PROLOGUE

A Leader’s Position
Stage_in_Roma.

The Roman Orthodox pope had a certain vivid memory.

It was of a time when he had traveled to London for a meeting with the English Puritan Church.

One of the three major denominations of Catholicism, the English Church had a leader who was a woman of unknown age named Laura Stuart. To be sure, she had real ability—enough to tie the huge organization together. After all, she was incredibly skilled with words, easily concealing her own intentions and feelings, and by the time anyone caught on to the hidden purport and direction of whatever the matter of debate was, they’d already agreed with her. Let up for one moment, and who knew what sort of contracts she’d get you to sign. It got so bad that the three Roman Orthodox amanuenses attending with him broke under pressure and had to be brought to a medical office.

But for the pope of Rome, that wasn’t the most brightly shining part of the memory. No, that was reserved for what happened thirty minutes after the assembly.

The location was Lambeth Palace, near St. George’s Cathedral. The luxury vehicle carrying the Roman pontiff was just passing by the archbishop of the English Puritan Church’s official residence when they came to a stop at a traffic signal. When he opened his window, he heard voices from the palace.

“The septembral month has scant started, but thusly are we receiving Christmas cards in abundance…”

“It’ll be too late once Christmas is upon us. Getting them so early in the year proves they’re considering our own circumstances. After all, it’s a very laborious task to read two hundred fifty thousand Christmas cards sent from all throughout England every winter.”

“You speak as if it concerns you not, Kanzaki.”

“I don’t know what you mean. Anyway, we’ve decided on a schedule for December. Archbishop, you’ll be visiting forty-three child-welfare and family-shelter facilities dressed as Santa Claus. Please understand that this is a part of your official duties.”

“Indeed. In fact, I have already procured for my personage a nosebleed-knockout miniskirt-style Santa dress.”

“???!!! Did you just nod confidently, mutter indeed, and then say something crazy?!”

“Well, if I were to tell you the truth—and I am oh, so embarrassed about this—I have made the gut-twisting decision to strip the varnish for the sake of our devoted Anglican believers.”

“You mean you’re literally going to strip for this, you pervert?!”

“What?! Do you mean to say so many seasons have passed that miniskirted Santas are now received coldly enough to be called perverts?!”

“No, well, I…The issue is completely different—it’s your choice as Archbishop of the English Church to wear a miniskirt in the first place, clothing that exposes so much of your legs, and—”

“Hmm. What you mean is that a miniskirt Santa wouldn’t, as they say, get the job done? I suppose I am not one of the original photogravures who thrive on fan-service shots, yes? And this is coming from Kaori Kanzaki, who would seriously and literally strip for the Japanese cause of debt repayment for that illusion-killing boy. As expected of a woman who fights on the front lines of skin exposure.”

“Lay off, you freaking novice!!”

“?!”

“I’ve been trying to listen politely, but you’ve done nothing but run your mouth! If it wasn’t for you putting that weird-ass spell collar on her and then using her to get a weird-ass place to owe you something, I wouldn’t have needed to repay a debt in the first place and Tsuchimikado wouldn’t be incessantly teasing me!!”

“K-Kanzaki? Hello, Kanzaki…? Um, well, you aren’t articulating like you customarily do, and—”

“I don’t think you have any right to insult people for the way they talk, shithead!!”

“?! I—I think you’ve just said something I can’t let slip by…O-okay, it’s time for me to woman up and scold you. Kanzaki!! How dare you even thinketh of calling the head of the English Church such foul things?!!”

“Shut your trap, you amateur…I’ve made up my mind. Ever since that perverted freak Tsuchimikado laughed his ass off at me at the beach house, I knew this idiot woman was the cause of everything. I knew that if this moron wasn’t here, I wouldn’t have to repay any debts! And so I decided I’d stop respecting the imbecile entirely!!”

“E-eeeeek!! Stiyl, Stiyl!!”

A slam and a bang came from the direction of Lambeth Palace, followed by joyous shrieks and the awfully jaunty sounds of things breaking.

The exchange, in terms of decorum, doubtlessly warranted a failing grade. In fact, considering their statuses and ranks, the conversation never should have happened in the first place. The fact that sorcerers were letting others hear them from the Lambeth Palace, that most secretive of sanctuaries, was itself another problem. The housewives with their children walking nearby were at first startled by the women’s archaic speech. Still, after that, they giggled to themselves and walked away.

It was all incomprehensible.

But the only things he could see were smiles.

Before him was a world where age distinctions, power relations, and authority and dignity in one’s faith weren’t part of the picture. A world that was simply equal. The pope watched it idly, sitting in the backseat of his black luxury car surrounded by several guards.

She certainly didn’t seem like the same woman who had so easily handled their world-changing assembly in St. George’s Cathedral. But at the same time, she didn’t seem to be straying too far from the Crossist teachings. The Father who watches over all believers said this: Love thy neighbor, all men are brothers, and all are equal before the Lord. Was that not exactly what was happening here?

Things got more difficult with every added layer, like age and position.

The higher wasn’t only trying to act with equality toward the lower. The lower wasn’t just trying not to anger the higher. Laura Stuart would fight anyone, insult them, carry on, and sometimes get a little teary-eyed. But in the very end, laughter was all that remained.

That was the Archbishop of Canterbury, leader of the English Puritan Church.

A decade ago, two decades ago…even from the first time he’d ever visited the land of England, he was sure the woman, whose age was indiscernible, had always been smiling like this.

Smiling amid everyone else—smiling along with them.

As he wallowed in nostalgia, the pope of Rome walked the streets of Italy’s capital city.

He had just come to the Vatican to give a short speech at the Church of Sant’Agostino, and now he was on his way back. It was about a kilometer and a half to get there. Whenever the pope was doing something in Rome, he preferred to go there on foot rather than use a courtesy car—partly because it was simply healthier, partly because he enjoyed breathing the air in Rome, and partly because he wanted to make contact with as many of the everyday people as possible.

In fact, even now, there was a tourist who froze in place and forgot to even take out his camera and an older woman praying deeply from a window.

However…

“…One cannot call this situation desirable,” whispered the male secretary next to him, so that only he could hear. Although the man held the title of “secretary,” he was actually a martial protection officer. Changing his title had given him the right to stay by the pontiff’s side even in places armed individuals weren’t allowed to enter.

He went on: “I still believe it’s too risky to be walking around. We have several guards in the vicinity right now, but it’s not perfect, I’m afraid. We should assemble a convoy of vehicles with magical protection to move around.”

“I know that.”

“If you believe all Crossists being equal is important in this case, then there are other efficient methods we could also adopt. We can bump your favorability by visiting more child-welfare and family-shelter facilities and medical facilities to—”

“I said, I know that,” repeated the pope, this time more strongly, his mood now ruined.

The secretary fell quiet.

The pope heaved a sigh. He always sought equality, but it didn’t seem to be working. The pedestrians and tourists who looked at him simply gave him stares of surprise and respect. They didn’t feel at all as though they were part of his “circle,” as had been the case with Laura Stuart previously.

Then a filthy ball rolled out from a tight alleyway. It was about thirty centimeters across. A cheap-looking toy for children, made of a shiny material that looked like vinyl or rubber.

Without a second thought, the pope bent to pick up the ball, but his secretary intervened with his hand. When the pope stopped, a child burst out of the alleyway after it. She must have been a street child; they were rare in this area. She was about ten years old, and her clothes were even dirtier than the earth-covered toy.

The pope swatted his secretary’s hand out of the way and went to pick up the ball again.

But before he could, a sharp voice cut him off. “Stop.”

He looked to see that it was the girl.

“I might get in big trouble if I get your fancy clothes dirty,” she said.

The coldness in her voice made the pope freeze in place as though struck by lightning. Meanwhile, the girl grabbed the ball, slowly backed away from him with wary caution as though he were a ruffian, then fled back into the narrow alley whence she came.

“…”

He could do nothing but stand in a stupor.

Love thy neighbor. All men are brothers. All are equal before the Lord.

As those words came to mind, he clenched his teeth. “This is a problem…,” he said abruptly.

The secretary next to him nodded. “Yes. That was quite rude behavior toward the Bishop of Rome, single leader of two billion believers strong. We must not allow such things. And in Italy, the very home of our faith, of all places…I’m sure you would appreciate it if those calling themselves believers kept at least a minimum of good character.”

“…” The pope sighed at the secretary. The man didn’t understand a single thing.

How long had it been like this?

At this point, the only thing he could feel was a chill, brought on by this alien sense of isolation.