A mural was drawn on the silver door's surface.
It looked half-finished, covering only the upper part of the doors.
Still, that didn't stop Alya from recognizing the mural, or connecting it to something familiar.
It resembled the murals painted by the Church!
'Impossible...'
Whenever she entered the Church's cathedrals, similar styles of murals covered the walls and the dome.
Those paintings always drew her in. They made her feel a deep sense of piousness and awe—and always brought a strange kind of calm. Whenever she felt she wasn't doing enough, she'd visit a Cathedral just to feel that strange peace again.
She believed that kind of unique sensation couldn't be easily copied. She had seen believers and even some of her fellow Inquisitors, skilled artists, try to recreate the same murals. But just as she expected, their work never stirred that same unique sensation she experienced in the cathedrals.
So, imagine her shock when she felt that same sense of uniqueness and familiarity coming from the mural on the door in front of her, a door that was supposed to lead to something evil.
'How...? How could this work of art not only possess the same style but also evoke the same unique feeling as those in the Cathedrals?!'
Alya was momentarily stunned. Then came a wave of anger. To her, drawing something so sacred in a place overflowed with malice and corruption felt like blasphemy.
An insult and slap against the Church!
But then, she recalled something.
'Archbishop Amelia said this operation's goal was to capture a traitor who betrayed the Church. Could the artist be the traitor? Is this their work? What kind of betrayal did they commit to be labeled a traitor?'
Questions flooded her mind, but she knew she wouldn't get answers unless she asked the Archbishop herself.
However, when she looked at Amelia, she saw the archbishop's eyes still fixed on the mural.
'What is she waiting for? Shouldn't she be rushing through the door to drag the traitor out? Why is she so focused on the mural? Is there something special about it?'
Curiosity now overriding her anger, Alya let her eyes roam over the mural once more.
That's when it hit her.
There's indeed something different about the mural!
The murals she'd seen in Cathedrals always depicted the same divine scene. Angels and archangels among the clouds of Heaven, their faces veiled in fog.
At the highest point sat the Heavenly Father on his throne, face covered in fog.
Below the Heavenly Father stood four figures—Archangels who had attained the rank of Seraph, the highest rank any angel could achieve.
They were, in order of reverence: Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, and Ramiel.
Normally, this was the standard depiction of the mural in every Cathedral. But the mural on the door in front of her showed something different.
Instead of four figures beneath the throne, there were only three.
Alya didn't think the artist had simply left out the fourth Archangel. Something about the mural felt complete—as if this was exactly how it was meant to be.
Besides, two of the three figures looked noticeably different from those depicted in the Cathedral murals.
Her eyes landed on the figure that felt most familiar—positioned to the right of the throne side.
It was a mural of someone whose features she recognized almost instantly.
Michael.
Of all His titles, the most well-known were: The Brightest Child Of Heaven; The Lord's Right-Hand; The Inextinguishable Light; The Light Of Judgment.
He had short golden hair and wore a white robe woven with golden threads. In his right hand, he held a lance, and above his head floated a golden sun, like a halo.
Then her gaze moved to his face.
To her surprise, it wasn't covered!
Instinctively, she tried to study his features—when a hand suddenly blocked her view.
Startled, Alya realized it was the Archbishop. At some point, Amelia had broken from her trance and stepped in front of her, covering her eyes with one hand.
"You may look at Their clothes and shape—but never Their faces," Archbishop Amelia reminded her.
Alya opened her mouth, ready to ask a question, but stopped. Her vision suddenly blurred. Something wet slid down her face, and a sharp metallic scent hit her nose.
Drip!
Drip!
She heard something hitting the floor.
She reached up and touched her cheek. When she looked at her fingers, her heart skipped a beat.
'Blood?'
For some reason, blood was leaking from her eyes.
Before she could even process it, an itch spread across her body. She looked down—her arms were bright red and blistering. Her skin looks like a boiling lobster.
The burning wasn't limited to her arms. Dryness and heat raced across her skin like fire. Her whole body was set ablaze.
'Damn it! What's wrong with me?!'
Heat rushed to her face. Her cheeks flushed. She bit her lip, trying to bear the pain as she fumbled for the medicine she kept on her.
Then a hand rested gently on her head.
And just like that, the heat and dryness faded—sucked out of her like steam escaping from a vent.
Sighing with relief, Alya said, "Thank you, Your Grace."
"I only drew out the heat," Amelia replied. "You still need to drink the potion to ease the pain."
"Alright," Alya said, quickly pulling out a flask and drinking it in one go.
As the potion slid down her throat, her mind was reeling from what she'd just experienced.
She finally understood what the archbishop meant by her saying: You may look at Their clothes and shape, but never Their faces.
Seeing the faces on the mural will bring her harm!
Just a glimpse of a face and it almost cost me a life? By the Heaven! Is that why the Church always paints angels with their faces hidden behind fog, mist, or clouds? They must've done this to prevent mass blindness and death among the believers!'
Alya stood frozen, overwhelmed by shock and fear.
She had never grown up with faith. She only joined the Inquisition after a supernatural incident changed her life years ago. At first, worshipping the Heavenly Father had been something forced on her. But after receiving her Blessing, her faith had deepened. Still, doubts had always lingered at the back of her mind.
'Does God really exist? If so, why allow war, poverty, and constant disaster? If He created the world, shouldn't He love it?'
'Do angels truly exist, or are they simply stories crafted by the Church's upper ranks to stir awe and keep people obedient?'
'Could God be nothing more than a powerful being, like the Archbishop, just someone with a stronger Blessing? The Archbishops have shown powers that go far beyond what most can do, after all.'
'Could the Pope himself be the so-called Heavenly Father?'
But now… all those questions faded.
She had never spoken to the Pope or the Cardinals, but she had seen them a few times during mass.
When she looked at them, she felt nothing unusual. No fear. No pain. No strange reactions.
But just trying to look at Michael's face?
It had nearly killed her.
'Forgive me for my impure thoughts, Father. Forgive me for ever doubting Your existence.' Alya hurriedly prayed inside of her heart.
After a while, she finally back to healthy again. Opening her eyes, she saw Amelia still fixed her eyes on the mural.
Without turning her head, Amelia spoke in a low voice. "Are you curious about the other two figures beside Archangel Michael?"
Alya was startled and almost instinctively blurted out. "Yes!"
But as she remembered the intense pain her body had gone through earlier, Alya hesitated. After a moment, she shook her head.
"I'm curious… but I don't think I'm supposed to learn the answer yet."
Amelia fell into silence.
Alya was just about to speak again when the silver doors creaked open on their own, the sound sharp and echoing through the room.
Alya reacted like a cat whose tail was being stepped on, swiftly pulling her gun and pointing it in the door direction.
Amelia smirked to herself and raised her voice. "Prepare for battle."
Amelia didn't seem the least bit concerned about what lay beyond the door. She strode inside without hesitation.
Alya followed close behind Amelia. The moment she stepped through the door, her thoughts were swallowed by a single, overwhelming question:
'Are we really walking into a place tied to evil? Then why doesn't it feel that way at all?'
On the contrary, the air was calm. Peaceful. It reminded her of walking into a cathedral—the quiet feeling of awe, the soft warmth in her chest, the sense that something greater was watching. She hadn't expected to feel that here, of all places.
If the room had been dark, cold, or filled with gloom and horror, she wouldn't have been surprised. But this?
This shook her more than anything else.
The room was brightly lit, and Amelia didn't need to light it herself. The clear lighting allowed Alya to take in every detail with ease.
Strange tools, machines, and devices lined the walls. Most of it made no sense to her. Dozens of large glass tubes stood upright, all of them empty.
Nearby were beds fitted with loose, frayed straps. Not far from them were a few iron cells, each with chains hanging from the ceiling. Deep claw marks were scratched into the floors inside.
"Is this a lab?" Alya wondered aloud.
She didn't expect any answers and was merely sharing her thoughts. The strange devices and tools reminded her of the kind of labs she'd seen in movies, the ones run by mad scientists.
As for cultists, in her years of experience, she'd never seen them build anything this refined. Their hideouts were usually filthy—covered in blood, flesh, and all kinds of disturbing materials used in their twisted rituals.
She stopped at a table cluttered with stacks of paper. Curious, she picked one up and began to read.
A moment later, her eyes widened in shock.