The door creaked slightly as Dimitrius Von Harthen stepped into the Senior Professor's office, closing it quietly behind him.
He looked around.
The scent of old parchment, ink, and that faint lavender musk that clung to the room filled his nose.
It was oddly calm, polished and nothing out of place.
A few stray papers on the professor's desk, a tidy shelf filled with thick, untouched books.
And the glint of the late afternoon sun touching the maroon carpet with gold and black embroidery patterns.
His boots tapped softly as he stepped further in.
"Tch... pompous bastard."
Dimitrius muttered under his breath, scowling as he scanned the room.
He pulled open a drawer at the side of the desk.
Nothing but blank forms and sealed envelopes.
Another drawer.
Stationery.
Nothing useful.
"Of course he'd hide everything important..."
He leaned over the desk, flipping through the papers left out.
"Mana Conduction reports... glyph sequences... nothing that would get him kicked out of the academy or information to use againts him... unless..."
He trailed off, eyes narrowing as they caught something across the room.
A door.
Different from the one he entered through.
It was to the right side of the office.
Tall, wooden, with a metal handle that shimmered faintly under the light.
The keyhole was unique, hexagonal and faintly glowing.
He walked toward it.
His hand gripped the handle.
Locked.
He clicked his tongue.
"What the hell's in there...?"
The way it was built, how pristine it looked...it wasn't just storage.
It gave off the same aura as Professor Brael's personal research room.
And if it was anything like Brael's... then it held valuable information.
Documents.
Experimental notes.
Classified theories.
Secrets.
Dimitrius's mind raced.
What if I could take it...? Deliver it to Professor Brael?
Better yet... I could keep it for myself... Use it... Outrank everyone...
Then no one—not even Brael—could look down on me.
A twisted smile curled on his lips.
He took a step closer and knelt to peer through the keyhole.
But just as his eye aligned with the tiny slit, he froze.
"Shit."
He whispered.
His heart dropped as a voice echoed behind him.
"Looking for something?"
The air turned stiff.
His mouth went dry.
No... no no no...
He didn't dare turn immediately.
Shit... I should've locked the damn door.
Better yet, opened the window—created an escape route before even touching anything...
Greed, this is all your fault.
May Lumina purify me for this sin... wash this greed away with righteous punishment...
His mind raced in panicked prayer, cultic devotion seeping through his inner voice.
Please, forgive your humble servant for what he was about to do...
Slowly, slowly, he turned.
Standing in the center of the room, arms loosely by her sides, was Clara.
Brown hair tucked neatly behind one ear.
That pristine white uniform hugging her figure, the same badge on her chest gleaming faintly.
Her expression—calm, almost curious.
He relaxed his jaw, forcing a courteous smile as he bowed slightly, one hand pressed against his chest, the other raised in greeting.
"Ah... Miss Clara."
He said with smooth charm.
"May the goddess continue to bless your days.
How are you keeping?
Well, I hope?"
Inside, his thoughts simmered like boiling oil.
This bitch...
I haven't forgotten what you did in the cafeteria... embarrassing me like that... If I wanted to, I could have you removed from this academy in an instant...
But none of that showed on his face.
Just a polite smile.
Clara tilted her head slightly, studying him like one would observe a suspicious stray cat.
"And what exactly are you doing in the Senior Professor's office?"
She asked, her tone light, laced with sweetness—but her eyes didn't match.
They were sharp.
Dimitrius gave a soft chuckle.
"I was merely looking for the Senior Professor."
He said easily.
"I had... a matter I wished to discuss with him.
May you perhaps know where he might be?"
There was a pause.
Clara's gaze lingered on him a moment longer.
Then she smiled.
"The Senior Professor is away on a very important duty."
She said.
"He won't be returning for a while.
If you have something to say, say it now.
All his messages go through me."
She said it like she owned the room.
That wide, perfect smile made his stomach twist.
He clenched his fists behind his back, nails digging into his palms.
It was clear she wasn't ordinary.
No assistant should be able to hold her ground like this—yet she was.
And he didn't want trouble.
Not here. Not now.
He exhaled, putting back his charming smile like a mask.
"Ah, I see.
In that case..."
He said with a short nod.
"I shall return when the Senior Professor is back.
Please do send him my regards."
He turned swiftly and walked toward the door.
It clicked softly as it closed behind him.
"Snake."
He hissed under his breath.
Damn that woman. One day, I'll make sure she knows her place.
***
"-etor..."
"-oel..."
"-raetor...el"
"P‑praetor… Noel…"
Each syllable was muffled at first.
As though someone were calling from underwater, but it sharpened with each whisper until it cut through the haze.
I opened my eyes and pain ripped through my skull.
Like iron spikes being hammered into my brain—thud, thud, thud.
"UGGH!"
I grunted, collapsing onto the seat.
Then, just as suddenly as it began, it stopped.
"Praetor… Sir! Are you okay?"
A concerned voice next to me snapped me back.
I blinked at my surroundings.
Velvet upholstered walls, polished brass fittings, heavy curtains pooled around a frosted window with swirling floral wallpaper behind me.
Ruffles of steam hissed from pipes overhead, and the low rumble of a train's engine pulsed beneath my seat.
We sat in what seemed like a first‑class carriage, comfortable but old‑fashioned—Victorian luxury with mechanical charm.
"We've been calling your name since you looked dazed..."
The man said, bending closer.
"Is the Praetor feeling okay?"
A sudden memory struck me like a blow.
The mission to Gresha.
An official order from the ISD minister.
"But why does it feel like I've been out for most of the trip?"
I asked, voice still rough.
I glanced at the window.
Choppy waters raced past, and I realized we were crossing a narrow span of river.
"The Kalrim Bridge..."
I murmured in shock.
"We're halfway to Gresha."
"Sir, you were asleep."
The man answered quietly.
"That's why I came to check on you."
I shut my eyes, massaging my temple.
"Did I… sleep the entire time?"
"Yes, sir.
But you're the Praetor, head of Division IV.
We must watch your condition."
I swallowed, focusing on the warm cabin and the steady hum of rails.
'Division IV…'
Yes.
I'd been appointed warden of a secret division under the Imperial Security Department, personally selected by the minister.
A job I never expected but one I'd accepted for money, and for answers.
Publicly, I'd resigned as ISD manager to stay beneath the radar.
But in reality, I hadn't fully resigned...that was to get away from watchful eyes.
And being in one of the four secret units was enough to stay under.
Division IV—called the Saintless Ward.
It handled all manner of inexplicable phenomena.
Demonic remnants, ghostly occurrences, cursed relics, the unknown.
Lore whispered that unsanctioned supernatural affairs were quietly shelved under that name.
A ward without saints.
Unblessed.
I remembered the minister's tone when he tapped into my comm crystal while I in my office at the academy.
He said.
"You're the only one we can trust. And you agreed. No limits."
So much for agreeing to this just to get it over with.
I'd nodded.
I needed money—for my health, for research, for figuring out different matters the original Noel was a part of.
And ofcourse finishing his life-long projects.
And so it led me to this train, speeding to Gresha, to investigate a report.
Next to ice‑cold fear, it was the first mission flagged on my system screen—my own quest.
[Quest: "Investigate Gresha Church Incident."]
[Reward: Unlock Shop – Access Fragments.]
[Side Quest: Bond Severed – "When lost souls cross destinies, so do hearts."]
Fragments.
I wondered if they had to be for certain information, clues or even echoes of memory.
And gaining access to the shop… with artifacts and other tools that could be of use especially in my new line of work... I needed it.
The feeling of dying was unpleasant and heavily engraved into my very soul and being let alone my mind.
So I needed to NOT die...surviving was the only thing to do and the shop would definitely have what I needed to keep living.
And the mission.
I pulled out the official document.
Certainly. Here's a version of the Imperial Security Department Field Report written as though it's a physical paper document — a bit messy, with crossed-out lines, handwritten feel, uneven formatting, but still keeping an official tone. Words are intentionally left slightly unstructured for realism.
----------------------
IMPERIAL SECURITY DEPARTMENT
SAINTLESS WARD - DIVISION IV
Field Report Document [Internal Only]
Filed by: Field Team under Praetor Noel [Gresha Dispatch]
Location
Southern side of Gresha Province
Old Chapel & Orphanage Facility (formerly Holy Order of Lumina property)
Initial Summary
Rumors have escalated over the past 4 6 weeks regarding strange activity surrounding the chapel orphanage site. Reports gathered from townspeople were varied but consistently disturbing.
They include:
children disappearing without trace
ghostly wailing sounds heard from the structure every few nights
burned or scorched spiral markings found across the walls especially altar side
some claim to hear chanting screeching—inhuman shrieks—near dawn
a local priest, name recorded below, confirmed visual of shadows not obeying light
The orphanage director has been unavailable fled the town shortly before our arrival
Physical Evidence
One corpse recovered—female child roughly 9 yrs old
Name confirmed later as Amilyne Solt
found near edge of river bank
Face contorted twisted in death like locked in expression of terror
no outward trauma — internal scans show heat damage
bare footprints burned into river mud traced leading back to the chapel
Direction leads inward toward main chapel doors
no other children recovered yet
search efforts ongoing
Magical trace: moderate to high. Non-elemental. Phenomena-grade confirmed.
Priest Statement
Interviewed cleric on site –
Father Gideon Kelmor (of the Luminar Chapel Order)
Appears early 30s but records state birth 123 years ago
Magical and alchemical preservation suspected
Appearance: black robes, silver-trimmed
White collar, Lumina cross — another wooden one in hand
He states, quote:
"They move on the walls at night. The shadows do not belong to us anymore."
Also mentioned malformed scripture pages and flickering light sources
Claims orphanage grounds lost their divine protection ~2 weeks ago
Class & Threat Status
Filed under provisional hazard
Phenomena Class: Malformed Divine
(Threat Grade: Level III escalating)
Subject to change pending second phase review
Cult activity suspected
High possibility of ties to Wretched Faith (allegedly)
Reemergence is considered credible
Symbolic traces found near altar matching recorded relics from South Darsel case
Additional Notes
Anomalous field recorded inside altar room – nullifies low-tier divine arts
[ ] Requesting clerical backup for blessing and protective wards
Audio recording retrieved from secondary prayer chamber —
Backmasked voices repeating phrase:
"the black pilgrimage begins"
Translation in progress
Orphanage director name: Rhina Elvale
Tracked last boarding record to merchant convoy bound for Outer Kelm
Recommendations
Proceed with deep investigation into chapel structure interior
Await exorcist support team
Quarantine perimeter to 1 km minimum radius
Monitor townsfolk for additional symptoms or signs
Pending identification of possible surviving children
Heavy implication of spiritual corruption and unknown secondary influence
Suggested containment spells pending approval
Assignment Origin
Mission dispatched per ISD Minister order
Designated under Division IV, Saintless Ward
Praetor: Noel ████████
Report prepared under duress.
Filed inside mobile base during descent across Kalrim bridge.
To be rewritten into formal report on return
This page is for FIELD USE ONLY
[end of page]
[marked in black ink – classified copy]
Keep it sealed. Don't let the archivists get this before review.
DO NOT FILE in West Wing Archives.
— J
--------------------------
And then there was the ISD‑Obsidian ambush—another Wretched Faith attack that almost ended me.
All of it had been minor compared to this.
I sighed, leaning back on the plush seat.
I missed the academy already.
Even with its politics and petty rivalries, it was calm.
But this was my choice—my price.
I rubbed the back of my neck.
I realized, with a start, that I hadn't practiced my swordsmanship.
The original Noel was excellent with a blade, but my mind—Ju‑Won's mind—hadn't trained those arts.
My form would be feeble.
My authority, too, was shaky.
I could barely materialize a blade—and only for about five minutes before fatigue and blood loss threatened to shorten my lifespan further.
That was why I carried a handgun just like the others.
I reached inside my coat and drew it.
A sleek, black‑finished revolver, modified to fire demon‑carving bullets.
Evidence of magic engineering lay in the intricate runic etchings on the chamber.
These bullets could pierce phenomena, demonic creatures, anything out of the ordinary.
The original Noel was trained in the military but rarely used firearms.
I, however, had a year of military experience in Korea.
Fire‑arms were second nature to me.
Even though the Empire's guns were old by my world's standards, some had magical enhancements.
And they worked far better than I expected.
I understood their mechanics instinctively, as much as a magic‑engineer‑instructor would.
That was one of the few joys this body still offered me.
The train slowed and screeched to a halt.
We had arrived at Gresha.
As I stepped onto familiar ground, I spotted a flash of red among the crowd—a woman stepping down from another cart on the train.
Her hair the color of autumn leaves and her eyes ocean blue.
Phoebe.
My heart contorted.
I hadn't known she was coming.
Among everyone in Division IV, I was officially the most qualified judging from military training gotten and ranking.
Yet here stood Phoebe.
I am sure she is high than me in militray training and has experience as a mercenary.
Was she assigned as escort?
Or had she been offered the Praetor's role and declined?
The system side quest buzzed in my mind.
For now, I pushed curiosity aside.
Our group scattered.
Three carriages had carried us.
We drove miles through pine‑lined fields before the carriage stopped outside an old church.
The Chapel of Saint Gresha, its pale stone pillars rising against a crimson sky.
We disembarked.
The air was thick with prayer and tension.
A man awaited us by the doors.
He wore a black clerical robe, the edges trimmed in silver.
A simple white collar shone like moonlight at his throat, and a heavy silver cross hung on his chest.
In his hand, he held an iron-bound Bible, its edges scorched.
A small crowd of villagers and remaining orphans stood behind him.
He had dark, almost mahogany skin and hair tinted steel-gray.
His face carried age beyond his years.
Eyes were kind and voice gentle.
He bowed politely.
His voice, low and clear, washed over us.
"Welcome,
I am Father Gideon Kelmor of the Chapel of Saint Gresha.
I thank you all for coming in haste.
I have prayed daily for deliverance."
He paused, eyes scanning our team, then offered a polite but meaningful nod.
"Our hearts are heavy—but we will guide you as best we can. Please, follow me inside."
I nodded back.
The chapel's wooden doors creaked open.
All of us walked inside.