DISCLAIMER: I own nothing. Except the story.

"Where does one draw the line between sorcery and alchemy?"

He was sure that was rhetorical, but then again perhaps it might have really been an outright question. But he could not answer. He would not answer. After all, he was unfamiliar with the former and biased with the latter—factors that would no doubt lead him to form words and weave sentences that would no doubt dissatisfy the gentleman across the table he was seated in front of.

Now, if there was anything gentle about him, he wouldn't choose to answer that as well.

It was a brisk early morning upon the unholy hours of the day, not that they'd feel the actuality of it from within the confines of a local bar. It was one of the few that offered services past the hours of midnight and onto the crack of dawn, and was only frequented at such hours for the special brews that helped lose headaches caused by all-night beer parties. Perhaps the reason the place could afford to go on with such a schedule was that the barkeepers-slash-owners it had were siblings who worked different shifts, and that the early morning staff comprised of some of their own cousins and relatives.

"Sorcery," ah, it was rhetorical then, the blond man thought "originates from beings above human recognition—gods of old, creatures of myth, powers beyond your earthly realm. It is an art that manipulates elements that comprise all of existence: bending rules to convenience an individual; shaping the formless to one's design; even, in some very rare cases, breaking the very definitions they were meant to uphold as they were known.

"Men and women of time long forgotten, who were mediums of these beings or have interacted with them in some way, were the first to have practiced arts that were imparted upon them, when they were deemed worthy of it by powerful non-mortals. And so they were passed down, until in your annals were recorded figures who were given rise into history by the power they had been handed."

The man paused, politely thanking the waitress that had stopped by in front of their table to serve them their choice of drinks. A bark of laughter came from the man after taking a sip out of the warm tea served before him. "Ironic that they were ended by the very same thing that allowed them to etch their marks into history."

Of course, he'd learned of this after he had been transported into this world upon the insistence of the man in front of him. This world was one where myth and history coincided, blurred only in connection by the limits of what could be recorded on paper, and what would be perceived by the human mind as truthful and believable. This world was a hotspot for all sorts of arts and secrets that went beyond human imagination, and that fact alone magnified his feeling of being an ant that would no doubt have a quarrel with the boots of the heavens. If heroes, demigods, and people of position were played with as pawns of the greater forces of the universe, then what was he, a mere Truth-Seeker, compared to them? What role did he play in the grand schemes of the universe?

Perhaps he was just an ant on the chessboard, then—not even worthy to be called a pawn like greater men. Then again, perhaps everyone else were.

"The human lifespan pales in comparison to that of gods of old and creatures of longevity. What passes for a lifetime for you may simply be a stage of childhood or pubescence for us. No one man is truly capable of mastering the arts practiced by beings far from mortal reach—no man had time long enough to learn beyond what he had already learned, or learn something he has yet to know. And so your kind's greed and desire for knowledge and power gave birth to the chase for the vitality humans did not possess." The man made a face, and he realized that that was his cue to speak of an answer too obvious, too known to him and perhaps no one else.

"Alchemy."

He'd known. He'd always known. Alchemy was but a means to an end, to reach far beyond what was comprehended by the human mind. To combat sickness meant to possess endless life. To possess endless life meant to learn infinitely. And to learn infinitely meant to one day find a way to reach the elusive Truth of this world—the Truth that would set free humanity literally, unshackling them from the mortality that bound them to the meager existence they've always been.

"At first it had been 'to use magic to bring us riches.' And when mortals learned they did not possess life long enough to learn how to do so, they wanted 'to become immortal.' That is the origin of alchemy's early goals—to turn any known metal into gold, and to achieve immortality. Lo and behold, such an end gave birth to what you would come to know as the Philosopher's Stone. Funnily enough, it had also come to be known as the Sorcerer's Stone to some, relating its imagined power to that of how sorcery could bend the very laws of the world. Ah, let me rectify that: relating its real power."

Of course, there was nothing imagined about that dreaded Stone.

"Then again, mortals could never grant Immortality Most True to another—it is a power that rests within those of the higher plane, of beings who take power from Primordial Rules since time immemorial. Even if there exist gods who could grant such a thing, these are gods who were blessed and chosen alone by those same beings who precede everything within existence, supernatural or not.

"But what does this mean, Mr. Elric? What is it that is revealed by this very fact, and how does it describe the supposed eternal life brought about by the result of your kind's pursuit of it?"

He had long learned of this truth already, and such an ugly one it was. If all other alchemists had become privy of it, there would be those who would deny it wholeheartedly, not believing the existence of gods and beings so ancient and convincing themselves that humans were beings who were privy to bending and, possibly, breaking the laws of nature.

"The Philosopher's Stone only extends the lifespan and strengthens the life force of its user through the sacrifice of another's. Since the ingredients used are human souls, then it would make sense that what you sacrifice in order to prolong your life or perform a feat that would need energy enough to deprive you of life would be the soul of an individual. The moment the Stone has run out of power means that all the souls you have used to create it has been exhausted thoroughly."

It was something he was far too familiar with, something he has first-hand experience with. There was the gel in Dr. Marcoh's possession. There was the crystal Kimblee used. The ones within the homunculi. And there was his father, who had been a living, breathing example of the almighty product of alchemy. Too bad the ingredients to creating one consisted of something so gruesome and horrifying.

The way the Stone worked gave him, and, similarly, those who knew of its workings, had brought about the learning that human souls were just another source of energy. It was quite the morbid thought to have—to harvest humans and to use them to power something else entirely. Well, the Dwarf in the Flask had made sure they were knowledgeable of such a concept, but who was to say that history would not repeat itself, even in another world?

He was brought out of his engrossment with memories on the Stone when his acquaintance cleared his throat and queried him.

"I beg your pardon, but refresh me as to the date today? Do please specify our glorious year, as well."

"April 20, 1889."

"Ah. Thank you, thank you. I almost forgot. Braunau am Inn awaits."

The man made to stand after finishing his drink, and then made to check the time from a golden pocket watch he fished from his coat pocket. He then eyed Edward coolly, and regarded him as he prepared to leave.

"That would be all for today, Mr. Elric. We will speak more of these among other things, such as the tasks I wish of you, on another day. Dawn breaks in a few hours, and a busy man such as I have things to do in Austria while the Light is not out and about."

He tipped the bowler hat atop him and gave one last look at the now-immortal man in front of him, clear amusement dancing in his expression. His eyes glowed a heterochromic mix of red and blue as he gave the blond his parting words with a twisted smile upon his lips.

"And I do so abhor the Light."

King Bradley came to mind while he combatted the sword-wielding priest.

The pseudo-human was a force to be reckoned with, despite what the creases on his forehead told about his age. Quick-witted, unrelenting, and so fearsomely fast you wouldn't even see him draw his blade to cut you down and carve his path open. The eye granted to him by powers of the Dwarf in the Flask did not only augment his vision, but also allowed him to easily predict multiple courses of action an opponent was about to make. Their line of sight, the ripple of their muscles, the creaking of their bones, the labor in their breathing—everything to him was information, and it was by this information that he dominated any human or homunculus alike in warfare. Armed with a weapon or not, it was nigh impossible to put Wrath the Furious in a severe disadvantage.

Funny how a memory of a meeting with He-Who-Turned-From-the-Light was before another Führer had been brought into the world. Perhaps he should have halted the Devil during that time, if only to avoid the crisis that was spewed forth into this world. Then again, history was better left as it was but as voluminous tomes of written accounts placed into high shelves. They were the reminder of the brutal ways that mankind itself shaped its society and the world around it, of the blood that was shed in order to achieve many a realization on how humanity must band together, or otherwise stand to be divided among petty reasons.

Besides, once it was history, "what ifs" no longer mattered, anyways.

He had managed to maneuver the priest into a grove behind the church, effectively separating him from the Fallen Angels his regular patient was currently dealing with. Alchemy, with a little inspiration from Xing's alkahestry, was useful like that, allowing him to create trap after trap that pushed back the perverse exorcist into a location more suitable for battle. It was more efficient that he was able to instantaneously transmute as well, energy willed to travel from under his feet and into the ground, bursting forth from where he wanted it and taking the form his mind had thought on.

It had been a wonderful idea so far to manifest the Ouroboros tattoo on his left eye.

"Goddammit, how the fuck are you not getting all sliced up by these Excalibur blades, huh?!"

Perverse and foul-mouthed. Typical of the more generic kind of men he had come to disagreements with multiple times in the past—a past he believed better left untouched for the moment.

The speed at which Excalibur Rapidly allowed Freed to move impressed him, almost as if it was by will alone that permitted him to keep getting faster and faster. But, no matter how fast the exorcist became, he was still hard-pressed to land a hit on the alchemist while he possessed the Ultimate Eye. Even if the other Excalibur piece, Destruction, merited the exorcist with overwhelming power to destroy and was complimented with the speed to use it, the efforts were for naught with senses surpassing superhuman.

After all, everything about the maniacal foe's battle motion was basic information to him at this point. Enchantments that came from weapons of powers long forgotten to humanity were limited by the vessel wielding them.

… And for the Ultimate Eye, the more that you gave away who you are, the faster you approach the doors of death.

"If that shitty eye you have is what's giving me a damn terrible time right now, I guess I'll have to fucking gouge it out then!"

He would have done Bradley proud, being able to dodge the Excalibur blades at record speed and swatting them away as he hit the flat of the blades. The alchemist was rooted to the same spot, albeit having his upper body kept in motion as the priest relentlessly charged him with a flurry of dual-bladed techniques, all of which missed him by mere centimeters and were countered without much ado. He would lean back, twist left, turn right, duck, or drop down altogether, and then thrust his palms out to disrupt the flow of attack on him.

The alchemist was no swordsman, he confessed. He never had to wield such kinds of weapons before—his automail, hand-to-hand mastery, and his alchemy were enough—much less learn how to use them. However, he was quite impressed with the movements the exorcist showed. There were no wasteful motions, only efficient swings aimed for exact vital spots that would prove fatal if it connected. Each attack was made with all the intention to kill, not just with the intent to grasp victory. Every time he was parried or blocked, the priest would improvise on the fly and find a way to attack again. The priest would feint slashing at a vital area on his torso down before focusing back on disabling the Eye. Sanity-deprived he may be, it would be unwise to describe Freed as nescient in the way of the sword.

Perhaps, Edward Elric realized, he had been playing around with the frustrated priest long enough. As much as he would want to leave Haise alone and trust the white-haired's confidence in being able to battle two Fallen Angels, he would be much more secure in the fact if he could be somewhere nearer, observing the ensuing combat between the three. He knew how strong Haise was, of course. But in a fight, things could go either ways, no matter how much strength you possessed. Factors such as numbers, plans, terrain and even sheer luck could be used to one's advantage in order to defeat particularly powerful opponents.

Like how Scar and company managed to end war's fury incarnate that was King Bradley.

Maintaining a Sin's aspect of battle was no trouble for him. The centuries he'd live through provided him with much time to make use of the tools he possessed and hone his skill in manipulating them. However, maintaining more than a single one was taxing, even for a body like his—the internal transmutation speeds it took, the amount of energy it required, and the hectic decomposition and regeneration pattern of the organic elements and compounds within his body were variables that he had to face and efficiently perform in order to put to use with proper coordination the abilities of other homunculi. Abilities like his had significant drawbacks since he no longer had his Gate, and thus were only as efficient as he made them to be. Drawn-out battles would then be to his disadvantage if he was ever put to the limits and made to attempt such a tactic. He would not last long against fighters of those type. After all, his Stone worked all too differently from the usual he was acquainted with. Trust a Devil to possess a little more creativity, then.

"Which means I just have to end it fast enough," a problem he was confident Wrath was capable of aiding him in solving.

Red spikes of energy surged out from his skin as his arm's complexion greyed out before darkening into a duller, darker shade. His fingernails edged outward, lengthening and growing out into his fingers and morphing his hands into bestial claws, as if his fingers had become sharp knives. He felt the Ouroboros tattoo emboss onto the top of his right hand and above his sternum, leaving him with a tingling sensation akin to adrenaline rush. He could already feel the inner turmoil within his body begin, with the rush of human souls get consumed and recomposed to fuel the state he had entered.

The Ultimate Shield—the ability bound to Greed the Avaricious, it was one that adeptly manipulated the strength of carbon. The homunculus using it would often coat his body with it, repelling bullets, blades, and an assortment of weapons with ease comparable to the simple act of breathing. Coupled with an animalistic unpredictability in combat, Greed was shield and defense incarnate, able to go on the offensive with little worry about sacrificing defense.

The Ultimate Spear—bound to the singular female homunculus Lust the Lascivious, it worked simply with the goal of penetrating through even the toughest existing material. It sliced through flesh like it was paper, and tore through the toughest of metals like they were loaves of bread. Edward never really did manage to glimpse much into the complexity of Lust and her use of this ability, but made enough self-notes from Alphonse and Colonel Mustang regarding their encounter with the crafty female.

Hand in hand, combat would prove to be easy with Spear and Shield both in hand. Add in the Eye, and perhaps fighting a whole army by yourself could prove to be no challenge at all.

"Those swords of yours look very interesting."

Among weapons blessed by the power of the Light, the sword Excalibur held renown that matched the popularity of King Arthur himself—where stories of the ancient kingdom came, the Holy Sword's reputation followed closely. If what the legends say hold true, then perhaps the blade would rid the alchemist of his certain devil problem, concerning a double-crossed contract and a soul possession.

But then again, acquiring the sword was only a contingency plan among his other methods of redemption.

"The hell are you saying?!"

Really, it was both a disappointing and angering thought that a barbarian such as this man had been given blades that defied humanity's limits in crafting. The psychopath was only enamored by the powers it bestowed, and perhaps his demented mind was just as full of greed and desire as a Devil—which is ironic for his profession. The exorcist knew only of the reputation brought by Excalibur in war, and nothing else mattered then. Such an attitude did not befit wielding an ancient artifact, if only to say the least. All in all, the alchemist believed he was doing the blades and its worthy past wielders a service by ending the fool's life.

Try as Freed might have to have the swords grant him superhuman abilities, he did not possess the knowledge on what made these kinds of artifacts function to their fullest—it was this one variable that made the Knights of the Round Table capable of wielding holy swords that made armies shake in fear; it was this one factor that made heroes such as Perseus, Heracles, and Siegfried able to take hold of their blades and combat beasts surpassing human imagination with ease none could match.

—It was the blessing, direct and indirect, of beings so ancient and old.

The deranged priest was no hero. He was no demigod. And he definitely did not earn the good graces of gods concerned with events transpiring in the human world. This line separated him from those whose strength were of a different caliber, and this reason was the one thing that made sure he would never be able to bring out the best in Excalibur like King Arthur would.

The exorcist barely had time to blink before Edward Elric had rushed right in front of him. Out of the corner of his eye, his left arm and leg were already flying off, leaving stumps that were spraying crimson from his side. Before a piercing scream could blast out of his throat, the foreign sensation of something digging through his abdomen embraced him, stopping his voice dead in its tracks.

Freed slumped to his knees, astounded still to what had transpired. All in the frame of a second, he was amputated and disemboweled—all of it, before he could even bat an eye.

"… What the… fuck… are you?"

The priest barely spat out the words as pain became the only sensation his body felt. Edward eyed him blankly, shortly debating on what to say to the dying man. There was no trouble in telling a man in such a state the truth, but then again, he didn't necessarily have to go to that trouble.

After all, the truth was always a troublesome thing.

"I am the truth of your pitiful existence—the truth that has long waited to claim your life for the many you have taken unjustly."

Red tendrils of energy surged from the alchemist and began coiling around the dying exorcist, tearing out what was left of his damned soul and placing it deep within the confines of the multitudes of screaming human spirits locked deep within his flesh.

As the last few vestiges of life began to drip out of Freed's body, the last sight he beheld was of the alchemist taking away the Excalibur swords, trudging away in the direction of his ally.

"… Shit…"

For the past few minutes, Haise had discovered how annoying it was to avoid death while having to dodge spears of Light and slews of distasteful verbal abuse at the same time.

"Stand still and get skewered, you limped-dick fuck!"

How rude. He wanted to contest the validity of her statement with a memory of Touka Kirishima mewling sweet music into his ears, eloquently complimenting him on his—

[While I bear no ill will on the human concept of nostalgia, focus on the task at hand and dodge the incoming spear!]

Spears of light impaled themselves onto the ground, right on the spot where the Ghoul stood on mere seconds before they landed. He had jumped back a short distance, keeping his eye on Raynare and Kalawarner as they prepared to pelt him with another set of spears.

While Raynare drew back her arm as light coalesced into a long cylinder in her right hand, Kalawarner flew towards him wielding her spears like they were normal weapons. The latter thrust and swept the light-made weapons about the Ghoul, deftly moving them as if they were additional limbs rather than simply tools.

The expertise in them solidified the more battle-ready nature he sensed from the female Fallen, and he assumed that she must have been one of the many of their kin called to arms during the Great War. Kalawarner shared Raynare's zeal in what it was they did, but unlike the latter, the former possessed the air of a veteran immersed in work being performed systematically—work, that held no personal traces of desires, only the aim of completion.

He could at least respect that about his opponent, he figured. But it did not mean mercy came with that respect—no, he would gift that instead with a seriousness in combat befitting of such talent. After all, respect begets respect, as one man had put it.

[That's it. Infuse the Light into your kagune. To take power and wield it as your own is what it means to survive; to emerge victorious. Such is the way of the apex predator who stalks the fields of strife!]

The kagune that pushed itself out of his body had felt more tingly than normal; the sensation was akin to having an army of ants crawling all over his limbs. An abnormal orange glow draped the additional appendages, radiating an aura the Ghoul noticed was alike with the spears wielded by his foes.

Haise spun around, using the momentum to swipe at Kalawarner. The strike hit true, sending her flying towards Raynare like a speeding bullet. Raynare, in the middle of drawing forth spears to shoot, had no time to react as Kalawarner collided into her and left them falling out of the air. The albino Ghoul let out a breath, retracting his rinkaku and feeling the cells seep back around his waist area.

"… Ddraig. How bad would it be if this keeps going any further?"

[They will tire you out with alternating melee and range, and you will remain on the defensive with little to no window for offense. Your endurance will run out, and that is when death comes knocking on your door.]

"So we'll just have to end this now. Well, I'd like to try something I haven't done for a while, though." His thumb hovered over one of his index finger's joints as his lips curved upwards in morbid delight.

Crack.

RC cells gushed out from near his shoulder blades, tearing through his shirt and forming wing-like appendages from behind him. A larger pair were the ones on his right, as compared to the pair on his left. The wings alternated in colors of deep and light blue, as if some kind of chameleon's skin suiting an environment of sapphire or cerulean.

He supposed, in his own humble opinion, that he would never be as good as the Kirishima siblings or Yomo-san when it came to mastery over the ukaku. Melee was said to spell certain death for the ukaku users, but Touka, Ayato, and Yomo were still as vicious in close-quarters as they were from a distance. They'd pelt their foes and shred skin, resolve, and life into a torn, bloodied mess from afar, and then blitz them when they closed in all too fast for the opponent to react.

The two were already stirring, making an effort to stand from their position. While both were still dazed, he hardened the cells of the ukaku and infused them with the similar energy readout from before, and then shot out a myriad number of shards at the two.

It was as if a storm of miniature light spears flew across the distance between Haise and the Fallen Angels; crystallized RC cells filled with the energy signature used by his opponents were damaging them slowly but surely, but it was not really their bodies that he was aiming for.

[Hmph. A fine deduction. Flightless birds have no means to escape grounded predators, after all.]

Crimson painted the jet black wings of Raynare and Kalawarner, with every hit of the ukaku's shard making them drop more and more feathers unto the ground. The two were locked into their position, unable to move and even conjure a minute spear of Light. It was like a harsh rain of overly large needles were pushing forth past them, the assault giving them no time for respite whatsoever. Red painted the dark pinions, and the Fallen no longer looked so like harbingers of death.

Crack.

He started stalking towards them, as a predator of the open savannahs would. His feet moved in a casual pace, yet in stark contrast his body never betrayed the tenseness he always possessed in life-and-death situation. He wanted to get close. He wanted to hear them squeal and groan in pain. He wanted to bear witness to their faces as it contorted in pain, their eyes overflowing with hate, frustration, and desperation. Haise knew he was doing a bad job of keeping Ken's bad habits of periodic overconfidence and sadism under wraps, but this time he didn't mind—something told him this one time to vent would be fine, and there was no need to worry about his surroundings either.

As barely as he might have hunted for meals in Kuoh, he had made sure to hunt down humans who have dared become monstrosities by committing acts against fellow men. He fricasseed murderers, dismembered thieves and filleted rapists, among the many other methods he employed in hunting down prey. Perhaps it was him being hypocritical, in a way—hunting monsters who have turned their backs of what made humans humane as a monster who has turned his back on being human.

No, he would always correct himself. His physiology may be far from normal, but he has never forgotten what he originally was. And perhaps, just perhaps, he may never will—and that made all the difference.

Noting that the distance was close enough, he rushed in after one last wave of his ukaku's assault, and tore through Raynare's throat with his bare right hand. Blood gurgled out of the Fallen's mouth, coloring her already red lips a shade darker. She made to speak, but only managed pained croaks that choked on the liquid that hurriedly leak out of her throat and mouth. He gripped her neck harder and harder until he no longer felt the pulse of her life, eyes rolling back and breath finally ceasing.

At least she won't curse anymore. Still, what a fragile doll she turned out to be.

Tossing Raynare's carcass away, Haise spun back to meet Kalawarner's strike with his rinkaku, his ukaku already having been pulled back into his body. Apart from the clear fear that marred her features, there was a new spark that was alight in her eyes, something he'd already had his fill of seeing in the past.

Kalawarner then steeled her expression and struck back with renewed vigor, two spears of Light in hand. While Haise was able to keep up without much trouble, he had to admit that there was more force behind her flurry of attacks. Ironically speaking, it was as if the Fallen had become possessed by a Demon, warfare hunger consuming her and charging her body with brute force and steely resolve.

Her eyes promised retribution, even at the cost of her life.

Switching strategies, the ukaku withdrew deep into him. RC cells then burst forth beneath his right scapula, a blue mass of a tendril coiling around his upper arm and extending down rigidly beneath the lower arm. The koukaku was strong enough to bolster his defenses while it acted as both sword and shield, but still possessed a deadliness that was undermined by the simplistic yet graceful look it possessed.

Haise always thought that that description oddly contradicted the personality of one Shu Tsukiyama.

It was quite difficult for the Kakuja to peg the Gourmet's side during the past. There were times they fought one another, and there were times they fought together. The man chased after him like the Spanish chased after the myth of El Dorado, and what mattered most to the Tsukiyama heir was the consumption of one scrumptious Ken and his Half-Ghoul attributes and flavors.

Still, such a history did not serve to diminish the respect he held for the Gourmet—granted, he possessed his eccentricities (just as many other Ghouls did), yet his prowess and technique in combat was a deadly dance that resulted in many severed heads and disemboweled bodies. Tsukiyama turned the battlefield into an artwork painted crimson with the expertise of Michelangelo crossed with Sweeney Todd.

Reinforcing the koukaku with the Light attribute made his defense infallible—the spears Kalawarner threw felt like small rocks pelting his skin; more of a nuisance than outright dangerous. If he shrugged off the spears from this distance, then melee was a territory he would have no reservations dominating.

Darting in, Haise dodged and deflected the spears that appeared to impale him with little effort. Even if her emotions had somehow given her some boost in power, they were making her movements far too reckless and predictable. A mind far too unfocused in battle had no place in a fight, as such a state spelled a very imminent doom. Haise was at an advantage, and Kalawarner was too incensed to realize the glaring mistake she was making.

[Time runs short. Let us finish this.]

A maniacal smile graced Haise's lips as he rushed in, koukaku poised to eat through the Fallen Angel.

"What a mess this entire thing has become."

Sirzechs snorted uncharacteristically, earning an uncomfortable wince from the man seated across him. His office of operations as one of the Great Satans had an atmosphere that radiated homeliness in order for a much better air whenever he met other Devils for varying matters. Of course, it was a weapon, all things considered, that was so disarming in the way that it made his political visitors way too lax in exchanging words with him. Then again, he would admit that to no one but himself.

But as of the moment, despite the calm exterior the Lucifer possessed, and the methodical and formal way he had composed himself as he slowly drank his tea, the atmosphere in that room was anything but homely. It was a frigid sensation akin to an irate Serafall, and it brought the same sensation of growing dread to the dejected man accompanying the redhead.

"A mess? A mess? Hah! As usual, you have the propensity to make a molehill out of a mountain, father."

The way he had referred to the elderly Lord Gremory across him was filled with much vindictive malice and venom, and the man seemed to age more when the word hit his hearing.

"… Are there no news?"

"Oh? And now you express concern? Aren't we a tad too late?"

Lord Gremory slammed his clenched fists into the table, which was doing a poor job of separating them from each other's ire. "Dammit, she's still my daughter, Sirzechs! And you are my son! I know I have committed a mistake, but—"

"But nothing!" Lord Gremory recoiled, never having seen his son be this forceful. "You have lost your right as a father, as a man who genuinely cares for us, the moment you had signed her off as a nothing more but a broodmare for the Phenex brat!"

Until now, the Great Satan of Lucifer could remember the depth of his sister's grief and just how much of it crushed his soul. That same day was when she had exchanged vows with the Phenex heir, where she had become naught but an empty shell—a trophy wife, made to bolster the Phenex name; a broodmare to continue the lineage of a new generation of Purebloods.

"… I have heard whispers among the younglings."

The effort Lord Gremory had made to change the topic was halfhearted at best, but had to be for the condition his daughter was under was not the cause for business with the Great Satan today.

"… Do tell, and please be quick. Who knows what mother might do to you once she arrives."

The elderly Gremory nodded. "You are aware of the recent streak of victories the Phenex lad has within the Youth Circuit for Rating Games."

"Yes. His peerage has had what it takes so far to prove themselves a household name among the enthusiasts of our outlet for competitiveness."

"Rumors are spreading Sirzechs—of backdoor dealings and off-the-record meetings. Riser Phenex has been said to have been speaking with Pillar families who had supported the Old Satan Faction before." A grim look dawned upon Sirzechs, and at his behest his father continued. "It may be something; may not be something—however, the possibility of this being nothing lessens when my spies learn the same kind of rumor over and over."

"And since when have you been tagging the young Phenex heir with your spies?" the Great Satan challenged. To his credit, Lord Gremory met it head on.

"Since I've learned that he is clearly not all he seems, and that I have failed the task all fathers have. I may never earn yours, your sister's, and Venelana's forgiveness, but I will do all I can to see this family be brought back together once more—even if it means removing myself from the picture."

Perhaps it was the Gremory trait of compassion, or perhaps it may have been something else, that made the Great Satan look at his father with a longing glance. Even if what he did to Rias's happiness had left a particularly nasty blight within the relations of this family, it was still quite a thing to see him weather the hatred just so he could atone for the mistake he had never realized until it was too late.

"It seems Venelana beckons. Good day to you, Lord Lucifer. I beg you to please consider what I have shared to you with the utmost of scrutiny."

And with that, Lord Gremory took his leave. If he had lingered for a bit longer, he may have taken notice of the softening of his son's expression.

"Right now, there isn't anything holy about this place."

No truer words have been spoken, Haise thought to himself. Of course, looking at the state of the inside of the abandoned Kuoh Church, the place looked more like an ignored infrastructure after it was hit by some natural calamity. However, with how the inside of the place smelled of sex and bodily fluids, his agreement with Edward could not have been deterred by anything—Fallen Angels committing such acts in this place served only to tell them just how much these beings had sunk to, how willing they were to desecrate the sanctuary they were once taught to show reverence.

Haise's sense of smell tingled; olfactory nerves picking up the scent of human blood trailing mysteriously to below their feet. Trusting his senses not to lie, perhaps a hidden entrance may lie in wait somewhere within the area that could lead them to where the scent originated from.

"There appear to be people down below."

Off to another side was the alchemist, knelt down and tracing the faded pattern of chalk that was upon some of the rotting floorboards of the altar. "These runic patterns show signs of a ritual having taken place here. They're not burnt into the wood—as the case is when rites of this kind are successful—and the chalk used seems to have been inscribed here for months now."

Haise knew very little about the supernatural arts, and deferred to Edward for any other thought on this. Perhaps if the red-haired Devil was here, they could be further enlightened by what it was that the runes on the floor completely meant. Since he wasn't, then the blonde alchemist's hypotheses on this would have to do for now.

"This array… It makes use of some Babylonian cuneiform, but the way they overlap makes it hard for me to discern their nature."

"… I thought you were a doctor. Or a chemist. Or both. How do you even know this?"

The alchemist smirked. "Taking care of your pale, sickly ass is part-time business only. I have been researching sorcery, magics, and other arcane arts for some time now for… you know, and despite all the dead ends, the knowledge is actually quite useful."

"Sorcery aside, shouldn't we explore the basement? I can hear breathing noises and smell a tinge of blood. And it doesn't seem to be just one person."

Edward nodded. "Right. Well, let's just do this the easy way."

Energy crackled underneath Edward's feet, transmuting the floorboards and concrete into a set of stairs that led to a small tunnel below the church. As they moved down, the blonde took a block of wood and made the oxygen combust on one of its end to create a makeshift torch.

As they ventured into the small pathway, they were shortly met dismal sight.

Cells lined the hallway's sides, each holding a number of teenage girls. The captives were a mess, wearing nothing but sackcloth stained with dirt and blood, hair tussled and tangled, and various wounds and bruises littering their skin. The looks Haise and Edward received were a mix of fear, hope, and despair.

… What the hell were they doing to these girls?

The passing thought was filed for later when an angry red tendril of energy snaked from the blond alchemist and branched off into the cells, melting down the locks that held the barred entrances at bay. They made to move towards the nearest cell doors, when suddenly a palpable aura weighed upon them like an entire ocean, accompanied by the a surging azure light further along the corridor.

"Nrk… Something's teleporting to this location!"

A sigil burned cerulean, leaking the pressure into the narrow corridor and sending the captive women into unconsciousness. While Haise and Edward were able to hold their ground, the sensation was by no means welcome in any way—it alerted their senses to an oncoming threat, one they were sure was far more serious than their earlier encounter.

A flash of light later, and a lone winged figure stood from across them, imposing itself with waves of power ebbing to and fro from it. The black pair of wings protruding from his back fluttered out to reveal four more pairs—all of which were a mix of eldritch and golden pinions.

"Greetings, whelps. Your interference was most interesting to watch, but I am afraid this is where it ends."

His onyx eyes shone with unadulterated malice, his lips curved into madman's grin, and spears the size of lamp posts shone an eerie blue from his palms.

"Remember me in your death. Remember Yeqon, the First of Grigori's Adversaries."

Hello there.

I haven't updated in a while. I know, I know. I apologize for that. However, I would not go to say that RL was the main reason for the long absence—the (un)official hiatus I had imposed upon myself was spent on writing a lot of other stuff (short stories, one-shots, other ideas) and reading lots of books and novels for reference.

In short, I was polishing my noob-shit skills in writing.

Also, I was playing a shit-ton of games. My 3DS wife would like to say hi to y'all.

Those things aside, by the end of my self-imposed exile, I came back to write my stories in FF, and of all of them Colorless was actually the easiest to come back to. So, here is the update for all you people. And another thing to add, I don't think Colorless would be ending that soon—the way I planned and outlined stuff actually prolonged its life, and that also prolonged, in turn, my creativity invested in this.

Also, Sine Faciem is NOT abandoned. I have officially come to the process of doing it again from scratch (a copy of it), and for some reason I came to love the rewrite I did far more than the current series. So far, that one-shot rewrite has been expanded to four chapters so far, and I intend to post them and replace the original story gradually sometime by late August or early September (because midterms and college shit).

Read. Review. Tell me what you loved, you hated, and suggestions are welcome. Especially on that damned Balance Breaker. I'm still having problems.

Arsony out.

* Update Jul. 26, 2016. Replaced the currently uploaded Chapter 3 with the correct Chapter 3. Correct C3 DOES NOT contain any conversation pertaining to a new Underworld Civil War. Uploading the unedited file was my fault (I should've just deleted the unedited version), and has been rectified. Shoutout to Snek de la Keeper of Lonk for getting me to check on this fault on my part.