Beneath the crimson-stained sky, atop the shattered remains of the Papal Palace, a man stood alone.
His cloak, soaked with blood, hung heavily from his shoulders. His deep, dark red eyes surveyed the ruins of the Holy Capital.
It was Michael.
Scattered at his feet were the remnants of what was once called the Papal Palace. One half of the building had completely collapsed; the other half was engulfed in flames.
A spire, partially broken, crumbled amidst the smoke rising into the sky.
Fragments of once-holy stained glass sparkled as they scattered through the air.
Michael stood upon the very platform where the Pope had once addressed his faithful.
Now, the Pope lay unconscious, under the strict watch of Marcus and Nyangnyang.
All around, cannons roared and the earth trembled violently.
As Pamir's battering rams shattered the city walls, knights and magical beasts stormed in from the coast, clashing with the Holy Knights in a battlefield of madness.
