St. Divinitus Basilica, Meeting Room
The hallway of the church headquarters was beautiful in the way only extreme wealth and extreme faith could afford to be. Marble floors shone like mirrors, golden ornaments glowed softly under divine lamps, and every statue looked judgmental enough to make even saints walk straighter.
Pope Primus the Wise moved through the corridor with steady steps, his white robes whispering against the floor. Beside him walked Cardinal Corvus, hands folded, head lowered, expression perfectly obedient.
“Have you taken care of the witnesses of Sister Gabrielle’s death?” Pope Primus asked, his voice calm, almost gentle—like a grandfather asking about the weather.
“Yes, Holy Father,” Corvus replied smoothly. “The… reliable ones have sworn to secrecy and have been placed under surveillance. As for the unreliable ones—”
He paused for just a fraction of a second.
“—they have been removed. Although a few are still on the run.”
Pope Primus sighed, stopping briefly before a stained-glass window depicting a smiling angel ascending into heaven.
“How unfortunate,” he murmured. “To witness Sister Gabrielle being blessed by the Goddess herself… such a miracle should strengthen faith.”
His gaze hardened slightly. “But to witness that angel being killed by demons? That would only spread unnecessary fear among the flock.”
He resumed walking, his pace unchanged.
“Our believers need hope,” he continued. “Not questions. Not doubts. And certainly not the truth, if the truth is ugly.”
Another sigh, softer this time. “I hope you understand my harsh decision, Corvus.”
“Yes, Holy Father,” Corvus answered immediately. “It was necessary.”
They stopped in front of a large wooden door guarded by two holy knights, their armor polished to the point of arrogance. The knights snapped to attention, eyes forward, pretending they heard nothing.
Pope Primus turned slightly.
“Please deal with the runaways soon, Cardinal,” he said. “Before they unconsciously poison our believers’ faith.”
“As you wish, Holy Father,” Corvus replied, bowing deeply—deep enough to show respect, but not so deep as to imply guilt.
Pope Primus entered the meeting room alone.
The heavy door closed behind him with a quiet, final click.
---
Inside the meeting room, several figures were already seated around the long, holy table—the beings known to mortals as the Seven Virtues.
Sachiel sat calmly, hands folded.
Beside him, an old bearded priest rested his staff against the table, eyes half-closed in thought.
Across from them, a child priest swung his legs lightly, smiling as if this were a playdate and not a divine conspiracy.
Pope Primus walked toward them.
With every step, something changed.
His back straightened.
His shoulders broadened.
The slow shuffle of an elderly man vanished, replaced by confident, measured strides. Wrinkles faded, muscles formed, and the gentle, grandfatherly face of the Pope sharpened into something heroic—handsome, radiant, and unmistakably dangerous.
No one in the room reacted. No gasps. No surprise. This was normal.
He took one of the empty seats and folded his hands calmly on the table.
“Welcome back,” the child priest said cheerfully. “That was a good speech you gave out there, Pope Pri—”
He tilted his head, grin widening. “—I mean, Michael.”
Michael smiled faintly. “After all your effort convincing the elves, what I did was merely a follow-up.”
He glanced around the table. “Where’s Seraphiel?”
“He said he’s still busy analyzing the demons’ flying machine,” the old bearded priest replied.
Michael raised an eyebrow. “That’s rare, Uriel. He’s usually so confident in our air superiority that he doesn’t even bother studying anyone else’s.”
“Not after what happened to Sister Gabrielle,” Uriel said quietly.
Michael’s expression darkened for a brief moment.
“And Camael?” he asked. “Is he still stubbornly looking for Gabrielle’s reincarnation?”
“Yes,” Sachiel answered, letting out a tired sigh. “I’ve told him many times—Gabrielle’s death this time won’t be counted as natural or peaceful. She won’t be reincarnated anymore.”
Michael closed his eyes briefly, then nodded. “Let’s give him more time. Those two were always close.”
Silence settled over the table for a heartbeat.
“Now,” Michael said, opening his eyes, voice sharp and businesslike, “since everything has been set in motion—Raphael, tell us how you plan to defeat the demons and their allies without waging a war.”
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Every head turned.
Raphael looked up, his eyes shining with gentle confidence. He offered them a sweet smile.
---
The Black House, Front Lawn
The front lawn of the Black House had been converted into something that vaguely resembled a peaceful gathering.
Demons and dwarves were scattered across the grass, eating, drinking, and arguing like old enemies forced to attend the same family reunion. Smoke rose in thick columns from multiple barbecue pits, each one representing a different ideology, culture, and faith.
On one side of the lawn, War and Stan sat next to each other on folded chairs, plastic cups in hand.
“So,” War said, holding out his cup as Stan refilled it with whiskey, “I hear you have to fight a humane war now.”
“Yep, teach,” Stan replied, filling his own cup as well. “These days, fighting is more about brains than brawn.”
War took a slow sip, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Well, you shouldn’t have much trouble as long as you still remember the basics I teach you.”
“Of course,” Stan grinned, “If you’re fighting a fair fight, that means your strategy sucks.”
“Atta boy” War grin.
They clinked cups, wisdom exchanged.
Nearby, the fiery barbeque grills becoming much more fiery than it should have as a loud ideological conflict was unfolding.
“You outdated races don’t even understand the wonder of gas!” Famine declared, igniting his gas barbecue stove with dramatic flair. Blue flames danced obediently beneath the grill.
“It’s faster, it’s cleaner, and it’s easier to control the heat!” Belphy added proudly, placing marinated meat onto the grill like he was presenting evidence.
Right next to them, a charcoal pit crackled violently, run by Dancer, Cupid, and Comet—three beings who clearly believed suffering was part of the flavor.
“That’s not barbecue,” Comet scoffed. “That’s just cooking!”
“Taste the smoke, you cowards!” Dancer shouted, aggressively fanning thick clouds toward Famine, Pestilence, and Belphy’s direction like a weaponized weather system.
“Do you want to be gassed by me, dwarves?!” Pestilence snapped, stepping forward threateningly.
“No wonder you’re called Famine and Pestilence!” Cupid shot back. “People would rather starve than eat your poisoned grills!”
The smoke thickened. The meat sizzled.
While the rest of the lawn was filled with ideological barbecue warfare, one table was suffering from a completely different kind of tension.
No impure thought. No impure thought. No impure thought.
Solo repeated the mantra like a dying prayer while forcing a polite smile at Samael and Death sitting across from him.
“Hmm,” Samael muttered, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Why can I sense negative thoughts flickering nearby?”
Solo’s smile stiffened. His soul briefly left his body, checked the situation, and decided to stay quiet.
“You’re just getting old, Sam,” Death said casually, sipping her drink.
“Oh? You can sense negative thoughts?” Cinderclaws leaned in, interested. “That’s pretty neat.”
Before Samael could answer, Lilith suddenly appeared from behind, gracefully placing a plate of barbecue in front of him.
Unfortunately, she did this while bending just enough to present an extremely generous view of her ass directly in Solo’s line of sight.
Solo’s mantra shattered instantly.
“Hmm,” Samael muttered again. “The negative thoughts are getting stronger.”
Solo froze.
“Dad, stop it,” she said calmly. “It’s been a while since we all sat together like this. Just enjoy it.”
Lilith plopped down beside Solo, completely unaware of the near-incident she had just caused.
“Aaah, you’re right, emberpie,” Samael said, grabbing his plate at last. “So anyway—congratulations, both of you.”
“Ah… thank you, sir,” Solo replied carefully.
“Yes, congratulations, Mr. Prime Minister, Mrs. Chief of Staff,” Cinderclaws added with a polite nod.
“Any difficulties with the pregnancy?” Death asked bluntly.
“Well…” Lilith scratched her cheek, a little embarrassed. “I don’t really feel much, but Solo did…”
“Sigh,” Solo said flatly, staring into the distance. “It’s been kind of hard for me since Lilith keeps trying to kill me most of the time.”
“I’m sorry, honey,” Lilith said sweetly, leaning closer. “It’s just really hard to resist the urge now, teehee.”
“Well, that’s natural,” Samael said, munching on his barbecue. “Nothing’s wrong with that.”
“That’s right,” Death nodded, pointing vaguely with a rib bone. “It’s as natural as… what’s the name again?”
“Arthropoda,” Solo replied flatly, dead inside.
“Ah yes, that one,” Death said, satisfied. “It’s just because there’s a new presence inside Lilith’s body. More demonic energy is flowing, so it needs to be channeled somewhere.”
“Back when Lilith’s mother was pregnant with her,” Samael added casually, “we used to fight every day until her demonic energy was relieved. It became our daily exercise during pregnancy.”
Solo stared at him.
“…Well duh, I don’t have any powers,” Solo complained. “I can’t even beat a demon kid, let alone Lilith.”
Lilith frowned, genuinely distressed. “I’m really sorry, honey. I promised myself I’d only give affection to you every day, but somehow I just feel like I love you so much I want to squeeze you—or bite you—as hard as I can.”
“…Please don’t,” Solo said immediately.
“Hmm,” Samael muttered, chewing thoughtfully. “I forgot my son-in-law is weak.”
“Why not channel the energy to one of the dukes here?” Death suggested calmly.
“We’re busy,” Levi, Monny, and Mo answered in perfect unison without even looking up.
“Hmm. Let me see what I can do,” Samael said, wiping his hands. “I’m staying here for a while anyway.”
“Oh?” Solo felt genuine relief for the first time all evening. “Is that why you came here, sir? To help with Lilith’s situation?”
Samael blinked. “…Hmm?”
He turned slowly to Lilith.
“You haven’t told him, emberpie?”
“Told me what?” Solo asked, turning to Lilith, confused.
Lilith’s expression soured instantly.
---
“A tribute… for when the baby is born?” Solo muttered, very carefully.
“That’s right,” Samael said, nodding with pride. “It’s a family tradition. When a child is born, the father must present the world. For honoring the child and the mother.”
“Well, not literally the world,” Death added helpfully. “It just means the father must accomplish something truly great. Something worthy of remembrance.”
“Back then,” Samael continued, completely unbothered, “I destroyed the Elf Kingdom and presented the Elf King’s head to Lilith and her mother.”
“…I see…” Solo said slowly, turning to Lilith, who was still frowning at the table. “That’s… tricky, but you didn’t have to hide it from me, honey.”
Lilith said nothing.
“And you must do it with your own power,” Samael added suddenly, voice turning firm. “You are only allowed to bring four lowly servants on your journey.”
“What?” Solo blinked.
“That means,” Death clarified calmly, “no demon dukes, no noble demons, and no assistance from Murica’s war machines that considered equivalent to a duke in power.”
“And if you fail,” Samael added.
He paused.
The pause stretched.
“And if you fail,” Samael repeated, “you are not a worthy father. Lilith and the baby will be returned to me, the family patriarch. And you will be removed from the family.”
“WHAAT!?” Solo shouted.
Lilith kept her head down, fingers clenched in her dress.
Silence swallowed the table.
“I don’t know what you demons call that,” Cinderclaws whispered to Mo beside him, “but in dwarf culture, we call that a ‘divorce.’”
Mo nodded slowly. “…Yeah. That tracks.”
Inside St. Divinitus Basilica
