Three candles were lit. The top floor of the Ewige Cathedral. Archbishop Orban's office, where the cold of bedrock seeps in gradually once night falls. A face etched with 68 years of wrinkles sat across from the desk. The door opened. A young patrol priest entered. He held a holy staff with an iron core against his side, keeping his eyes lowered as he reported. "[serious]Confirmed collapse of Bloch Sechs at the eastern end of the lower district. The interior of the old air raid shelter has partially exposed, and fragments of relics—" Orban didn't move. Not his fingers, not his eyelids, nothing. Only the candle flames wavered. Silence lasted about ten seconds. "[cold]Burn it." His voice was low. Emotionless. Not so much a command as a dry sound, like something being severed. "Burn all traces. If anyone saw it, turn them to ash as well." "Yes, sir." The patrol priest bowed and left the room. The door closed. Orban remained alone in the office. His aged eyes fixed on the