The longer Michael remained in Fortuna, the more the city whispered to him.
Not in words. In cracks. In patterns. In the spaces between stories—the kind people didn't notice or didn't question. Symbols repeated in stained-glass windows, inconsistencies in the books. Texts too pristine or too decayed for their supposed age.
And always, the Angelos.
Silent. Motionless. Sleepless.
Everywhere.
Michael had counted at least seven distinct sets of armor, each with slight design variations. They patrolled the halls, lingered on balconies, and stood sentinel through masses.
No one questioned their presence. In fact, the people revered them. "Avatars of Sparda's Will," they were called.
But when Michael drifted too close… the sensation returned.
Not unease.
Recognition.
Like he'd seen them move before. Felt the weight of their strikes. Faced them under a different sky.
He began tracking their movements—quietly, methodically. Which halls they frequented. How they responded to clergy. How they reacted to him.
Most ignored him.
A few gave a slow, acknowledging nod.
But one—the same one from the library—stopped near the west garden on the seventh day. It stared for nearly a full minute before vanishing behind the chapel.
That one wasn't just armor.
That one remembered him.
Two weeks passed.
Michael played his role well—polite, disciplined, capable. A knight-in-training with just enough charm to be respected, and just enough distance to be left alone.
Mornings were spent training with other recruits. Afternoons walking the city, cataloging every tower, alley, and blind spot. Nights, always, ended in the library.
Angela checked in now and then, asking if he was adjusting.
He gave her nothing.
But he was watching everything.
He studied the Church's patterns, noted where the guards rotated, which halls were sacred and which were suspiciously forgotten. He memorized weak points and inner chambers, smiling through every lesson with feigned reverence.
That's when he met him.
POV: Michael — The Vault Annex
Angela granted him access to the Vault Annex—a deeper layer of the archives where church doctrine and arcane records were kept under lock and oath.
He hadn't asked for it.
Angela had simply said, "You've earned trust."
The air was cold. The walls, candlelit stone. Rows of shelves glowed faintly with etched runes. And in the center stood a robed figure, hunched and jittery, covered in chemical stains and dried ink. Cracked glasses perched on his nose. His beard looked like it had been trimmed with a dagger.
"Ah! Antonio Marino," the man exclaimed, nearly dropping a bundle of scrolls as he hurried toward him. "I've read your evaluations. Blade resonance, psionic reaction time—remarkable. Truly remarkable."
Michael raised a brow. "And you are?"
"Agnus," he replied, adjusting his glasses. "Archivist. Arcane biologist. Demonologist. Faith's last analyst." He grinned too wide. "I study… them."
Michael stayed silent.
Agnus didn't mind.
He gestured excitedly to the carved runes along the shelves.
"They say demons are chaos incarnate, but no—there are patterns. Rules. Behaviors." He clapped once, sharp and loud. "You've killed some recently, haven't you?"
Michael didn't answer.
"No need to. The residual energy's still on you. And your sword… the core's burn rate is irregular."
Michael's voice dropped. "You scanned my weapon?"
"Only observed," Agnus replied cheerily. "Fascinating design."
Michael didn't blink.
Agnus hesitated at the tension, then turned and motioned toward the far shelves. "I could show you what we've uncovered. The Angelos, for example. Elegant constructs. You've seen them, yes?"
Michael gave a nod. "They're hard to miss."
Agnus chuckled darkly. "Some say they're divine. But perfection isn't just symmetry. It's what lies within."
Michael tilted his head, more alert now. "And what lies within?"
Agnus paused.
Then smiled again—smaller this time.
"Come back another night," he said. "I'll show you."
POV: Michael — Later That Week
His focus narrowed.
No longer on the Angelos. Not even the guards or the clergy.
Now, it was Sparda.
He combed the deepest shelves—hidden tomes, fragmented journals, forbidden texts written in ancient tongue.
He found contradictions. Accounts of Sparda sealing the gates that clashed in date and description. Mentions of experiments conducted after his disappearance. Of a project called Catalyst, buried deep in priest-only doctrine.
More disturbing were the implications: attempts to recreate Sparda's so-called miracle.
With human and demon flesh.
Michael's eyes locked on a passage inked in a forgotten dialect:
"To claim the legacy of light, we must first master the darkness."
Below it, a date:
Seven years ago.
One year after the current Pope rose to power.