"And a man shall come, with no father nor grave, clothed in white and shadow. And even the angels shall fall silent at his passing."
— Apocryphal Verses from the Letter to the Lumen
No one knows where he came from.
And those who claim to know either lie—or die within the week.
He calls himself Klein Illias Seraphiel. Or rather, that is the name by which he was introduced during the Assembly of the Bells in Sol Sanctum, only weeks after the unexplained disappearance of His Holiness André XVIII, the last elected Pope before the Fall.
André XVIII had ruled for twenty-four years, a master of metacontemplative theology, a moderate conservative, and a gifted orator. His papacy was marked by attempts to reconcile faith and science, to preach caution concerning the meteorites, and to prevent—unsuccessfully—their use in warfare. He vanished without warning, without farewell, without witness. His throne was found empty at dawn on the day of the Crimson Solstice.
In any other era, such an event would have triggered a conclave, a bitter doctrinal battle, a transition of power fought through ancient rites and ecclesiastical politicking. But this time, the Holy Seat remained vacant for only a single day.
The next morning, Klein entered the Basilica of Ashes.
He spoke not a word. He made no request, no proclamation.
And yet… all bowed.
He bore the smooth, ageless face of a man who had never known youth nor decay. His hair fell like ivory silk upon his shoulders, draped beneath the ceremonial mantle of a high ecclesiarch. But it was his eyes—silent abysses, neither warm nor cold—that undid even the most devout. One could not meet them without feeling diminished, unmoored.
He spoke rarely. But when he did, his words carried the finality of verdicts.
It is said the priests of the Emerald Circle wept upon seeing him, though none knew why. That the Cardinals of the Black Order burned their heretical manuscripts after but a single private audience. Brother Amatus, a firsthand witness, was committed to an asylum the day after declaring: "He did not walk. He glided. As though he were not fully there."
But who is Klein?
Officially, there is no record—no birth certificate, no clerical training, no prior office. The documents bearing his name, stored deep within the archives of the University of Rome, are all dated after his ascension. His past is a void. A bureaucratic impossibility within an institution famed for its meticulous memory.
Unofficially, three major theories have taken root in hushed whispers:
1. The Disguised Angel. Among the faithful, some believe Klein to be a celestial being, descended after the Apocalypse to shepherd the remnants of humanity. Their belief is fueled by the strange phenomena surrounding him—his speech, his presence, and most damningly, the results of the Church's internal medical examinations: no heartbeat registered. No breath measured. No biological signature at all.
2. The Chosen of the White Meteorite. Others claim he was struck by the First Celestial Stone to fall upon the Holy Land, and that its radiant light fused with his body, elevating him beyond human comprehension. They say he now carries the knowledge of the world-before-the-world. This theory, while suppressed, is quietly accepted among scholars of the High Clergy.
3. The Architect of the Lie. A smaller, more paranoid circle believes Klein to be a construct—an artificial messiah engineered by the World Government to replace a Pope who had become inconvenient. They point to disturbing inconsistencies: Klein casts no shadow under sacred light, and ancient blessed mirrors refuse to reflect him.
Whatever the truth, Klein does not govern. He inspires. He issues no commands. He declares.
When he called for reconciliation between faith and meteoritic truth, the Nations' Council surrendered without negotiation.
When he blessed the Bio-Greenhouse Cities, their harvests tripled within a week.
When he ordered silence during the Total Eclipses, even the winds ceased their breath.
He never smiles.
And yet at every public appearance, the sick and the hopeless cry with trembling voices that they already feel healed.
As for the fate of André XVIII—nothing was ever found. No remains. No farewell missive. Not even a posthumous theological note. Only one scribbled line survives, penned in the margins of a forbidden manuscript hidden deep within the Occult Tower's vaults, authored by a long-forgotten Vatican archivist:
"André did not vanish. He erased himself. Willingly. He saw what was coming. And he made room."
Room… for what?
Or for whom?
Now, Klein sits upon the Throne of the Hidden Name, beneath the gilded vault of the Last Dome.
He speaks to the masses like a prophet. He touches the children like a father. He gazes upon criminals like a judge.
But in the marble corridors of the Holy Church, where incense fails to mask fear, even the most devoted whisper:
"What if he did not come to save… but to prepare?"