Rain poured relentlessly.

The three of them stood there in the downpour. Gospel didn't speak, not a single word—he simply stood in place, lost somewhere deep inside his own thoughts.

His coat and leather boots were soaked and mud-stained, cold droplets slipping past the fabric and into his inner clothes until he was drenched completely.

Yet his eyes were fixed on something… something that wasn't even there—on the empty space in his left hand.

That beating heart he had held… its memory tugged at him as distant echoes resurfaced: children laughing in an old monastery, shouting with bright joy—

"Go! Go! Go! Gospel!"

The chant repeated in his head.

Go, go, go… Gospel.

He hid that "thing" in his strange satchel—his pocket.

Gospel looked at the two lying on the ground, covered in mud. He lifted them, leaned their weight on his shoulders, and began walking.

Anslem and Gunner watched him leave. His movement was slow… steady… yet somehow swift, almost ghostlike.

He spoke with the guards of one of the luxury estates, handed over sable and a small bag, then continued through the heavy rain.

At another estate, he repeated the process—this time handing Fisher to the housekeeper—then walked away despite their insistence on keeping him inside.

In the dark, stormy night, Gospel moved through the paved alleys.

Tock. Tock. Tock.

The sound of his footsteps merged with the rain.

His eyes were empty, his drenched hair plastered to his face, his eyelids half-shut. His senses were exhausted. He walked without purpose—yet he had a destination.

He entered one of the outer districts—crude buildings of stone and clay, scattered old brick houses… everything spoke of poverty. He climbed a narrow stairway leading upward, pulled a key from his strange satchel—his pocket—and opened the old wooden door.

Tok… tok… drop… drop…

Rainwater dripped inside the shabby apartment, falling into dented metal containers and cracked glasses.

The wooden floor was rotted, though still barely able to support someone of Gospel's weight—just not enough to host guests.

He removed his coat and sat on the chair. Leaned forward, resting his head on the table as if trying to sleep, his eyes heavy.

Then he remembered something.

He stood again, picked up a glass cup used to collect rainwater from the floor, drank a little of it, then tossed the rest through the cracked window.

From his strange satchel—his pocket—he pulled something out.

The remains of Cyn's tendrils, wrapped with the inverted-cross necklace. He removed the necklace and placed the rotten piece into the glass cup.

He sealed it and set it aside, exhaling quietly.

He reached for paper to write, then noticed another letter. He hesitated before opening it.

He muttered to himself, "More work, haaa!."

He began drafting a message to the Church, describing the events and the strange object he found—planning to send both so that they would investigate further.

Gospel was an ordinary man. A man dissatisfied with this way of living. A man who struggled to adapt—yet tried.

But behind him… a false curtain always hung.

He was exhausted.

He removed his boots and collapsed onto the metal bed, which screeched at the slightest movement.

He didn't dry himself.

He fell asleep instantly, mind drifting toward the quiet past he once had—days filled only with books and the loud arguments of his brothers in the monastery.

---

The next morning, with the same routine and the same worn clothing, he exited his apartment and locked the door.

On the stairway, he ran into an elderly woman.

"Ohh, Mister Go! I hope you enjoyed the meal I prepared for you!"

Gospel simply stared at her.

The woman frowned slightly.

"Wait… don't tell me those mischievous boys took it again? I left it right at your doorstep!"

Gospel cut in politely, "Not at all, Mrs. Hans. It was delicious. Please keep leaving more there—your cooking is wonderful. And sorry for troubling you."

He heard a noise coming from a cluster of crates near the corner of the street. Mrs. Hans watched him with a warm smile. Gospel understood the meaning.

He reached into his strange satchel—his pocket—and handed her a few coins.

"Here."

"Thank you, thank you, Mister Go! I'll leave your dinner in the same spot tonight!"

Gospel passed by the crates.

Inside were several children hiding—mostly orphans with thin clothing, barely enough to withstand the cold.

Sewer rats with no shelter… surviving on the food Mrs. Hans cooked and left at his door.

He tossed six bronze Grad coins toward them and continued walking.

Again, from his strange satchel—his pocket—he pulled the sealed glass cup and the letter, handing them to a priest outside an old church in the outer district.

The priest smiled and prayed for him.

Gospel dragged his feet and headed for his next destination.

He wasn't filled with curiosity or excitement about discovering what that thing was.

He simply did what he was told—because that was who Gospel was.

But… was Malachai like that too?

Gospel preferred calm and silence.

He preferred the growl of an empty stomach over the noise of troubling thoughts.

He disliked bargaining, arguments—yet he also disliked ugliness and change.

Somehow… the scenery around him began shifting.

Signs of wealth and luxury emerged.

Crowds grew thinner.

All of it took only minutes—he hadn't realized how fast he was walking.

Ask the people around him, and they would swear a phantom had passed them by.

He presented a stamped seal to the guards at the eastern gate of the royal palace. They allowed him entry despite his shabby appearance.

He wandered through the outer palace grounds, admiring the sights.

How many books could he read under those trees, he wondered.

A knight found him and asked for the seal and his reason for coming. After confirming both, the knight guided him.

When they reached the large door leading to the wing he sought, the two knights stationed there told him to wait.

Gospel waited.

He saw no reason to argue.

Being early or late made no difference to him.

The palace was extravagantly decorated, but despite its size and beauty, Gospel sensed a deep, cold emptiness.

A palace like this existed for display, arrogance…

A stage of schemes and politics, lacking even a shred of warmth.

Beep!

The door opened from within.

Gospel didn't avert his eyes.

His gaze met the young man standing there—long jet-black hair, a sharply sculpted face and body, a hollow expression, an inner frost.

Gospel felt as though he were looking at a version of himself.

No—something even colder.

The young man wore a black leather jacket, a white shirt beneath it, and a necklace with a key resting on his collarbone.

His neck was marked with love bites and lipstick.

Gospel had never seen someone like him—someone exuding apathy, strength, cold Indifference, and striking beauty.

Someone who made Gospel feel a faint threat… a subtle tension.

As if the young man had been altered, refined into something unnatural.

Gospel's Indifference cracked for the first time.

He felt rejection—instinctive, sharp.

If only he knew the feeling was mutual.

He watched the young man leave.

Then the knights informed him he could enter.

The lavish wing was filled with ornate décor, expensive furnishings, servants, and every luxury imaginable.

Not his first time in the palace—

but his first time inside this wing.

A maid led him to a study room.

When he stepped inside, a strange sense of familiarity washed over him.

A pleasant fragrance lingered in the air.

Behind the desk, seated in the leather chair…

Gospel felt a flicker of bewilderment.

He had never seen her this beautiful before.

Despite his usual indifference—Xyrene had always been beautiful.

Perhaps he had simply never allowed himself the time to notice.

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