[Cardinal Vescari POV] Year 0, Day 50

  Cardinal Vescari reclined among silk cushions, his eleven battlemaids attending to his pleasures with mechanical precision. The sounds of their activities filled his private chambers—breathing, movement, the occasional whimper of pain or practiced moan.

  He'd been at this for hours. Ever since returning to his residence in the Church State capital. Ever since being forced to leave the Republic early, his plans ruined by Syndicate pressure and that damned elf who'd rejected his generous offer.

  Two hundred million gold. Rejected. For a battlemaid who was clearly special but not THAT special.

  The humiliation still burned.

  So he'd retreated here. To his private sanctuary. To his collection of perfectly conditioned weapons who knew exactly how to make him forget political failures.

  The knocking started perhaps an hour ago. Soft at first. Respectful. His attendants knew better than to interrupt.

  Then louder. More insistent.

  He ignored it. Whatever it was could wait. He was busy.

  The knocking became pounding. Desperate. Panicked.

  Vescari sighed and gestured. One of his battlemaids rose smoothly, crossed to the door, opened it just enough to see who dared disturb him.

  A messenger. Pale. Shaking. Eyes wide with terror.

  "Your Eminence," the man gasped. "Your domain—your territory—it's gone. Destroyed. Everything. We've been trying to reach you for hours—"

  Vescari sat up slowly. "What?"

  "Monsters, Your Eminence. Two of them. They crossed the border and—everything is gone. The villages, the towns, the main city. All of it. We're receiving reports constantly. Hundreds of thousands dead. Maybe more. Your entire domain is—"

  "Bring me the reports," Vescari said, his voice deadly calm. "All of them. Now."

  The messenger fled. Returned minutes later with a stack of magical telegrams. Emergency communications. Desperate pleas for help that had arrived while Vescari was... occupied.

  He read them methodically. One after another. Each worse than the last.

  Village of Sanctified Grove destroyed. No survivors found.

  Town of Holy Waters burning. Paladins attempting defense. Request reinforcements urgently.

  Military garrison at Eastern Post overwhelmed. Monsters possess divine immunity. Holy magic ineffective. Send—

  That message ended abruptly. Never completed.

  Main city under attack. Two monsters. Shadow and fire. Defenses failing. Cathedral burning. Palace breached. Hundreds dead. Thousands. Everyone is—

  Another incomplete message. The sender probably died mid-transmission.

  Surveying damage. Main city: total loss. Population estimated 90% casualties. Infrastructure destroyed. Cardinal's palace: rubble. Cathedral: crater. Recommend—

  More reports. All the same. Destruction. Death. Systematic annihilation of his entire territory.

  Then one report from a completely different location. Different format. Personal intelligence network, not emergency services.

  From: Agent stationed in Borderwatch, Republic territory

  Your Eminence, I must depart immediately and cease surveillance. The oni Ealdred has arrived in the village. Church protocols mandate withdrawal from Syndicate-protected individuals in Republic territory to avoid political incidents. Will relocate and await new orders.

  Note: Before departure, confirmed that target elf (Void) is proceeding with plans to establish a maid-themed café in Borderwatch. Construction timeline: two years. Trainer Ealdred appears to be directly involved in the project as trainer.

  Recommend against any Church action in this matter. Syndicate protection makes interference extremely inadvisable.

  Vescari stared at that report.

  The elf. The battlemaid. The one who'd rejected his offer.

  Now building a café. With Ealdred's personal involvement.

  The timing clicked into place like pieces of a puzzle.

  The surgical precision was obvious. The border territories around his domain? Untouched. Other Church nobles' lands? Safe. Just his holdings. Just his people. Just his power base.

  This wasn't random monster activity. This was targeted.

  And one detail kept appearing in the reports. One monster—the shadow one—had divine immunity. Paladins' holy magic had been completely useless. Blessed weapons hadn't worked. Divine barriers were penetrated effortlessly.

  Divine immunity. Two monsters. Coordinated assault. Surgical precision.

  Vescari's mind raced through implications. This wasn't ordinary monster behavior. Creatures that powerful, that coordinated, attacking one specific territory while leaving everything else untouched?

  Heavenly Rejections.

  The thought emerged from his knowledge of classified Church records. Those ancient aberrations. The bugged entities that sometimes came from heaven alongside the Divine Children in the old days. Reality-warped things that didn't follow normal rules. That possessed powers that shouldn't exist.

  The Church had buried records of them. Stories from thousands of years ago of creatures that appeared and caused chaos before being killed or disappearing. All of them abnormal. Wrong. Defying natural law.

  And someone had just sent two of them—or things similar enough to not matter—directly at his territory.

  Who did I piss off? Who could command entities like that?

  His mind raced through possibilities. Other Church nobles jealous of his dual positions? They'd lack the resources. The Republic? They didn't care enough about him specifically. The Empire? Possible but unlikely—too distant from their interests.

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  But the timing. Right after he'd been forced to leave the Republic. Right after that encounter with the elf and his strange battlemaid. Right after making threats.

  Too convenient. Too targeted.

  And then there was the other factor. The one he couldn't ignore.

  That oni bastard Ealdred.

  The most hated man in the Church. The one who'd killed a Pope and walked away because the Syndicate provided cover so airtight that nobody could touch him.

  Vescari had heard the story. Everyone in the Church hierarchy knew it. Whispered about it. Raged about it privately while smiling publicly.

  A Pope—one of the supreme religious leaders—had done something to one of Ealdred's trained maids. The details were unclear. Buried. Classified. But whatever it was, Ealdred had taken offense.

  He'd walked into the Pope's private chambers in broad daylight. Everyone had seen him enter. Guards, attendants, witnesses throughout the palace.

  Everyone had heard the sounds. Impacts. Screams. The unmistakable violence of someone being beaten to death against solid stone.

  It had lasted perhaps ten minutes. Maybe less.

  Then Ealdred had left. Immediately. Running. Actually running. The massive oni fleeing the palace like guilt itself was chasing him.

  When guards entered the chambers, they found the Pope in pieces. Literally. Body parts scattered across the room. Blood covering every surface. Wall and floor painted red with what had once been the most powerful religious figure in the region.

  A killing so brutal, so excessive, it had taken hours to clean.

  The Church had sent inquisitors. Paladins. An entire strike force to the Republic to arrest Ealdred and bring him to justice.

  They'd been met at the border by Syndicate representatives. Banking Guild officials. Merchant Guild enforcers. Armed. Ready. And the message had been clear:

  "The Pope fell against the wall. Twelve times. Accidentally. Died from the repeated impacts. Tragic accident. These things happen."

  The official report—written by Syndicate scribes, stamped with Syndicate seals, verified by Syndicate witnesses—stated exactly that. Accidental death. No foul play. Case closed.

  Nobody had the balls to challenge it. Not when the Syndicate was backing Ealdred. Not when rejecting their "truth" meant political and economic war with the most powerful organization on the continent.

  So the official story stood. Pope died naturally from accidentally falling against a wall. Twelve times. Hard enough to explode.

  Ealdred was innocent.

  And everyone knew it was complete bullshit. Everyone knew Ealdred had murdered a Pope in cold blood over some perceived slight to a maid. But knowing and proving were different things.

  The Church had been forced to accept the lie. To smile. To move on. To pretend their supreme religious leader hadn't been beaten to death by a maid trainer who'd gotten angry.

  That had been roughly a century ago. The incident still poisoned Church-Syndicate relations. Still made Cardinals like Vescari burn with impotent rage whenever they thought about it.

  And now, looking at reports of his own domain's destruction...

  Could Ealdred command monsters? Could there be a connection?

  The timing was too suspicious. The surgical precision too deliberate. Divine immunity suggested Heavenly Rejections—entities that defied Church power. Entities that someone would need significant knowledge and resources to control or direct.

  That oni bastard has Syndicate backing. Has power we can't match. Has made it clear he doesn't fear the Church. And now, right after I encounter him in the Republic—indirectly, through that strange elf and battlemaid—my entire domain is destroyed by monsters that happen to possess the exact capabilities needed to ignore our defenses?

  Too many coincidences.

  But he couldn't prove anything. Just like the Church couldn't prove Ealdred had killed the Pope. Just suspicion. Paranoia. Anger without evidence.

  Vescari looked at the scattered reports. His entire domain. Gone. Hundreds of thousands dead. His career destroyed.

  All while he'd been fucking his battlemaids in his capital residence, hours away from the crisis.

  And it would come out. The spies in the palace—he knew they existed, knew the Church hierarchy monitored everyone—they'd report that Cardinal Vescari had been unavailable during the attack. That he'd been locked in his chambers with his battlemaids. That urgent messengers had been turned away for hours.

  The implication would be clear. Would spread. Would destroy what little remained of his reputation.

  One or two villages lost to monsters? Nobody cares. Standard frontier tragedy. But this? Hundreds of thousands dead. An entire domain annihilated. While the territorial lord was... indisposed?

  His positions would be stripped. Cardinal rank forfeit. Duke title questioned. Everything he'd built over centuries, gone.

  Political death. Social ruin. The end of his power within the Church hierarchy.

  He started laughing.

  Quietly at first. Then louder. Then full, unrestrained laughter that made his battlemaids tense with concern.

  "Your Eminence?" one of them asked carefully. "Are you—"

  "I'm done," he said, still laughing. "Completely done. Destroyed. Ruined. Everything gone. My domain. My positions. My future. All of it. Ended while I was fucking you lot."

  The laughter continued. Hysterical. Manic. The sound of someone whose entire world had just collapsed.

  Then it stopped.

  Abruptly. Like a switch being flipped.

  Vescari's expression shifted. The hysteria draining away. Replaced by something cold. Calculated. Focused.

  "But I'll have the last laugh," he said quietly. "Oh yes. Final revenge. Glorious revenge."

  His mind was already working. Planning.

  That maid café. That establishment in Borderwatch where Ealdred—that oni bastard who'd probably orchestrated this somehow—was investing his time and reputation. Where he was training maids personally. Something he clearly cared about.

  Whether Ealdred had actually sent the monsters or not didn't matter anymore. What mattered was simple: Ealdred was involved in something valuable. Something he was protecting. Something that could be destroyed.

  "I'll wait," Vescari said to himself, his voice carrying absolute certainty. "Years if necessary. I have time. I have resources. I'll collect information. Learn everything about that café. About the staff. About the operations. About security. About every possible weakness."

  He looked at his battlemaids. His remaining weapons. His most valuable possessions.

  But not his only resources.

  Gold. He had gold. Substantial amounts. Hidden away in various accounts across multiple continents. Stashed in locations the Church didn't know about. Centuries of skimming from titles, taking cuts from transactions, exploiting his positions for personal gain.

  He'd offered two hundred million for that battlemaid in the Republic. That had been available capital. Liquid funds he could access immediately without raising questions.

  His actual wealth? Significantly more. Spread across shell accounts. Stored in private vaults. Buried in investments and properties the Church had never connected to his name.

  The accumulated profits of a very long career in the Church's upper hierarchy.

  I need to secure it. Now. Before the Church moves to seize my assets. Before they freeze accounts and claim everything as restitution for this disaster.

  He'd need to work fast. Move funds through shady contacts. Transfer ownership through questionable channels. Use every corrupt connection he'd cultivated over centuries.

  But if he could get even half of it safely hidden before the Church bureaucracy caught up...

  That was capital. Serious capital. Enough to fund years of planning. Enough to hire the right people. Enough to wait patiently until that maid café was thriving and full and completely unprepared.

  Enough to burn it to the ground and make absolutely certain Ealdred knew why it was done.

  "And then, when nobody expects it," Vescari continued, his smile widening, "when they think they're safe, when that establishment is successful and full of Ealdred's precious trained maids..."

  "I'll destroy it. Kill everyone inside. Burn it until nothing remains but ash and screams. And I'll make sure—absolutely certain—that Ealdred knows this was revenge. That I'm the one who took everything from him the same way someone took everything from me."

  "I'll leave the Church first. Disappear properly. Fake my death if necessary. Remove all connections. Become nobody. Just a former cardinal who lost everything and vanished into obscurity."

  "When the café burns, nobody will connect it back to me. I'll be long gone. Free. Untraceable. Living comfortably somewhere distant on my hidden wealth."

  The laughter returned. Quieter now. More controlled. But carrying the same manic edge.

  "Yes. Perfect. They think they've won. They think I'm destroyed. Finished. Powerless."

  "But I have resources they don't know about. Time they won't expect me to use. Patience they can't predict."

  "Let them build their precious establishment. Let them train their maids. Let them invest years and fortunes. Let them think they're safe."

  He stood, his frame still imposing despite his political ruin. His battlemaids rose with him, awaiting commands.

  "We have work to do, my dears. Secret work. Moving assets. Hiding wealth. Preparing for a very long game."

  "And when the time comes—when that café is thriving and everyone has forgotten about the ruined cardinal who lost his domain to monsters—we strike."

  "And I'll have the last laugh. The final, glorious laugh."

  His battlemaids said nothing. Just watched their master with empty eyes. Ready to follow whatever mad plan he devised. Ready to burn and kill when commanded.

  Because that's what they were made for.

  And Vescari would use them well. He had years to plan. Years to prepare.

  Years to make Ealdred—and anyone associated with that damned café—regret that monsters had destroyed Cardinal Vescari's world.

  Revenge, he thought with cold satisfaction, is a dish best served cold. And I have all the time in the world to let it freeze.