Chapter Two: The Gathering Storm

Justin Chambers walked down the stairs to the basement, silent and alone.

He was the Dominus Doctrinae, the highest official in the True Church of Harris. Normally he wouldn’t go anywhere unattended. But now, in the middle of the night, he headed for the basement by himself. Down to a facility that, officially, didn’t exist. Those in the Church who might have seen him this way were very few. This place was something the Church—and the Dominus Doctrinae—had deliberately kept hidden throughout the generations.

“Hrgh...”

He pushed open the heavy metal door to the underground facility.

Where he was going had a very different atmosphere than where he was coming from. It was completely unadorned; instead, the walls were covered with shelves—so many of them that the walls literally couldn’t be seen. The shelves were lined with a variety of items and tools. Some were made of metal, some of glass, others of resin, while still others were made of materials he couldn’t identify. All of them were mysteries to Justin; he didn’t even know what they were called, let alone how to use them.

Whatever they were, they didn’t make one think of a religious building—certainly not the basement of the Great Cathedral. On the ceiling, along with the lamp that hung there for illumination, countless pipes were visible. Narrow ones and large ones, pipes that forked in different directions and others that joined together. Some were connected to spherical vessels, or square ones—other things Justin didn’t understand.

Deep in the room stood the master of this place.

“Welcome to my laboratory,” said the tall, thin woman, bowing.

She was perhaps just past twenty years old. Her fiery-red hair was tied back and tossed over her left shoulder. She wore a long black outfit, the chest open as if to invite attention. She didn’t much look like someone who would be associated with a church. In fact, one could mistake her for a prostitute. At first glance, one certainly wouldn’t guess that she was an alchemist—unless one saw her hands.

Her arms were covered in white gloves that reached to her elbows, with a complicated sigil on the back of the hand. It was a combination of a variety of symbols and letters—a “transmogrification circle” such as alchemists favored. The circle on her gloves was not actually practical; it was more of a blueprint, a measuring stick. But this was yet another thing Justin didn’t know.

Yaroslava Vernak was the woman’s name.

“You said you had something I would like to see,” Justin said.

“And so I do. This way, please.” Yaroslava gestured with an alluring smile. She indicated another door, this one made of wood. “Are you quite ready, Your Holiness?” she asked. She was smiling as if she was about to pull a prank on him.

“Should I be?”

“Yes. I think you may find this a bit shocking.”

Yaroslava had always been given to theatrics, but he sensed a gravity from her today that was unusual. “You’ve never done anything but shock me,” Justin said with a wry smile. “What more do you threaten me with now?”

“Very well, Your Holiness,” she said. “Look here, then.”

She opened the door and ushered Justin inside.

A massive tank sat in the center of the room. It was filled with an opaque liquid the crimson color of blood—presumably some form of holy oil. It wasn’t very wide; it had the dimensions and appearance of a coffin that had been propped up on its end.

“My most sincere apologies that I’ve kept you waiting,” Yaroslava said. “Allow me to introduce you to the prototype of Vernak’s ‘angel.’”

She pulled on a chain that hung from the ceiling. There was a ploop, and a single bubble rose in the tube of holy oil. A moment later, a slow whirlpool formed and the water level began to drop. Apparently, she was draining the holy oil. As the liquid got lower and lower, the object hidden in the tube became visible.

“What’s this...?” There was indeed a note of astonishment in Justin’s voice. He had ordered Yaroslava to create a new, fourteenth angel, but he had expected it to take time. The angels had originally been the work of one particular family of alchemists kept by the previous Dominus, but when Jirina Urban, one of the descendants of that family, had been executed as an apostate, much of the art of creating the angels had been lost.

He had assumed that careful study of the records left by Jirina’s family would eventually yield the ability to create angels just as good as theirs, but he had never imagined it would be a simple enough matter to complete in such a brief time. Or perhaps this was a testament to just how skilled Yaroslava was.

“This is an angel...?”

It had a pale body, a few flecks of crimson still clinging to it. It was sitting at the bottom of the tube of holy oil, facing away from them. Its form was willowy, the whole shape of its body described by flowing curves. It was immensely alluring. Even before one noticed the bulge of the chest, it was obvious this was a woman.

There were no female homunculi, no female angels. Or there hadn’t been. But now...

It was the teaching of the True Church of Harris that the most fundamental form of the human body was male. Immediately after the creation of the world, the whole human race had consisted of just one man. This meant there was no fighting or anger amongst people, only one perfect entity, un-aging, undying: God’s beloved child.

If the man had continued this way, the world might have been tedious, perhaps, but it would have been safe. But the man, it was said, succumbed to loneliness and boredom: imitating what God had done, he took a piece of his own flesh and made himself a companion—a woman. As a result, jealousy and rage entered the world, and people began to fight with each other. Encountering one who was like him and yet was not him, the man learned to compare himself to others. Humans could never again be pure.

This was why the Church saw women as lower than men: they were the source of original sin. Of course the all-important angels would be made only in the likeness of men.

“I suppose there’s some reason you made this angel in the form of a woman.”

“Of course,” Yaroslava said with a knowing smile. “Two reasons, in fact. One is as a ploy against the Blue Angel. He obviously knows the True Church of Harris is after him, so he’ll be on the lookout for male enemies. A female might just get past his guard.”

This new Angel had been created specifically with the goal of destroying the thirteenth angel, called the Blue Angel or the Bluesteel Blasphemer. He would no doubt expect any angel sent after him to look like a man, so a female angel would have better luck getting close to him.

“And the other reason?”

“I believe we discussed that in order to fight the Blue Angel, the human soul at the core of this creation would not be removed.”

The Church used its homunculi to perform miracles to help convert people; they were almost like walking advertisements. And an advertisement had no need of self-awareness or the ability to act autonomously. The angels were generally accompanied by someone whose job was to control them, to judge onlookers’ reactions and dispense miracles accordingly.

The Bluesteel Blasphemer, however, retained his sense of self. This was the most threatening thing about him and the reason Jirina Urban had been executed for creating him.

The Blasphemer himself was not so superior to the other angels as such; in fact, their abilities were more or less the same. But with his sense of self, the Blasphemer didn’t need to be given orders. When fighting another angel, he was immeasurably faster than a puppet that couldn’t think or act on its own. The ability to assess the situation, choose a strategy, and carry it out was a matter of life and death on the battlefield.

If they sent enough units of the Missionary Order against him, they could almost certainly overwhelm him regardless of what his powers were. But that would be too public. The scandal of what was happening inside the Church might well get out.

For the sake of its reputation, the Church was desperate to deal with the Bluesteel Blasphemer secretly. That necessitated an assassin with abilities equal to his. And that meant creating an angel that hadn’t been divested of its core—of the human soul, with all its imperfections and memories, that rested at the center of its being.

To that end...

“I used a soul that was a woman in its previous world. If I had tried to force such a soul into a male body, it might have caused unnecessary complications. It would have been a gamble, and not a wise one. The confusion the soul felt might have prevented it from using its powers to the fullest, might even have caused it to go berserk. Then the Church would have another angel for an enemy, and matters would be much worse instead of much better.”

“I see your logic,” Justin said. He narrowed his eyes at the naked girl in the tube of holy oil. “And? Does it move yet?”

“It does. No problems at all.” Yaroslava gave a provocative smile and tapped on the glass of the tube. “Wake up. Wake up and greet your honored father.”

“Father...?” Justin seemed disturbed by this. Before him, the fourteenth angel opened its eyes. Its back, which had been resting against the glass, straightened up, and then it pushed against the bottom of the tube and rose without any hesitation in its movements. It approached the glass, beads of holy oil dripping from its long golden hair, and placed its palms against the inside of the tube.

“Fa...th...er...?” It looked at Justin in puzzlement. Its crimson eyes took in the bemused Dominus.

“Father?” Justin asked again. “What do you mean by that?”

“Does Your Holiness know the ingredients for a homunculus?” Yaroslava said, clearly enjoying herself.

“Ingredients...? No, I’m afraid I don’t know what this work entails.”

Of course, he wouldn’t. No outsider would know exactly what was involved in creating a homunculus, the quintessence of alchemy. Given that the angel was in a tube that had been full of holy oil just a moment ago, he might guess that holy oil had something to do with it. But little more.

“Of course you don’t. That’s only natural. Let me elucidate for you. One of the ingredients in a homunculus is human semen.”

“.........Erm.”

“You isolate the semen in a still and allow it to ferment. A transparent, human-shaped thing emerges. You provide it with some human blood each day, and a body begins to grow. That’s not all there is to it, but those are the basics.” Yaroslava licked her lips with her bright-red tongue. “Shall I tell you where I collected the semen from?”

“...Father.”

The newborn homunculus, showing no sign of understanding the conversation going on in front of it, continued to stare at Justin with its blood-red eyes.

●

In the end, Berta was still at the Schillings mansion four days later.

They were still shorthanded, and Veronika hadn’t yet gained the full trust of the people of Friedland, nor did she seem very willing to talk to anyone but Berta. Some argued that on the off chance Veronika were to turn violent, Berta would be completely useless, but given that three knights of the Missionary Order, including Arlen, hadn’t been able to subdue the mercenary, it seemed impractical to station enough guards at her room to control her. And so Berta continued to look after Veronika.

Berta herself wasn’t unhappy about this. With no special skills or vocation, she was pleased to be given work, to have something she could do. Only the fact that this meant spending days apart from Yukinari nagged at her.

“Um...”

Berta arrived at the guestroom with fresh bandages and a bucket of warm water. Veronika was just sitting up on her bed. It seemed the mercenary had known Berta was coming. Perhaps she had heard the girl’s quiet footfalls, or had simply been able to sense her presence. Whatever the case, Berta had never seen Veronika sleeping defenselessly. Lying down with her eyes closed, yes, but Berta always knew somehow that at those moments, Veronika was still awake. Her impression was that Veronika was simply remaining calm to recover her strength.

“May I... change your bandages and, um... help you wash?”

This would be the fourth time already, but to Berta, Veronika still gave off the air of a wild beast, as if she might bite if she weren’t handled carefully. This seemed to be Berta’s misunderstanding.

“I’m sorry for the trouble,” Veronika said apologetically.

“Okay, then...” Berta reached out a hand, but Veronika stopped her.

“No, it’s all right, I’ll undress myself.” She removed her sleepwear. Since they were both women, there was no embarrassment, but due to her injuries, her movements were still hesitant.

“I’ll take off the old bandages first,” Berta said, removing the blood- and sweat-soaked wrappings. She was no doctor, and this was about the extent of what she could do, but after doing it every day for four days she was starting to get better at it. Slowly, taking care not to touch the wounds, she worked her way around Veronika’s toned body.

It was so different from her own, she reflected. Berta was not fat by any means, but her muscles didn’t stand out the way Veronika’s did. Berta’s skin was soft; press it with a finger and the finger would sink in slightly. Veronika’s skin was taut; it would push back against a touch. It was the body of someone who had undergone a great deal of training. Somehow, it reminded Berta of a wild animal.

Scars marked the skin. Some newer, some older. Some large and some small. The scars were a silent testimony to the kind of life the woman had led.

Compared to Veronika, Berta felt she had been—not blessed, exactly, but that she had led a very quiet life. She had never even thought of fighting, of doing battle with someone else. She never even really took the initiative to do anything, but always simply did as she was told. She couldn’t help but feel that in Veronika’s eyes, she must be an ugly and pitiful thing.

“The wounds have closed up, for the most part.” Veronika was looking at the injuries under the bandages with strikingly untroubled eyes.

“Yes,” Berta agreed, rolling up the old bandages and putting them in a bag. The wounds didn’t show any sign of festering, and the swelling was finally starting to go down. As Veronika said, the next set of bandages probably wouldn’t have any blood on them. She didn’t seem to have any injuries to her internal organs, either, so a full recovery wasn’t too far away.

“The cuts weren’t that deep to begin with,” Veronika said. “When the bleeding stops, that will be enough.”

“Enough for what?” Berta was puzzled; it almost sounded as if Veronika didn’t intend to heal any more than that.

Later, after Veronika had allowed her body to be wiped down and as Berta was applying new bandages, the mercenary said, almost as if it had just occurred to her:

“Thanks for everything.”

“Oh, not at all... I’m sorry I haven’t been able to do more for you.”

“My friends are being held in Aldreil.”

This was very sudden.

“Oh, um, other mercenaries...?”

“Yes, along with my employer. Until our contract ends, he’s one of my friends, too.” Veronika waited for Berta to finish applying the bandages, then stood up from the bed.

“Er, where are you—?”

“I’m going to rescue my friends.” She sounded so casual about it that it took Berta a moment to understand what she meant.

“Wha? But—”

“Thank you again. You have my gratitude. Kindly tell me where my weapon is being kept.”

Berta couldn’t speak immediately. She opened and closed her mouth several times before finally saying, “I—I know your wounds are better, but... It’s still too soon to—” She realized on some level that she wasn’t quite addressing Veronika’s concern.

Veronika wanted to go to Aldreil. The city the Missionary Order was using as a base. There were probably more than two hundred knights there, along with those awful machines—statues of the guardian saint, three of them at least. It wasn’t possible to challenge them alone. It was a more fundamental issue than whether her wounds would stay closed. Even if she had been in perfect health, Veronika would have been killed.

But...

“I’m tired,” she said, looking at Berta, “of leaving people behind.”

So she’d had to leave people behind before. Veronika had a far-off look in her eyes, as if Aldreil had something particular to do with that.

“But... But...” Berta couldn’t get the words out.

She couldn’t let Veronika go. But she had no hope of changing the mercenary’s mind, let alone physically stopping her. She was just a helpless little girl, not fit to do more than some simple chores. If she were smarter, maybe she could have persuaded Veronika with a clever word or two. The thought pained her.

What should I do?

As Berta stood there, flustered—

“Berta, how are Veronika’s wounds looking?”

There was a knock on the door, and a voice. Just as Berta registered that it was the voice of the master she was meant to serve, he came in without waiting for an answer.

Yukinari stood in the doorway. Which was where he froze.

For a second, Berta didn’t know why, but then she looked at Veronika and understood. Veronika was still undressed. She had a lone undergarment wrapped around her waist, but her upper body and her legs were covered by not a thread. This was so the sweat could be wiped from her body.

Veronika didn’t seem to expect that she would suddenly be confronted with Yukinari while all but naked; she sat there speechless, eyes wide. She was too shocked even to cover her shapely chest with her arms.

“Erk! I-I’m s-sorry!” In a panic, Yukinari spun around so his back was to the girls. Berta noticed that his ears were red. He had seemed unmoved when Berta had attempted to “serve” him in the bath, but now he was clearly agitated.

Berta found herself thinking that she was a little jealous, which was perhaps not quite what the situation warranted. Was this the allure of a grown woman?

“Yuki?”

Dasa and Ulrike appeared in the doorway. They peeked into the room, where they saw Veronika, who had finally regained the presence of mind to cover herself.

“.........Yuki.”