The devil prowls around like a roaring lion
Sometime during the First Revival in the eleventh century
Like the pieces of a broken mirror being put back together, Kai's senses came back. Pain, familiarity, and the eerie taste of something ancient—something he couldn't recall but knew was always there—were all present in each fragment. When he opened his eyes, he saw a dim cathedral with saint statues surrounded by incense smoke. The priests of the Holy Church stood in a circle. One of them moved forward, his a voice devoid of feeling.
Kai's body, a patchwork of fresh flesh and old scars, answered without hesitation. But his thoughts drifted. Where am I? Who am I? However, those ideas vanished; they were irrelevant.
"Welcome back, Kai Revan. You have a mission."
The Church called it divine justice. Kai wasn’t sure. But he carried out the mission anyway.
The 17th Century
Kai's eyes were hollow, and the candlelight flashed against them. Resurrected, he stood in front of another priest, his words mingling with the innumerable speeches of a similar nature that he had heard throughout the years. His body had changed—different limbs, different eyes—but his soul, or what was left of it, stayed bound to the Church.
"You're a tool of God," they told him.
1880
Kai came back with a sharp inhale. His nostrils were flooded with the aroma of candle wax and old stone. He wasn't alone this time. A young woman, was standing next to the altar. Her sharp eyes locked with his.
The narrow streets of London lay cloaked in fog, gas lamps casting flickering halos of light. Footsteps echoed—sharp, hurried, tense. A mage, shrouded in a dark coat, glanced over his shoulder, heart pounding in his chest. His breath fogged in the cold air as he quickened his pace, clutching a worn satchel close to his side.
They could be anywhere. His mind raced. The parchment inside detailed the arcane formula, the summoning circle for the Grail War. He knew others were after it—other mages willing to kill. Paranoia seeped in; every shadow seemed to move, every distant sound a potential threat. His pace quickened to a brisk walk, then a trot, until he was almost running, the cobblestones slippery beneath his worn boots.
Finally, his home loomed ahead. He fumbled with the keys, slipping inside and slamming the door shut behind him. Pressing his back against the wood, he exhaled, eyes wide. Through the crack in the curtains, he watched the figure walking by—just a mundane passerby. No threat. His chest heaved with relief.
Inside, he worked quickly. The attic room became a sanctum of summoning: chalk lines formed intricate circles, candles flickered at each point, and the air thickened with the scent of burnt incense. The mage whispered incantations, voice steady despite his earlier fear. Blood dripped into the center of the circle—a necessary sacrifice.
A figure stepped out of the shadows nehind the mage.
Return to the chapel
The night was cold, a crisp wind rustling the leaves. Kai returned to the chapel, the faint scent of rain in the air. His silhouette blended with the shadows, movements quiet, almost casual. He stepped through the chapel door, finding Michèle waiting.
"Finished patrolling?" she asked, closing the Bible on her lap.
Kai twirled the Black Keys between his fingers. "Yeah. Quiet night."
Michèle’s eyes narrowed. "You carry your Black Keys still. Did you confront any Dead Apostles?"
Kai paused—just a fraction of a second. He couldn't remember his patrol. The streets blurred in his memory. A side effect of his resurrection? The thought itched at the back of his mind.
"Yeah," he lied smoothly. "Cleaned up a few."
She studied him, eyes searching. Finally, she nodded. "We must not grow complacent. 'For the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour.' If you need assistance, you must speak."
Kai forced a grin. "I can handle it." If he could lie about it, it meant that it wasn't something that would interfere with his awakened Origin, and thus shoud not be of importance in regards to his mission. Or at least thats the thought he used to dissociate himself from the situation.
Alone in his quarters, Kai reached into his inner pocket to stow his Black Keys, but his fingers brushed something unexpected—a folded slip of paper.
His heart skipped a beat. Pulling it out, he unfolded the note, the handwriting unfamiliar. The message was brief:
One mark for freedom.
He felt a faint warmth on his left hand.