David fixed his gaze on the projection; those shards of memory fell into the depths of his Mind like stars, yet clearly mirrored the operating mechanism of the Cosmos's lifeblood.
He gently closed his eyes, feeling the lucent enlightenment born of bloodline merging with arcane: "So the 'World Anchor' was never a gift from the Creator, but the final prison…
the residue of ancient terror and the struggle against Order."
At the same time, that black-robed figure descended into the void once more.
His steps were unhurried, yet could not conceal the cold cunning that flowed between his brows and eyes.
This time, it was the Pope's true body, manifest in a shell visible to mortal eyes yet not of mundane flesh; his gaze was as cold as Frosty Winter's polar night, silently surveying the suffering of all beings, like a judge of fate descending upon the dust of the world.
His voice was steady and heavy with oppression: "You have seen the truth, but this is merely the tip of the iceberg."
