With determined steps, he moved toward the eighth door in the narrow corridor, where the white walls, combined with the vinyl flooring, created a sense of purity—a calm, serene aura that seemed to accompany him on his path.
The ever-present atmosphere mirrored what stirred inside him, as if it had taken form straight from the depths of his heart.
Knock, knock! He tapped twice, exhaling deeply, and the sound reverberated in a near-symphonic way, breaking the pure silence that filled the space.
"Come in!" came a muffled, deep voice from behind the door, followed by a playful tone: "Took you long enough!"
As the words reached him, he stepped inside without hesitation. The scene before him was familiar and yet revealing: his longtime friend was relaxed on the bed, still wearing the same heavy coat and worn-out boots that stained the sheets, white as snow.
Between his firm fingers, he held a peculiar book, its cover and title exuding mystery. He looked at it for a moment before breaking the silence.
"Work. My head's always full, and my schedule's a mess. But I've been less missing than you lately..."
"Work, always work!"
He brushed off the remark with an awkward laugh, as if trying to lighten the mood—but the ease of the moment slipped through his fingers.
His touch moved to the pages of the book. The title, embossed in gold and encircled by spiraling lines, stood out:
"Spiral Simulacrum: A Journey Through Alternative Reality"
The work was written by the idealist philosopher Klaus Schattenstein, a name known as much for his infamy as for his depravity. Born in the harsh, barren lands of Regnum, among the Germia mountains, his life became entangled with the very shadows he created. And it was there, in that same land, that he ended his days in misery—an echo of his own doctrine, lost in the ruins of his delusions.
"Ah, yes, he never leaves me. Every time I see an anthill, I can't help poking at it!" he said with a careless smile, as if he hadn't just served his friend's head on a silver platter—so effortlessly, like breathing.
"Irresistible, huh? That's what you get for getting involved with more than one broken system!"
As he criticized him, the visitor's eyes finally drifted around the room.
The place was nearly empty, as if mirroring the man's own absence. The wardrobe, slightly ajar, revealed its barren interior—no clothes. The usual stack of books was gone; in its place, the desk sat bare, stripped of anything that resembled reading or interest. Dozens of sealed cardboard boxes occupied the floor, as if waiting for something that would never come.
"Also, whose brilliant idea was it to put a pacifist in charge of policing this chaos?" he went on sarcastically, finally closing the book and shooting a direct look at the friend he hadn't seen in days. "Good thing you've got no hair left to lose..."
"Right?" he jokes.
The other man laughed along with the jab, but his smile quickly faded as he noticed the missing crucifix from around his friend's neck.
"We have to try to change something, don't we?" he said, sitting on the edge of the bed and letting his shoulders drop. "But what about you—what have you been up to? I heard you've been turning down assignments lately. Did you strike gold? On vacation?"
His question hung in the air, and the words didn't just disappear; they lingered, cold and sharp, echoing in the other's mind like a warning until something in him snapped—some buried trigger firing.
"This never changes... not like this..." he muttered, with a half-forced smile that barely hid what he truly felt. His eyes were now fierce—like a beast on the verge of striking. "Well, about the missions... I cut ties with the Order. I'm not an exorcist anymore. Servus Semper—never again."
There was so much raw truth in his eyes that the exorcist could barely be surprised.
"Seriously?" he asked, furrowing his brow. "Being an exorcist, saving humanity... wasn't that your truth?"
"It was..." his voice heavy with exhaustion. "But I don't see the point anymore. Come on, it's obvious. The Order—it's just concrete walls where we kill other people's demons, and it never ends!" His frustration poured out with every word, like an open wound. "I thought becoming an exorcist would change the world, but the world—people... most of them don't want to change!"
"And they never will. That's humanity..." he cut in, his voice heavy with resignation. After a tired sigh, he went on: "But now that you're out of the Order, what are you planning to do? Throw in the towel? Go live in the hills? Weren't you the one with the grand plan to change everything?"
At that, the unrest inside him overflowed—a symphony of dissonant thoughts echoed in his gestures and eyes, even if he said nothing. Then, all of a sudden, he jumped to his feet, the boxes around him trembling as his legs shoved them aside.
"I still will!" he declared, his voice slicing through the air with intensity. "But no leader will support me. They sit on their fat asses atop their gold, their bellies full from endless feasts. Nobles don't know suffering, my friend…"
With a decisive motion, he slid the book back onto the empty shelf, as if that single gesture marked the end of his declaration.
"Do you disagree?"
He turned, locking eyes with the other.
"No… but even so, you know that, here or anywhere else, it doesn't change the fact that this is all… unreal," he said, trying to inject some clarity into the moment. "I mean, your fight would be a direct assault on your own life — swimming against the current!"
"Doesn't change anything?" he shot back, his brow furrowed, questioning the very logic of the statement. "I can't see it that way… But anyway, it's not here, cleaning up other people's filth, that I'll figure out how to do it better."
As he spoke, something in his gaze shifted.
For an instant, a trace of Romero—thought long lost to time—resurfaced in full force: that relentless determination.
"I'm contemplating the perfect simulacrum I spoke of… to transform everything, as the void transformed this world. To restore Crea as a pure place again!"
His words held a prophetic weight, echoing something greater than themselves—madness and grandeur wrapped into one.
"Watanabe would be proud…" the other said, rising, visibly tired of the topic. "But no matter what I think… I'm sorry I can't carry that burden with you, as we once promised. One was meant to be the other's stepping stone…"
Their eyes met, charged with a bond only soul-brothers could share. For a moment, silence said more than words—until the response came, unwavering and full of conviction.
"Regret is not for dreamers, Gabriel. This is my burden, the one I should've accepted since the day I was reborn in the barren desert of Shamo…"
With a slow, almost reverent motion, he slid his hands into his pockets. A soft metallic sound echoed. He pulled out the crucifix and extended it.
Gabriel stared, mouth slightly agape.
"Keep this for me. At the very least, let me leave a mark of our friendship, brother…" he whispered.
"I will… Diego Romero, my brother…"
This tragedy, in its rawest form, wasn't just a Judas and Jesus story—it was the betrayal that shackles a man's soul to what he thought were his ideals.
Minutes later, he was gone.
Now alone, Gabriel walked toward the elevator, lost in thought. When the familiar "ding" sounded, he stepped into the grand hall of the first floor, instantly enveloped by its imposing scale.
The vast, bustling ground floor spread before him, like an airport terminal reimagined as a waiting hall. Exorcists of varying ranks moved among passersby, their tired eyes and resolute stances speaking volumes.
In the center of this organized chaos, one masterpiece stole the attention of all who passed: a painting by the renowned Leonardo da Vinci—known here as the Cosmological Artificer. It was a singular relic, dating back to the building's construction. Its presence was both commanding and enigmatic, immortalizing the delicate balance between art and divine purpose.
The painting portrayed Elum, the Creator, in all his majesty. Seven arms stretched from his form, each symbolizing a mythic tale tied to his legend. Three hands held objects: in his upper left, the Gladius Divinus Astra, the dagger that forged the world; in the middle-left hands, one gripped a chalice filled with the flames of creation, Ignis; and among the four arms to the right, he held the world in its primordial form—born of his vast and eternal Imaginarium.
His body shimmered with starry brilliance, yet his core was a void, deep and absolute—hinting at the unknowable truth of his essence. He walked among men and sky-scraping towers, robed in divine cloth, as the clouds bowed in reverence. From his crown and flowing hair radiated the final light—flavored with all that is, was, and will ever be.
The painting, positioned strategically at the hall's center, split the square layout. Ahead, glass-paneled exits bathed the room in natural light. To the left, a restaurant reserved for Order members; to the right, a reception with five-star elegance, combining functionality, faith, and symbolism.
And there it was, in the most trivial of worldly things—beauty: that force which seduces men, ensnares their souls, and distorts their grasp of truth.
He stared at it all, tangled in confusion, uncertain of his next step. Suddenly, a familiar whistle echoed from the right.
There stood Masaru, leaning casually against the wall between the elevators, a mischievous grin on his face.
"So? Did you cry your eyes out?" he teased, cutting through the heaviness with ease.
For a moment, Gabriel seemed lost in thought, eyes fixed on a distant point.
How is he always this irritating?
But slowly, the tease cracked through the tension, and a faint, involuntary smile softened his features.
"You'll never change, huh?"
"Thank Elum for that!" Masaru stretched lazily, as if the weight of the world didn't touch him. "And you?"
"Of course not… too old for that, aren't I?" Gabriel murmured, with a somber tone, hiding something broken, buried deep.
"What a load of crap."
"What did you say, punk?"
"I said you're full of it. You're such an old man, you know that?" Masaru smirked, eyes gleaming with mischief and sarcasm. "So how about a mission with me? A random little run… something to shake off this funeral vibe."
Gabriel didn't answer right away.
Should I? His fists tightened, as if wrestling with something inside. His shoulders rose in a faint sign of hesitation.
"A run? No… but maybe a distraction. How about the Ghost District?"
"Now that's what I call a good idea!" Masaru lit up with excitement, glancing toward the exit like a missile ready to launch. "But… what did you think I was talking about?"
"I don't know… people, drinks…"
"Ugh! People? The only ones who make my eyes sparkle are abstract: death and adrenaline!"
"What?"
Weirdo… admit it, you thought the same.
"You heard me, old man! And you'd better watch how a real exorcist fights!" he said with unshakable confidence, his energy radiating like he was about to explode.
We'll see him in action soon enough.