POV: Michael
The chamber held its breath.
Michael's answer had dropped like a stone in still water—no ripples, only silence. The Pope, ever composed, gave a soft smile. Not of amusement, but of understanding. Like they'd both agreed to something unspoken. Something older than the walls around them.
The old man lifted a hand and gestured gently toward the ring of armored knights encircling the room. They parted without a word, as if the movement was rehearsed, expected.
Angela stepped forward, withdrawing a small silver tablet and stylus from her robe. The metal gleamed faintly under the warm cathedral light.
"Just a few questions," she said. "For our records."
Michael gave a nonchalant nod. "Sure."
She glanced at the screen. "Profession, officially?"
"Demon hunter."
Angela's pen didn't hesitate. "How long?"
He gave a pause, deliberate but not suspicious. Long enough to seem reflective, short enough to avoid drawing questions.
"Since I was sixteen," he replied, voice steady.
Technically true.
"Any affiliations? Guilds, orders?"
"No."
She paused at that.
Then: "Would you be interested in joining the Fortuna Order of the Sword?"
Michael folded his arms, gaze drifting lazily across the stained-glass windows. "You recruit all your visitors?"
"No," the Pope said softly, tone even. "Only the ones that walk through fire."
Michael glanced back at him. No smirk, no shift in posture—just stillness. Then his eyes returned to Angela.
"Yes," he said. "I would."
She raised an eyebrow in surprise.
He added casually, "Maybe I'll get access to your library."
Angela's lips twitched in amusement. "You read?"
"Sometimes," Michael said. His tone stayed flat, unreadable.'Especially when it comes to demons, sealed gates… and Sparda.'
Angela scribbled something down, then looked toward the Pope. "He'll need to be tested."
The Pope nodded once.
One of the knights stepped forward immediately. Tall, broad, wrapped in gleaming silver armor from head to toe. His helm masked everything, but the grip on his sword said enough—ready, alert, disciplined.
"Outside?" Angela asked, her voice neutral.
"No need," the Pope said. "Here will do."
Michael exhaled softly through his nose, then rolled his shoulders.
The knight stepped into the center of the chamber as the others formed a wide ring. No one spoke. No instructions were given. They all knew the drill.
Michael reached for the blade on his back.
Ashen Mercy slid free with a whisper of metal, but he didn't ignite it. No frost. No fire. Just steel.
Angela's voice called out lightly, "Non-lethal only."
Michael gave the armored knight a courteous nod.
Then the bells atop the cathedral began to ring.
The knight struck on the second toll.
A lunge—fast, clean, practiced. The blade came high, slicing down toward Michael's shoulder.
Michael stepped into the strike, not away.
He ducked under the arc, closed the gap, and brought the hilt of his sword up hard beneath the knight's chin. The armor clanged, and the knight reeled.
Michael pivoted.
With a twist of his torso, he brought his elbow crashing into the knight's side, hitting just under the ribs where the plates met.
The knight spun off balance, stumbled—then crashed to the floor.
Two movements. No blade. No magic. Just control.
Silence returned.
The knight groaned once and didn't rise.
Michael sheathed his weapon calmly, not looking down.
The Pope let out a low breath. It might've been a chuckle. "As I expected," he said. "The fire walks with him."
Angela blinked. "That was… efficient."
Michael adjusted his coat.
"I'm not here to show off," he said. "Just get things done."
The Pope regarded him with eyes like faded embers—dim, but not cold. "Then we shall give you space to rest. And time to decide if you wish to stay."
He turned to Angela. "A room in the west wing. One of the upper quarters."
Angela dipped her head. "I'll show him."
Michael followed her from the room, boots tapping against stone as two knights moved to help their fallen comrade back to his feet.
He cast one last glance over his shoulder.
The hooded figure beside the Pope hadn't moved. Still as a statue. A shadow draped in cloth.
But Michael felt it.
The weight of their stare.
Angela led him down a quieter hallway—arched ceilings, tall windows, sunlight spilling in across the floor in golden stripes. It smelled faintly of incense and polished wood.
"The room will be stocked," she said. "And you'll have access to the archive wing. Under supervision."
Michael gave a faint nod. "Fine."
She stopped in front of a large, carved wooden door, drew a key from her belt, and opened it with a quiet click.
"Welcome to Fortuna, Antonio," she said.
He stepped inside.
The room was simple but refined. A sturdy bed tucked against the wall, desk by the window, a tall polished cabinet with an iron lock, and a sword stand that gleamed beneath the glass dome overhead. Everything in the room was neat. Cared for.
Angela closed the door softly behind him.
Michael let out a breath, unfastened his coat, and tossed it onto the bed. His muscles ached—not from the fight, but from the atmosphere. The pressure. The weight of being watched.
He sat down slowly, hands resting on his knees.
The silence was different now. Not oppressive. Just… heavy.
His eyes drifted toward the far wall.
Above a small prayer altar, carved into gold and white stone, was the seal of Sparda—wings spread wide, sword raised high, halo flaring.
Michael stared at it.
Unblinking.
Unmoving.
'Let's see what secrets you've left behind.'