The destruction of the Welsh Cathedral, despite a sudden spike of attention like a lance thrust skyward, was tightly sealed off by the Church headquarters. As a result, the citizens of the Eastern and Western Roman Empires remained unaware of this audacious act. All they knew was that, somewhere in the distant north, on the island of Britannia, there appeared to be a beautiful new landscape.
However, inside the city of Rome, within the Western Roman Empire, the matter had stirred up a huge uproar. After all, with so many people dead and so much wealth lost, someone had to be blamed. In the end, the culprits were officially designated as:
Wandering magi, rogue Dead Apostles, some unknown Phantasmal Species, and, of course, the wavering faithful on the isle of Britannia. Therefore, punishment had to be intensified—how else to reinforce the strength of belief?
As for the surviving Dead Apostle sword monk, Be'ze, his life was spared thanks to his "disciplined behavior" and considerable combat power. Unlike Dead Apostle Kovac Alcatraz, who had dared to defy the Church's ruling decades ago and was hunted down for it, Be'ze escaped retribution.
After all, it was merely a few replaceable personnel who died. For a massive organization that had endured since the Roman Empire, this was no real inconvenience. If anything, the loss reduced internal strain.
In short, all was well. Peace and prosperity continued.
Even though the Roman Empire had been split into East and West due to various reasons over the past four hundred years, it was certainly not something that heretical creatures or unidentified intruders could casually defile. Since the Church had been declared the state religion, no enemy had ever penetrated the Empire's core. They could only eke out a miserable existence on the borders.
This had been proven as early as 300 A.D., and it was expected to remain true into the future.
Such was the unwavering confidence of the Holy Church.
The sky was bright and clear. Though the sun shone in the afternoon, a biting wind still blew briskly.
This was Constantinople, capital of the Eastern Roman Empire—once heavily invested in and developed by Nero, it was the eastern crown jewel of the Empire, nicknamed the "New Rome."
Despite the constant influx of wealth from the Eastern Mediterranean and West Asia, poverty-stricken districts still existed—an unavoidable reality.
Ramshackle little houses stood packed together on both sides of narrow streets. They were all low, slightly dim, and crowded so tightly that a grown man could touch their roofs with ease. The alleys between them felt more like damp, dark tunnels than streets.
In the midst of such a neighborhood, one house stood out not by size, but by neatness. Though the space inside wasn't large, it was tidy. Simple decorations adorned the walls: dried flowers, handmade trinkets, and small ornaments.
None of them were valuable, but they exuded a quiet, homely charm.
"So hard…"
It was then that Avia opened his eyes—and heard that voice.
In the blink of an eye, the black-haired girl who had been holding her mouth for some unknown reason straightened up and sat properly.
She wore an undecorated black outfit. Though plain in color, she emanated an indescribable air of dignity.
With blood-red eyes utterly devoid of emotion, she raised a long spear and looked down at the reclining Avia.
"This is yours."
Her voice was cold. Proud.
Avia nodded, unsure of the Dead Apostle girl's intentions. Still, since they were about to converse, it was only polite to sit up.
He hadn't been seriously wounded—just exhausted. Though he couldn't pinpoint the cause of that exhaustion, part of it, he suspected, was because...
He had made up his mind.
He must correct the colossal organization that had been born from his actions—even if that meant destroying it. Somewhere along the way, it had begun to rot.
And now, no natural external force seemed capable of reforming it. Its overwhelming might had already made it a force surpassing even the Clock Tower.
"…Who are you, really?"
The black-haired girl asked flatly.
She was puzzled. This should be the one the Wizard Marshal had sent her to find… but was he truly human?
He smelled human. His presence matched that of any ordinary person.
Yet he had tasted so fragrant… and still, she couldn't bite through him. Nearly chipped a fang on his flesh. Just what was his body made of?
"If you're asking for a name, it's Avia. If you're asking where I'm from, I'm a Hun."
The silver-haired boy answered with a relaxed smile.
"And you?"
"I'm… why should I tell you?"
The girl showed no interest in reciprocating his kindness. She remained cold, looking at him with open disdain.
"Fuh!"
As if echoing its master's attitude, a white magical hound let out a threatening bark. Its glare was murderous, and it even swiped a paw menacingly.
But that distinctive bark gave Avia all he needed to confirm the girl's identity. After all, there were only two in the entire Type-Moon world associated with that white beast—Cath Palug, killer of primates. Besides the Flower Magus, there was only one other possible master…
The jet-black princess.
Though the White Princess herself would not be created until the 12th century, the one before him was undoubtedly the Princess.
The girl narrowed her blood-red eyes slightly, annoyed at her pet's insolence.
"…I forgot to mention something."
She turned her face slightly, casting a frigid glance at the creature on her shoulder.
Her voice grew even colder than her expression.
"Who gave you permission to bark without my say-so?"
That one sentence alone was enough to imagine how utterly crushed the magical hound felt. For the first time, Cath Palug—normally arrogant and wild—trembled with grief after being scolded by its master.
"Hahahaha! So the little girl finally found him, huh?"
A booming voice rang out. Soon after, a white-haired old man entered the room. Despite his age, he stood nearly two meters tall, with a sturdy build and perfectly straight posture.
"But I suppose introductions are in order. I'm not like that girl, flying into random tantrums. Hahahaha…"
After his hearty laughter, the old man stroked his beard and said slowly:
"Greetings. My name is Kischur Zelretch Schweinorg."