The sky had gone the colour of tired metal by the time Xenovia and I trundled back toward Zevion's house. We had been searching for hours and turned up nothing — like two idiots chasing a rumor.
My feet ached, my throat was dry, and the insistent rumble from my stomach was steadily becoming the loudest thing in my head.
Xenovia detonated her patience by bonking me on the crown of my head.
It was a weak hit — polite, really — but it still stung.
I rubbed the spot and glared.
"What did I do?!"
I complained, more out of habit than actual surprise.
She folded her arms, exasperation written in every straight line of her body.
"Hmph. This is because of you."
"What? Me?!"
I looked around in mock innocence.
"Explain."
Xenovia jabbed her finger at the rolled canvas strapped over my shoulder, and there it was: my purchase.
The image unrolled like a slap — a horrendously amateurish saint portrait that I had insisted was "authentic" at the vendor's.
The saint looked like he'd been sketched by a sleep-deprived child: shabby clothes, a dubious halo, and two cherubs in the background that looked suspiciously like overexcited puppies holding trumpets.
"It's clearly a holy figure!"
I protested.
"The shopkeeper said so."
"Who is it, then?"
Xenovia asked flatly.
"I don't recognize him."
"…Saint Peter?"
I offered weakly.
I wasn't even sure if Peter was the one with the keys or the beard.
Xenovia's expression morphed from exasperation into something bordering on incredulity.
"You've got to be kidding me. Saint Peter would not look like that."
"Hey! How would I know? He looked very saintly in the stall."
Xenovia sighed, then let a quiet, theatrical prayer slip between her teeth.
"Ah, Lord, grant me patience for partners who purchase relics of questionable authenticity."
"Oh, don't talk about me like that!"
I snapped.
"Your morale drops faster than a stone when you start those complaints."
"Shut up! This is why you Protestants are heretics! You don't respect the saints like we Catholics do! Show some reverence!"
"What?! That's rich coming from you! Catholics are stuck in the past — slaves to dusty customs!"
I shot back, equally theatrical.
"Heretic!"
Xenovia barked.
"You are the heretic!"
In less than a minute, the two of us were trading theological slurs like kids arguing over who gets the last cookie.
Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
Our voices rose and fell until the sound of our stomachs — both of them — rolled out like thunder and cut us off mid-argument.
We both froze, glancing at our bellies as if they had staged a coup.
"…First," I muttered, trying to restore dignity, "we need to get food. If we don't eat, we won't think straight about reclaiming the Excalibur fragments."
Xenovia didn't bother pretending to be poised anymore.
"Agreed."
We trudged into Zevion's house like two battered knights returning from a long patrol.
The maids — who had somehow already finished supper despite our extended absence — had set the table with unbelievably punctual efficiency.
The smell of broth and roasted meat hit me in the chest like a hug.
I sank into a chair so fast the bench complained.
"Talk about life," I said around my first mouthful.
"I'm glad I came here."
Xenovia gave a resigned grunt between bites.
"If only you hadn't blown money on that painting, I wouldn't have had to bop you on the head."
"Hey! The painting was an investment in morale. And faith. And… decorative ambience," I defended, mouth full.
We ate until the world smoothed out and our edges softened.
A good meal does strange things to moral outrage — it melts it.
By the time we were finished, night had fallen in earnest, and there was no point in pretending we could sleep soundly if we were going to sit on our hands.
We stood, readied our white robes, and set out again.
The town at night felt different: quieter, scheming, as if it were watching us watch it.
Xenovia's voice dropped low when she spoke.
"Irina," she said, "I'll be honest. Retrieving all three Excalibur fragments and fighting someone like Kokabiel ourselves — that's not going to be easy."
"I realize that," I answered.
"But we have a mission."
She exhaled, the breath a measured thing.
"At the very least, our objective is simple: destroy the fragments and return alive. If any shard falls into the wrong hands, it must be reduced to nothing. Using our secret method, the success rate is—" she glanced at me like we were reporting percentages in a war room "—thirty percent."
"Thirty percent?"
I raised an eyebrow.
We'd trained for this; we'd accepted risk.
Hearing a number made it real in a way that worrying alone didn't.
"We knew the odds before we left," I said.
"We accepted them."
"Indeed," Xenovia replied, and her voice was flat with the kind of steel that always made the ground feel safer.
"Our superiors are prepared to send us on a mission that asks a price."
"That is what faith once meant to me," I said softly.
"Sacrifice for a higher purpose, unquestioning service."
She turned that thought over, and I watched the muscles at her jaw move.
Then, with that same precision she used in prayer or in striking with her sword, Xenovia said, "I have changed. My beliefs are flexible now. We must be practical. We must survive to fight another day."
I blinked.
"You have changed your mind about dying for duty?"
"I will not throw away life recklessly," she said.
"To continue the fight, one must live. There is prudence in survival. The Lord would have us choose good counsel, not blind martyrdom."
That was so very Xenovia — curt, rational, unafraid to adjust doctrine when survival demanded it.
"…You know, I've been thinking this for a while now," I said, eyeing Xenovia suspiciously, "but there's something seriously wrong with that faith of yours! Did Zevion hit your head too hard that time?"
Xenovia gave me a flat look, but a tiny smirk ghosted at the corner of her lips.
"I won't deny it. But there's nothing strange about my belief that our duty is to complete the mission and return home safely. We should strive to live — so that we can continue fighting for the Lord in the future, no?"
Her words made me pause for a second.
Xenovia, the girl who once lectured me about righteous martyrdom, is now speaking about survival and practicality?
Yeah… something definitely broke after spending time with him.
"…I can't disagree with you there," I admitted reluctantly, "but still…"
"That is precisely why," Xenovia continued firmly, "I won't seek the help of any devils."
I blinked.
"Then what are you planning?"
"Instead," she said, her tone calm and calculated, "I'll ask for help from your childhood friend's friend. It just so happens that those people are devils — but before that, they're his friends first. Our superiors never said anything about that, did they?"
"Y-you're right that no one said anything about a friend's friend, but… augh, you're twisting logic into knots again!"
I groaned, throwing my hands up.
"Your faith really is warped, Xenovia!"
She crossed her arms and replied matter-of-factly.
"I'm fine with that. Isn't he your childhood friend, Irina? For now, I think it's fine to trust him."
Her voice was calm, certain — the kind of certainty that leaves no room for argument.
I bit my lip, frustrated, but deep down, I knew she was right.
If this mission was going to succeed, if we really wanted to stop Kokabiel before he did something crazy.
I let out a small sigh.
"…Fine. But if this blows up, I'm telling the Church it was your idea."
"Accepted," she said.
A grin flickered between us—tired, reluctant, but genuine.
Under the watchful, silent sky, we started walking again.
Two weary exorcists, chasing the faint glimmer of faith and friendship in a world far too dark for either.
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