“That bastard…,” groaned Stiyl Magnus in St. George’s Cathedral in London.
He’d gotten the report that the Star of Bethlehem had fallen and had crushed Misha Kreutzev from above. But no matter how big a mass it was, he doubted mere physical pressure would defeat a true angel. As it collided, he’d probably brandished his right hand and fought the monster.
And when Stiyl thought about it, wasn’t that the way that man had always done it?
To save the one girl named Index, hadn’t he broken free of all chains, stepping forward without hesitation, even taking a hit hard enough to make him lose his memories?
The air in the cathedral was heavy, a far cry from the clamor of a victory celebration. Only businesslike reports continued—that Misha Kreutzev had vanished, that the four aspects had been reset into their former positions.
Stiyl heard a clatter.
He turned around just as a weary Index was coming over to him. She put a small hand on a stone pillar, her steps wobbling, her eyes on the whiteboard.
“Where’s Touma?”
It was a question nobody could answer.
Right after Index had awoken in the cathedral, before she could even get up out of bed, she told Stiyl the frequency to connect to the Star of Bethlehem. He doubted anyone had told her what had happened. Maybe the other priests or Sisters couldn’t tell her the truth while she was on her way. Finally, Index had come here. To this room, which knew all the results, inside which only a heavy air remained.
She looked around once more, studying the faces of everyone there, and asked again.
“Where’s Touma?”