Beneath the earth's crust lie places mankind has long forgotten — if they ever knew them at all.
Forgotten citadels swallowed by time, buried artifacts, tombs of long-lost civilizations.
But none rival Subterrane 616 — a cathedral beneath the world, where science weds heresy, where faith becomes torture, and angels are reduced to raw material.
Behind doors sealed with triple crypt-locks, light filtered dimly through a metallic ceiling laced with a mesh of cables.
There was no oxygen here — none was needed. Those who entered did not require it to live.
A corridor stretched forward, flanked by towering vats of reinforced glass.
Inside each tank floated a winged being, suspended in golden fluid, eyes closed, golden tears streaming from shut lids.
Their broken wings sometimes twitched in spasms of despair.
At the end of the corridor, a figure advanced — regal, unhurried.
He wore white robes embroidered with inverted crosses, a papal vestment reinforced with plates of silver.
A hood cast a soft shadow over hair that shimmered like sunlit gold.
His face was angelic — so perfect it felt inhuman.
His name : Klein Illias Seraphiel, Supreme Leader of the New Church.
At his side, like a loyal yet cunning hound, walked a man in a black uniform, his posture impeccable.
A golden pin glinted at his lapel : Nathanael Desmond, Vice President of the World Government. His round spectacles mirrored the angel vats.
— "The silence here feels… almost religious." murmured Nathanael, hands clasped behind his back.
— "Because it is sacrilegious," Klein replied. "There is no silence deeper than that of Heaven, silenced by force."
They stopped before one particular vat.
The angel inside was in worse shape than the others — its feathers plucked, flesh exposed like a skinned bird. Its tears flowed faster than the rest.
— "Master… the report. About the escape," Nathanael said carefully.
Klein didn't turn. He simply lifted his gaze.
— "Speak, Paimon. Don't make me wait."
— "Kang Soo Jin has escaped the Ninth Circle. The Abyss Wardens have been annihilated.
I will mobilize my servants. He won't stay free for long. We've already begun tracking the High Priestess's Apostles."
The name made Klein narrow his eyes ever so slightly.
— "And the demons ?"
— "Several followed Kang. Some have long since turned traitor. But others… had remained loyal until now. This wasn't chance. Someone helped them."
Klein slowly turned his head.
— "Who ?" His voice dropped, rough and low.
Nathanael exhaled — unease tightening his features.
— "We have reason to believe... the Architect himself is backing Kang Soo Jin. And he's not alone. Several Beyonders — outer-world entities — appear intrigued. Some... amused."
Klein clenched his fist.
Then, with a bitter growl :
— "That bitch…"
Nathanael kept his eyes down. After a pause, he added :
— "There's one path left, Master. We can align with those who seek vengeance. Kang has made enemies — powerful ones. Some have already reached out."
Klein fell silent. His aura shifted — heavier, darker.
Then he spoke :
— "So be it. Rally them. Let Kang's enemies become our weapons. But… keep an eye on them. Alliances born of hate are the most brittle."
He removed his eyepatch.
In the socket — a universe.
Stars. Nebulae. A cosmic abyss confined to one demonic eye.
— "Had he not destroyed this eye, I could find him — even from the edge of the cosmos."
Nathanael bowed his head, hesitant.
— "With all due respect, Master… even clairvoyance seems futile now. Something — or someone — with superior energy is cloaking him."
Klein's gaze pierced him. The air grew still and cold. Nathanael flinched, breath catching.
Klein said nothing. But his silence crushed.
— "Forgive my presumption…"
— "I'm not God to forgive you. Do not repeat it."
A moment passed.
Calmer now, Klein asked :
— "And Gula ?"
— "No activity since your last encounter. We lost track of her — Sparda's interference again."
Klein nodded, lost in thought, staring at the vats.
— "Gula… the Architect… Sparda… Kang…
All roads lead to him. That wretch has become the crossroads of prophecy."
Nathanael risked a word :
— "Fate seems to have chosen him."
Klein slowly turned toward him.
— "Fate is a whore. And I intend to fuck her."
---
No Man's Land of Yorkshine — Wasteland Sector
On this dead land, a handful of figures trudged forward, wrapped in rags, faces too ruined to still be called human.
The sky was black. Not midnight black — absolute black.
Not even the decency of a moon.
Then, suddenly — the darkness split.
One shooting star fell. Then another and another. Countless shooting stars burned across the void.
Then came the word.
From an old man, perched atop a mound of bones where he'd sat for days.
He raised a finger skyward.
— "They've come…" he whispered.
— "It's not right," said a younger voice beside him. "Stars don't fall like this."
They were about fifteen, huddled around a fire stoked with junk from the Old World.
The youngest — a girl with canine features and violet eyes — stood slowly.
— "I dreamed of this rain… last night."
— "Your dreams again ?" spat a man with a tattooed scalp. "What god would waste a vision on the likes of us ? They all abandoned us from the start."
But she didn't answer. Her gaze was locked onto one star. The only one…rising.
The fire went out.
---
Meanwhile — beyond the physical world…
A throne of flowers stood atop a spiral of stars. A single woman sat upon it. Her mantle was woven from living blossoms.
Her face veiled in starlight — a glow too sacred to behold.
The High Priestess.
She meditated. Her mind drifted along endless paths, sifting through the currents of fate.
But that day…She saw a clear vision.
Her fingers trembled. The flowers of her throne withered instantly.
Her voice — gentle, yet resolute — echoed through the cosmos.
— "The Heir… has returned."
The celestial spheres quaked.
— "And with him… the Apocalypse."
A thousand worlds shivered, unaware…
That their end had already begun.