Coral Eldarian, the Akai estate, has aspects of an ancient fortress.
Perched on a mountain ridge, three hundred twenty ters up, it overlooks the edge of town like a watchtower from so forgotten war.
Only two roads lead to it—both gated, both guarded, both under the Akai family’s control. If you’re not going to the mansion, there’s no reason to be on either path.
Any unfamiliar face trying to climb that hill would stick out like a boulder in a rice paddy. And that’s before the magic kicks in.
The entire place is cocooned in layers of spiritual defense.
The grand barrier, Sanctuary Code, draws on the land’s innate energy—what Yukino once called “the soul of the mountain.” With it active, no Demon gets in.
The periter is lined with sacred salt, too. Cross that, and you’re already halfway to ashes.
Every inch of the estate screams: You are not welco here.
This was the stronghold. The last wall standing. Mages, not Exorcists, built it—Exorcists fall like casings. But this place? This place was supposed to be eternal.
I believed that. Eighteen years living inside those gates, not one Demon got through. Two and a half years on security duty, not even a stray dog tested the line.
So yeah, I thought we were untouchable.
Stupid.
“Everyone, back up! It’s dangerous! Stay behind the line!”
A crowd had swelled at the base of the mountain. Reporters, locals, lookie-loos. Police cruisers and civilian cars jamd the narrow roads.
“The moon is burning! The sky is burning!”
“What happened to the Akai castle?!”
“It must be a terrorist attack!”
I shove through the wall of bodies. Forward. Forward. Forward. Six-foot-three, three-fifty of pure muscle—my body’s a battering ram, and today it’s got a purpose.
I hit the police barricade. One of the officers, a woman, throws an arm out, presses a hand to my chest.
“P-please, sir! You can’t go any—”
I flip my coat open. Let her see the pistols. Twin holsters, silver crosses etched into the grips. Loud and clear.
“Akai Clan Exorcist.”
“M-my apologies! Please, let him through!”
I duck under the tape and sprint up the mountain.
The gate’s wrecked. Blown open like a bomb hit it. A truck lies upside down, fra twisted, engine still ticking like a dying heart.
The heat hits right there. Thick and angry, like opening the door to a blast furnace.
How worse must it be inside? The thought terrifies .
I chamber a round in my sidearm—rcury bullets, Exorcist-issue, Five-seveN Mk3.
Never fired it outside training. Might have to now.
Hands shake, but quickly stop.
Breathe in. Rember the drills. I’m ready. My prep’s solid.
I vault the truck, move into the eastern block. Two bodies lie sprawled out on the asphalt.
I approach.
Black coats. White shirts. Black ties. The Exorcist uniform. Simple, formal, suited for battle or a funeral—sa thing, really.
One body’s skull is crushed like a lon. The other’s been opened stem to stern, guts spilled across the ground.
I recognize one. The other, I figure out from the size and build.
Seventeen-year-olds. Candidates a year younger than .
Dead. Killed by Demons, no doubt.
“An.”
I cross myself and stand, eyes scanning.
And I hear it.
“...What’s this?”
Music. Slow, deep, and heavy.
A pipe organ?
No question. That’s a pipe organ.
I look toward the orphanage. Akai Orphanage, my first ho.
It’s a separate building, so the fire hasn’t hit it. Not yet. But the front door’s been blasted open.
The sound—it’s coming from there.
I bolt.
The door hangs crooked. The organ music swells, echoing down the ruined halls. Majestic and powerful.
Twelve years since I last set foot here. Not once did I return.
Not because I hate the place. Just… life. Duty and work. Or so I tell myself.
Truth is, I circle the place like a ghost. Walk past it sotis. Stare up at the windows. Always turn away.
Is it guilt? Sha? Fear?
Maybe fear of being forgotten. Fear that the Sisters have too many mouths to rember one boy who left—and that I ant nothing more to them.
And just like that, twelve years gone like smoke.
I follow the path etched in my bones, from the entrance to the chapel.
The fire hasn’t reached this hall. It’s quiet. Cold, Dim.
And it reeks of blood.
Small bodies lie crumpled along the corridor. Children.
The walls and ceiling are gouged with claw marks. Blasts of raw power.
It looks like a battlefield—and a massacre.
I pause for one breath. One prayer.
Then I move. Gun drawn, two hands. Step over the dead and down the hall.
I reach the chapel.
Door’s half-open. I push it.
The sound hits like a hamr. Low and thunderous. Like the organ’s playing straight into my ribcage.
At the far end, in the altar wall, the old pipe organ stands like a throne of brass and wood. A thousand pipes, all singing.
And there—at the bench—a figure in blue robes plays. Arms flowing like waves, every movent deliberate.
I stop halfway down the aisle, breathing heavy now.
That robe, that posture…
The music stutters to a halt.
The figure turns.
“...Director.”
Director Teresa. The Mother of Akai Orphanage.
I never knew her family na. Everyone called her Mother.
Only I called her Director.
She’s changed. Beco frail and shrunken. Her back bows like the mountain’s broken her.
She’d been old when I left, but now…
Now, she’s sothing else. Sothing ti can’t account for.
Eyes black as pitch. Veins raised like ink under skin.
Mouth sared with fresh blood.
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