Apostles' War

Location: Lisieux Cathedral, Northwestern France

Time: 11:48 PM

The cathedral loomed ahead, half-swallowed by ivy and shadows. Its once-proud bell tower had collapsed long ago, and its arched doors hung open like the jaws of something slumbering — or waiting.

Elian stood between Leon and Enoch beneath the moonless sky, cloaked in silence. The city around them was asleep, its cobbled streets deserted, its lights dim. But something darker than night breathed from within the cathedral — cold, ancient, wrong.

"Stay close," Leon murmured, eyes scanning the entryway. "Grinshades are manipulators. Tricksters. If you hear a voice you are familiar… ignore it."

"Don't look at the walls either," Enoch added quietly. "They reflect things that aren't there."

Elian nodded, heart hammering in his chest. His fingers itched with nervous energy, his gloved hand twitching at his side — the one marked with the still-burning sigil.

Together, they crossed the threshold.

Inside, the cathedral smelled of rot and wax. Dozens of broken pews lay scattered like bones. The stained-glass windows had all been shattered — yet the moonlight filtered in with an unnatural glow, casting fractured colors across the stone floor.

As they moved deeper, their footsteps echoed louder than they should have.

And then the laughter began.

High, echoing, feminine — but empty. Mocking.

"Elian…" the voice cooed from the altar ahead. "Don't you want to see what you could've been?"

He froze.

From the pulpit, shapes began to peel from the shadows. Grinshades. At least five of them — slinking down pillars and walls like warped reflections. Their many mask-like faces twisted and clicked in sync, each one grinning wider than the last.

They whispered in voices that mimicked his own:

"You don't belong."

"You can't even summon your relic."

"They'll abandon you too."

Elian staggered back.

Leon stepped forward, arm raised. "Shield your mind. Don't let them in."

But it was too late.

The voices poured into Elian like cold ink, splashing across memories he didn't know were vulnerable. His childhood. His doubts. His sleepless nights in Tagaytay. The coffee shop. His mother's eyes before she left.

Then — a mask floated inches from his face.

And laughed.

Elian cried out, stumbling backward—

—and from the back of his hand, the sigil blazed.

Not with fire, but light — pure, radiant, pulsing like a heartbeat.

The Grinshades shrieked. Their masks cracked.

One lunged — but Leon moved, slamming it into the marble floor with a burst of divine force.

"Enoch!" Leon shouted.

A streak of gold — Enoch blurred into motion, feet never touching the corrupted ground, a blur of light and purpose as he struck with a blinding kick, sending two more demons crashing into pews.

The remaining Grinshades hissed and retreated to the pillars, circling warily.

Elian clutched his hand, breath ragged, staring at the glowing mark.

"Is it… awakening?" he whispered.

Leon didn't answer right away.

But Enoch gave a rare nod. "That's no illusion. The Seraphblade… it knows you're in danger."

Then the cathedral shuddered.

Far below, beneath the altar — something stirred.

Something bigger.

Leon narrowed his eyes. "That wasn't all of them."

"Prepare yourselves," he said grimly.

The real fight hadn't even started yet.