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Join me in a moment of prayer. Wait, listen, and feel the peace and tranquility.

I am Stefano Torregrossa, abbot of the Sanctilaminium Ambrosii.

The words 'believer' and 'kin' are not used here.

The mundane world has certain conceptions of the Sankta and the Sarkaz. Order and chaos. Peace and war. Angels and devils. We share the same conceptions.

Our halos and horns are our most distinctive features, symbols etched in the very essence of our life. Our existence alone draws the attention of others.

Yet we have seen the sun rise and set thousands of times together, and we gather here today to partake in communion, to share shelter and blessing.

We have spent varying lengths of time here at the abbey, but even the newcomers amongst us have been here for more than a decade.

For a much longer time, we had no way of knowing whether we had been abandoned or forgotten. We did not know what perils the path ahead would hold, that we would meet at a fork of which no one could know.

We had conflicts. We had secrets. But we tried to accept one another.

We know the names and habits of everyone in this chapel. We shared food and sheltered one another from wind and rain.

We fought beasts and bandits together. We built houses and paved roads together. We plowed fields and harvested them together.

We were brothers and sisters. We loved each other, and treasured one another's peace and happiness as our own.

The bonds that tie us went beyond any physical trait or telepathic connection, transcended any differences in faith or ideology.

Yet, after having endured the long night, it was the fleeting cold before the dawn that overcame us.

The nuncios from Laterano, the Executors, and... emissaries from a distant realm... they all had their own plans, brought new hope, and forced painful choices.

We lost our battered pillars to fire, and our respected and trusted brothers to conflict...

Stefano Torregrossa sought that which was most good, even if the answer was an unproven one. For this, I seek your forgiveness.

Sanctilaminium Ambrosii is not Paradise. But it is our common home.

I have faith that we will make the same choice.

Now, I invite you to take communion.

Does it hurt?

Could be worse.

You put on a brave face, but I can hear your teeth chattering.

The barrel of a rifle will never be worse than a bullet.

You can have one of those, too, if you want.

I can feel your seething anger.

You're angry that I violated the purity of your faith. That proves you're thinking as a Lateran.

Your mission is to bring the Sanctilaminium Ambrosii back to Laterano, and to help the lost Lateran kin there. My mission is to preserve what makes Laterano, Laterano.

Set your sentimentality aside, Lemuen. We're in agreement here.

Enough with your sophistry.

Did you learn it from the Victorian nobles, or Columbian merchants, Legatus Oren?

I said it, the sudden appearance of beasts will frighten wanderers. I'm not going to stand by and watch a massacre happen.

The commandos will be in position any moment now. You can't stop me.

I can incapacitate you, then deal with them.

You may have surprised me once, but it won't work again. Not unless you actually put a bullet in my brain.

Is that so?

Lemuen? Oren? Don't tell me you're really going to—

A loud crack interrupts the exchange.

Again, and then again, before anyone could react, so loud that it sounds like the patron firearm was being fired right next to their ears. They could not even hear their own heartbeats for a few seconds.

The projectile leaves a long trail in the damp morning air.

I am Executor Federico of the Laterano Notarial Hall. That was a warning shot.

Cardinal Aide Lemuen, Legatus Oren, and Technician Serpilia of the Sixth Tribunal. I command you to cease your pointless altercation at once.

I see no need to understand your positions or mediate your conflict.

The mission remains incomplete. Newly emerged factors continue to present a risk of escalation. This monastery needs order.

If there is no contradiction between you, yet conflict remains unresolved; if empathy is not enough to prevent a community from disintegrating...

Then I will be order.

That warning shot was also intended for the special forces outside. Lateran troops will not enter the Sanctilaminium Ambrosii without my express authorization.

You were the one who deployed them, Oren. You will restrain them. Order them to pull back one kilometer and stand by.

Lemuen and Serpilia. The two of you have been in contact with the Sankta and Sarkaz populations here. You will reassure them and prevent the situation from escalating.

Meet me in the chapel once you have finished your task. Richele has uncovered a lead and is following it.

I will find the one responsible for this situation.

You will act now.

Now, I invite you to take communion.

Guess I didn't make it in time.

Richele peeks through a gap in the door and sees the gathered crowd return to their seats with sacramental bread and wine.

In the chancel, the aging abbot looks up toward the door, almost as though he is looking at Richele.

Richele thinks for a moment, then closes the door. He thinks for another moment, then takes out a spare gun grip, which he uses to latch the door handle.

Almost. All that's left is to wait for it to... finish.

Hm? Did Federico run into trouble? I guess I'm the only one taking care of things here now.

What a chore.

I should have taken the mission to search for the missing Legatus in Sargon. It might have been a little far, but dealing with the people of the sand has got to be less complicated.

Am I doomed to be a workaholic? Truly, our fate lies not in our hands.

Let's see... patron firearm in good working order.

If everyone inside... is one bullet per head enough? Don't tell me I'll have to use my fists...

I should apply for paid leave once I get back to Laterano. The Notarial Hall had better approve it, considering my workload.

All is prepared. Come Matins, the people will take... take their final communion.

Will your strings... lament for me? Or will they celebrate me?

I am clueless about music, Arturia. Just as I cannot understand you.

Here you stand, and here I empathize with you, yet you seem a total blank.

I am no more than free to perform according to Your Excellency's will. My music is but a mirror.

A mirror... hah.

The elderly abbot lifts a porcelain tray, his hands quivering amidst string's overtones.

He appears as if wrestling with the sound that echoes throughout the dark, awaiting their end.

He was still young when the sounds of paradise arose in the abbey years and years ago, so young that his reflection in the fountain did not yet show a single hair of white.

Wild fowls were drawn to these roving soils, fluttering through skies rich with organ chords, flying for the square. In his old age, the last abbot handed the monastery down to him, Cleric Stefano, the youngest of them all.

'You must be their keeper, that they live in Paradise.'

And how? How would I see them stay in Paradise?

Abbot Torregrossa shuts his eyes. Storied is his life.

The strings continue to echo, echo, echo. And then—

He lets his hands go.

...Ah.

How painful. So this is your choice.

From behind the sealed chapel entrance comes the muffled sound of speech.

Federico stands in the spacious hall for a while, listening, then turns to walk upstairs.

...Equipment normal.

The only loss has been one communicator.

Current objective remains unchanged. Proceeding with mission.

Locked onto suspect.

How're things in there?

Communion should be over by now.

Is it as bad in there as I think?

Signs point to yes.

Damn. How's Federico?

Unreachable.

The Church of the Deep doesn't breed pushovers for monsters. Does he know that?

Someone needs to do the work. Status on Lemuen and Serpilia?

They got your message and went underground to investigate.

Alright. That means the trickiest job of all is all ours.

Let's open up.

And be where we may, and face what we may, it remains that we must respect each other in kind, care for each other in kind—