The island, now shrouded in that violet mist, had fallen into absolute silence—
as though every sound had been swallowed whole by the fog.
When Favia and Baobhan Sith emerged from the mountainside cavern,
what awaited them was a scene of quiet horror.
Under the veil of mist, the islanders had all collapsed to their knees,
their faces void of expression, their eyes gleaming a chilling crimson.
One by one, they pressed their hands together in fervent prayer,
their heads bowed toward the direction of the monastery—
a congregation of mindless devotion.
At the same time, across the island, the once-living greenery began to wither.
In the next instant, however, as if reborn from death itself,
new roots tore through the soil—this time glowing in shades of deep violet.
They spread outward in every direction,
as if echoing the color's very essence—
a color of ritual, of corruption,
of something vast and ancient reawakening beneath the earth.
The entire Isle of Monte Cristo
was soon enveloped in that dreadful haze—
like the opening act of some forbidden ceremony.
"What do we do now?"
Baobhan's voice trembled.
Panic shimmered in her clear eyes as she turned to Favia for help.
She had no idea what had just happened,
only that the peaceful island had turned into a nightmare
in the blink of an eye.
The fairy could feel it—a primal, instinctive disgust and terror crawling up her spine.
It wasn't only her. Even the earth itself seemed to shudder in loathing at what was happening.
"..."
Favia fell silent, his eyes following the direction in which all the islanders knelt—the monastery on the hill.
This wasn't the first time he'd seen a scene like this. Long ago, in the fifth century, he had fought alongside Siegfried and Beowulf to slay the sea monster Kraken that haunted the North Sea. That ancient phantasmal creature had wielded a power very similar to what now unfolded before him.
And yet, something about this felt different.
The Kraken's ability came from merging with the fading minor nature spirits of the northern seas—a union of extinction and instinct.
But this—this island shrouded in violet mist—felt deliberate, structured. It wasn't natural. It was a ritual.
Somehow, the sight stirred a memory in him:
the Witch Trials.
Beelzebub—the Lord of Flies, embodiment of Gluttony among the Seven Deadly Sins—rose unbidden in his thoughts.
But Beelzebub's essence was never truly gluttony; his delight was in corruption, in sowing discord and envy, leading the faithful astray and watching the purest priests fall into depravity.
During the age of witch hunts, there had been those across Europe who worshiped Beelzebub as the "Demon King who ruled over witches."
Records from witch hunts were full of testimonies describing witches dancing and chanting Beelzebub's name in blasphemous rites that mocked Christ.
Yet when Favia had first arrived on this island, he hadn't sensed any of that.
No heretical presence, no demonic aura—only simple villagers living simple lives.
Certainly not Beelzebub.
After all, he had already slain that demon once—during the Holy Grail War in the Snowfields.
"Let's go take a look."
After a brief pause, Favia began walking toward the monastery.
As they moved through the fog-shrouded village, the fairy girl followed close behind, her red hair dimly visible in the gloom. Her throat tightened; she swallowed hard as her scalp prickled in dread.
The purple mist was thickening—solidifying—as if coagulating into something alive.
Its texture looked almost like raw entrails freshly torn open, veins and eyes faintly forming within it, shapes writhing just beneath the surface.
The red-haired fairy shivered violently.
If Favia hadn't been walking in front of her, she would have bolted already.
And then—
A hand suddenly shot out from the fog beside her, seizing her wrist.
The grip was like an iron clamp.
The silence that followed was so absolute it screamed.
Baobhan's smile froze on her face. Her neck turned stiffly, her movements wooden.
Standing beside her was a girl—
younger than herself, face smooth and expressionless, eyes empty and cold.
The girl's gaze carried the same quiet fury one might show upon catching a thief red-handed.
Then, with a twisted, almost playful grin, the purple-skinned girl said, her tone dripping with jealousy—
"—How dare you touch someone else's big brother without permission?"
Boom!
Tentacles burst through the fog.
Favia reacted instantly, slicing through them with a surge of silver light—his magic cutting like a blade.
And from the purple mist, she emerged.
A girl, barefoot and pale, stepping as if she had been born from the haze itself.
Every step she took stained the ground in violet, and behind her, the fog rippled like living flesh.
"Normally, people start with a greeting," Favia said evenly. "Or shall we skip straight to the conclusion?"
In an instant, countless silver bullets of magic spiraled from his fingertips, tracing helixes through the air.
Each bullet carried enough force to render a man unconscious for days even with a graze.
They fired toward the monastery gates—
—and were instantly deflected.
The counterforce was so powerful that sparks filled the mist, illuminating a field of writhing tentacles.
Blue eyes met red.
"Abigail Williams."
The name escaped Favia's lips like a verdict.
The girl before him was unmistakable—
Abigail Williams, one of the first accusers in the Salem Witch Trials, a Puritan girl from the late seventeenth century.
But this was the early sixteenth century.
Why—how—was she here, in this form?
He suddenly recalled what the islanders had said earlier—
that "a child" lived in the monastery.
Could it have been her all along?
And just now—she'd said big brother?
"I've been waiting for you," the girl said softly.
"I've been waiting here on this island all this time. I even left my key behind… all for this day. Finally, it's come. Even God agrees."
Her expression didn't change. No laughter, no mockery—only solemn conviction.
"But I've been so lonely, brother. You should apologize for that."
Her breath brushed against Favia's cheek, soft and warm.
And then she whispered—
"My brother… Favia Williams."
The world went still.
Favia didn't even have time to react. His body convulsed violently—every muscle seizing, his magic circuits screaming in agony.
It felt as if even his soul were being strangled.
On Abigail's forehead, within a faint keyhole mark, a violet eye slowly opened—
an eye filled with mockery, delight, cruelty, and an unspeakable playfulness.
The ritual wasn't complete. By all logic, the human eye shouldn't be able to perceive it.
And yet, that eye forced itself into existence—
a defiance of both reality and illusion,
manifesting upon the Isle of Monte Cristo in perfect blasphemy.
Even a brief glance at it was enough for Favia to feel the freezing pain of his very life being torn away.
A moment later, purple mist poured out from the "keyhole," caressing him with eerie tenderness—
as though stroking something precious, irreplaceable.
His consciousness blanked.
He could only watch, helpless, as the tentacles brushed against him—half caress, half torment.
Abigail smiled.
A small, satisfied, mischievous curve of her violet lips.
"There's a nasty little dog over there," she said sweetly. "She's barking and getting in the way of me and my brother's reunion. I think I'll treat her like a stray and make sure she never yaps again…"
She skipped lightly toward Baobhan Sith—
—but stopped.
Something changed.
The girl froze mid-step, confusion flickering in her crimson eyes.
Slowly, she turned around.
Behind her, the boy who should have been unconscious—the silver-haired priest who should have collapsed under the gaze of the violet eye—was moving.
His hand twitched.
Once. Twice.
Driven by sheer will, his body staggered forward, step by step, lifeless eyes fixed on her.
He raised his trembling arm—
and in his hand gleamed the incomplete Silver Key.
The smile vanished from Abigail's face.
She didn't resist.
"…I really wanted to help you more, brother," she murmured.
"Your happiness is my happiness… but why does my forehead hurt so much?
This much… is enough, right?"
Her voice was not despairing, nor resigned.
It was simply… peaceful.
Reaching out, she gently straightened his collar.
"Well then, it's not because of that fairy. It's because of people themselves—or maybe it's everyone, really. Still… you deserve a little punishment, brother. After all, you really are—"
Her lips twisted into a warped, almost loving smile.
Behind her, a massive gate of nothingness yawned open.
"—such a greedy bad boy."
The gate swallowed them both.
Then it closed—silent, absolute.
And for a moment, it seemed everything had ended.
But just as the gate sealed shut, from the deepest point of the second cavern beneath Monte Cristo Island, a faint golden light burst forth—
weak, yet fierce.
The radiance shredded through the island's purple mist, burning it away.
Then it struck the gate itself.
The impact made the door shudder violently, cracking in several places.
The golden beam paused midair—then charged again.
The purple haze surged to meet it—
but the light tore through the lock, blasting a hand-sized hole through the gate.
The next instant, the world fell silent again.
The mist dissipated.
The light vanished.
And Favia—along with Abigail—was gone.
—
When Favia awoke, he was falling.
The wind howled around him; the sky stretched endlessly above, the sea below.
Abigail lay limp in his arms, her skin once again pale and human.
He tried to call upon his magic—but nothing responded.
Maybe it was exhaustion.
Maybe the aftershock of looking into that forbidden eye.
Either way, gravity was winning.
The ocean loomed below—vast, merciless, infinite.
"This is… going to be a problem," he muttered.
He scratched his head, sighed, and adjusted his grip around Abigail—holding her above him.
He knew what awaited.
From this height, the sea might as well be concrete.
The instant he hit the surface, the surface impact effect would crush his body like glass.
Seconds later—
SPLASH.
A crimson bloom spread across the endless blue of the Mediterranean.
The sea wasn't cold.
He could still faintly hear the rhythm of the waves as consciousness slipped from him,
and the currents carried him—drifting, drifting—toward an unknown shore.
—
Sunlight.
Waves.
And voices.
"Hey! What the hell—who's this guy? He's passed out!"
"New prisoner? Didn't hear anything about that."
A group of men stood over the bloodstained figure lying on the sand—silver-haired, his robes shredded, his face calm even in unconsciousness.
"Should we report this?"
"Wait. That Italian priest in the prison just up and died two days ago—damn thing. We're still figuring out how to explain it.
This guy's about the same age… maybe we got lucky."
"And if someone asks questions?"
"Relax. This place makes people go mad anyway."
They stripped him of his soaked clothes, dressed him in rough rags, and carried him away.
The sound of the sea faded in and out.
Near… then far…
Finally, Favia smelled damp stone, mold, sweat, and rust.
The stench of confinement.
They threw him unceremoniously into a cell.
"Doesn't look that old to me. Guy's built like an ox."
"Maybe he's a noble who fell from grace. You know how Napoleon's been cracking down on the old aristocrats."
"Probably jumped ship and drifted here."
Favia barely felt the impact. It was as though someone—or something—had softened his fall.
"Still out cold?"
"Get some cold water and throw it on him."
"Wait—hang on. He's waking up."
Favia's eyelids fluttered open.
"…This is…"
His voice was faint, hoarse.
The guards exchanged glances.
There was something about the man's tone—calm, gentle, almost holy—that made them subconsciously lower their voices.
One of them cleared his throat.
"Cough… You're in the Château d'If Prison near Marseille. You're an Italian priest—or were.
Anyway, rest for now. From this point forward, you'd better remember your name—"
He paused, as if struck by some intuition.
"—Faria."