3

  A church was meant to be a place of calm and faith.

  But on this day, even its foundations trembled with the unrest of the world.

  Violent vibrations surged up from the ground, making the brick and stone walls groan. Wooden fragments fell from the ceiling as if the building itself were crying out.

  Inside the church, there was no air conditioning—no budget for such luxuries. Hot air seeped in through every gap, clinging to sweat-soaked clothes and sharpening the irritation of the men gathered there.

  More than the heat, however, it was fear and urgency that had taken root deep in their hearts.

  This was one of the rooms inside Father Max Dinger’s church.

  “So… this is the end of our work as the Third Intelligence Division,”

  a young man said, his face pale as lead. His voice trembled as he spoke to Max.

  The man was twenty-six, Caucasian, with close-cropped brown hair.

  “Rookie. Don’t talk—move your hands,” Max snapped.

  “This isn’t a simulation or training. This is real combat. Stay sharp.”

  The young man hurriedly assembled his H&K XM8 rifle and locked the magazine into place.

  In the room where Max had once shared meals with Maria Preece, helped her study, and even argued like family, firearms now lay scattered carelessly across the floor. The sharp smell of gun oil filled the air.

  Several men stood there, clad in bulletproof vests.

  Max looked around his home—his sanctuary—and felt as if his entire life had been ripped from a dream and dragged back into brutal reality.

  “Getting sentimental?”

  a broad-shouldered Black man said casually, his tone lacking the harshness Max had shown the rookie.

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  He was over fifty, bald, and a former contemporary from Solomon. Though they belonged to different divisions, their bond as veterans had never faded. He offered Max a faint smile while racking the slide of an H&K USP handgun, chambering a round.

  “You’re nothing like the man you were before coming to this era.

  The guy who slept with a different woman every night is now a gentle father worrying about his daughter—and a priest loved by the neighborhood. People really do change.”

  He holstered the handgun with a teasing grin.

  “I never imagined it myself,” Max said quietly.

  “That I’d grow attached to the Core.”

  His gaze dropped to the handgun at his side. There was no trace of the operative from Solomon’s Third Intelligence Division in his eyes—only the look of a father thinking of his daughter.

  “Don’t forget the job,” the Black man said, cutting through the moment.

  He lifted his XM8 and peered through the scope.

  “The Chart of Fate said the Core would develop best if you became its guardian. That’s why you were chosen. This is work. Drop the emotions. What you raised is the Core—nothing more than a weapon to exterminate the Devils.”

  Max raised his head and adjusted his round glasses.

  “Yeah,” he said softly.

  “I know. This is war.”

  The words barely escaped his lips. Yet deep in his chest, something bristled violently.

  I don’t want to lose her.

  That feeling—he could not erase it.

  “Alright,” the Black man said, finishing his preparations and scanning the team.

  “Time to work.”

  Beside him, Max murmured,

  “May God’s blessing be upon everyone here.

  Please, Lord… guide us to salvation.”

  Closing his eyes, the priest traced a cross in the air.