The knock on the door startled the man guiltily enjoying the soothing darkness of his office. It was the night shift, and only a skeleton crew was supposed to be manning the administrative tasks needed in the biggest bureaucracy Pangea knew.
This period of the day usually gave him a reprieve from his hectic schedule and the constant harassment of his subordinates to give orders.
Moreover, the night shift was supposed to be the time when he could lay his mind and body at rest, even though he didn't have any biological need anymore to do so. The man liked the dark and the quiet. It was a balm on his tired spirit.
"Enter," He said with a smooth voice before another knock could be heard. He wouldn't do for his underlings to think he was sleeping.
Armistead, his vulturish-looking personal assistant, opened the door and came to stand before his desk without making a sound. That man's capacity for moving silently was uncanny. If he hadn't been a superb administrator, Armistead would have made an excellent field operative.
"What is it, Armistead?" The man asked, fighting the urge to reprimand this intrusion.
"I am sorry to interrupt your communion, Undersecretary Tertullian," Armistead said with a slight bow, "But a flagged name popped up in a low-level report that just came in. From France in the Central Region. Since this was priority A, I brought it to you as soon as it hit my desk."
Armistead concluded his explanation by putting a grey Mpad on the desk in front of his superior. He stepped back and stoically awaited the command he knew would follow.
Tertullian's first response was to inwardly sigh at the news. A priority-A flag meant something of the utmost relevance had just happened, signifying the end of what should have been a peaceful night.
He grabbed the tablet and read the name that was the source of his nascent, irrational ire and soon-to-come headache, which in this day and age and his Mind attribute level was pretty hard to achieve.
"Francis Foreman, I'll be..." Tertullian sighed for real this time, rubbing his eyes once as a sign of exasperation. "Is the High Warden in his office, Armistead?" He asked before his assistant could attempt to pry.
"High Warden Petros is indeed praying in his office as we speak," Armistead confirmed with a little nod, hands still folded in front of his immaculate sky-blue robe.
"Can you inform his secretary I need to speak with him right away on a matter of the highest priority, please? Thank you." Tertullian asked before standing up and signalling Armistead that he could leave.
As his assistant closed the door behind him, Undersecretary Tertullian of the Heavenly Security Service moved to open a wooden filing cabinet standing on the wall to his right. The lacquered cabinet was the single piece of furniture in his spacious office. After 30 seconds of rummaging, he pulled out a thin paper file, walked back to his desk and opened it.
Inside were two pieces of paper in cursive Roman language, curtly explaining why Francis Foreman had been flagged. Cursive writing was a weak point for the System that the Angelic Hierarchy and some of its counterparts had quickly noticed. Even though the PSION allowed humans to understand each other when they spoke, thus rendering the numerous human languages obsolete, they couldn't decipher written language from the memories of their hosts.
This weakness had quickly become a critical advantage for all the Factions' intelligence services because it allowed them to effectively keep some information secret from whatever overlords awaited them when the lustrum period ended. To that effect, they all used their original national language, which gave enormous value to Pangeans with translating and pre-Seminis linguistics knowledge.
A quick scan of the documents was all Tertullian needed since he had committed this particular arrangement to memory the day it happened, as he hadn't been thrilled, like most of the people present that day, by the concessions this specific third party exacted from the Holy Nation of the Lord. The Lord worked in mysterious ways, indeed.
***
"What is the urgency?" Rumbled High Warden Petros, an oldish, balding man with white hair and a short beard whose face showed the signs of someone who had not spent all his life behind a desk.
There was a thickness to his frame and a combative spark in his gaze that put unease in the people daring to look him in the eyes. If you were looking for a fight, Petros "The Auroch" of Antioch would be more than happy to oblige
"I'm sorry to interrupt at this late hour, your Saintliness," Tertullian appeased his superior, "but the name of Francis Foreman appeared in a report a few hours ago..."
"So? Why the fuss? What is it to the Lord, Tertullian?" Petros sometimes liked to play the part of a man with a failing memory when, in fact, once he learned something, he never forgot it. Ever.
"As you may recall, eight years ago, we agreed to enter a particular arrangement with the Mesopotamian regarding the whereabouts of a man named Francis Foreman if he was to ever be seen on the face of Pangea..." Tertullian summarised, holding in check to the best of his ability his contempt for the woman in question. The Holy Nation of the Lord shouldn't have to rely on outsiders for strength.
"Careful now, Tertullian," Petros admonished him, "The last time I checked the Book of the Lord, anger was still a cardinal sin. So you will repent and pray for forgiveness as soon as we are done here..." Tertullian didn't need the warning in his superior's low voice to control his emotions and show proper contrition. "Good man," Petros replied with a nod. "If I remember correctly, the deal was to apprehend this Francis Foreman alive and well before delivering him to a place of her choosing. Was that the gist of it?"
Tertullian merely nodded and kept his mouth shut, knowing full well the High Warden was talking out loud for his own benefit as he helped him focus his massive intellect on the problem at hand.
"Where did you say the report came from?" The High Warden asked absentmindedly.
"A village in the middle of the French territory," replied Tertullian after checking his tablet. "Saint-Blandine, to be more precise. One of many granary cities we established there. It mainly grows wheat, corn and barley. The city is guarded by a company of soldiers from the Holy Order of the Knights of the Levant led by Captain Balan."
"Who filed the report?" Inquired the High Warden, still lost in thoughts.
"Captain Balan did, your Saintliness." Answered the Undersecretary.
"By the nine circles of Hell," softly swore Petros under his breath. "It means the High Steward in the Levant will have been informed of this development as soon as you did, will it not?"
Once again, it was a rhetorical question, and Tertullian waited for his boss to keep speaking.
"Any words from the garrison's Chaplain on that matter?" Asked Petros after a long minute passed in total silence.
"Not that I have seen, your Saintliness."
"This might be for the best as I'm not certain that bringing in the Fisherman this early would be in anyone's interest. What do you think?"
"I agree," Tertullian said quietly. "I believe the Saint Pontiff's approach to matters of this nature would be heavy-handed at best. I recommend we keep it under wrap until Foreman is delivered to her. Better ask for forgiveness than permission..."
"It is decided then," the High Warden confirmed, turning to face Tertullian. "Better be quick about it, too. Dispatch the closest operative we have stationed in that area. Tell them to be discreet, too. In the meantime, I will handle High Steward Philippos and contact the Lady of the Reed to know where she wants him delivered. Warn our agent to be ready to travel far if needs be. Dismissed."
Tertullian left his superior's office and went straight to the Communion and Communication Services in the adjacent building, as he already knew the assets located in that region. They were in luck because a Gold operative was recovering from a hazardous dungeon run in the nearby city of Lugdunum. It might be overkill to dispatch a Gold, but the High Warden wanted the mission done by yesterday. Better safe for him and sorry for Foreman. Hopefully, the man would survive the arrest.
***
As soon as his trusted aide left his office, High Warden Petros took an innocuous object shaped like a sea shell from inside the pocket dimension hidden within his ample robes. He pushed some of his Mana into it and waited.
The sea shell had been left by the Lady of the Reed, the nickname HSS had given to one particular lady who had approached the Nation right around the time when the Council was trying to establish the first Safe Zones needed to harbour all the members of the Catholic Church. She had taught them much about the System and its working, giving them a precious headstart on the other factions.
In exchange for her generosity, she had simply asked for two favours, one immediate and one to be repaid in an uncertain future.
The immediate one had been somewhat costly in Spirits, but nothing the Nation couldn't afford at the time. The results had even been turned into a propaganda tool against the Land of Five Pillars, getting them the traction they needed inside the population to go to war. The second favour had been to look out for a certain Francis Foreman and bring him to her when he would surface Pangea.
The budding Holy Nation of the Lord couldn't accept the deal fast enough since the oath taken was minimal compared to the immediate gains.
Eight years later, Petros still believed it had been a good deal, even though some of his brother Apostles had been dubious about the cost and the apparent simplicity of it all, amongst them the Fisherman and the Zealot.
This was quite the stroke of bad luck that the intel about this Foreman person hadn't come from the Elder's Intelligence Service. It would have been so much easier for everyone involved.
Petros could already imagine the arguments his brothers would rehash during the next Council meeting. He wouldn't hear the end of it, and the ensuing debates would be sterile, at best. All for something already decided and done for.
Sometimes, Petros wished the Lord would take a more hands-on approach to managing the Nation's affairs. It would bring order to the chaos and make his life much more simpler. But, alas, the Lord worked in mysterious ways.
"Hello, High Warden, long time no see," a warm, sensual voice echoed from the sea shell, pulling him out of his thoughts. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this call?"
"Good morning, Lady of the Reed," answered Petros. "I call to fulfil the Nation's obligation to you. We have found Francis Foreman."
"Excellent news," she purred. "Be a dear and have him brought to the Hold, and the last part of the deal will be completed, High Warden."
"As you wish," Petros confidently answered. "Within the week, Francis Foreman will be delivered to you, thus concluding our business for good."
"None will be happier than me, my dear Petros," the Lady replied. Her sensual laugh echoed in his office long after the communication was severed.
***
"We have a problem, your Saintliness," explained Tertullian, his brows creased and his voice sullen by the heavy news he bore. He was back in the High Warden's small, basement-situated office, who simply frowned and waited for him to continue. "I need authorisation to access Chiara Magdalena's soul in Purgatory..."
"The Golden Griffon? Why?" Asked the High Warden with genuine confusion on his creased face.
"She was the operative sent to fetch Francis Foreman, your Saintliness..." He started, then sensing the mood changing in the cramped room, shut his mouth.
Time suspended its flight as High Warden Pedros processed what Tertullian had not said. Cold fury replaced confusion on the aged man's face.
"What level was she again?" Was the only question he growled in return.
"Level 110."
A longer stretch of silence this time.
"You realise what you are asking, do you, Tertullian?" A faint trace of menace in the High Warden's voice could be heard.
"I do, you Saintliness. I wouldn't ask if there was an alternative, but I need to understand how this could happen. The Golden Griffon was one of our top-rankers on the Central Region Board..." Tertullian held his ground for two reasons.
First, he was not responsible for the mess.
Second, the High Warden was renowned for his volcanic temper but also his fairness of judgment.
"You and I both know that involving The Most Revered is as bad an idea as involving the Fisherman..." The High Warden's words were laced with anger.
Tertullian took a step back from his superior's implacable Presence. The Undersecretary's job was not for the faint of heart.
"I know, your Saintliness," He resumed with a shakier voice than he would have preferred. "Still, if we want this Francis Foreman captured, I need more information about what went down with Magdalena. On that note, I firmly believe that we will have to order her resurrection so as to not weaken our strengths any further. Better I be the one debriefing her than some low-level agents of The Most Revered, don't you think?"
If time had suspended its flight before, now it had ceased to exist. Tertullian waited unmoving, unblinking as the eagle owl, his personal emblem and inspiration in life. Patience was his foremost quality and virtue. He was known in the Offices as the man who could outwait anyone. A skill he definitely needed in his current predicament.
"I will convene the High Council and explain the situation," the High Warden finally rumbled. "This should expedite your access to the Griffon's soul and allow you to debrief and inform her of her impending resurrection... Once you are done, you will take a team and travel to Saint-Blandine to interview Captain Balan and any other members of the flock who might have been in contact with him. Then, you will send the right people to get the job done. We were blinded by our arrogance in this matter. Let's make sure it does not happen again. Dismissed."
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
***
"Why is this news brought to us only now?" Andreas the Fisherman, Saint Pontiff of the Church, asked in a voice as cold and hard as a hail storm.
Clad in white robes, his grey, netted cape firmly settled on his shoulders–a reminder of his humble beginnings– Andreas was a thin, elderly man with long hair and a long white beard that gave an impression of infinite patience and wisdom.
In truth, Andreas was neither of those things. He was a fanatic prone to violent fits of anger who believed in his heart and soul that only the faith in Christ should be allowed on Pangea, preferably the Catholic version.
In this belief, he could always count on the support of Simon the Zealot and James the Less. This little triumvirate was known as the Ultraists, and they were a constant thorn in Petros's side. The Lord be merciful because he really wanted to strangle that old hag of a man.
"If by 'us' you mean the Council," John the Elder calmly answered before Petros had a chance, "I don't see any reason to have been told about this situation sooner. Our esteemed brother honoured a deal as it is his mission as Steward of Heaven. You wouldn't want him to inform you of every deal he approves on his day-to-day business the same he wouldn't want to be informed on all the heretics uncovered by the Holy Inquisition within the flock, would you now?"
In his mind, Petros blessed the name of the Second Son of Thunder and Chief Custodian of All Knowledge for his simple, factual answer to the Fisherman's barb. Andreas looked furious, but even he wouldn't dare publicly oppose the wisest and most beloved figure of the Holy Nation.
The Fisherman was a bloodthirsty fanatic, not an idiot. Instead of openly clashing with a brother Apostle, he preferred to use his legion of priests to influence the heart and soul of the faithful in favour of his blind crusade against all heretics. As Chief Enforcer of the Peace, Simon helped him tremendously in rooting out traitors and apostates. Luckily, Simon was not the sharpest tool in the shed and could easily be persuaded to change allegiance if needed.
No, for Petros, John and Jacob, also known as the High Triumvirate of the Council of Apostles, the real enigma came from James the Less and his control over the Department of Soul Appropriation, where he presided over Heaven, Hell and Purgatory's weighting of Spirits.
Nobody, not even dear old John's hidden spies, had been able to fathom the Caretaker's true objectives. He appeared to support Andreas' policies in most of the votes cast in the Council but also acted as a moderator on some of the most bellicose, controversial propositions regarding the state of their relationship with neutral factions like the Sanatana Dharma, the New Empire or the USAC. For all intent and purpose, James the Less was a mystery. Petros hated mysteries.
"I agree with my esteemed brother John," James the Less droned in his impassive voice. "The only reason this subject came up on the agenda today is due to the fact that the Heavenly Security Office requested access to the recently deceased soul of the Golden Griffon. That, and a resurrection. Both requests I personally granted, may I add."
Petros was surprised to see the Caretaker side with him on that subject. There was maybe a chance this meeting would end sooner rather than later. He felt relieved and allowed himself to slightly sag on his uncomfortable, high-backed chair. The relief lasted two full seconds before James asked his sneaky follow-up question.
"So, in my opinion, the only question the Council should be asking is: how did one of our most respected champions die?"
***
Purgatory was a large fold in space within the City of Heaven on Earth where all the Spirits of the departed had to transit before being affected to either Hell or Heaven. Sadly, the former destination was, more often than not, the busiest.
Purgatory's entry was located inside a small plain church made of grey stones and cold-coloured stained glasses constantly guarded by some of the fiercest warriors the Holy Nation of the Lord had to offer, trained by the Son of Thunder himself, Jacob the Great, High Marshall of Heaven and Earth. They kept a constant vigil over one of the most sacred and vital locations in the Nation and were extremely thorough about it.
To gain access, Tertullian had to show his electrum token from the Department of Soul Appropriation, then his written accreditation signed by Petros himself and finally have his Display identified through each of the three doors leading to the sorting area.
After all, this was Purgatory.
Once in the holy of holies, Tertullian gave the proper form to the attending clerk, who worldlessly directed him to a small cubicle that strongly resembled the parlours prisons used back in the days prior to the Seeding. After a five-minute wait, a golden white orb of sparkling light, the size of a baseball, appeared before him.
"Who are you?" Buzzed the ball angrily.
"Hello, miss Magdalena. I am Undersecretary Tertullian." He answered calmly.
"What do you want?" The ball asked sharply, the anger fading when she heard his name. His was a name whispered both in awe and worry by any rankers above Silver.
"I am here to inform you that you will soon be resurrected. The paperwork is going through the proper channels as we speak."
"That is great news. Thank you." Answered the ball, her flaring light dimming noticeably, indicating relief in the Spirit of the Golden Griffon. "Sorry for my behaviour. I have been on edge since my last fight."
"It is nothing. I understand how you must feel. This is the other reason for this meeting. I am here to debrief you. Can you tell me what happened?"
"Of course," the ball flatly answered, standing still in front of the man for the first time. "I was recovering in Lugdunum after clearing a newly found Silver-ranked dungeon near Targoviste. It was a close call too, since the Dungeon was days away from bursting. I got clipped by some of the stage bosses inside, which explains the R&R in Lugdunum."
"What was your Energies status when you set out on the mission?"
"I was 100% Mana, 95% Health and 94% Stamina. I am loathed to admit it, but I was as close to peak condition as ever..."
"Hmm," replied Tertullian as he took notes in his Mpad. "Continue, please."
"I flew to Saint-Blandine," the ball continued, "took me less than 30 minutes to get there. When I arrived, I talked to the officer in charge, Captain Balan, who informed me the target planned on reaching Massalia and, ultimately, Jerusalem. Something about knowing the fate of his wife and kids by accessing Repertories. I confess I didn't listen further once the knight gave me the direction I needed."
"Did he say anything else?" Tertullian insisted. "Anything about his powers or place of origin?"
"He might have, but, as I said before, I didn't take the time to assess the target further. It was a rush order, so I rushed to get him. I flew for another hour before seeing the guy in a clearing with a level 82 dead wyrm beside him. Weirdly, I couldn't read his #Display. It was blocked, and I only received statics. Before I could say anything, the lunatic mumbled something about being left alone and attacked me with a punch strong enough to bypass my armour damage mitigation and inflict a Severe wound! I lost 50%of my health on that single punch!"
There was still a note of incredulity in the ball's voice as she delivered the last of her phrase. Upset, she started to pulse and bob like a stroboscope.
"Can you stop that, please?" Tertullian asked, feeling a migraine settling in behind his eyes. Why things could never be simple in this day and age? "Was your amour faulty or something? Did you check it for weakness after your Dungeon run?"
"I don't know...," the ball moaned, slowing her erratic movements, "I don't think so. This armour was a gift from the Flayed Wright himself, who assured me nothing short of the top 50 rankers on Pangea could hope to harm me while wearing it. And now, it is lost..."
"Armour can be remade. Pull yourself together!" Tertullian sharply put the conversation back on track. He was getting tired of this debrief and couldn't wait to leave this bleak place. "What happened next?"
The ball moaned angrily at Tertullian, managing to convey both her resentment at his harsh words and her shame and despair at having been bested by her target. Magdalena would need a good one-on-one with a priest to confess and unload her self-doubts in order to get back into the field. Another headache in perspective.
"I went airborne after that, but the guy managed to close the distance at such a speed I didn't see him until he had latched himself onto my ankle after having cut through my Holy Barrier Skill like it was nothing. I think he broke the sound barrier to get to me. He grabbed my leg, ignored the armour protection again and broke my ankle, which amounted to a Light Wound and an 8% loss of health. Then he threw me down like I was a doll. I didn't have enough time to correct my course, so I crashed. I lost consciousness for two seconds, but before I could activate one of my Healing Skills, the madman used my Sanctified Polearm to cut my head and kill me with a Fatality..."
"Did he say anything? Offer any explanation for his acts of aggression? What level and class was he?" Tertullian pushed once more, desperately trying to get any kind of insight on this Francis Foreman.
"Are you hearing me, sir?" The ball shrieked this time. "A nobody killed me in less than a minute! Me, a level 110 Champion! Me, who has been at the forefront of all the Lord's campaigns to punish the heretics and the apostates since day one! I rose through the ranks through my Spirit, Skills and Powers! I had never known defeat, for the love of the Almighty!" On the last words, the ball became a dying speck of light as she whispered in a broken, sobbing voice. "I got discarded like I didn't matter... Like I was of no consequence, an afterthought..."
***
Tertullian exited Purgatory, lost in thoughts.
The interview with the Golden Griffon had ended with her wailing like a madwoman, and priests had to be summoned to soothe her Spirit and allow her some rest and stability before she could be reincarnated.
For a brief moment, he feared the Holy Nation might have lost an irreplaceable asset in its hunt for Francis Foreman. What had seemed a bargain at the time had already become costlier than they were willing to afford.
With the eruption of A and B-class Dungeons these last few weeks, they needed all the strength they possessed to protect the land and the flock. Losing the Golden Griffon was a severe blow to that end. Tertullian sighed, rubbing his eyes to chase away the migraine.
The walk to his office was only 15 minutes, a time he used to breathe in the cold Greenland air and wash away his worrisome thoughts. The clean sky blue and white streets of the City of Heaven on Earth were bustling with activity around him, every person moving with celerity and purpose to fulfil the Lord's command.
The epicentre of the Holy Nation of the Lord was a precise and well-oiled machine that worked tirelessly to advance the Lord's will on Pangea. Tertullian was happy to be a significant cog in this machine. It was his lifework, his calling.
His aide approached him as he rounded the corner leading to his office on the top floor of the Security Services. The man was efficient but cold-blooded, Tertullian having long suspected him of being unsympathetic to his fellow human. A characteristic that could either be a flaw or a quality, depending on the time of the day and the news he delivered.
"What is it, Armistead?" Tertullian asked as his aide handed him a tablet flashing with information about new agents being killed in action.
***
"How may I help you, sir?" Captain Tibor Balan's face was blank when he asked the question.
Tertullian didn't answer right away, preferring to let the captain stew a little bit in his own thoughts. After reading Armistead's report on today's event down in Central France–two agents dead, one grievously injured and Foreman on the loose with a dog they never knew he owned–Tertullian had decided not to waste time in going to Saint-Blandine.
Instead, he had opted for Saint-Blandine to come to him. In the years since the Seeding, the Angelic Hierarchy Engineering Department, guided by the Flayed Wright's brilliance, had successfully created a communication device that mixed old-Earth technology with Pangea-magic reality.
The tech looked like an imposing mainframe computer of old and needed a lot of Mana to function, but it allowed for face-to-face discussion that couldn't be intercepted nor spied upon by PSION. All the tests they had performed came back with the exact same transcript in the users' #logs: a big blank.
The Heavenly Security Office had installed one such mainframe in each settlement big enough to house a military unit. Luckily, such was the case for Saint-Blandine and its platoon of knights of the Order of the Hospital in the Levant. What a mouthful. Tertullian smirked, thinking you could always count on the army to find long and meaningless names for every little thing. He had the pleasure to see Balan uneasily squirm a little on the other side of the screen.
Tertullian used that time to read up on the man himself.
Captain Tibor Balan, Devoted Knight level 37, commander of the Saint-Blandine Krack. He had been 38 when the Seminis happened. He had almost immediately joined the ranks of the Order in the following months when things were still getting sorted, and the casualties tallied in millions. He had been primarily stationed in the rear, though, where he had seen some actions but not much.
Reading between the lines, Tertullian understood that his slow advancement was mainly due to his sexual preferences. Even though the Lord had decreed all be accepted into the fold and the flock, no matter whom they loved, old biases were hard to overcome for some hardliners within the Angelic Hierarchy.
Strangely, those same hardliners didn't have any problem with the part of the decree that compelled everyone to forsake chastity. The straw and timber proverb, as it was too often the case.
Notwithstanding his bedroom choices, Tibor Balan appeared to be a good soldier of the Lord with his head square on his shoulders. He took good care of his command and worked well with the other military branches in the Central Region.
The secular representatives of Saint-Blandine were happy to liaise with him whenever a beast problem arose, as the captain dealt with those quickly and efficiently. He seemed to be running a tight ship, too, since none of his underlings had been brought up for misconduct since he assumed his command.
"You may help me by telling me all you know about Francis Foreman, Captain Balan," Tertullian finally explained.
Hearing the name, a shadow fell over Balan's face that Tertullian couldn't miss. The officer even sagged a little in his seat, and tiny beads of sweat emerged on his forehead. The man was shaken; that was clear as day.
"Speak up, officer," The Undersecretary raised his voice to pull the other man out of this... funk.
"Apologies, sir," Balan answered with a shaky voice. "I will tell you all my observations about Mister Foreman in the 14 hours he spent with us. There are a few salient details, but if I had to recap my experience with him, I would say this: he is a monstrous predator in human guise."
***
"What is it now?" Petros sighed as he saw Tertullian's face when he entered his office.
"Francis Foreman struck again, you Saintliness." Tertullian coldly reported, even though cold was the last thing he felt about the whole situation. A righteous fire of anger burned inside him at the thought of Francis Foreman's latest affront.
"What did he do now? I thought we had sent enough agents to get the job done this time. What happened, pray tell?"
"He killed two agents, a Copper and a Silver. Only a Bronze survived the encounter." Tertullian reported.
"I guess he left a survivor to relay a message," Petros replied. "Let's have it, then."
"Right you are, as always, your Saintliness," the Undersecretary confirmed. "The message is quite simple: 'Leave me alone, or I will kill everyone you send'. As Captain Balan said, this man is a predator in human guise. I don't see the point in sending more agents after him. Class A and B Dungeons keep erratically sprouting in the Central Region, and we need all the Angels and Champions available to keep a lid on it. In my humble opinion, we can't afford to lose more agents to this homicidal maniac's rampage."
Petros breathed in and out to keep his temper under control.
Francis Foreman, who should have been a footnote on a Monday report about barley delivery, had reached the number one spot on his personal shitlist. The longer it took to catch him, the less and less Petros wished to honour the deal with the Lady. He wanted to keep that man to himself and make him pay for the affront.
That puny human's presence had stirred up a crapstorm of epic proportion in the Council. Every day, a meeting was held to keep all the Apostles apprised of the evolution of this particular mission. Everything else was on the back burner, and Petros had to stay calm and come up with various explanations that sounded too much like excuses. The Ultraists were having a field day pointing out all the mistakes made by HSO. Those back-seats driving sons of... Petros didn't finish his thoughts out of respect for the Lord.
Worse, Andreas and Simon took great delight in letting that sociopath James lead the assault on his Stewardship. They hadn't said a word ever since that first meeting a few days ago. Which most certainly meant they were scheming something that would cause more headaches for him down the road.
By the Lord, Petros hated petty politics.
Luckily, the Lord supported his Stewardship. No matter what, he would stay in charge and steady the course until the end of the lustrum period. After all, he was the High Warden of the Pearly Gates, the First among the Apostles.
No, what troubled him the most was the power this Foreman guy seemed to hold. He kept dispatching agents like they were strawmen. His Powers were unknown, and Petros feared he would upset the fragile balance between the factions, wrecking schemes and stratagems years in the making as he crossed over the Central Region towards the Holy City.
Humanity couldn't really afford to start from scratch because this man decided to play loose canon 20 months before the end of the second Lustrum period. Grave threats loomed on the horizon, and the Steward of the most powerful faction on Pangea couldn't be focusing on the whereabouts of a single person.
Something had to be done quickly.
"You are right, Tertullian," Petros relented. "I will talk with Philippos to call upon the White Eagle and his family to address this problem. It will cost us since those barbarians love to bargain, especially when they have the upper hand, but they will close the case of Francis Foreman once and for all. In the meantime, get back to closing those dungeons. I'll handle it directly from now on."
***
"I'm happy to report the Foreman Deal is officially closed as of today," Petros started his report with a tired voice.
"Was it the name we gave it for real? 'Foreman Deal' is so boring if you ask me. Who the Hell chose that name?" Commented the sarcastic voice of Jesus, Son of God Almighty.
"Don't start, Jesus," interjected the smooth voice of Lucifer, the Son of Dawn and King of Hell. "If you don't like the name, you should have bothered to attend the Council meeting when it was chosen. Stop pestering poor Petros. Can't you see he is exhausted from the whole ordeal?"
The room went silent as the glowing orb of red and black gaseous stars that was Jesus's Manifestation on Pangea seemed to peer down on him. Petros felt a subtle pressure on his Spirit, a clear indication that, for once, the Prophet was actually listening to his brother's remark and scrying the High Warden's spiritual state.
A lesser being than Petros would have imploded under the sheer pressure of Jesus's Presence. Especially because Jesus didn't care about humans and Pangea that much.
All he cared about was fighting and keeping his number-one rank on the World Board. He tended to break quite a few humans because of this.
Luckily, the Son of God could easily be oriented–a nicer term than manipulated–toward his next target, beasts and elementals more often than not. Lucifer's sole job was to make sure Jesus wouldn't kill the rest of the board's contenders before the end of the Lustrum.
This was one of the various deals they had made with the other factions' representatives. After that, all bets were off, and most of the Pangean leaders would be more than happy to unleash Jesus on the rest of the Omniverse, or Expanse, whatever those invader guys wanted to call it.
In a small corner of his mind, Petros couldn't wait to see the faces of all those so-called powerhouses when they would finally meet the unstoppable force that was Jesus Christ. In a second smaller corner of his mind, he couldn't wait to be rid of that unstable lunatic.
It took seven of the most prominent factions constant monitoring to find targets worthy of the Son of God's attention. The rest of the time, Jesus was quarantined on the Moon so that he couldn't make any trouble on Pangea.
If only the rest of the Council knew, they would stop giving him such a hard time. Especially that sociopath James the Less. Actually, Petros wondered if maybe they shouldn't prepare a bundle of Jesus and his cousin James to be unleashed on the Omniverse, or the Expanse, or whatever. He would submit that idea to Lucifer the next time they meet without Jesus being present. Telling Jesus anything ended up being dangerous for everyone. Damn, he was rambling like a tired old man.
Petros sighed.
"Thank you, Lord of the Dawn," Petros replied with a waist-deep bow. "The Holy Nation of the Lord has finally concluded its deal with the Lady of the Reed as of today. Francis Foreman is no longer a problem for us, and we can turn our focus toward the end of the Lustrum when the harvesters will invade Pangea."
"Indeed, we can," replied Lucifer, enveloping Petros in his warm, friendly Presence. "We both congratulate you on closing this matter. The information bargained in this deal was of tremendous importance to us. Still, it was a pebble in our spiritual shoe to know we owe that peculiar lady anything. Jesus and I can now rest assuaged that the debt is clear, can't we, Jesus?"
"Huh? What?" Replied an angry Jesus in a confused voice. "What the Hell you on about now, Satan? Ooh, I got an idea: wanna fight me? I'm sure I can take your lame ass with one hand tied behind my back; what do you say, chicken?!"
"Great idea, Jesus," Lucifed cooed gently. "Why don't you go ahead and tell Ghost to set up the Moon Arena? I'll be right behind you, but first, I need to give a few minor instructions to Petros before ending the meeting. Is that okay with you, Jesus?"
"I suppose so," Jesus grudgingly agreed in a suspicious voice. "I'm watching you though, you ol' snake. If you are not there by the time Ghost is finished with the array, I will rain down my wrath and beat your punk, disrespectful ass, capisce?"
Petros suddenly felt lighter as Jesus's Presence disappeared from the room. The High Warden felt powerful bindings sheathing the space where he stood before a glowing white figure appeared next to him.
The Son of Dawn's Manifestation wore a form-fitting white suit over a white shirt and bright red tie with an impressive Windsor knot. As usual, Petros had troubled looking at Lucifer, whose mastery of light magic was unparalleled. The High Warden of the Pearly Gates kneeled before his Lord, head low.
"I'm sorry you had to witness that exchange, Petros," Lucifer said with sadness in his voice. "I fear his Spirit is deteriorating even faster than we anticipated..."
"I understand and accept the burden with all my heart, your Lightness," Petros answered without looking up.
"I know you do, rise, my friend," Lucifer answered with a hand on his shoulders. "Apart from the deal with the Lady of the Reed, is everything else going according to plan?"
"Yes, your Lightness," replied Petros as he stood to loom over Lucifer.
Petros always found it strange that Lucifer, Son of Dawn, King of Hell and Prince of Heaven, always chose a small, delicate frame of a body to Manifest. He was, without a doubt, one of the most powerful beings on Pangea, and he always decided to appear as a nondescript, non-threatening human.
Was it a symbol of his humility or his deceitfulness? Petros had been wondering that very same question since their first meeting. So far, Lucifer had been nothing but diligent in implementing plans and solutions in the dim hope of allowing humanity to survive the coming invasion. Still, Petros wondered every time he saw his Lord and Master.
Short of a definite answer, it all came down to faith.
Petros had faith that Lucifer would guide humanity through the dangers ahead. His Light would usher Pangea into a new age of wonders and betterment. That or they would all be destroyed. It really was an easy choice to make.
"There is still a lot to organise before we hit the deadline," Petros resumed. "The Outlier awaits your orders regarding the far north Factions. Does he make contact? Brother Thomas has entered the final phase of his negotiations with the Sanatana Dharma. When can he conclude their deal? Finally, Thaddeus wants to know when it will be time to reveal himself to the apostates and bring them into the fold?"
As he questioned his Lord, Lucifer didn't look at Petros but kept staring at a point behind Petros's right shoulder as if he was seeing something and had forgotten the very existence of his subordinate.
"What is your role in all this?" Lucifer quietly mused to himself. "Why is your Presence so dominating? Why does my intuition tell me you have a more significant role to play in deciding the fate of Pangea than we give you credit for? Who are you, really, Francis Foreman?"