Gun of Ashes

We know too little about that artificially replicated Pseudo Holy Grail, so little that we can only use the containment method of the Holy Grail to judge it.

It has a strong transmissibility. When Demon Hunters enter the Saint Nalos Cathedral, they may be transmitted, becoming a medium for the Pseudo Holy Grail’s escape. Some of them might already be among its test subjects.”

More information vanished along with that burning night, and the Church’s knowledge suffered significant discontinuity. Even now, everything the Pope says is extracted from the brain of the previous Pope.

”Of course, another reason is that the Demon Hunters rebelled.”

The Priest was slightly stunned. Could absolutely loyal Demon Hunters also betray? Were they not the biggest contributors during the Night of the Holy Arrival?

”To be precise, it was the Shangdafeng branch of Demon Hunters that rebelled. While clearing the battlefield, we found many corpses but none of Shangdafeng Demon Hunters, and they mysteriously disappeared along with Dean Lawrence after the Night of the Holy Arrival.”

Dean Lawrence was once bestowed the name of an Angel, and the name Shangdafeng no longer needs further explanation. Both were well aware of what happened.

”That should be the only right thing the previous Pope did. He immediately ordered the Heart Core Network to go offline, kept the entire Static Holy Temple silent, and then signed the decree to massacre the Demon Hunters. We’ve hunted them down ever since.”

As he continued, it was no longer just a recounting of the past but felt more like he was confessing his secrets, those unbearable emotions.

The massacre decree was issued immediately, resulting in most fleeing Demon Hunters being intercepted at the Seven Hills. Most died under the siege of the Holy Hall Knight Order, with only a few successfully escaping.

Suddenly, a large door blocked the two men’s way, heavy chains tightly sealed it shut, bearing scars from the Night of the Holy Arrival, long since losing its original appearance.

The Pope gently extended his hand, softly stroking the cold door. For a moment, the Priest even thought he saw wrong, sensing tenderness from this person.

Despite enjoying the conversation with the Pope, the Priest understood what kind of person stood before him; he wielded all the power, refusing to share with anyone, and to do this, he instigated a cruel massacre in secret.

Yet he suddenly recalled people’s comments about the Pope.

Those on the verge of death said the Pope was a pitiable person, someone who held onto power tightly, lacking trust in others, insecure—like a knight gripping a blade tightly on the battlefield, feeling as if their life rested in their hands only when their fingers turned white from gripping hard.

The Pope was such a person. Even within the heavily guarded Saint Nalos Cathedral, he remained vigilant, but before this door, he suddenly shed all his armor, allowing emotions to surge.

”Please lend me the sword.”

He extended his hand, although wearing the cold iron mask, the Priest could feel the sorrow quietly flowing—this man saddened by a mere door or perhaps by what’s behind it.

What could it be?

The woman he loved? Family he couldn’t let go of? Or ideals long since buried?

The Priest could not guess; he could only respectfully pass the sword, then watch this man, who should have been reciting the Holy Words, wield a thunderous sword force.

The sword light that even the Priest couldn’t clearly see was akin to divine punishment, undeniable, irresistible—not merely swinging a sword but issuing a command of slashing, under which all matter fractured in response.

The next moment, the heavy chains broke, crashing onto the ground, raising clouds of dust.

The Priest was dumbfounded as he took back the sword, seeing the neatly fractured chain ends; he had never imagined the sword in his hand could be so sharp.

Suddenly he understood why the Pope allowed him to carry weapons into the Saint Nalos Cathedral; this man didn’t care if he had weapons because he himself was the most dangerous weapon.

”Let’s go.”

The Pope said, emotionlessly, pushing open the dust-covered door.

Contrary to the imagined mystery, behind the door was merely a tranquil circular hall, sparsely decorated, only lined with coffins in the round hall, each sealing away a deceased soul.

The coffins were so heavy, adorned with Holy Words and crosses, attempting to suppress the remains inside, hoping they would rest in peace.

”Please bow in silent tribute, Fr. Anthony.”

He suddenly said.

The Priest looked at the Pope, then obediently bowed his head.

Unexplainable sadness filled the small place like intangible gas, gradually consuming everything, swallowing the two completely, emotions fermenting in the darkness, rising, falling, fluctuating.

Within half a minute of silence, the Pope merely stared coldly at those coffins; whether grief or joy, it was inscrutable.

”These are...”

The Priest asked.

”The last of the Secret Blood that will be the cornerstone of the new Order.”

The Pope pushed open one of the adjacent coffins, its heavy stone bricks seemingly weighed a thousand pounds. Upon opening, the overwhelming corrosion pressed on the Priest, even though he was steadfast in will, numerous fragments flared in his mind—some memories, others hallucinations.

”It’s been a while...”

The Pope sighed.

Inside the coffin was a severely damaged corpse, flesh intertwined with silver-white metal, bones growing deformed—the hideous appearance difficult to recognize as human, rather, describing it as the remains of a Demon was more apt.