Type-Moon: Does even a sneak peek make it official?

That night, on the island of Scandinavia, the capital of Kitland lay shrouded in a dense, heavy fog.

The waning moon spilled only the faintest silver light, its glow filtering through layers of cloud.

At this late hour, no footsteps disturbed the streets. A frozen stillness gnawed at the darkness.

Only then did the calm, black-haired man pause in his walk.

Before him stood the simple gates of the royal palace. This was the first time King Beowulf had invited him — an Eastern Roman missionary — to this place.

He knew why. The summons bore a name he had once heard before — the name of the man who, that day, had been in the company of the so-called Princess among the Dead Apostles: Avia.

Out of curiosity, he had made some discreet inquiries afterward. He learned the name matched that of someone once at the side of a Hun sent as a hostage to Milan in Western Rome — and also someone who had fought alongside the dragon-slaying hero Siegfried in the Rhine.

He hadn't been sure it was the same person. But now, there could be no doubt — for Beowulf had announced that the Kraken of the North Sea and the water-fiend Grendel were dead, thanks to this "Avia," who bore no resemblance to any Hun.

Whether Avia was a Hun or not mattered little to Augustine. He himself had been born into a Berber family in North Africa — "Berber" being an outsider's term from the Latin barbarus, not their own self-designation.

As the chosen successor to the Cardinal of Constantinople in Eastern Rome, Augustine had not been baptized at birth. In his youth he had studied rhetoric and oratory — and at first, had been a follower of Manichaeism.

But as he grew older, his debates with the Manichaean priests left him unsatisfied. They had eloquence, but no true learning, and could not answer his questions.

The decisive break came during a journey to Alexandria, that ancient stronghold of philosophy.

One day, the black-haired youth was strolling through the city's central square. He had heard that centuries ago, the founder of the Church had once lectured here — perhaps the reason philosophical discourse still flourished in this place.

Then, in a single moment, across this vast land that seemed to press down upon all things, Augustine heard a voice.

It was like a cry from within his own soul — or perhaps a sacred utterance engraved upon this land ages before.

"So… how long will you wait? Why not, even now, cast off the filth of your past?"

"You must know: no feasting and drunkenness; no lust and debauchery; no strife and jealousy. Instead, clothe yourself with the Lord Jesus Christ."

The words were brief, and he knew not from whence they came — yet they plunged him into thought. Around him, Alexandria remained unchanged, as if only he had heard them.

Almost without thinking, he drew from his satchel the city's most common book — the New Testament. On the time-worn title page, he could just barely make out a line that echoed the same voice:

"Beauty and goodness are inseparable, for both are founded upon form; thus, what is good is often also called beautiful—"

"Grace does not destroy nature; it perfects it."

From then on, Augustine turned to the Church. The following year, in the still-undivided capital of the Roman Empire, he received baptism in Rome.

But good fortune was brief. A year later, the mighty empire split apart, torn by the ever-escalating struggle between ecclesiastical and imperial authority.

Unlike most clergy who stayed in or returned to Western Rome, Augustine departed for Constantinople.

When Rome divided, of the one hundred twenty-eight cardinals, only three chose to remain in the East: Ambrose, who upheld the separation of church and state; Chrysostom, who saw all beings as equal; and Jerome, devoted to the study and commentary of the Scriptures.

Now, more than twenty years later, only Jerome remained. Though the schism was real, the Eastern Church still nominally acknowledged Rome's primacy, so no official cardinals were appointed there — only acting bishops at most.

"Finally here, Augustine."

A clear voice rang from the gates of the palace.

In Augustine's gaze, the youth's deep blue eyes met his own. Slowly, the youth offered a greeting.

"Long time no see, Avia."

Augustine inclined his head politely. As the guest, it was only proper to show courtesy to his host.

"Please, follow me."

Avia nodded once more, then turned. But rather than entering the palace proper, he led Augustine beyond the city, to the summit of a high mountain.

After some time, the two stood in silence, gazing down at the city and its surroundings. In the still night, the land glittered in a light whose source was unclear.

"Augustine," Avia said at last, "in the places you've traveled… how many people still hold faith in the Church?"

"Hmm…" Augustine hesitated, unsure how to answer.

"Across Europe, in both Eastern and Western Rome… the majority, I suppose."

"Yes — almost all."

For some reason, Augustine found Avia's words edged with a cutting clarity. In his bearing was a unique presence — and in his voice, an unshakable sense of purpose.

"The Church… is still far too powerful."

To see the institution he had helped build now corrupted by that so-called "Savior" made Avia sigh.

It stood opposed to nearly every major mage organization, its stance bent on eradicating all mystery outside itself.

To destroy the Church outright, one would have to kill, head-on, Mabel Kiara, wielder of the Sacred Codex and the only one capable of gravely wounding Kischur Zelretch Schweinorg. According to the Marshal of the Mage Corps, she had perfectly replicated both the Ether-Annihilation Cannon and Crimson Moon's Moonfall. Centuries of accumulated faith-born mana made her power virtually inexhaustible.

Even the Moonlight Cannon would likely be stopped. The Typhon frame might not break through either — but Avia had already sought a solution. After all, it was his own doing that had set this chain of events in motion.

"You, Augustine — even Novia would sincerely admire and respect you. Yet for Rome and the Church's unfortunate fate, I can only feel regret."

The black-haired man listened in silence. From a devout believer's view, these words were heretical — yet somehow, it felt natural for this man to speak them, and wrong to deny them.

"The glory of the Church, the culture of Rome — because of you, they will not return to the City of God. They will remain here, in the City of Man."

Avia smiled faintly, pointing at himself.

"And I… will destroy the Church."

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