The air in Frostveil had not yet cleared of ash. Even as the embers of the funeral pyres dimmed, a new shadow loomed over the North — one that carried the weight of faith, politics, and deception.

Rumors always moved faster than the wind.

But this time, the rumors carried scripture.

["The Saint, before her death, spoke of crimson tides swallowing the world.

And from the North, a masked serpent shall lead men astray.

His hands—stained not by sin, but by defiance of The True One."]

Those were the words being whispered through the marketplaces of the Southern Continent, through the pews of their grand cathedrals, and into the trembling halls of the Northern Parliament.

The Church of St. Eldred had released a "divine revelation" — a prophecy supposedly left behind by their deceased Saint. It condemned the Northern Continent, declaring the war a holy one.

And Noah knew manipulation when he saw it.

---

The Chrome Hearts' base had shifted from their underground operations in the slums to a fortified mansion on Frostveil's outskirts.

It was an abandoned estate, long reclaimed from a fallen merchant family. Now, the Chrome Hearts' banners — black and silver, with the insignia of the broken crown — fluttered in the cold wind.

Inside, the atmosphere was heavy.

Maps sprawled across tables, red pins scattered like drops of blood marking contested territories.

Noah stood before them, silent. His gloved hand rested against the map of the South — the Church's domain.

Across from him stood Iris Star, her black hair tied loosely, her coat half-burned from the recent siege.

She had been with him since childhood — though now, even she found it difficult to him.

"The Saint's prophecy," Iris began, her tone measured.

"The Church has made it public. They've declared every soldier who fights under the North to be a blasphemer."

Noah didn't look up.

His eyes trailed across Frostveil Port's coastline drawn on the parchment — the place where hundreds of his men burned alive.

"They want to make us the villains," he muttered.

"No...Me."

"They're saying the serpent in the prophecy is Machiavelli," Iris confirmed.

A faint smirk curved on his lips.

"A serpent… that's poetic."

But Iris noticed the tremor in his hand. He was calm, yes — but beneath that mask of composure, his knuckles turned white.

"Do you think the prophecy's real?" she asked quietly.

He shook his head. "No. It's forged. Conveniently after the Saint's death, when she can't speak for herself.

Whoever wrote that scripture knew it would spread like wildfire."

---

Later that night, the Chrome Hearts' inner council gathered in the war room — a place dimly lit by lanterns and candlelight reflecting off steel.

Around the circular table sat the core members: mercenaries, tacticians, spies.

All wore the silver insignia of the Hearts over their armor.

Noah leaned back in his chair, fingers interlocked.

The faint light cast long shadows across his face, making the silver in his eyes gleam with quiet calculation.

"Reports," he said.

A young man stepped forward — Cole, a courier who served as the link between the Chrome Hearts and the Northern army. He placed several sealed documents on the table.

"The Church has begun mobilizing from the South. They've branded the war as divine judgment. Civilians are being urged to volunteer as crusaders."

"Crusaders…" Iris murmured. "Fanatics wearing halos."

Cole hesitated. "There's more. The Saint's relic — the one rumored to have caused her death — has been declared sacred. They're moving it north."

At that, Noah's gaze sharpened.

"The relic," he repeated. "The same one from the black market auction."

Cole nodded. "The very same, sir. And according to spies from the Central border, the convoy transporting it is accompanied by members of the Inquisition."

The word Inquisition settled in the air like a drawn blade.

Noah closed his eyes briefly. The relic had appeared months ago — a silver hand rumored to belong to one of the First Saints. It emitted strange pulses of mana, capable of amplifying divine power or destroying it entirely. The Church claimed it was holy. The North believed it was a weapon.

And Noah… had seen it for what it truly was: a tool.

He stood, his cloak swaying behind him. "Then our next move is simple," he said. "We find out what's inside that relic… and what killed the Saint."

---

The next day, the North's capital of Valenorth was drowning in tension. The parliament chambers echoed with shouts — noblemen and military officials arguing over the Church's declaration.

"Blasphemy!" one shouted.

"They twist divine words to justify war!"

"The people believe it!" another countered. "The South's influence grows because of faith.

Ours shrinks because of doubt!"

From the balcony above, Noah watched them — unseen behind a veil, accompanied by Iris.

"Faith is the perfect leash," he muttered. "You can't cut it with swords or fire. Only truth can do that."

Iris frowned. "And where do we find that truth?"

"In their own walls."

---

Days later, under the cold moonlight, three figures slipped across the Southern border — Chrome Hearts' spies disguised as pilgrims. Their leader was a woman named Eryn, a master infiltrator who once served as a librarian at St. Eldred before the Church branded her a heretic.

They traveled by night, avoiding the crusader patrols that roamed the countryside. Every town they passed was plastered with the Saint's prophecy, painted on wooden boards and church doors.

"The serpent shall rise from the North."

"The True One's fire shall cleanse the frozen lands."

Eryn clenched her jaw. She'd seen the Saint once.

She wouldn't have written such words.

When they reached the monastery of Bellmare, deep within the southern highlands, they found it eerily silent. The gates were open, the gardens wilted, and the air smelled of incense and decay.

Inside, the halls were lined with murals of saints — their eyes gouged out.

In the prayer room, they found the original scripture sealed beneath glass.

Eryn whispered a prayer before prying the lock open. What she found wasn't a holy manuscript, but a research journal — filled with arcane diagrams, mana equations, and fragmented thoughts.

"The relic… it reacts to human emotion. It feeds on it. The Church doesn't understand… If I continue, it may kill me."

"They want to weaponize it. I refused. They said my silence would serve God better than my life."

The final entry was smeared with dried blood.

Eryn closed the book slowly, her hands trembling. "She didn't write a prophecy," she whispered. "She wrote a warning."

---

When the journal finally reached Frostveil, Noah read it alone in his quarters. The ink had faded, but the words burned into his mind.

So it was true.

The Saint had been silenced — her death used to justify war. And now the Church had twisted her warning into a divine command.

He placed the journal down and stared at the candlelight flickering beside him.

"How far will they go to protect a lie…" he murmured.

From behind him, Iris spoke. "What will you do now?"

Noah didn't answer immediately. He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded letter — Maya's last message, the one that had reached him weeks before.

Her words still lingered in his memory.

"I'm serving under St. Eldred now. I hope you're eating well, Noah. You used to skip meals, remember? Don't work yourself to the bone again."

She hadn't mentioned anything about the relic. Or the Saint. Or the chaos brewing.

"Is she a part of this?" Iris asked carefully.

Noah's voice hardened. "If she is… I'll find out."

He turned toward the window, the moonlight glinting off his mask. "But if she isn't — then someone's using her just like they used the Saint."

The firelight reflected in his silver eyes as he whispered to himself,

"Either way… the Church of St. Eldred won't stay untouched for long."

---

Across the continent, in the heart of the Southern Holy City, Archbishop Theon stood before the relic — the Saint's Hand — sealed within a crystal chamber.

"Do you truly believe this will end the war, Your Eminence?" asked a younger cleric beside him.

Theon smiled faintly. "No. But it will end him."

He looked at the glowing silver hand — its fingers twitching faintly, as if alive.

"The masked serpent from the North," Theon murmured. "Machiavelli. Let the people believe he is cursed. The Saint's words are ours now."

He turned away, the church bells tolling behind him. "And faith, my son… faith is stronger than truth."