The Black-Winged Duke—Granthorg Blackmoa—was the sixteenth of the Twenty-Seven Dead Apostle Ancestors. A staunchly loyal servant of the Crimson Moon, his role was less that of a mere Dead Apostle and more akin to a familiar, constantly running errands across the world on behalf of his master. In the world of the Apostles, he was considered a shadowy mirror to the noble White-Winged Lord—a beast tamer clad in dark feathers.
In both power and seniority, he was on par with the White-Winged Lord who rose to prominence following the Crimson Moon's death—nominally the King of the Dead Apostles. Only the upper echelons of the Twenty-Seven Ancestors could afford to speak to him with disdain.
By all accounts, he should have followed the path of ruin after the Crimson Moon's fall… or so people thought.
Yet the corpse of the Black-Winged Duke—preserved by some unknown Church technique—still radiated a deep-seated grudge, as if it could not rest in peace.
Clearly, he hadn't willingly accepted his destruction in despair. He had been utterly and deliberately slain.
As Avia approached, he saw more clearly at the base of the mountain: the weapon that pinned the Duke's corpse in place was none other than one of the Church's conceptual armaments—a Black Key.
Nearby lay a small village, scarcely more than thirty or forty people. Elderly, children, adults—each and every one of them was skin and bones, clothed in rags, faces sunken, eyes lifeless. It wouldn't have been surprising if death claimed them at any moment. This place was, in every sense of the word, a graveyard.
The villagers stared out with eyes full of fear and despair. Outside the village stood several knight-like figures who barred their exit, glaring at the villagers with disgust, as though they were vermin. Now and then, they waved swords to intimidate them.
Whenever a child broke into tears from fear, the knights burst into laughter.
Avia stifled the fury boiling within him and avoided provoking suspicion. He made his way to the nearest church he could find on the road.
It was a simple building, with ivy crawling up its scale-like stone walls, surrounded by dense fences steeped in magical energy.
Inside, the space was unexpectedly vast. The cathedral's ceiling soared high, the interior clean and tranquil—an uncanny contrast to the village outside.
Though far from luxurious, the pews and candleholders were spotless, a testament to the residents' devout faith.
"Who allowed a magus like you into our church? Get out! You're not welcome here."
A rotund, middle-aged man in priestly garb turned upon hearing the door open. He eyed Avia—plainly dressed, brimming with magical energy not grounded in the Bible—with naked contempt.
Whether it was because Avia carried nothing of value or simply due to his identity as a magus, the priest's tone dripped with scorn.
Rather than "chubby," it would be more accurate to describe his body as spherical. The sheer mass of flesh made it almost impossible to imagine he lived in the same land as the emaciated villagers. And yet, he was a man of the Church.
Then again, this was Wales—firmly under the Church's control. Naturally, a priest would never be left wanting.
"Isn't the Church supposed to welcome all people with open arms? That's what it was founded on, wasn't it?"
Avia stepped forward, lifting his chin toward the overstuffed priest, his pointed gaze striking straight through the man's blubbered soul.
"Oh, of course, of course. Be my guest," the priest chuckled. "But magi like you—well, you lot have no right to God's protection. You don't even qualify."
His short, thick neck wobbled with each movement of his triple chin. His beady eyes, already cloudy, narrowed further as he bowed mockingly.
"Anyone can offer a prayer," Avia continued. "But I'm curious. That village outside—those people haven't eaten properly in ages. Why isn't the Church doing anything about it? You, looking like this, clearly aren't lacking food."
"Three hundred and fifty-five years ago—May 19th—at the First Ecumenical Council, the Church was officially founded. And on that day, we established a covenant:
> 'We are a community, and the Holy Church exists for every one of its members, and for all who suffer in this world—for the unfortunate, for those lost in despair. We were founded for the sake of humanity.'
What, has that been forgotten in just three centuries? Aren't you a priest? Wasn't that creed something to be engraved upon the heart upon joining?"
"...Hah! Hahahahahaha! A lowly magus thinks he can lecture me? Question my faith?"
The priest rubbed his chin and sneered.
"Of course I know it. But those things—you call them people? They're nothing more than wretched beasts wearing human skins. Their souls have long since fallen."
He bared yellowed teeth in a sickening grin, his rolls of fat quaking with each guffaw.
Avia remained expressionless. The priest continued:
"They claim to be descendants of the Blackmoa lineage, simply because a Dead Apostle once showed them a shred of mercy. Pathetic. No dignity at all. Their souls are rotten. I didn't slaughter them on sight—I even gave them scraps so they could fight each other over it. The fact that any are still alive is already a blessing from me."
Just as Avia suspected—this village was the ancestral home of the gravekeepers, those who inherited the art of transforming into crows from the Black-Winged Duke himself. It was also the homeland of Gray, the disciple of the second generation Lord El-Melloi.
"Hmph. I've no idea why the higher-ups in the Church tolerate magi like you. If it were me, I'd have wiped your kind out long ago—just like the phantasmal beasts of Britain. And yet you're allowed to live in Londinium? What a joke. You magi are parasites defiling God's creation. The fact that you even exist is an insult."
Avia could tell. The priest meant every word.
He took a deep breath and pressed on.
"Wipe out every last phantasmal beast? That's impossible. There's no way all of Britain's mysteries could've been captured so easily."
Indeed, he hadn't seen a single beast during his journey thus far. He had assumed they were simply in hiding. But the priest's words implied something far worse.
"You didn't know? What, are you some feral maggot born without parents? Hahahahahaha!"
The priest laughed heartily.
"A few years ago, those arrogant beasts dared approach the Church, begging for peaceful coexistence. So the higher-ups lured them in… and wiped them all out. The bloodstains of those animals still taint this land. Hah. Some fools even tried to help them. Better they died."
Clearly, the priest was parroting the Church's view. But Avia now understood what had happened:
The Church had baited the phantasmal species of Britain into a "peace talk"—a trap. Every last one that entered Wales was slaughtered. Now, the scent of blood, excrement, and rot from Apostles and beasts alike had seeped into the very soil of the land.
Melly's parents, too, must have—
Now, as Avia recalled the sealed-off village—humans kept like pets—their suffering far exceeded even that from three centuries ago. And it was no natural disaster.
It was human cruelty. The Church's malice.
Avia gave a weary smile. He stepped forward—and the torrent of magical energy he unleashed surged like a tidal wave, locking onto the smug, wobbling priest.
"H-Hey! What are you doing? What's happening to me—my strength—it's gone?! I'm a priest of the Church! You magi dare spark a war?! You don't have the strength! You won't kill me! The Cardinal in Wales won't let you get away with it! You filthy maggot, how dare—"
His final scream was cut short by the clean arc of a spear.
In one merciless stroke, Avia cut him in two.
And then, the Hun bearing sword and lance torched the chapel to the ground and began his march toward the seat of the Welsh Cardinal.