A few days later, in a quiet, secluded corridor aboard the Rhodes Island landship, a small farewell gathering took place. They were there to see off Logos, who was about to depart for a council of immense importance—both to him and to his kin—alongside his two travel companions.
"I had no idea his Messenger would be you!" Jeanne said, blinking in mild disbelief as she looked at Mostima beside her. She certainly hadn't expected the mysterious Messenger to be her.
"I wasn't supposed to be the one, originally," Mostima replied with a helpless shrug. "When the Pope assigned Messengers for the event, he noticed I was registered under Rhodes Island's personnel roster, so he transferred me right over from my posting in Lungmen."
Mostima couldn't help but feel a bit wry about it. If that was the plan all along, why hadn't he assigned her sooner? She had just visited Rhodes Island after leaving Laterano, only to head back to Lungmen for two days before having to drive out and chase down the landship again. When she brought up the situation with the Pope, even he seemed a little embarrassed.
"You really had a rough time catching up," Jeanne remarked, easily picturing how exhausted Mostima must have been after all that back-and-forth travel.
Meanwhile, Logos finally managed to break free from his teasing friends. Grabbing his luggage, he climbed into the vehicle, waving a hand out the window. "I'll bring back some Laterano specialties when I return. See you all later!"
He then turned around and urged the two in front, "Step on it! If those guys catch up again, I can't even imagine what kind of absurd stunts they'll pull next."
Despite his words, Jeanne caught the warm smile lingering on his face. He clearly enjoyed the warm send-off from his companions, even if their enthusiasm was a bit overwhelming at times.
Standing on the deck, the operators waved goodbye to the departing vehicle. They knew full well that if all went according to plan, the next time they saw Logos would be on televised news broadcasts.
It would be a moment worthy of the history books, and the thought of their friend taking part in such a monumental event filled them with excitement.
Even Kal'tsit watched silently from afar as the vehicle pulled away. She couldn't say for certain how much Logos would achieve on this journey, but things were undoubtedly moving in the direction they had once hoped for.
"Alright, let me clear the area," ACE called out, gathering the remaining operators. "More personnel are passing through this corridor now. If Kal'tsit catches us crowding around here, we'll all be facing reprimands!"
Noticing someone watching from the shadows, the operators dispersed under ACE's direction. Within moments, the corridor returned to its usual quiet state, as though no one had ever gathered or departed.
Observing from a distance, Kal'tsit gave a subtle nod before turning back toward her office, immersing herself once more in her daily mountain of duties.
Meanwhile, inside the vehicle speeding away from Rhodes Island, a brief silence settled over the cabin before Logos turned to Jeanne and Mostima with a serious expression.
"Though it might seem somewhat unreasonable, I have a request to make," Logos began. "For the journey ahead, if we encounter anyone trying to block our path or launch an attack, I ask that neither of you step in first. Please... let me handle them."
It was a strange request. Jeanne had rarely encountered a client who insisted on handling security personally—especially when he was the guest who ought to be protected.
"You know as well as I do that goes against standard practice, Logos," Mostima replied, her tone turning businesslike. "Guarding a guest's safety along the route is an explicit duty assigned to International Messengers by the Pope himself. If anything happens to you along the way, that old man is going to give me a hard time."
It was clear that if Logos wanted her agreement, he needed to provide a compelling reason so she could report back without issue.
"Because of who I am," Logos answered without hesitation. "You two likely realize that my decision has caused undercurrents to stir within Kazdel. But what you might not realize is that this isn't just a matter of hidden tension—the old lords in the Royal Court will never allow this to happen."
When mentioning the "old lords," a distinct note of disdain crept into Logos's voice. Jeanne could tell he harbored a deep aversion—almost disgust—toward those ancient leaders.
"I don't know their exact plan, but one thing is certain: those old lords will never sit by and watch me reach Laterano in peace. They will send their subordinates—or even come themselves—to ensure a 'traitor' like me never sets foot in the Holy City."
Logos spoke with absolute certainty. Hearing his words, Mostima glanced at the two staves resting beside her, fully prepared for the possibility of a bloodbath along the road.
"If Sankta weapons end up taking the lives of the approaching Sarkaz, even if it was done to protect me, those old lords will still use it to pressure Her Highness Theresa in Kazdel," Logos explained, his expression hardening. "So please, agree to my request. Let the Sarkaz settle Sarkaz matters."
His logic was unassailable. The two in the front seat exchanged a brief glance before Mostima spoke up smoothly, "I'll defer the final say to you, Saintess. After all, I'm just a humble Messenger—a decision of this weight rests on your shoulders."
"Speak normally, please. Hearing you talk like that gives me goosebumps," Jeanne replied with a slight sigh, casting a helpless look at Mostima. She then turned back toward Logos. "I can agree to your request. As long as your life isn't in immediate danger, neither of us will intervene."
"Thank you. I have full confidence in my ability to handle trouble," Logos replied smoothly. The young Banshee Lord hadn't inherited his title purely because of his mother's lineage—his own strength was more than enough to back up his words.
Still, I hope the journey remains peaceful... I have no fondness for battle, nor do I wish to stain my Arts with the blood of my own kin, Logos thought to himself. Yet he knew all too well that such a wish was a naive hope—the reality awaiting them would be far harsher.
Shortly after Logos departed from Rhodes Island, a Sarkaz scout monitoring the landship's movements transmitted the news back to Kazdel.
Upon receiving the message, a high lord in a distant hall crushed the goblet in his hand, his fury causing the surrounding air to stagnate.
The Prince of Blood burned with rage. His own kin had betrayed their people, shamelessly attempting to travel to the city of traitors to seek some absurd notion of peace! It was the most laughable farce imaginable!
Unfortunately, he couldn't move personally at this time. Various constraints kept him from intervening directly, but that hardly meant he would sit idly by. His long-clawed fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrest of his throne, his eyes gleaming with a crimson light.
He didn't need to step onto the battlefield himself. The news that a Sarkaz lord was heading to Laterano to bow his head and beg for peace would spread under his direction—and once it did, others would naturally take action.
That night, patrol severity inside the capital of Kazdel heightened as the Royal Court Guard mobilized. Unbeknownst to the general populace, an invisible current had begun to surge.
This unseen force spilled out into the wilderness, transforming into dark figures advancing toward their target. The sight of those shadowy forms moving through the night was enough to strike terror into anyone's heart.
Meanwhile, beside a crackling campfire, Logos sat holding a small knife, whittling a small tree branch to pass the time. Beside his hand rested a bone pen—his weapon and his most reliable guardian.
He quietly listened to the faint rustles echoing from the surrounding darkness. Jeanne walked over, looking down at him.
"You should get some rest," Jeanne said softly. "You've been on high alert all day. We still have a long way to go, and at this rate, you'll collapse from exhaustion before the enemy even arrives."