December 2nd, 2024 — Osaka General Hospital

  Father Ashbourne followed Dr. Malveau into his office, the door closing behind them with a soft click that somehow sounded more ominous than a slam. The air inside was noticeably different from the antiseptic sterility of the hospital corridors—heavier, tainted with metallic undertones that the priest immediately recognized. His nostrils flared slightly as he took in the room's contents.

  Soundproofing panels lined the walls, their presence subtle but unmistakable to the trained eye. A high-definition camera sat on one of the surgical trays, its lens pointed toward the operating table where an elderly man lay motionless under anesthesia. Small speckles of blood dotted the otherwise immaculate floor around the table, so minute they might be missed by anyone less observant than Father Ashbourne.

  "Lucian, the room reeks of your bloodlust..." Father Ashbourne said quietly, his eyes lingering on the patient's unnaturally peaceful face.

  Dr. Malveau's composure broke, a manic laugh erupting from his throat, the sound bouncing off the soundproofed walls. His perfect features contorted with a joy that made him appear more inhuman than handsome, the scar over his left eye seeming to pulse with each laugh.

  "What a wonder it is though, isn't it, Father?" He circled around the priest like a predator, his movements fluid yet unsettling. "To be able to play God, teetering with people's lives! Seeing them beg, plead, cry... it's exhilarating!" His eyes gleamed with fervor as he leaned closer to the priest. "Surely someone of the church like yourself wishes you could play God now, wouldn't you?"

  Father Ashbourne's expression hardened, revulsion evident in the tight lines around his mouth. "Playing God will lead you down a dark path, Lucian. Please do not disrespect My Lord with your rendition of 'playing God.'" The words came out clipped, barely containing his disgust at having to collaborate with such a creature.

  "You're so uptight, Father." Dr. Malveau waved a dismissive hand before settling into a chair beside the unconscious patient. His fingers casually brushed against the old man's arm, a touch that seemed tender until one noticed the calculating assessment in his eyes. "Now onto business," he continued, pulling a pen from his coat pocket and twirling it with nimble fingers. "What do I owe this tremendous pleasure of seeing you? I thought Varkas would be accompanying you to Osaka."

  Father Ashbourne remained standing, maintaining distance as if proximity to Malveau might somehow contaminate him. "He should be here within the next couple of days. Varkas has been quite unpleasant to traverse Japan with. I figured I'd go my own way as he insisted he knew a faster route here." A shadow of annoyance crossed his face at the memory.

  "That doesn't surprise me," Malveau replied, his pen spinning faster between his fingers. "Varkas has always been stubborn; for better or worse. Clearly, you two are a unique pairing, I must say." The pen stopped abruptly, caught between his thumb and forefinger.

  "Very true." Father Ashbourne's tone shifted to something more businesslike, his personal distaste subordinated to their shared mission. "You mentioned you saw the Foul Vessel. Can you describe him to me so we know who we're looking for?"

  A gleam of excitement lit up Malveau's eyes, transforming his face into something almost childlike in its enthusiasm—a disturbing contrast to the subject matter. "Yes, the specimen he is! About 5'10". Those eyes, they're dull! They lack any emotion whatsoever." His voice took on a dreamy quality, fingers stretching as if already anticipating contact. "It would truly be my pleasure to see him writhe in pain! Oh, how I wish I could bring him to that."

  Father Ashbourne's jaw tightened but he remained silent, allowing Malveau to continue his unsettling description.

  "His hair, it's short on the sides and a bit long on the top. But," Malveau paused dramatically, clearly savoring the priest's attention.

  Father Ashbourne found himself leaning forward despite himself, hanging on the cliff-hanger of Malveau's words.

  "His aura. There's something about him." Malveau's voice dropped, becoming almost reverent. "I could sense it when we met. He's undeterred, yet calming. I don't know how to describe it." He rose from his chair, moving closer to Father Ashbourne. "But look for those emotionless black eyes, Father. That will for sure be him—you cannot miss it."

  Standing now, Malveau straightened his already immaculate coat. "Anything else, Father? I must review these tapes as you ruined my night!" He fake-sobbed in dramatic fashion, the theatrical display somehow more disturbing than his earlier manic laughter.

  Father Ashbourne couldn't hide the disgust that flashed across his face. "That is all, Doctor. Thanks for the information. I'll leave you to it." He turned toward the door, eager to escape the suffocating presence of the doctor.

  As he walked away, his thoughts turned inward. I can't believe I'm doing this. But dealing with these sinful bastards is a must to rid the earth of that foul vessel and Lucifer.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  "Oh, another thing before you leave," Dr. Malveau called after him, halting Father Ashbourne at the threshold.

  The priest turned slightly, not fully facing the doctor.

  "Please remind Varkas, he wants the Vessel unharmed. I know how Varkas can be." Malveau's tone carried a warning beneath its casual surface.

  With a slight nod, Father Ashbourne acknowledged the message and stepped out into the hallway, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

  Inside his office, Dr. Malveau stood motionless for a moment before an evil grin spread across his face. He moved to the camera, pressing play on the recording he'd made earlier. The old man's screams filled the soundproofed room, and Malveau's laughter rose to join them—a macabre duet of suffering and pleasure that would have chilled the blood of anyone unfortunate enough to hear it.

  Fumiko's House — That Evening

  The Nagai household was filled with the comforting aromas of home cooking—ginger, garlic, and the rich scent of simmering broth permeated every corner. In the kitchen, Asahi and Fumiko moved in practiced harmony, each attending to different aspects of the meal preparation. Asahi's strong hands worked delicately as he folded dumplings, while Fumiko stirred the ramen broth, occasionally tasting and adjusting seasonings with a precision that matched her father's.

  The front door opened with a soft chime, announcing Hanako's arrival. She stepped in, removing her formal Academy jacket with a tired sigh that spoke volumes about her day. Her hair, normally styled in an elegant updo for public appearances, was now slightly disheveled, several strands escaping their pins.

  "Ramen and chicken dumplings? My favorite!" she exclaimed, her exhausted expression brightening instantly at the sight and smell of the meal. She moved to Asahi, placing a gentle kiss on his cheek as he worked.

  "My love, how was work?" Asahi asked, his hands never stopping their rhythmic folding of dumplings, each one perfectly formed despite his split attention.

  "The usual, long and dreadful. Meetings and more meetings." Hanako sighed deeply, rolling her shoulders to release the tension that had built up over hours of sitting in conference rooms. Although granted the prestigious title of a 5-star hero, her days were now filled with administrative duties, press conferences, and strategic planning rather than the fieldwork that had once defined her career.

  She moved to help Fumiko with the final touches of the meal, their movements synchronized through years of shared kitchen duties. Soon, the three of them sat around the dining table, steaming bowls of ramen before them, a plate of dumplings in the center.

  Their conversation flowed easily, covering the mundane details of their respective days—Asahi's training sessions, Fumiko's school activities, Hanako's meetings with political figures and Academy administrators. The familiar rhythm of family dinner provided a sanctuary from the pressures of their public roles, a space where they could simply be themselves.

  As the meal progressed and their initial hunger was satisfied, the conversation began to shift to more specific topics. Fumiko, who had been somewhat quieter than usual, turned to her mother with a carefully casual expression.

  "Mom, you're familiar with Takao? I have a unique question to ask."

  Hanako started slightly, her chopsticks pausing midway to her mouth. The casual mention of someone with Takao's standing within the Academy was unexpected, especially from her daughter. "Oh dear, Takao? Yes, I mean, of course I am familiar with him. What do you need with him, love?" she replied, setting her chopsticks down to give Fumiko her full attention.

  "My friend, he received a text essentially saying he needs to meet him," Fumiko explained, her fingers fidgeting slightly with her napkin. "He's a hero, Rei, and he mentioned something along those lines. I know it's a bit of a stretch, but I figured I would ask if that's possible."

  "Hmm, Rei... that name sounds familiar," Hanako said, her brow furrowing as she tried to place the name.

  "He's the boy that was attacked by those assassins, love," Asahi supplied, setting down his spoon. "And I must say, he's trained here before. The physical prowess on him is astounding. I'm sure Takao would notice it immediately given how long he's been at the Academy."

  Hanako's expression grew thoughtful. Her mind flashed back to recent meetings with high-ranking officials, discussions about security protocols, and the unusual announcement that Takao would be temporarily taking over some of Haikito's responsibilities during his absence. The chairman had been notably vague about the duration and purpose of his departure, which was unusual in itself.

  Is this part of the plan they have? she wondered, her professional instincts activating despite the domestic setting.

  "Let me discuss with Takao first," she said carefully. "There are a lot of changes going on at the Academy, and for a rookie hero to skip the line and begin talking to someone so established seems out of my pay grade."

  She reached across the table to squeeze Fumiko's hand reassuringly. "But, I will let you know first thing. Okay, Fumi?"

  "Yes ma'am, that sounds great. Thank you so much, Mom," Fumiko replied, visibly relieved that her mother hadn't dismissed the request outright.

  They returned to their meal, the conversation drifting to other topics, but Asahi's mind lingered on Fumiko's request. Meeting with Takao as a rookie. How bizarre, he thought, his eyes meeting Hanako's briefly across the table. The silent communication between them confirmed that they shared the same concerns—something unusual was happening at the Academy, something that potentially involved their daughter and her friends.

  After dinner, as Hanako and Fumiko cleared the dishes, Asahi found himself staring out the kitchen window at the night sky. Stars were barely visible through the city's light pollution, but he searched for them anyway, an old habit from his desert training days. The world was shifting beneath them, the familiar institutions they had dedicated their lives to suddenly seeming less stable, less trustworthy.

  "I'll call Takao first thing tomorrow," Hanako said quietly, coming to stand beside him at the window. "If Haikito is somehow involved in this..."

  "Then we need to be careful," Asahi finished, placing an arm around her shoulders. "Very careful."

  Outside, the city continued its nighttime rhythm, lights blinking in distant buildings, cars moving through streets, people going about their lives unaware of the forces gathering in their midst. Somewhere in that sprawling urban landscape, a vessel carried an ancient threat, assassins stalked their prey, and forces both seen and unseen prepared for a confrontation that had been centuries in the making.

  And in a modest kitchen, two parents held each other, their daughter humming softly as she finished the dishes, the fragile normalcy of the moment all the more precious for its impermanence.