Gideon was montarily stunned.
"Is there a problem with this commission?" he asked at once.
Flora hesitated. Her eyes darted nervously to both sides before she lowered her voice.
"My husband Wynn's last assignnt… it was originally classified as 'Danger-level.' But in the end, it turned into 'Catastrophic.'"
Gideon's brow furrowed.
The Church categorized all exorcism missions into four levels: Disturbance, Corruption, Danger, and Catastrophe—in ascending order of severity.
The first two ranks were the most common, typically handled by academy students as training missions.
But starting from Danger-level commissions, Church protocol required a supervising instructor to accompany the exorcists.
Of course, the academy was filled with prodigies and people from powerful backgrounds.
So as long as one bore the Bronze Cross insignia on their sleeve, they could accept such missions even without direct oversight.
Catastrophe-level, however, was an entirely different matter.
Those were the kinds of cases tied to sacrificial rituals, demonic descents, or deities of corruption.
Any priest or Church agent who encountered such an event was required to imdiately retreat and report it to the Vatican.
From there, the Holy See would dispatch a Cardinal or mbers of the Inquisition to investigate—carefully and quietly.
If a Catastrophe-level entity ever broke containnt, it could trigger a continent-wide spiritual disaster.
There was precedent. During the Middle Ages, the entity known as Helhest—the Hell Horse—had descended upon the mortal world.
Its presence brought plague and famine.
According to Church archives, over twenty-five million people perished before the corruption was purged.
Gideon's eyes narrowed.
"You an… soone deliberately altered the mission report?"
Flora's expression contorted in pain as she nodded.
"Please, don't go!" she begged again, her voice trembling.
"I'm sorry about what happened to Professor Wynn," Silas replied curtly, "but we have a flight to catch."
He didn't even try to hide his indifference.
That, of course, only deepened Gideon's suspicion.
"Flora, we agreed on this," another voice interrupted suddenly.
Everyone turned toward the sound. A middle-aged woman approached, her heels clicking against the marble floor.
Flora's face imdiately drained of color.
"Go take a break. I'll handle this," the woman said, resting a hand on Flora's shoulder.
"Y-yes… of course."
Flora flinched, hesitated for a mont, and then hurried out of the room.
The woman turned to them with a polite smile.
"My apologies, students, for keeping you waiting."
She accepted the file Silas offered.
"I'm Janie Wood," she introduced herself smoothly. "I'll be overseeing your paperwork today."
"Excuse , ma'am," Gideon began carefully. "About what the previous teacher said—"
"—that soone tampered with commission records," Janie interrupted with an icy precision, "and deliberately dismissed supervising instructors so the students would go alone… all to target the academy's staff and pupils?"
Her tone was calm, but her gaze was sharp as glass behind her round spectacles. Her short golden hair glead under the hall light, and her air of composed authority gave her the look of an academic rather than a cleric.
Gideon studied her face, his brows lifting slightly.
"This 'rumor,'" she continued with a faint smile, "has already spread throughout the entire academy."
Bente spoke first, trying to ease the tension.
"Ever since Professor Wynn's accident, Sister Flora's been… well, devastated. That's probably why she—"
Janie nodded smoothly and cut in, "There was no error in the commission details. The problem was that outside interference escalated the situation beyond its intended scope."
"Recently," she continued, pretending to recall, "the Church managed to identify one of the culprits. His na was… let think—ah, yes. Samael!"
Her tone rose with feigned outrage.
"May the Lord have rcy! To think these heretics would na themselves after a demon—unbelievable."
Gideon's expression didn't change. "I do have another question, Miss Wood. The file doesn't ntion any evidence of a Bound Spirit. Was one actually discovered?"
Janie looked up from her notes. "And you are?"
"Father Gideon," he replied evenly.
"Ah, I thought so." She smiled faintly and set down her pen. "You're not one of the academy students—and if I'm not mistaken, you're fairly new to the Dei Parish?"
"That's right."
"I figured as much." She sighed softly, then shifted into her professional tone.
"All commissions are graded by experienced exorcists within the Church. Of course, with demonic disturbances happening more frequently these days, we don't have nearly enough clergy to personally visit every site."
She adjusted her glasses.
"So we send local church officials to conduct preliminary inspections before compiling everything for final review. You can rest assured—our classification process never makes mistakes."
The three academy students all nodded earnestly, visibly reassured by her explanation.
Gideon, however, smiled thinly. That's one hell of a flag to raise, he thought dryly.
A warning from one person, imdiately ignored by everyone else—
it was practically the opening scene of every horror story ever written.
Seems Sister Flora might've been right after all, he mused.
Janie quickly finalized their paperwork and handed a small, silver insignia with a cross engraved on it to Silas.
"With this token," she said, "you'll have the Church's official protection during your mission."
The group thanked her and left the commission office soon after.
Outside, Gideon made an excuse about "needing the restroom" and slipped away from the others.
Once alone, he wandered through the academy's courtyard until he spotted a familiar figure.
"Sister Flora," he called softly.
Flora flinched. The bundle of laundry in her hands slipped and scattered across the grass.
"I wanted to talk more about what you said earlier," Gideon said, bending down to pick up the clothes. He handed them back with a calm smile.
"That… that was nonsense," she murmured, clutching the garnts tightly. "I've just been tired lately."
"You wouldn't have said those words if you didn't truly an them," Gideon said gently. "And I believe you're a good person. I want to help, if I can."
Flora hesitated. Her hands twisted nervously in the fabric. Then she sighed.
"Co inside. Please."
A few minutes later, Gideon sat across from her in a small, dimly lit room, his expression grim.
In his hands was a worn leather notebook—Wynn's personal journal.
The late priest had docunted sothing deeply troubling:
Over the past year, the mortality rate of exorcists from Dei Academy had risen sharply—far above the Church-wide average.
Wynn had filed formal complaints and proposed several counterasures.
All were rejected by higher authorities for "insufficient evidence."
Then, by sheer accident, he discovered sothing chilling.
The data wasn't random. It had been engineered.
His notes included incomplete nas and coded references—all pointing to one man:
Archbishop Hans Hermann.
The head of the Dei Parish.
A man everyone in Philadelphia adored—kind, humble, a model priest.
At first, Wynn hadn't believed it either.
But as his investigation deepened, the evidence beca undeniable.
He found that Hans maintained close contact with a so-called "disability relief ho."
And according to the city's police reports, nearly every missing child case in Philadelphia could be traced back to that sa institution.
"Before Wynn died," Flora said, her voice trembling, "he told he'd found sothing—sothing critical. He even brought a cara with him that day."
Her lips quivered. "But when I attended his funeral… no one ntioned it. Not one person."
Gideon closed the journal and handed it back to her.
"After the funeral, did anyone approach you—under the pretense of 'honoring Wynn's mory'—and ask about his belongings?"
Flora's eyes widened. "Yes. Several people."
"They can't be trusted," Gideon said flatly, rubbing his chin.
"I know," she whispered.
Then Gideon looked up sharply. "Aren't you worried that I might be one of them?"
Flora actually smiled—faint but genuine.
"Strangers don't earn my trust easily," she said quietly. "They wouldn't risk returning Wynn's journal… and besides—"
Her gaze softened. "You're the only one who questioned it back in that office."
She looked down, her tone tinged with weary sadness.
"And truthfully… I don't have anyone else to trust anymore."
Gideon nodded solemnly. "Sister Flora, thank you for trusting —and for sharing this."
He spoke with sincerity. She had risked a great deal by telling him this much. The least he could do was honor that trust.
"If you believe in ," he said finally, rising to his feet, "then let take this journal. I'll make sure it reaches soone within the Church who can still be trusted—soone who can expose the truth when the ti cos."
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