The morning paper carried death.
Noah sat in the Chro Hearts base, a cigarette burning low between his fingers as the inked words caught his eye.
[ "The Saint of St. Eldred Found Dead. Cause Unknown. Relic Involved in Incident."]
He stared at the line for a long ti. The air in the old theatre—the headquarters they had turned into a base—felt colder, thicker. Outside, the city of Victoria was loud as always: carriages on cobblestone, shouts from vendors, a fog of coal smoke hovering like a ghost. Inside, it was silent.
He lowered the newspaper slowly, his silver mask resting on the table beside him. The polished tal reflected his tired eyes. Chro Hearts mbers whispered across the hall, too afraid to ask what he'd read.
Because everyone knew—the Saint's death would not end with mourning. It would begin with bla.
Noah exhaled, his tone calm but edged with thought.
"Where did this happen?"
A young mber, a courier barely eighteen, shuffled forward. "Southern Continent, sir. At the Holy City of St. Eldred. Reports say she died touching a relic. They called it 'The Hand of the Saint.'"
Noah's fingers froze mid-air. The na hit him like a spark to gunpowder.
The Hand of the Saint.
He'd seen that na before—at the black market auction beneath Victoria's old parliant vaults. A relic sealed in glass, its surface cracked, veins of gold running through petrified flesh. They had said it belonged to a "person from another era."
He hadn't forgotten.
"Did they say how she died?" Noah asked quietly.
"Burn marks," the courier said. "But not fire. More like… light. The report said she was glowing before she collapsed."
Noah leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. The mory of the relic's faint hum ca back to him—the strange energy that wasn't mana, that didn't belong in this world at all. His hands clenched slightly. He'd walked away from that auction thinking it was just another odd artifact. Now it was murder.
And the South was already calling it sabotage.
---
Later that day, Chro Hearts' headquarters filled with the murmur of worried voices. Papers and letters poured in from across the city—rumors, accusations, even bounties.
The Southern Continent had issued a formal charge: "The Northern Continent is responsible for the Saint's death."
Nobles in Victoria panicked, fearing trade cuts and war. rchants hoarded supplies. And beneath it all, soone—soone unseen—was pulling strings.
Noah knew what that ant.
Soone was framing them.
---
By evening, rain began to fall over the capital, washing soot and gossip through the narrow streets. Noah stood by the tall glass window of his office in the theatre, watching droplets crawl down the pane.
Behind him, one of his lieutenants entered. "Boss, word is spreading fast. Even the Church in Victoria is moving. They say the relic ca from our territory—an auction piece, sold by smugglers in the North."
Noah didn't turn. "And what na did they attach to the sale?"
The man hesitated. "...Machiavelli."
The sound of that na—the na he'd used in the underground world—made the room feel heavier.
Noah's expression stayed calm, but his voice lowered to a whisper.
"So now I'm the one who killed a Saint."
He didn't look surprised, only thoughtful. He had expected consequences the mont he'd stepped into the black market months ago. Still, the timing was perfect—too perfect. Whoever was orchestrating this had waited, watched, and then struck when the world's attention was on religion and morality.
A Saint dying was bad enough.
A Saint dying because of him—that was war bait.
---
Noah finally spoke again, quietly, but every word asured like a blade.
"Find the records from the auction. Who handled the item, who transported it, who touched it. I want every na, every route. And make sure none of our n are traced back."
The lieutenant nodded and left imdiately.
When he was alone, Noah sat back down, staring again at the article. The Saint's na—Lady Rosaline—was written in elegant letters. She had been known for her healing miracles, her pure mana, her connection to the divine.
But he couldn't stop thinking about the relic.
Why would a Saint—a person who could sense mana corruption—touch sothing so unstable?
Unless she didn't know.
Noah closed his eyes for a brief second, rembering Maya's letter from weeks ago—her handwriting soft, her tone gentle. "I've joined the Church of St. Eldred. They're good people, Noah. They're helping understand faith."
He hadn't replied.
Now, he wondered if she had seen that sa relic… or worse, if she had been near the Saint when she died.
---
A knock ca at the door.
Noah opened his eyes and said simply, "Enter."
A young ssenger stepped in—rain-soaked and pale. "Sir, there's word from our contact in the Southern docks. They say the Church is calling for an inquest. A public investigation."
"Into the relic?"
"Yes, sir. Into the Saint's death. And they ntioned… you."
Noah's jaw tightened slightly. "How?"
"They believe Machiavelli, the Chro Hearts' leader, sold the relic illegally to a smuggler connected to the Saint's attendants."
He stared at the boy. "Did they have proof?"
"No, sir. Just claims. But the Church doesn't need proof. They only need faith."
Noah gave a humorless smile. "Faith, huh. That's a weapon sharper than any spear."
---
Night fell deep and heavy.
The old theatre glowed dimly with oil lamps. Chro Hearts mbers moved quietly through the halls, packing crates, burning papers, hiding traces of deals made months ago. Noah walked among them like a shadow, silent but certain.
In his private study, he unfolded a small envelope. The seal was unmarked—but inside was a copy of the Church's official decree, already stamped and ready for public release by morning.
> "The Hand of the Saint—tainted by northern hands. The Northern Continent shall answer for its sins. The false dealer known as Machiavelli is hereby declared an enemy of faith."
He let the paper drop from his fingers. It landed softly on the desk.
Outside, thunder rolled across Victoria's skyline.
So this was it.
Not a coincidence. Not random. Soone had dug up his past, pieced together the trail from that auction, and placed the bla squarely on him. A fra designed to burn everything he had built—Chro Hearts, his na, and his mask.
Noah leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingers pressing into his temples. His breath ca slow, steady, controlled.
For a mont, his thoughts drifted back to the auction room—the masked crowd, the sll of candle wax and money, the shimr of the relic in its glass box. He rembered how it pulsed faintly when he walked past, as if recognizing sothing in him.
Now, that sa relic had killed a Saint.
And soone wanted the world to think he had planned it.
---
Hours passed. The city slept under the storm, but Chro Hearts didn't.
Reports arrived one after another: the Church had closed its northern trade posts, the Bluerose family received inquiries about their new "guard," and even the Parliant discussed ergency asures to "contain syndicate threats."
Noah's existence was slipping through cracks—half rumor, half danger.
He finally stood, sliding his silver mask into place. The polished eyes reflected nothing but cold resolve.
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