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Seeing the Holy Citadel in the daylight was a different experience than seeing it at night. The hallways of the manse, filled with natural light through the windows, seemed warmer and much more inviting than the gloomy, lantern-lit interiors he’d walked through the night before.

Through the windows, he could see just how vast the grounds within the Citadel were. Outside the manse, he could see a long, oval-shaped track; a travel worn circuit, stretching four hundred some meters by his estimation. Even now, he could see various Digimon running the course, including a familiar, red-scaled saurian he was certain he recognized. At the edge of the field, far from the practicing Digimon, a lone, conical structure, with smoke trailing out of the chimney resting on its pointed top, sat alone near the travel-warn path that cut its way through the grounds.

He could also see the Observatory and the two-tiered plateau previously pointed out to him by Lotfia, before the spiderling had invaded his room. The observatory itself, now in perfect clarity from the daylight, was an impressive structure; dome-shaped, with a long telescope protruding from its bulky mass, able to see beyond the valley – he was even certain that its position had changed, suggesting the structure was even capable of rotation.

To the south, he saw the ridge upon which sat the White Tower, surrounded by low, crenellated walls, overlooking the walled pass of the east gate. At the end of the ridge, he saw a tall, narrow tower that reached up to the top of the rise where the keep stood, creating an immediate access point between the lower walls of the East Gate, and the impressive castle keep above.

“I never knew the Holy Citadel was anything like this,” the Veemon remarked, stopping to take in the sights for just a moment, marveling at the beauty of what felt to him like the beginning of a walled city.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Fenric asked, coming to stand beside him and look out the window with him.

“That’s one word for it,” Maximus replied dryly. “How long has this place been here?”

“I could not tell you,” Fenric admitted. “I’ve been here for twelve years; seen instructors and students come and go. It’s been standing here like this for as long as I can remember, aside from a few newer additions, such as,” he pointed to the lone conical structure that Maximus had noticed earlier, “that; a blacksmith. We didn’t have that until two years after I arrived.”

“A blacksmith?” Maximus asked. “Why do you need that?”

In answer, Fenric raised his hand and rapped his fist against his armour. “Even though this formed around me when I Digivolved, this armour can still be damaged. It requires maintenance, repair, and I’ve even made a few custom additions to the fitting, to make it more comfortable.”

“And that goes for the Gladimon and Surtan as well?” Maximus asked, recounting all of the armour-clad Digimon he had seen so far.

“Indubitably, and others like the Citadel Knights. They also make many of the tools we provide to the farmers, to the west.”

“This place has its own farm?” Maximus asked, looking up at Fenric. He certainly hadn’t seen or smelled anything like that…

“Well, no, not technically. The closest town to us is an agricultural community,” explained Fenric. “We are their most frequent customers. We trade them tools and offer them protection in exchange for food for the kitchens. It is a symbiotic relationship.”

“I take it the Locomon I saw pass Raist and I last night comes from there as well?”

“Not exclusively, but yes; they are the ones who freight goods between the towns and the Citadel as well. The one you would’ve seen was bringing passengers – a few new students coming in, some graduates departing, and even a few visitors.”

Maximus nodded, satisfied with the information. It seemed a peaceful, well-established community here at the Citadel. The tragic night he’d suffered at his home village seemed so distant to him now, seeing this place…

But he couldn’t forget… He would never forget…

Shaking his head before he could fall into melancholy against, he stepped back from the window and addressed Fenric again. “Right… Better keep moving,” he said, hearing the sadness in his voice.

Fenric’s eyes lingered on him for a heartbeat, but he said nothing, and turned from the windows to continue leading him up the corridor.

Down the stairs they went to the ground floor and crossed another corridor to the double doors leading outside. They followed the road south, around the manse, past the field, and to a fork where Fenric led him right. At first, Maximus thought they might be heading to the White Tower, seeing another fork coming where the road curved left, and led toward the ridge.

But Fenric passed the left turn and continued on, the road leading out to open ground. The path ahead led back toward the mountain walls of the north; Maximus had to squint his eyes to see where it led, and all he could make out at the end was a rising staircase that led up the mountainside.

“Where are we going?” Maximus asked. “The Tribunal isn’t over here, in the manse or tower?”

“No,” Fenric replied. “The Tribunal felt it necessary to keep their accommodations and place of work away from the training field, lest the students fear they were constantly being watched and judged by them all hours of the day.”

Maximus hummed as he considered the idea. “I guess that makes sense,” he said. “So… That’s where we’re going then? To… Whatever is at the top of those stairs over there?”

“Correct.”

“…I don’t suppose there’s an elevator?”

There wasn’t an elevator…

By the time the building at the crest of the staircase came in sight, Maximus was muttering every curse he knew and silently berating the architect who had thought it a brilliant idea to place a sacred structure so high up a mountain side. ‘Probably just being dramatic,’ he thought darkly.

After rising for what seemed like another kilometer, they finally reached the top of the stairs. Maximus put his hands on his knees, breathing hard. Fenric, by contrast, did not seem bothered, as though he’d taken that climb multiple times. His breathing was heavier, but barely noticeable.

“All that way…” wheezed Maximus, “and under all that armour… And you’re not… Exhausted?”

“I went up and down those stairs a thousand times before I Digivolved,” Fenric clarified. “It was part of my training regiment. After my Digivolution, I continued to train in my armour as well.”

He grimaced as he went on. “I confess… It was much more difficult, weighed down by this. But eventually, I acclimated.”

Maximus took one more deep breath before rising back to his full height, and looked at Fenric again. “So… The Tribunal is in… This… Place?”

His words slowed as he beheld the Grand Chapel in full… From a distance it had looked large, but seeing it up close he now understood just how massive it was. It was not simply a chapel; it was so big it may as well have been a cathedral, built into the peak of the mountain itself. The front of it, symmetrical, lined by Greco-Roman styled columns that held up the structure’s overhanging front, and topped by a domed roof.

“This is where we shall find the headmasters of the Holy Citadel and guardians of the world,” said Fenric, “the Holy Tribunal.”

‘Guardians of the world that are awfully slow to respond to trouble,’ Maximus thought darkly. “Alright,” he said, keeping the pessimism out of his voice. “Let’s do this, then.”

They approached the large double doors of the Grand Chapel, passing into the shadow over the overhang, crossing a large veranda or porch – Maximus wasn’t sure what the term for a building like this would be. The doors were guarded by a pair of Angemon, standing at attention, hands on their holy staves and faces half-hidden behind their rounded helmets.

Fenric led the way to the door, addressing the two Angemon. “I bring the visitor requested by the Holy Tribunal,” he explained. “I humbly request that we be allowed to pass, that I bring him to them.”

The two Angemon said nothing. They raised their staves and tapped them on the ground, and the double doors swung open. At first, Maximus thought that there might be someone behind the door, but he saw no one as Fenric led him through the doors.

Inside, the symmetrical layout of the building he had gauged from outside continued, with a wide-open entry hall. The floor was made of the same white stone – either marble or plastered granite, lined with a gold and silver carpet that made a path from one end to the other.

A few other angel Digimon could be seen here, including on the second level catwalk, to which Maximus couldn’t see any stairs – not that Angemon needed stairs; they had wings.

Fenric ushered Maximus along, leading him across the room. Maximus could feel the eyes of several of the angel Digimon on him, and tried to ignore it, until they made it to the second set of doors at the other end of the room. As before, the doors were guarded, but not by a mere Angemon. A _Magna_Angemon; an ultimate-level Digimon…

While MagnaAngemon had the same body-type as its Champion-level predecessor — tall, humanoid, clad in white — there was no mistaking the difference. His frame was bulkier now, armoured in plates of gleaming silver clad around his legs and an elongated, purple pauldron over his left arm – more of a shield than a piece of armour.

He was adorned with inscribed holy sashes that shimmered faintly in the chapel light, formed in an X across his torso. Eight wings arched from his back in a radiant fan, giving the impression not of a soldier, but of a celestial warden. A helmet concealed half of his face, much like the Angemon, he seemed to have no difficulty seeing the pair.

The MagnaAngemon spoke with a voice that seemed to echo off the walls as he addressed Maximus’ escort. “Sir Fenric,” he began, “he said. “We have been expecting you.”

‘We?’ Maximus echoed in his mind. ‘Is this guy a member of the Tribunal?’

“Indeed, Lord Valefor,” Fenric replied, placing a hand on his chest and bowing respectfully.

“Proceed,” Valefor stated, stepping aside as the doors behind him began to open, once again seeming to be of their own volition just like at the entrance.

With that, Fenric began walking again, and Maximus followed, casting a wary glance at Valefor before he looked ahead again, focusing on what was in front of him.

They stepped into a chamber that echoed the sacred design of the chapel — white stone walls, polished floors, and towering columns — but here, the architecture reached its full crescendo. Unlike the previous hall, there was no upper level; the ceiling soared overhead in a vast, uninterrupted dome. Maximus tilted his head back as far as it would go, breath catching as he took in the bronze-plated ceiling. The sunlight pouring in from the tiered windows below shimmered upward, bathing the room in a soft, brass-golden glow that felt less like reflected light… and more like the presence of something divine.

Opposite them rose a six-tiered dais — a holy throne, stepped like a ziggurat — each level home to a different celestial figure.

At the base stood a MagnaAngemon in priestly robes, distinct from the battle-armored guardian outside. This one bore only two wings, and the soft white of his garb lent him a serene stillness, like a candle in deep sanctuary.

To his left stood an Angewomon — tall, serene, and radiant. Her elegance wasn’t ornamental; it was inherent, woven into the tilt of her head, the way the golden light clung to the curve of her armor.

Beside her loomed an ArkhaiAngemon — garbed in flowing robes, accented by ceremonial crimson armor at the shoulders and chest. He gripped a tall, rune-marked staff tipped with smoldering flame, its base resting on the marble like a scepter of judgment.

And above them all — at the apex — stood a single, resplendent figure.

Maximus froze, awe washing over him like a tide. The Seraphimon seemed colossal to him – even though he wasn’t any taller than his compatriots, wrapped in engraved blue armor that shimmered with ancient power. Ten golden wings arched from behind him in radiant symmetry, forming a divine halo that defied earthly scale or comprehension.

He didn’t merely stand above the others — he was above them. Not just in stature, but in presence.

Maximus suddenly felt very small before the Tribunal….

It wasn’t just that the Seraphimon towered over him, nor that the angels around him radiated such otherworldly calm. It was the feeling that he stood in the presence of something timeless — beings who had watched the world turn for centuries, perhaps eons. He was not simply out of place here… he was mortal among the eternal.

With that also came a sense that he did not belong there… These beings – these Angelic Digimon, were altogether made for greater things than himself. Suddenly, he felt like an intruder in a place that he was never meant to be…

When the Seraphimon spoke, his voice seemed to descend from the very heavens, and Maximus felt as though he’d been struck by a bolt of lightning. “Welcome to you, Maximus of the Vee Clan,” he began. “You stand now before the Holy Tribunal. Allow me to begin by thanking you, for your selfless actions the night before, when you rescued one of our treasured students from the clutches of the Dokugumon infestation currently threatening our students.”

Maximus, unable to feel his pessimism anymore, could only answer with unexpected humility, rubbing the back of his head as he spoke. “Well… I wasn’t alone,” he said. “I had help…”

“Indeed. The younger sister of Master Nagata who left our service some time ago,” the ArkhaiAngemon spoke. “Nevertheless, you took action, without any incentive to do so. For that, you have our gratitude, and thus we determined you more than earned the right to stand before us today.”

‘How generous of you,’ came Maximus’ pessimistic thoughts again, but wisely he kept it to himself. “I only did what I thought was right,” he said aloud, deciding to keep up an appearance.

“Please, explain something to us,” the Angewomon began. “We understand you come from the Vee Clan village to the west, and that it suffered a terrible attack recently. We are to understand that you were there, and witnessed this attack firsthand.”

Maximus summoned his courage, and held back the darkness in his heart, before answering. “I was,” he said. “I faced the attackers myself, meeting them in the woods before they launched their assault. I had no chance to warn the village before they came.”

“Tell us,” the priestly MagnaAngemon said, “who committed this terrible crime?”

“A Black WereGarurumon,” Maximus said, “The others in his pack called him Talbot.”

The four archangel Digimon fell silent, sharing looks with each other. Maximus’ eyes darted over each of them, studying the faces of the three in the front; Seraphimon’s face was completely concealed behind his helmet, but he could still make out any change to the facial expressions of his three cohorts.

Or rather… The lacking thereof.

Maximus felt his anger rising again. “Did you?” he stated to ask, before the answer came to him. “You all knew!” he exclaimed, his voice rising. “You know about him, don’t you?!”

“Maximus!” Fenric hissed from beside him. “You cannot speak out turn to the Tribunal!”

It was the Seraphimon who answered. “We were made aware, some time ago,” he began, “that an Oblivion Bloom event has recently occurred. Two of our number have already been dispatched to look into it. It appears that the Black WereGarurumon you encountered may have been a product of this calamity, in which case there will most certainly be others like him.”

Maximus recalled his conversation with Nagata, remembering the Doumon’s mention of an Oblivion Bloom as well… He had also speculated that Talbot might be a product of that event, and that others like him would certainly follow.

The Angewomon continued then. “Your tragic tale has given us another clue to this catastrophe, and may yet provide us a lead to the source. If the Oblivion Bloom has indeed occurred, then we must find it, and purge it at the source, or more just like Talbot will appear before long.”

Maximus’ hands tightened into fists. “And what about Talbot himself?!” he demanded. “He’s still out there! He’s going to do this again!”

“Maximus!” Fenric tried to interrupt, but Maximus ignored him.

“I saw that beastman kill everyone I’ve ever known!” Maximus went on, descending into a tirade. “I watched my brother die by his hand and his data consumed by him! He’s going to do this again, and the longer he’s left to run wild, the stronger he’s going to get! He has to be stopped!”

“Talbot’s justice will come in time,” the MagnaAngemon stated. “However, that must not be our priority for now. The Oblivion Bloom will create more just like Talbot, if we do not find it and destroy it.”

“And what happens to the Digimon he slaughters in the meantime?!” Maximus demanded. “By the time you go after him he’ll probably have gained enough power to Digivolve to a Mega himself! Where’s that going to leave all of you when he’s powerful enough to pose a threat even to you?”

“That shall not happen,” the Seraphimon stated. “You have done well to bring us this information, young Maximus. We shall take matters from here.”

That wasn’t good enough.

The words echoed in Maximus’s head like a mockery. His fists clenched so tight, he felt the sharp dig of his claws against his palms. Rage swelled in his chest like a furnace—hot, suffocating, relentless. He could feel it behind his eyes too, burning so fiercely it was almost a glow. His vision tunneled.

They were just standing there. Watching. Judging.

Doing nothing.

He was ready to lunge—ready to scream, to demand they listen, to force them to do something—when a hand like a steel trap seized his shoulder from behind.

He wheeled around, expecting to see Fenric.

He was wrong.

Valefor towered over him, his expression unreadable behind the sealed helm. But Maximus didn’t need to see his eyes to feel the weight of his glare—icy and ancient, like the judgment of a winter storm.

His anger vanished. In its place, a sick twist of terror clawed its way into Maximus’s gut. His knees nearly buckled.

“It is time for you to leave,” Valefor said, his voice colder than the marble floor.

Before Maximus could react, the world flipped sideways.

He was airborne.

A blur of motion—then impact. His back slammed into the carpeted stone and he tumbled, limbs flailing until gravity anchored him again. He skidded across the floor until finally coming to a stop, dazed and breathless.

“Valefor!” a woman’s voice snapped behind him. “That was highly excessive!”

“He should remember his place as a guest,” Valefor replied, flat and unrepentant.

The great double doors slammed shut as Maximus lay sprawled on the floor, stunned, seething, and aching in places he hadn’t known could ache. He sat up slowly, rubbing his head—and his ego.

Heavy footsteps approached. A moment later, Fenric knelt beside him, offering support.

“Are you alright?”

Maximus scowled. “I’ll be fine,” he said. Then, his eyes turned to the double doors, and he sprang to his feet, teeth clenched. “That sanctimonious son of-!”

“Don’t,” Fenric said sharply, blocking him with a single raised hand. “Don’t even think about it. Last night I knocked you down when you tried this with me. Valefor is three times my strength. Every angel in that room is just as powerful, and Lord Seraph is stronger still.”

Maximus’s fists clenched again. “So what? I just let it go?” he barked. “He threw me out like some ragdoll! And those pompous saints didn’t even listen! Talbot’s still out there. What if he gets stronger? What if he becomes a Mega Digimon? If that happens, then not even Valefor can stop him!”

Fenric’s stare turned icy. “Do not presume to understand the Tribunal’s judgment.”

“They’re not doing anything!” Maximus shouted.

Fenric lifted his hand and pointed accusingly at Maximus. “They’re doing what you are not; they are thinking long-term!”

Maximus blinked, startled by the force behind Fenric’s words.

“If Talbot was created by the Oblivion Bloom,” Fenric continued, “then even if someone stops him, another will rise to take his place. Some other Gabumon… or any Digimon close enough in data composition. Do you want there to be more Talbots?”

Maximus opened his mouth—but the answer caught in his throat, and silence fell over the two as they stood, staring, Maximus with his mouth hanging open stupidly, and Fenric remaining silent and stoic…

The fire in his chest hadn’t gone out… but something in Fenric’s voice—measured, logical, grieving in its own way, smothered it. The truth hurt more than when he’d hit the floor a moment ago…

“I…” Maximus started, then trailed off. His gaze dropped to the floor.

When Maximus didn’t continue, Fenric stood, crossing his arms and keeping a disapproving glare on the Veemon. “You came here to a sacred place – a place of miracles, and all you did was pick a fight. Your anger is rapidly becoming a liability – for you, especially.”

Maximus scowled again, looking at Fenric. “This anger’s all I’ve got left,” he bit back, “Until Talbot pays for what he did, I-”

He choked on his words, the scowl fading as his gaze to the floor… What would he do? He’d declared that he’d make Talbot answer for his crimes, somehow, some day… But to this day, he still didn’t know how he would…

Again, Nagata’s warning echoed in his mind. “There will always be a void left in your heart where your brother once was,” he had said. “Talbot’s death… will not change that. That space cannot be filled by emotional gains.”

“And yet, the pursuit to fill it… it could consume you.”

Was it already too late, he wondered… Was his desire for vengeance already consuming him?

He had come to the Holy Citadel for help. He’d been promised that they could help him become stronger again…Yet not once had that even come up in his conversation with the Tribunal. He hadn’t even asked if he could stay in the Citadel—to train, to become a student, to find a new future; one that might eventually allow him to take his revenge.

But if he approached Talbot now—even if he did manage to Digivolve again, become a Veedramon—in this state of mind, the Black WereGarurumon would make short work of him. All he would accomplish was his own death… and in doing so, ensure Talbot grew stronger.

Perhaps Maximus would even be that final touch—the last push that made him Digivolve to Mega. Then it would be his fault—his failure, that let Talbot raise hell beyond anything they could stop…

Fenric seemed to sense the inner conflict within Maximus. He sighed and chose to move the conversation forward. “We can discuss this more later,” he said. “For now, there’s nothing more to do here. But I promise you one thing, Maximus; don’t mistake the Tribunal’s decision as disregard for your plight. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

Maximus lifted his gaze, frowning. “What?”

“They will ensure this cannot happen again. Also, the Citadel Knights have already been made aware of the situation,” Fenric explained. “Even if the Tribunal won’t pursue him, Talbot is being hunted. Lady Artemeia and Sir Aslanor will see to it that he is punished.”

Maximus blinked, startled. “How do you know this?”

“Because I informed them myself,” Fenric replied.

Maximus’s scowl returned. “And you didn’t think to tell me that?”

“I didn’t want to raise your hopes too high,” Fenric said calmly. “It may be some time before they can find him-”

“It’s not about hope,” Maximus growled, interrupting Fenric. “If Talbot is being hunted… then I want to be there when he’s found.”

Fenric’s expression darkened with concern. “You cannot even Digivolve,” he reminded him. “At your current level, Talbot would crush you.”

“Then I need to be here,” Maximus answered firmly, “to train. To get stronger. Nagata said that even if I can’t become an ExVeemon again, I’m not without options. If I have to become a Veedramon—or discover a new Digivolution entirely—I’ll do it. I won’t let Talbot get away with what he’s done. And I won’t let him do it to anyone else.”

He looked at his hands. “There’s a way… and I will find it.”

Then—he felt something.

His voice faltered, his posture shifted. A strange sensation crept over him—like a tiny hand had grasped his, gently tugging him forward. At the same time, a whisper—soft, childlike—brushed his ear.

Maximus turned sharply, expecting to see someone beside him. But there was no one. No one held his hand. No one spoke.

And yet the pull remained. So did the whisper.

His eyes were drawn down one of the side corridors flanking the main hallway. A few Digimon wandered out of the corridor, unaware of anything unusual; the sensation seemed to be for him alone Even Fenric, following his gaze, looked confused.

“Maximus?” he asked. “What is it?”

“I… don’t know,” Maximus murmured, his voice low, distant. “What’s down that hall?”

Fenric looked, following his line of sight. “Uh… the trophy room, living quarters, the mantle chamb—” he stopped himself, pausing a beat. “...Chamber.”

Maximus took a step forward, and stopped, before looking at Fenric again. “Can we…?” He pointed toward the hallway.

“Of course,” Fenric replied. “The Chapel is open to all, with the exception of the living quarters and the Tribunal Courtroom.”

Maximus nodded and turned back to the hall. He walked slowly, almost in a trance as he followed the invisible string that pulled him along. His eyes shifted from side to side, ignoring the others passing by and the looks being cast his way, drawn only to the call… Unseen, yet unmistakable.

Something was calling him.

He passed two doors on the left before he stopped… The pull had shifted, returning to his left, leading him back to the second door; unlike the other rooms, this one had a guard. An Angemon stood watch, blocking any access to the room behind him, his staff held across his hands in a ready position for any fight – though Maximus couldn’t tell if he’d done that before or after he’d noticed the Veemon coming.

Fenric stepped forward. “Excuse me,” he said, cordially. “I wish to enter the Mantle Chambers.”

“Your friend there,” the Angemon began, not looking away from Fenric, “can he be trusted?”

“Yes,” Fenric replied with a nod.

“Very well,” the Angemon replied. “Remember not to let him touch the Mantles. None but the worthy may do undergo the trials.”

“Understood.”

The Angemon flipped his staff to an upright position, and stepped aside, revealing the door he’d been guarding. Maximus, without another word, stepped up to the door and opened it with a turn of the knob.

The room he stepped into was bathed in natural light, streaming through a tall, barred window on the far side of the chamber. Dust motes danced gently in the golden beam, yet none seemed to settle on what lay within.

At the center stood a half-circle of stone pedestals—nine in total. Each one held an object no larger than a Digimon’s helmet: some rounded, others more angular, but all distinct in shape and hue. Their arrangement was precise, deliberate… almost sacred.

Maximus stepped closer. Despite their age, the pedestals bore no sign of wear. Not a speck of dust clung to them. The air around them felt still… weighty.

Each ornament was different. Not just in color, but in essence. Some were smooth and egg-shaped, others jagged or crowned with protrusions. Strange, archaic runes shimmered faintly on their surfaces—etched into the metal or polished stone like language from a time long gone.

Maximus didn’t need to guess what they were. He knew. Somehow, instinctively, he felt it.

“These are…” Maximus said.

“The Digi-Mantles,” Fenric stated. “The keys to a method of Digivolution known as Armour Digivolution.” He looked at Maximus. “You know of these?”

“I… think so,” Maximus admitted. “Though I don’t know how. I’ve never seen them before, but… they feel familiar.”

“They often do,” Fenric replied. “Even those who don’t know their purpose tend to feel their pull if they may be worthy of them.”

Maximus stepped closer, his gaze drifting across each pedestal — until he noticed one was empty. “Why is this one missing?” he asked.

“That would be the Mantle of Light,” said Fenric. “It was claimed not long ago.”

Maximus furrowed his brow. “By who?”

“You met her last night. Lotfia — the Nerfertimon who greeted Raist when you arrived.”

Maximus blinked, recalling Raist’s words to Lotfia during their reunion. “Huh… So that’s what they were talking about.”

Fenric nodded. “She trained long and hard for it. The Mantle of Light only answers to those whose hearts are untainted by darkness. She underwent years of discipline and meditation to meet its standards.”

Maximus looked back to the other mantles. “So, no one else has claimed the rest?”

Fenric shook his head. “To claim a Mantle is to embody the virtue it represents. That’s not something most Digimon can achieve — not completely. And the trials…” He paused. “Even I’ve never seen one.”

“You haven’t?”

“They’re personal,” Fenric explained. “Invisible to all but the one being tested. If you took one of them right now, I wouldn’t witness a thing.”

Maximus hesitated. He felt the pull again, stronger now that he stood among them. He was startled out of his reverie, then, when Fenric spoke again, voicing his question suddenly.

“Why did you want to come in here?”

Maximus didn’t answer right away. His eyes lingered on the empty pedestal before drifting across the others again. “I don’t know,” he said softly. “It’s like… something wanted me to be here.”

“Like you were drawn in?” Fenric asked. “Pulled by an unseen force?”

“Yeah. Exactly,” Maximus replied, turning from the Mantles to look at him. “But what does that mean?”

Fenric regarded him more intently now. “It means,” he said, “that one of the Mantles may have called to you. They see you as a potential candidate for the virtues they embody.”

Maximus’ eyes widened. “You mean… I might be worthy to use one of these too?” he asked, almost hopeful.

“It’s possible.”

Maximus looked back to the Mantles. “But… which one? How do I know which one called to me?”

“That is harder to say,” Fenric replied, rubbing his chin. “I haven’t known you long enough to judge which virtue you embody, and if you cannot feel which of the mantles it was, it could be you are not yet strong enough to carry them – or, it could be multiple ones are calling to you.”

He paused, then added, “I’ve seen your anger… but I’ve also seen your courage. You risked yourself to save Rilo — someone you barely know. And you stood your ground with Ashira, even when she didn’t want your help. Because you didn’t want her to get hurt. Those actions point to your courage.”

“You are also motivated by revenge, itself born of love,” Fenric went on. “You also have some sense of honour – you are willing to do what’s right, and become infuriated when you feel justice is perverted or not being carried out. To put it into words, you are righteous to a fault.”

His gaze drifted to the Mantles. “But moments like that don’t always point to just one path. A Digimon can carry many virtues in their heart — sometimes even conflicting ones.”

Maximus glanced sideways at him. “So… it could be any of them?”

“It could be several,” Fenric replied. “Or none. That’s the thing about virtue, Maximus — you don’t choose it. You just live it. The answer comes when you’re ready.”

Maximus exhaled slowly, his red eyes sweeping the Mantles one by one. Hope… Courage… Friendship… Love… Purity… Knowledge… Truth… Kindness… Still, that subtle pull lingered — quiet, insistent — and yet he couldn’t name the source.

“I… I think we should go,” he murmured, unease creeping into his voice.

Fenric gave a simple nod and turned without protest. Maximus followed close behind, resisting the urge to look back. The Angemon at the door closed it gently behind them — and the pull, just like that, was gone.

He kept pace with Fenric as they exited the Grand Chapel, never once turning around. The weight of the Mantles remained behind that door… but somehow, part of it followed him still.

~~~~~

Maximus' anger toward the Holy Tribunal simmered just beneath the surface as he and Fenric descended the stairs from the Grand Chapel. He kept replaying the conversation in his mind, each loop stirring the same frustration.

He understood their reasoning — at least, in theory. The Oblivion Bloom had to be found and destroyed. So long as it remained, others like Talbot could appear… Digimon twisted into monsters, spreading chaos across the Digital World. The Tribunal was focused on prevention, not retribution.

And yet… it gnawed at him. They hadn’t even discussed going after Talbot directly. If Fenric hadn’t told him the Citadel Knights were already on the move, Maximus wasn’t sure he would’ve stayed. He might’ve walked away from the Holy Citadel in disgust. To go where; to do what? He had no idea.

But now… He knew better.

If he had any chance of stopping Talbot — or others like him — this was where he needed to be.

It’s not like I have anywhere else to go, anyway, he thought grimly.

As if reading his mind, Fenric glanced back. “So… what will you do now?”

Maximus gave a half-hearted shrug. “I guess… I stay here. If you guys will have me.”

“You are welcome,” Fenric replied with a nod. “The Holy Citadel is open to all who seek refuge. You’ll be accepted like anyone else.”

Maximus arched a brow. “Even after I tried to deck you and seriously considered throwing hands with the Tribunal?”

Fenric didn’t even flinch. “You weren’t a threat. Not to me… and certainly not to them.”

Maximus scowled at the Lobomon, his eye twitching. “Gee, thank you, Mr. Motivational speaker,” he said flatly. “How about I trip over my ego next and go tumbling down these stairs? I’m sure a concussion will be a nice distraction from the pain of my wounded pride.”

Fenric looked back at him, confused. “Excuse me?”

Maximus’ arms fell to his sides, losing his scowl to be replaced by a blank expression. “Does that helmet cut you off from hearing ‘sarcasm’?” he asked.

“Oh,” the Lobomon replied cluelessly, a faint blush appearing on his cheeks. “Forgive me; I did not realize.”

Maximus sighed. “Right… Let’s keep going then,” he said, wanting to keep moving before the conversation could become awkward.

They descended a few steps further before Fenric spoke again. “If you are going to stay, though,” he stated, “we need to help you get control of your rage. You cannot keep attacking everyone who disagrees with you, or whenever you feel that they aren’t taking action as quickly as you prefer.”

Maximus opened his mouth to retort, only to clamp it shut again when he realized that he had almost walked into a trap. “Okay… What would you suggest?”

“Perhaps we should start by attending the morning training regiment,” suggested Fenric. “Maybe what you need is an expressive outlet; a place to vent your frustration through physical exercise. Your friends will certainly be there too.”

Maximus looked at Fenric quizzically. “Uh… Friends?” he asked.

Fenric blinked. “Rilo and Ashira,” he said. “Are you not friends?”

“We just met last night; I can hardly say I’m their friend yet,” Maximus replied.

Fenric tilted his head. “Even though the three of you fought together in that cellar, against the spiders?”

“A mutual cooperation,” Maximus shrugged, but the edge in his voice betrayed his uncertainty.

Thinking of it, Rilo had been very friendly that night, being the most welcoming Digimon he’d met so far, on top of rushing to his assistance without any worry for his own safety. A sharp contrast to Ashira who, on their first meeting, seemed like she’d readily pulverize him with his own dismembered limbs before consuming his data…

“Well… Maybe Rilo, I could call a friend,” he admitted, considering. “But, not Ashira… I don’t think she’s interested in getting chummy.”

Fenric rolled his eyes. “I cannot say I disagree,” he said.

During the walk across the grounds, Maximus kept mostly silent, letting his thoughts spiral inward. After everything that had happened—everything he’d lost—he needed direction. And as much as he hated to admit it, Fenric was right: he needed an outlet. Something to help him burn off the pressure building inside his chest like a volcano sealed tight.

Training was the obvious answer. He knew this place, the Citadel’s academy, might be his best chance to grow stronger. To claw his way toward something better. Maybe even toward Veedramon. If the other path was no longer an option—if that door had been slammed shut; then he’d force open another.

He had done it before, after all. Years ago, he’d fought tooth and claw to become ExVeemon. Back then, the climb to Digivolution had felt like he was scaling a mountain. He thought he’d already reached the peak; that he’d evolved beyond needing to prove himself like that again. But here he was—standing at the bottom of the mountain once more.

And this time, the stakes were personal.

His thoughts drifted to the Digimon he’d met since his arrival—especially Fenric, still walking ahead with quiet confidence. The Lobomon was strong. Stronger than Maximus had expected. Maybe stronger than anyone he’d ever faced. Even at his best, Maximus wasn’t sure how he would’ve stacked up.

Fenric had brought him down in one clean move during his outburst. No struggle. No hesitation. Just precision and control.

A bitter taste rose in Maximus’ throat at the memory. Not because he resented Fenric—but because it had reminded him how far he had fallen, and how great the climb back up the mountain would be again; especially if he wanted to stop Talbot.

Then there was Ashira…

He’d seen what she was capable of in the cellar, cutting through the KoDokugumon with terrifying ease. She barely needed his help at all. Even Caram and Raist had admitted they were wary of her, and they were no slouches themselves. She might be Rookie in form, but like him, she carried the power and instincts of a Champion-level Digimon – she was a Rookie in form and name only.

Maybe Ashira and I are about the same level, he thought.

Little did he know, he would regret that thought soon…

Coming around the manse, they arrived at the training field.

Maximus scanned the grounds, noting several Digimon already hard at work—some sparring, others hurling attacks at stationary targets, and a few running laps around the track. Most appeared to be Rookie-levels, varied in both type and attribute—Data, Vaccine, even a few Virus-types—all training together without incident.

Three figures, however, clearly stood out from the rest. Surtan, the Agunimon, was impossible to miss—his fiery form rising like a blazing sentinel as he watched over the students with a stern but attentive gaze.

Not far from him was Lotfia, the Nefertimon they’d met the night before. She hovered near the aerial trainees, offering soft encouragement as a Biyomon and Hawkmon struggled to lift off the ground.

And then, there was someone new.

A Lekismon—lapine in form, covered in pale pink fur with sleek muscle definition from the waist up and the unmistakable power of a Digimon built for agile strikes and rapid movements. Her body bore several crescent moon markings, all positioned with the kind of intentional symmetry that made them feel more like sacred emblems than ornamentation.

A short poncho was draped around her shoulders, fastened at the chest with a medallion. Her face was obscured by a smooth metallic mask, save for her twin pink-red eyes—and a third opening at the forehead that revealed a crescent moon and a single lock of hair. Six translucent tendrils flowed from beneath the poncho, curling like resting limbs, barely shifting in the breeze.

She knelt beside a wounded student—a small Armadillomon whose foreleg was clearly twisted. The Lekismon cradled the limb gently between her hands, a soft glow blooming from her palms. It cast a calming light over the injury, visibly dulling the pain.

Maximus’ gaze lingered.

There was something faintly familiar about her, even though he was sure they hadn’t met before...

Then it clicked. Is that Thalassa? he wondered, remembering what Rilo had said the night before—how she volunteered in the infirmary, always tending to others.

She felt different than the other mentors. She didn’t project Surtan’s commanding heat, Fenric’s razor-edged stillness or even Lotfia’s angelic majesty. Her presence was soft. Steady. Like moonlight dancing on still water.

“Max!”

Maximus jolted with a startled yelp, nearly leaping half his height off the ground. He spun around, claws half-raised in surprise—only to find himself face to face with a Guilmon just a little taller than him, blinking in confusion.

“Geez, don’t do that,” Maximus wheezed, patting his chest.

“Do what?” Rilo asked, tilting his head.

“Sneak up on someone like that!”

“I wasn’t sneaking,” the Guilmon replied innocently. “You just didn’t hear me.”

Maximus rubbed his neck. “I was… distracted,” he admitted, casting a glance back toward the Lekismon. “You told me about Thalassa last night. Is that her?”

Rilo followed his gaze and nodded eagerly. “Yeah, that’s her! Did you wanna meet her?”

“She’s busy right now,” Fenric cut in before Maximus could answer. His voice was calm, but with that same underlying firmness. “Let her work.”

He then pointed to the track. “The runners are just finishing their circuit. Why don’t you go join them, Maximus?”

Maximus eyed the course, shoulders rolling in a stretch. “A sprint, huh?” he said. “Sure. I could use a good run.”

He hadn’t realized how much he missed it. As much as he longed to feel the wind under wings again, there was something grounding about pushing himself on solid earth. Nothing like a hard sprint to wake up the legs and clear the mind.

“I’ll come too!” Rilo piped up, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “I mean, there’s no way I can beat Ashira—but I’m pretty fast too!”

Maximus smirked. “Alright, then. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Making their way over to the track—currently overseen by Surtan—the Agunimon stood with a stopwatch in hand, his eyes locked on the lead runner as they approached the finish line.

That runner was Ashira.

The Renamon outpaced the others effortlessly, her stride long and fluid, each motion powered by an unrelenting focus. As she crossed the line, Surtan tapped the stopwatch with his thumb.

“Good job, Ashira,” he said. “You just beat your previous rec—”

He stopped mid-sentence. Ashira hadn’t slowed down.

Unlike the other runners who staggered to a halt, gasping for breath, Ashira kept going—her expression unreadable, her pace undiminished as she rounded the bend and began another lap.

Surtan let out a groan and lowered his arm. “Alright… everyone else, take a water break,” he called, waving the winded students off the track. “Who’s next?”

“Us, Surtan!” Rilo chirped, bounding forward.

The Agunimon glanced over and smiled warmly. “Ah, good morning, Rilo,” he said, then turned to Maximus. “And you must be Maximus. Welcome. Here to train?”

“That’s right,” Maximus said with a nod. “Room on the track for two more?”

“Well, even with Ashira still running, the three of you won’t crowd it,” said Surtan. “One lap. I’ll time you.”

Maximus and Rilo stepped forward and took their places at the starting line. Maximus gave himself a quick stretch—shoulders, legs, neck—and let out a slow breath. He glanced at Ashira in the distance, still a golden blur against the field.

Surtan raised the stopwatch. “Go!”

They launched forward.

Rilo moved with a raptor’s rhythm—low to the ground, bounding in long strides beside Maximus. The Veemon kept pace with a steady jog, his breath controlled, his focus on the track ahead.

They were just reaching the first bend when Maximus heard it: rhythmic footsteps behind them, fast and closing in. He looked back.

Ashira.

She was already on her third lap. And she was gaining.

Maximus faced forward again, just as she pulled up alongside them. She didn’t look at him. Her eyes were focused, sharp, distant.

But something in Maximus pushed back—a flicker of pride, or maybe defiance. He picked up his pace, matching her stride for stride. Rilo began to fall behind.

Ashira glanced at him from the corner of her eye. A side-eye. A challenge.

Maximus met the look, jaw tight.

Then, without a word, she looked forward again…

…And vanished.

Maximus choked on his own breath as Ashira surged forward like she’d been shot from a cannon. In seconds, she blurred around the bend and launched into the straightaway, already shrinking in the distance.

His mouth hung open. ‘Damn, she’s fast!’

Rilo caught up beside him, panting. “She… She always does this,” he wheezed, pausing to breath as he spoke. “She’s been told… that it’s not a race… but it’s always a race… For her…”

Maximus didn’t answer. He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

By the time they reached the halfway point, Ashira had already passed Surtan again. Before they reached the next bend, she’d passed them too—faster than before. She cut through the track like a blade through silk.

Maximus didn’t slow down. But really… what else could he do?

When they neared Surtan again, Ashira rounded behind them once more, passing them and crossing the line. Finally, she skidded to a halt with a final burst of dirt, her paws digging into the ground as she ended her run.

Moments later, Maximus and Rilo crossed the line.

Maximus doubled over, hands braced on his knees, gasping. Rilo dropped to the ground beside him with a dramatic wheeze, clutching his chest like he was dying.

“Twenty-one point two seconds, Maximus,” Surtan announced. “Rilo, you were just behind at twenty-one point seven. Not bad for your first lap.”

“And what about me?” Ashira asked coolly. She was breathing hard, but stood upright—barely winded compared to the others.

“I wasn’t timing that run,” Surtan said, frowning. “You already broke your record on the lap before.”

“My old record was seventeen seconds,” she replied flatly. “That was at my normal speed. I want to know what it was at full speed.”

Surtan sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose through his mask. Then he raised the stopwatch, checking the data. “Let’s see… three laps in the time it took Maximus and Rilo to do one. Divide that... about seven seconds per lap.”

Ashira gave a short, satisfied nod. Then she turned to Maximus. Her expression was calm. Confident. Bordering on smug.

Maximus stood upright and met her eyes. His scowl came without effort.

‘This furball is starting to vex me, greatly,’ he thought bitterly.

“Alright, that’s enough running,” Surtan called out. “On to combat practice. Let’s go.”

Perfect, Maximus thought darkly, thinking that this might be his chance.

The students began regrouping, some stretching while others paired off for matches. Rilo was quickly claimed by an eager Agumon, and the two jogged off toward one of the open sparring spaces where Fenric stood watch, serving as referee.

Maximus, however, had his eye on someone else.

An Angoramon approached him. “Want to spar?”

Maximus shook his head politely. “Thanks, but no.” His gaze remained fixed on Ashira.

As expected, no one moved to partner with her. She didn’t seem bothered. If anything, she looked like she expected it. Her eyes drifted toward a heavy punching bag, already resigning herself to solo practice.

Until Maximus approached. “Need a partner?” Maximus asked, stepping up with confidence.

Ashira looked down at him, raising an eyebrow. Her face said it all. You can’t be serious. “You? Against me?”

“You saw for yourself last night; I can handle myself,” he replied, standing tall – or at least as tall as he could; the top of his head barely reached Ashira’s chest level. “And I don’t see anyone else stepping up.”

“That’s because they’re all afraid of me,” she said flatly, glancing away. “And they should be. I’m better than all of them.”

“But you’ve never fought me,” Maximus said, tone firm; part challenge, part dare, all meant to push the buttons of a competitive side he knew she had. “Maybe you should see what you’re really up against.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly, her weight shifting. Then she smirked — not warmly, but with the confidence of someone who thought they already knew how this would end.

“Alright,” she said, her tail swaying slowly behind her. “I could use a little entertainment, and the class ought to see what they’re up against.

Maximus squared his shoulders, matching her gaze with steely resolve. ‘You’re about to sing a different tune, lady,’ he thought. ‘Sorry, Nagata… but your sister’s about to get a well-deserved dose of humility, and I’m the one delivering it.’

Surtan’s voice rang out. “Next!”

Four more bouts came and went. Then finally, it was their turn.

Ashira stepped into the ring like she was punching in for work—casual, composed, poised. Maximus rolled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles, trying to stay loose. His muscles hummed, tense and ready.

He could feel the eyes on them. Curious stares. Quiet murmurs. Even a few grimaces.

He didn’t need to hear the whispers to know what they were thinking. “Is he serious? Does he have a death wish? Is he—? Nope. He’s just lost his damn mind.”

A defiant smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Let ‘em watch.

“Fighters prepared?” Surtan asked, arms folded. He looked between them.

They both nodded.

“Begin when you are ready,” he said, stepping back.

Ashira fell into a slouched, almost lazy stance—one leg forward, the other behind, her left arm held across her body, the right curled at her side. To Maximus, it looked like an opening.

But he wasn’t reckless. She was nearly twice his height. A direct charge would get him smacked before he even got in range.

He cycled through his moves in his head. ‘Headbutt… Knockout… She’s seen those.’ He needed something she wouldn’t expect; something she hadn’t seen yet.

He lunged—feinted to the right, then to the left—before launching into a Repeated Kick: two rapid spin-kicks.

Ashira blocked the first and caught his leg on the second. His momentum vanished. She held him by the ankle for a beat—then kicked him square in the back, sending him tumbling.

He hit the dirt hard, gritting his teeth against the jolt of pain, but rolled back to his feet and launched into a Vee Headbutt. She looked off-balance, weight on one foot. He had her.

Or so he thought.

With dancer’s grace, she pivoted aside. He flew past her like a cannonball gone wide, tumbling into the dirt, then spun back to his feet. He turned just in time, heart skipping a beat when he found that she was already mid-lunge, claws alight with Power Paw.

Instinct answered for him. “Victory Rush!”

Their blows met—her glowing paws against his flaring fists. For a moment, it was a blur of motion, a storm of dodges, parries, and glancing blows.

Neither could land a clean hit.

Then Maximus broke the clash—sprang back—then launched forward again. This time, she couldn’t dodge in time.

She managed only to form a cross over her chest with her arms just as his Vee Headbutt struck. The impact rocked her. She grunted as her feet left the ground and hit the dirt, flat on her back.

“He… He got her!”

“Unbelievable!”

Maximus didn’t celebrate. He knew better. Sure enough, she sprang back to her feet in one fluid kick-up, shook out her arms, and reset her stance like nothing had happened.

This time, she moved first.

She blurred toward him, snapping out a roundhouse kick. He planted his feet just in time—only for the follow-up to catch him clean across the face. Her opposite foot cracked into his forehead, staggering him.

He stumbled, tried to catch his balance—too late. She dropped low and drove a punch straight into his gut.

“Hkk—!” Maximus wheezed, breath bursting from his lungs.

Ashira took a few steps back from him, giving him a few seconds to collect himself. “You’re tough, I’ll give you that,” she said, her tone as cool as her stare. “But really… did you think just because I lost my Champion form, I’m somehow weaker than you?”

He coughed, eyes narrowing.

“Newsflash, lady,” he rasped, forcing himself upright. “I’m the same way.”

Ashira blinked. “What?”

“You only heard half of what I said last night,” he said, planting his feet. “I said that we both got knocked back to Rookie. You… and me.”

Her ears twitched. “You mean you were—?”

“An ExVeemon,” Maximus said. “Less than a week ago. I had a fight… and it cost me more than just a win.”

He stood tall despite the ache in his chest. “In other words, sister…” He tapped his chest. “I’m just like you.”

But the moment the words left his mouth, he knew something had gone wrong.

Ashira’s eyes widened—then narrowed. Her fists curled.

“You are nothing like me!” she snarled before she launched herself at him, paws blazing with energy.

He barely got his arms up. She was faster now—furious. Every strike was precise, merciless, overwhelming. He twisted left, right, trying to guard, but she gave him no chance.

Then one blow got through. A fist caught the side of his head. His vision spun. He hit the dirt, hard.

“Don’t act like you know me!” Ashira spat. “I’ve spent my whole life proving myself—and it was never enough! Always in someone else’s shadow! Only known for his legacy! Always just Nagata’s sister!”

Maximus rose on shaking elbows—then, in one breath, the words erupted from him: “At least you still have a brother!”

Ashira flinched. Just for a moment. Then her voice rose. “At times, I wish I didn’t!”

And that… broke something.

The world blurred. Maximus saw red. Felt the surge.

He didn’t remember moving.

One second she was across from him…

The next, he was lunging; the distance vanished in the blink of an eye, and through darkening vision all he saw was her, his hands scrambling for her face.

The look on her face had lost its smugness and superiority, to be replaced by something else; something that was a sharp contrast.

Fear…

Suddenly, another force hit him—hard. He was airborne.

And then, he hit the ground. It hit like stone, and all the air left his lungs.

Groaning, Maximus tried to push himself up. His arms screamed. His vision swam. The haze in his head dulled to static.

He blinked toward the track. How… did I get over here?

He turned. Surtan was helping Ashira up. He rose to his feet as he turned, rubbing his chest as he spoke. “Hey… did we—?” Maximus croaked.

But Surtan spun toward him, arm outstretched, claws pointed like daggers. “You stay where you are!” he barked.

Maximus froze. He didn’t know why. Maybe it was the voice. Maybe the fire in Surtan’s eyes. He just… stopped.

“I’m fine!” Ashira snapped, shoving off the Digimon rushing to her side. “He didn’t do any real damage!”

“Ashira,” said the Angoramon from earlier, voice tight. “He tried to rip your head off!”

“But he didn’t!” she snapped. “So don’t make a thing of it!”

Maximus stared, heart hammering. Rip her head off? That didn’t make any sense…

He looked around, suddenly aware of the number of eyes on him. They were all watching him.

Fear.

Caution.

Distrust.

Maximus’s pulse slowed. His blood ran cold, swallowing a lump that had formed in his throat. “…What did I do?” he whispered.

The crowd began to back away—cautiously, like animals giving a predator space. Still, Maximus didn’t move. Surtan’s words echoed in his head.

From the corner of his eye, a shape stepped forward. Rilo.

“Max…” the Guilmon said softly. “Are you… okay?”

Maximus didn’t answer. He lifted his hands. They shook. His arms ached. The pain returned—and with it, the memory.

Ashira’s face. Frozen. Wide-eyed. Not angry. Not smug. Afraid.

Afraid of him.

He swallowed hard. “Did I… hurt her?”

Rilo said nothing.

Then three shapes approached. Surtan. Fenric. Thalassa.

They said nothing. Maximus met their eyes, and felt small before them. Surtan’s gaze was judgemental, Fenric’s was apologetic. Thalassa’s expression, though, betrayed no emotion, unreadable behind her mask.

Finally, like a tree falling in the woods to break the stillness, Surtan spoke. “Come with us.”

Maximus didn’t argue. His legs moved on their own, almost mechanically so, like they were following some pre-determined course, rather than anything of his own choosing.

Rilo started to follow—Fenric stopped him. Rilo protested. It didn’t matter.

They walked. Surtan on his left. Thalassa on his right.

He didn’t know where they were going. What would happen.

All he could see, every step he too, was Ashira’s face. That moment was etched in his mind like a brand.

She was afraid of me…

“…What am I becoming?” he whispered.

FOOTNOTE: Clarification

The Digi-Mantels (or mantles here) were known as the Digi Eggs in Digimon Adventure 02 that allowed the partner Digimon to Armour Digivolve throughout the series; I thought mantles sounded cooler so I decided to keep that. I am also using two of their Japanese names.

The Mantle of Purity was known as the DigiEgg of Sincerity in the show, which is what created Shurimon. The Mantle of Truth was known as the DigiEgg of Reliability in the show, which created Submarimon. Because these two kind of meshed with their definitions I couldn’t change one to their eastern name without changing the other; to be Sincere is to also be Truthful.

Being reliable doesn’t strike me as virtuous – at least not in the sense that it’s unique to a character. People who are reliable are typically those who are simply responsible, and nearly the entire cast of the shows could all be considered that, since they’re willing to shoulder these burdens themselves.

In summary, I had to change the Mantle of Sincerity to the Mantle of Purity, its Japanese name, due to the Mantle of Reliability being the Mantle of Truth, to keep things simple.