Inside the Church
As the heavy wooden door creaked shut behind him, Sparda stepped into the shadows.
The air was different here — not just stale or cold, but alive.
It was as if the church itself was breathing, its stone walls faintly pulsing. The light from outside barely entered. Instead, a dim, bluish glow lit the interior, coming from candles that hadn't been lit by human hands in years — or perhaps ever.
Dust floated like spirits in the air, and the floorboards creaked with every step, not because they were old… but because they were watching.
Sparda stood in the center aisle, hands behind his back, his white hair catching the faint light like silver silk. His monocle gleamed coldly. The long coat around his legs fluttered slightly — not from wind, but from pressure.
"A breathing church," Sparda said to himself, voice smooth as velvet. "How original."
He took a few steps forward. The altar at the front of the church was broken — not by force, but as if it had rotted from the inside. Behind it, a large stained-glass window depicted an angel and a devil locked in battle. But strangely, the faces were blurred, melted into swirls. Watching it too long made one dizzy.
He smiled slightly.
"A place where holy things rot, and cursed things thrive. My kind of place."
Suddenly — crack.
One of the benches shifted on its own.
Sparda didn't flinch.
"If you're going to try and kill me, don't be shy. I only have one sword." he said, cracking his neck and tilting his head to one side, as if bored.
From the shadows behind the altar, something moved.
A tall figure — inhuman — slid forward with a grotesque grace. It had no legs, only a slithering black mist below its torso. Its arms were long, and its face was hidden behind what looked like a mask made of bone, with small holes where eyes should have been.
The creature's voice was like a whisper stretched into a scream.
"Y̸̡̛̜͙͎͋͊̈́ͅo̷̠͇̪̘͑̐̇̚͜ṳ̴̡̀̓̇͋͘ ̶͓̲̯̙̰̎́͗̈́̐s̷͉̲̖̙͉̾̀̏͠ẖ̸̘̈́̎̕͝o̴͈͛̓̅̀u̶̺͕̫̼͛̓͒͠l̵͚͉͖̒͗̐̍ḏ̶̹̰̆̓̽͛͘ ̶̮̳̜̈́̈́̑̓͝n̴̛̳̥̪̼̦͌͋͐̚o̸͍̰͙͛̅̔̚͝t̵̼͉́̽͗̋ ̵̡͇̠̺̠͋͌̕̕͘b̵̢͚̘̱̋̈́̄̀͐ĕ̷͖̘̟̤̦̈́̓̎ ̶̦̘͓̒̀͒̐h̸̝̄̇̇́͠e̵̠͋͑̎̕r̴̪͈͒̚̚͜͠e̵̘͛͋͝ͅ…"
Sparda stared at the demon with one eye, unimpressed.
"You stuttered. Are you nervous?"
He smirked. "Don't worry, I bite gently."
In a blink, the demon lunged — fast, fangs bared, claws extended — a scream following its shadow like a blade slicing air.
But Sparda was already gone.
A flash of purple fabric — a silver blur — and suddenly Sparda was standing behind the creature, Yamato unsheathed, its pristine blade humming quietly.
The demon froze. Then…
Slice.
Its body slid apart, slowly and cleanly, cut down the middle without even a drop of blood spilling.
Sparda lowered his blade and returned it to its scabbard with one smooth motion.
"Hmm. That was disappointing. At least pretend to last more than a second."
The demon's pieces turned into black mist and evaporated, leaving the church empty once more. But Sparda didn't let his guard down.
He looked at the altar again.
Something was underneath it. Not another enemy — but a presence. A seal. A sleeping force, faint but familiar.
He walked over and crouched down.
There it was: a circle carved into the stone floor, glowing faintly red. Not angelic. Not demonic. Something ancient.
"Well now… this isn't part of the usual hymns."
He placed a gloved hand over it. He could feel the pulse — like a heartbeat buried in stone. Whatever was sealed here… it was still alive.
"I suppose this little church was more than just a sanctuary. It's a prison."
He stood up and turned around.
Trish stood at the threshold, blonde hair catching a streak of dying sunlight. Her blue eyes were wide.
"Did… did you beat it?" she asked nervously.
Sparda glanced over his shoulder, lips curling into a cocky grin.
"I sneezed, and it died."
Trish hesitated, then walked inside cautiously, her small boots echoing against the stone floor. Her gaze locked onto the glowing seal, awe and fear mixing on her face.
"What is that?" she whispered.
Sparda's grin faded. His tone shifted — now calm, serious, commanding.
"That… is not for children to touch."
"But I'm not just a child…" Trish mumbled, not quite loud enough for him to answer.
Sparda raised one eyebrow, briefly, then ignored her. He turned his eyes back to the seal, arms behind his back like a nobleman examining art.
(There's something familiar here… something not from this world. But not from hell either.)
Then, the floor began to tremble.
The red seal pulsed — faster. Stronger. The edges cracked slightly, tiny fissures spreading out like veins.
"What's going on?" Sparda muttered, taking a step back, his expression sharpening.
Suddenly—
"WHO are you people?!"
The voice rang out, sharp and angry.
Sparda turned smoothly, one foot pivoting with deliberate grace. Trish jumped and clung to the side of his coat.
Standing at the entrance to a side corridor was a man in tattered priest robes — but he looked nothing like a gentle man of faith. His white cassock was stained, the cross on his collar broken. His eyes were wild, almost feral. And in his hands, he held a thick chain, coiled and glowing faintly with an enchantment rune.
The priest stepped forward, holding the chain like a whip.
"I said, WHO are you people?!" he shouted again, veins bulging in his neck.
"This is sacred ground — leave now, or else—!"
Sparda's posture didn't change. He didn't even flinch.
"Or else what?" Sparda said calmly, tilting his head slightly.
"You'll try and exorcise me with that?"
He chuckled, low and amused.
"You'd need more faith than that."
The priest growled and raised the chain, magic flaring around it in a violent aura.
Trish gasped and backed behind Sparda.
"He's crazy! He's really going to attack!"
Sparda stepped forward.
Just one step.
But the pressure in the church shifted — as if the world leaned toward him, recognizing something ancient and terrible.
"You… you intend to unseal that demonic thing, don't you!?" the priest shouted, pointing with his chain-wrapped hand.
Sparda raised an eyebrow.
"Demonic?"
He tilted his head slightly, genuinely intrigued.
"That's a bold word for something you clearly don't understand."
"Don't play dumb!" the priest snapped, eyes wild.
"I saw what lies beneath this church. Apostle saw it! The visions — the screaming, the red light, the eyes beneath the stone—"
He shuddered.
"That thing is evil. And you—you come here…What else could you be?"
Sparda remained still.
Then slowly raised Yamato just a little — not threateningly, but enough to gleam in the dim light.
"I'm just looking at the seal, old man." Sparda said.
He grinned slightly.
"I don't even know how to unseal it. But I must say, you're making me curious."
The priest's eyes twitched. He took another step back.
"Lies!" he hissed.
"LIES!!"
To him, Sparda still looked human — a tall, smug noble with a devil-may-care smirk and mocking politeness. But the aura said otherwise. It felt like an ancient lion wearing silk.
"Say your judgement!!" the priest bellowed.
With that, he lashed the chain — a sudden strike toward Sparda's chest, glowing runes igniting along its length.
CRACK!
The chain struck out like lightning.
But before it could connect — Sparda was gone.
A soft whshhhh of displaced air.
He reappeared behind the priest, one foot tapping down softly.
Yamato was still halfway in its scabbard.
"You shouldn't raise a weapon if you're not ready to be judged yourself."
The priest froze. His breath caught in his throat.
A clean diagonal cut split the chain in half — the enchanted metal falling to the ground with a dull clang, severed with surgical precision. No blood. Just humiliation.
"Wh-What… how did you…?"
Sparda turned slowly, giving the priest a side glance.
"Next time, ask before accusing. It saves lives… and chains."
Trish, who had been watching wide-eyed from the shadows, finally stepped forward.
"You didn't even blink…" she said in awe.
Sparda shrugged, casually sheathing Yamato in one smooth motion.
Click.
"That wasn't a fight," he replied coolly.
"That was…hmm you could say…a correction."
The priest dropped to his knees, chains shattered at his sides. His hands trembled.
He had fought demons before — things that screamed, that burned, that tore flesh from bone. Creatures born of nightmare and sin.
But this man standing before him… he wasn't a beast.
He was calm. Too calm. Like a blade held just above the skin.
"Wh-what… are you?" the priest whispered.
The man tilted his head, a polished monocle gleaming over one eye. His name was Sparda.
He didn't answer the question. Instead, he ask him a question.
"Now. Tell me—what do you know about the seal?"
The priest clenched his jaw. He spat at Sparda's feet.
"Kill me," he hissed. "I'd rather die than tell the enemy what lies beneath."
Sparda exhaled slowly through his nose. Not angry. Just… patient.
"If I were your enemy," he said, stepping forward, "you'd already be bleeding. And talking."
His eyes drifted down to the red, glowing sigil etched into the stone floor.
"Torture, pain, possession — that's the demonic way of asking questions. I'm just asking."
The priest's breath caught. He still saw a man — but something about Sparda's presence twisted the air.
It wasn't evil. But it wasn't holy either.
It was something in between. Something ancient. Dangerous. Controlled.
Then, soft footsteps echoed behind Sparda.
A little girl stepped forward.
Ten years old. Barefoot. Pale hair.
Eyes too old for her face.
She wore a worn-out cloak too big for her small frame, but her presence was anything but fragile. The air around her shimmered — soft and golden. Like light from a stained glass window.
The priest froze.
"You…" he breathed. "You carry divine power. But… you're just a child."
The girl — Trish — lowered her eyes.
"…I know," she said softly.
She didn't explain. She couldn't. Not here. Not yet.
Sparda turned his head slightly.
"What does he mean?" he asked her. His tone was even, but a flicker of something — concern, maybe — edged his voice.
Trish hesitated. Then looked away.
"I… I can't explain it right now."
Sparda studied her for a moment. Something in her expression — the tension in her brow, the way her lips pressed together — made him uncomfortable.
"…Stop doing that face," he muttered.
"I won't ask again."
Trish blinked, then gave him a small nod. Grateful.
"Thanks."
Sparda turned back to the priest, refocusing.
"Now, back to the topic."
The priest looked at them again. He still didn't fully trust them — not yet. But deep down, something told him this wasn't a trick. Sparda's presence was intense — scary, even — but it didn't feel out of control. And the girl… she felt like the holy relics he used to study. Strong. Peaceful. Not from this world.
Maybe, just maybe… they weren't lying.
Sparda spoke again, folding his arms.
"Look. We're not here to destroy anything. She said something wrong about this place."
He gestured to Trish.
"So, I went in…That's all."
The priest remained silent.
Sparda pressed on.
"The seal on the ground — it's old. Older than any demon circle I've seen. It's not just holy, and it's not purely demonic either. It feels like… something older than both. That's why I want to know."
The priest lowered his head for a moment. He'd spent his whole life protecting this place. Sworn to silence. Bound by doctrine.
But deep down, he knew — these two weren't ordinary intruders.
Slowly, he spoke.
"That seal… doesn't belong to this world. It was placed here to imprison something Something… ancient. Something before names."
Sparda narrowed his eyes.
"What is it?"
The priest swallowed hard.
"We don't know its true name anymore," he said. "Only whispers of what it once was. Not a demon. Not a god. But… human."
Sparda's eyes narrowed.
"Human?"
The priest nodded grimly.
"Long before the scriptures… before the first kingdom rose… there was a man. A mortal who found and consumed something forbidden — the Fruit of God."
Trish blinked. Her young voice barely rose above a whisper.
"A divine fruit…?"
The priest's voice trembled.
"It granted him knowledge beyond comprehension. Power that rivaled angels. But it twisted him. Warped him. His mind cracked beneath what he saw. He declared himself Ascendant — the one true god over life and death."
He looked down at the glowing seal — red and still pulsing.
"His disciples turned on him. They sealed him beneath this earth, burying his name, his deeds, and his blasphemous power. They gave their lives to trap him… and built this church as both warning and prison."
Sparda folded his arms, gaze fixed on the sigil.
"…Hmph."
The priest's voice dropped to a whisper.
"Now… the barrier between worlds is falling apart. Cracks are opening. That's why demons are showing up — because the Ascendant's seal is breaking."
Sparda's eyes darkened. A chill ran down his spine.
(Ascendant…)
(Now that I think about it… when I was a child, I heard rumors — vague, half-mad whispers — about a man who ate the forbidden fruit.)
(Could it be…?)
His gaze sharpened.
(Did Mundus invade this world because he knew? Because he felt the seal?)
(That bastard never moved without reason…)
A pulse shivered through the floor — the seal flaring dimly, as if reacting to his thoughts.
Something beneath was listening.
Waiting.
To be continue