Within the Grand Cathedral—partially rebuilt after its earlier fractures—the Archbishop convened an emergency summit.
Representatives from five kingdoms sat in tense silence beneath shattered stained glass.
Above them, through the open dome ceiling, the twin dark stars were visible even in daylight.
"He did not save us," one general argued. "He replaced the threat."
A scholar countered, "The cosmic readings are stable. The Boundary Stars are contained phenomena."
"For now," the Archbishop replied coldly.
Reports had flooded in overnight.
Cults forming in rural provinces.
Children claiming to dream of Kaito standing between worlds.
Arcane instruments reacting unpredictably when pointed toward him.
"He is no longer human," the Archbishop concluded.
A younger cleric hesitated before speaking. "But he prevented annihilation."
Silence.
That was the problem.
If Kaito had failed, they could condemn him.
If he had destroyed everything, they could justify resistance.
But he had succeeded.
And power without accountability frightened rulers more than monsters ever had.
The Archbishop folded his hands.
"We approach him diplomatically," he said.
"And prepare contingencies."
Outside, the Boundary Stars rotated slowly—
Silent witnesses to humanity's oldest instinct:
Fear of what it cannot control.