Chapter 85

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Chapter 85: Title

Hill and Loral remained in France, where the crisis proved far more dire than Vatican City’s circumstances. Throughout the abyssal creatures’ invasion, no fissures manifested near Vatican City—likely due to the deities’ unwavering gaze keeping the malevolent forces at bay.

They dwelled in quarters specially prepared by Augustus.

"Brother? What troubles you?" Loral entered to find Hill by the floor-to-ceiling window, contemplatively turning the reunited pendant and angel feather in his palms.

Since its initial division, the pendant had merged only once to summon an angel. Yet now, despite every attempted method, the two halves refused to part again. The angel feather clung to the pendant like an inseparable companion—separate them, and moments later they’d reunite as if drawn by invisible threads.

"I ponder our strategy against these lingering abyssal infestations," Hill murmured. "Countless regions remain plagued, and relying solely on current efforts…" His thumb traced the pendant’s seamless surface where no fracture remained. "Why won’t it split anymore?"

"I consulted the Pope." Loral’s voice softened as he recognized his brother’s furrowed concern. "He revealed the pendant originally divided itself without human intervention. Its reunion follows the same mysterious design."

"Patience, brother. Perhaps it’ll separate spontaneously again."

Hill pressed the pendant into Loral’s palm. "Keep this."

"Do you doubt my capabilities?" Loral returned it, fingertips grazing the luminous feather. "Your absence from its protection would haunt me more than any peril."

"Unacceptable—"

"The pendant amplifies your strength best." Loral fastened the chain around Hill’s neck with finality. "We’re never apart anyway. Should angelic intervention be needed…" His eyes sparkled with fleeting mischief. "…your experience outweighs mine."

Hill studied the pendant resting against his chest, then leveled a reproachful stare at his sibling.

"Enough brooding." Loral embraced him briefly before retreating. "Dawn brings wounded souls needing your vigor. Rest well."

With a two-fingered salute, he slipped away, the door clicking shut behind him. Hill grasped the pendant, unease coiling through his veins like frost—a premonition both foreign and foreboding.

Beyond the chamber, Loral’s benign smile dissolved into void. His robe whispered against stone as he navigated the shadowed corridor, face eerily impassive beneath flickering sconces. The cheerful Holy See’s Son had vanished, replaced by a marble-carved stranger.

The Augustus estate sprawled opulently—manicured gardens embracing a castle vast enough for carriage races within its walls. Yet neither wealth nor divine light barriers could deter Hein’s pursuit. From the darkness, the hunter’s gaze sharpened on his chosen prey: the white-robed figure gliding through midnight halls.

For demons, those enveloped in holy light and devoted to heaven’s grace were detestable creatures. This revulsion stemmed from their very essence, an instinctive hatred mirroring how angels abhorred hellspawn – an impulse beyond their control.

Yet hell’s denizens harbored a more perverse fascination. Since the dawn of their eternal conflict, corrupting heaven’s radiant messengers had become hell’s most cherished sport. The prospect of dragging down angels – those paragons of faith, compassion, and celestial beauty – into infernal depths never ceased to thrill demonic hearts. Merely imagining such victories stirred their dark blood, compelling them to shed mortal guises and spiral through sulfurous skies in rapturous flight.

Initially daunted by his mission to corrupt the Son, Hein discovered unexpected delight after abandoning restraint. Whether ensnaring heaven’s true chosen or one of hell’s planted pawns, success would scorch divine pride. He savored the thought of angels bowing their radiant heads before demonic legions in the next holy war.

Silent as shadow, Hein infiltrated the Sons’ castle, evading human notice. With the holy light knight absent on royal errands, his path lay clear. Though suppressing his full power in combat, his stealth easily surpassed the Holy See’s Sons’ perception.

Watching Loral enter Hill’s chamber, Hein’s claws twitched with unease. Should the pendant fall into Loral’s grasp… Raphael’s afternoon assault already haunted him. Against heaven’s archangel, survival seemed doubtful at best.

Eavesdropping without shame (as befits a demon), Hein dissolved into darkness when footsteps approached. The Loral emerging wore no trace of his customary serenity, frost etching his features as he strode away.

"Fascinating," Hein murmured, trailing this unprecedented version of the Son. This flawed Loral intrigued him more than Hill’s carbon-copy perfection. True flawlessness couldn’t duplicate itself – a truth he hummed while approaching Loral’s chambers. After days of surveillance, cracks finally showed.

Moonlight bathed Augustus’ castle in deep blue mystery, illuminated windows hinting at hidden life. Hein pursued Loral through ornamented halls reflecting their owner’s tastes, into gardens where extraordinary flora bloomed.

No common blossoms these – their pearly luminescence repelled demonic senses. The Sons’ gift from Holy See gardens pulsed with diluted holy energy, mockeries of celestial flowers said to grow in paradise.

Loral’s beauty, though unspoken to his face, dominated mortal rankings. Blue Star’s internet users enshrined both brothers atop their "Most Beautiful" lists – a fact Hein reluctantly acknowledged while observing the white-robed figure. Moonlight sculpted Loral’s contemplative form, flowers brightening at his proximity as if sensing…

The Son’s usual emotional mastery had fractured today. Hein recognized Raphael’s influence. Though never acknowledged, Loral’s lifelong emulation of Hill extended beyond mannerisms to their shared power’s very essence – a perfect mimicry from first breath.

Warmth. That primal memory of twin souls in uterine darkness still haunted Loral. His fist clenched around light – pure holy energy mingled with Hill’s signature radiance. The pendant’s absence twisted his lips into unholy irony.

None discerned his artifice. The Holy See’s open secret – that prophecy foretold only one Son – mattered not when their powers mirrored perfectly. Stolen identity burned in his palm, flowers blazing brighter in response.

Hein observed, perplexed. Midnight moon-bathing seemed peculiar even for saints. Hesitation gripped him – to approach now risked Mammon’s wrath should he fail. The abyss yawned in his imagination, its hungry darkness rivaling the garden’s false serenity.