convulsively. Sweat beaded on his temples. "No. 6… she's far more deserving." His voice gained strength. "She remembers the river of her homeland, her mother and father, even her own name! *She's* the one who yearns to see her family!"
Silas's face contorted into a thunderous scowl, his knuckles white as he clenched his fists. "The Sanctum's decree! Do you imagine you can simply… reassign it?"
"Let him speak," the Bishop demurred, raising a placating hand.
No. 3 sucked in a ragged breath. "No. 7 commands the Tidal Force with unparalleled skill. No. 6 has committed the sacred doctrines to heart more thoroughly than anyone. And I… I can't even recite the third chapter of the 'Ode to Jupiter' from memory." His voice dwindled. "This exam… this exam…"
No. 7's heart hammered against his ribs. *The idiot! Is he actually going to confess?*
"...This exam, I just got lucky," No. 3 mumbled, ultimately shirking the full truth. "But luck… luck shouldn't be the deciding factor for the Most Holy Sanctum."
The Bishop's smile stretched further, revealing a palisade of uneven, stained teeth. "Such… touching camaraderie." He began to clap, his fleshy palms producing a hollow, booming sound that reverberated through the stone chamber. "To forsake one's glorious future for the sake of a friend… truly… affecting."
"Excellent!" The Bishop's voice suddenly boomed, rattling the stained-glass windows in their frames. "No. 3! Your unwavering loyalty to your friends, your comrades—this is the very bedrock of your manifest excellence! And it is precisely for this reason—" His smile vanished as if wiped clean, "—that you *must* proceed to the Most Holy Sanctum. It is not merely an honor; it is your solemn duty!"
"No, I—" No. 3 started to protest, but the Bishop had already glided before him, one heavy hand descending on his shoulder.
"We depart on the morrow. It is the will of God." Without a backward glance, he swept away, the jovial mask seemingly superglued to his features.
..........
"I really didn't see this coming. I swear, I didn't want to be the reason No. 6 lost her chance to talk to her family. I'm so sorry," No. 3 blubbered, sounding like a chastened child. No. 7 had to lean in to catch his mumbled words.
No. 6 enveloped him in a hug. She'd never imagined No. 3 possessed the audacity to defy the Bishop. Today, she'd seen a courage in him she hadn't known existed. A warmth flooded her, quickly chased by an aching, indescribable sorrow. They might not see No. 3 again for a very long time. Perhaps… never.
A pang of guilt lanced through No. 7. He shouldn't have doubted him. *If No. 3 hadn't spoken up for me today,* he thought grimly, *my petty, suspicious ass would probably have held it against him for a lifetime.*
"Man, No. 1's cheat sheet was pure magic. No wonder he never sweats exams; they're a joke to him," No. 3 babbled, still attempting damage control. "When I asked him if the angels really got their golden glow from being deep-fried, he recited the original scripture back to me, word for word! It was…"
"You *asked* him that?" No. 7 stared, aghast. "Did you… did you tell him it was *me* who said it?"
"Yeah, I told him. What? That look on your face… Did I screw up again?" No. 3 wrung his hands, agitation radiating off him in waves.
No. 7 then laid bare the entire a_ff_air in the Bishop's office, an episode he'd previously censored for No. 6's sake.
"He did *what*?! That two-faced, scripture-spouting, sanctimonious hypocrite! Prancing around like some… some flitting moth! And I saved him two meat patties!" No. 3 roared, rolling up his sleeves. "I'm going to find that snitch and—"
His companions lunged, grabbing him.
"Are you insane? You want to assault the Bishop's prized toady? Do you still plan on *going* to the capital, or not?"
"No!" No. 3's retort was instantaneous and absolute.
No. 7 was momentarily struck dumb. No. 6 jumped into the breach. "Don't be a fool! What good will violence do? We need to get this information out, discreetly, then strategize. Besides," her eyes suddenly blazed with an incandescent light, "I have an idea. A way… a way perhaps all of us can reach our families."