DECLARATION OF THE END OF HOSTILITIES

We must not allow this fruitless war to continue any longer.

After a careful examination of Academy City’s proposed conditions, we have agreed to hold talks. The details will be worked out then, but we hereby declare that it will not result in any disadvantage for Russia.

Before, we failed to listen to the words of the people and made an irreversible choice based on the opinions of a few. You all likely sense much more strongly how much tragedy this carried with it. I do not have the words to vindicate this historical failing.

The least we are able to do is put an end to this abnormal state of affairs as soon as possible and restore the world so that it can enjoy peace, as is its right.

After everything has ended, we will accept any punishment.

But until then, we ask that you grant us some measure of grace.

Some may not be convinced by this ending. The act of laying down our arms may not sit right with you. But we ask that you think with a clear mind—what was this war for? If this was a battle to protect our families, our friends, our spouses, and our loved ones, then this is precisely the moment we can say we’ve done it. Any further combat action would do no less than bring us farther away from that.

What made us realize that fact was the exploits of everyone on the battlefield.

During the supernatural disasters that occurred at the end of the war, you all made a far more correct choice than us in providing a helping hand to enemy and ally alike. We are confident that you will accept this ending.

At this time, we announce an end to all combat operations.

And we pray that the choice you have obtained will be written in the history books of a future peaceful world as the correct one.

October 30

Klans R. Tzarskij, Patriarch of the Russian Catholic Church

He’d been beaten to a pulp.

His right arm had been severed.

Even exposed to the air’s slicing chill, he could no longer move a finger. He could feel the blizzard slowly burying him.

But then…

He heard footsteps coming through the snow.

A moment later, figures appeared in his upturned view. No, they hadn’t approached by walking—they’d appeared in a more unnatural fashion, as though they’d shown up exactly when he’d perceived them.

They were an odd pair.

One was a blond woman. She had goggles, pushed up onto her forehead, and wore a work apron over a deep-colored jacket and pair of pants made of a thick, practical fabric. Her appearance was sloppy, but he could sense refinement in her motions. She gave the impression of a waiting maid from Britain.

The other one was a blond man. Over his light-blue shirt, he had on a beige vest.

He was in no place to comment on others, but those were not clothes that would allow movement in this bitter cold. And yet, they never even rubbed their hands together for warmth.

The woman spoke.

“Looks like he’s still breathing, at least.”

“A result of his sheer strength, no doubt. He had no reason to hold back in that situation,” answered the man before looking at his fallen face. “Anyway, I’m sure you’d rather this not end with such a complete beatdown. We’re almost at the end of our ropes ourselves, at least…We can promise you housing and safety for the time being. In exchange, we want you to tell us everything you heard. Because we may be able to read past the Age of Osiris you were in and into the Age of Horus—of Crowley—that comes after.”

“Who…are you…?” Fiamma asked. His voice was ragged.

“Ollerus.” The answer was short, everything compressed into that one word. “A pitiful sorcerer who should have become a magic god—only to have that position stolen by the one-eyed Othinus.”