Pilgrim's Progress

Since the dying day of Constantinople fell into the cracks of history, the fight between humans and the devil's servants has been like a wound that never heals, festering for hundreds of years. The blind giant beast of history is still crawling forward, and human beings are still walking stooped under the crumbling eaves, swallowing the thin air, and piecing together ridiculous livelihoods. The medical soldier who once wore the white-on-red-cross armband of the Fire Cross Regiment, Harper Blaise Beatle Straight, had half of his life crushed in the flesh-and-blood mill of the Maginot Counterattack. Then, under the play of fate, he crossed the Atlantic and drifted to the thirsty continent of North America called the Holy Federation of Ashtomia, and entered the Holy Police National Security Agency. Acts as a silent shadow to his direct superior. The political situation is like a tilted bell tower, trembling with new cracks with every gust of wind. The embers of war traveled across the ocean on the trade winds, burning every inch of fragile turf along the border. In the gaps between the work, deep in the piles of files, the gears of the Holy Police National Security Bureau began to rotate faster. Those arrests, those files, those erased names and the silence created, all seemed to be converging towards a deeper center. That purpose hangs like a spider's thread from the ceiling of consciousness, everywhere.