The darkness was fathomless.
York paid it no mind. He plucked 40×51 mm grenades one by one from the bandolier slung across his shoulder, loaded them into the revolver-style chamber, then snapped the six-round cylinder back into place.
Click.
With that done, he stared into the bottomless dark below and pulled out another Holy Hand Grenade, ready to clear the field.
Still no sign of any demon; ten grenades had already slipped through his fingers.
"Channeling can be dangerous,"
he continued, flicking the pin free with one hand and tossing the grenade into the depths.
"but I'm here. I'll keep you safe."
The metallic clatter echoed upward. York stepped back until he felt the Novice Nun who had been shadowing him press against his back. Turning, he smiled gently at Irene's youthful face.
"After all, you're Pluto Church's first nun. As your priest, it's my duty to protect you."
His words rang with quiet confidence. Irene lifted her gaze to the young priest, a peculiar sense of safety flooding her heart.
"Father, I'll do my best."
Hili, who had been bringing up the rear, leaned in to lighten the mood.
"Congratulations—welcome to Pluto Church."
The old man spoke as though he, too, belonged to the parish.
Irene answered with equal gravity, every gesture precise.
"Thank you!"
The little… York glanced at the beaming Hili but let it pass, turning instead to the stairs that spiraled farther down.
Boom!
Perfect timing. The Holy Hand Grenade detonated below.
The blast wave rolled upward in a pall of smoke, struck the ceiling, curled back, and slammed into York's chest.
It might as well have been a playful swat; most of its force had already spent itself.
He brushed his cassock and, eyes on the smoke-wreathed steps, led the way down as always.
"Let's go."
"Yes, Father."
Irene and Hili hurried after him, one behind the other.
In the hush their footfalls on the stone sounded unnaturally loud.
Thud, thud, thud!
When those unnerving echoes finally ceased, York brought them to the bottom.
Light had almost vanished; everything blurred. Then Hili ignited a beeswax taper, and in its wavering glow the scene leapt into view.
Another storeroom, but this one was stacked with sacks of provisions, row upon row, contents unknown.
What mattered lay in the corner: a motionless corpse.
So deep underground the air was a natural vault of ice; frost filaments glittered on the body.
No guesswork needed—the black habit, different from the usual, told York this was the abbess of Saint Kata Monastery.
He moved to the next phase without hesitation.
A séance.
Have Irene pierce Valac's veil and locate the abbess.
The nearer to the corpse, the sharper her channeling would be; the body itself would serve as a beacon, guiding her to the precise point she needed.
Recalling the required circle, York looked at Irene.
"Ready?"
"Yes." She nodded firmly.
York pulled four Holy Hand Grenades and pressed them into Hili's hand.
"Guard the exit."
A dead end with only one way out; someone had to watch the stairs. Four grenades would let Hili hold off any assault of reanimated nuns—blast the bodies to pieces and whatever possessed them could do no more.
"Understood, Father."
Hili grasped the implication at once, accepted the grenades, and sprinted back up the steps.
"I'll hold the exit!"
York turned to Irene and found her already composed, her expression announcing she was ready for whatever might come.
"Then let's begin."
He smiled at her resolve; power was already flowing downward through his body.
As mentioned before, circles served many purposes—warding, exorcism, summoning—and naturally, communion.
Considering Valac's rank as a commanding spirit, York poured ten units of mana into the circle to punch through its barrier.
A mechanical chime sounded as a crimson array blossomed across the chamber floor.
Irene's eyes widened at the sudden sigil, astonished.
"A circle for communion," York said calmly.
"It amplifies your gift and matches your Spiritual Medium Physique. I'll teach you later."
He brushed a fingertip against her forehead.
"Close your eyes now. Feel the abbess's body and follow your power…"
The warm touch lingered. Irene obeyed, letting her lids fall.
Following his instructions, she sensed an invisible thread tugging at her, drawing her forward.
Instinct urged resistance, but she remembered his words and relaxed, letting the cord pull.
In the next instant she was elsewhere, as if in a dream.
Fragments of vision showed her Saint Kata Monastery and the same elderly nun she had seen in the flesh, nervously searching a room, oblivious to Irene's presence.
She might as well have been invisible.
The scene snapped.
The Old Nun walked alone down a gloomy passage, candle raised.
Irene watched from the side.
Another shift.
The nun staggered into view, face twisted in pain, one hand braced against the wall.
Irene frowned and tried to follow, but the world changed again.
A strange chamber appeared.
A statue of Saint Mary stood at its center.
"Here He won't find me. Holy Mother, please…"
Groaning, the abbess lurched, collapsed to her knees.
"No—I must finish before I lose myself…"
She hauled herself up and crawled into the chamber, every movement an agony.
Irene instinctively reached to help, but in a blink she stood somewhere else.
Another dim corridor.
She stood at a junction, facing the central tunnel.
At its far end stood a wooden door. From the right passage a black-habited nun, face unseen, walked toward the door.
A chill of dread ran through Irene; her limbs trembled. Yet she clenched her teeth and prepared to follow.
A hand shot out from the right, seized her arm, and pulled her against the wall. Startled, Irene turned.
It was the abbess who had caught her.
As she was yanked behind the stonework, Irene stared at the turning figure ahead and a sudden realization struck her.
Then who was the nun she had been about to follow?