Chapter 7: Protocol

Chapter 7: Protocol

The abandoned pub was silent. The scent of stale ale and old wood still lingered in the air, but beneath it was something worse—the unmistakable stench of decay. The broken window allowed a cold breeze to drift in, stirring the dust that had settled over shattered glass and overturned chairs.

Four figures stood in the center of the ruined pub, their dark blue military overcoats, military pants and thick leather boots. Each of them carried a large leather case on their back, two holstered firearms at their sides, and a single scimitar hanging from their belt. Their faces were obscured by thick cloth masks covering their hair, mouths and noses, their eyes sharp and unyielding as they surveyed the aftermath.

One of the men, taller than the others, knelt beside a dried pool of blood near the counter. He reached out, brushing gloved fingers over the dark stain. The blood had long since stopped seeping into the wood.

"Judging from the freshness of blood only thirty to thirty five minutes have passed," he muttered. His voice was cold, clinical. "They turned fast."

One of the women stepped forward, her gaze sweeping the room. "No bodies," she noted. "That means they walked out of here."

The second man, shorter and stockier, let out a dry chuckle. "Means we're already late." He adjusted the strap of his leather case, glancing toward the broken door. "Not surprising. The way this stuff spreads."

The second woman, standing closest to the entrance, took a slow step forward, scanning the street beyond the ruined doorway. The faint echoes of distant movement could be heard—slow, dragging footsteps, too synchronized to be human. She narrowed her eyes.

"We track them down," she said, her voice steady, unwavering. "Search for survivors, Burn everything."

The tall man stood, dusting off his gloves. "Standard protocol."

The without a word three other operatives dispersed into the pub and to the inn above the pub, their dark blue coats vanishing into the shadows as they set out on their grim work. The first woman, now alone in the ruined pub, exhaled softly.

Reaching up, she pulled down her cloth mask, letting it rest against her collar. Pale blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders, catching the dim light from the broken window. She was beautiful, but it was not the soft beauty of nobility or wealth—it was sharp, almost fragile, like a statue carved from marble. Her high cheekbones framed striking, ice-blue eyes, and her lips, naturally downturned, gave her the appearance of someone burdened by a sorrow she could never put into words.

She unbuckled the heavy leather case from her back, setting it down with careful precision. With slow, practiced movements, she unfastened the straps, revealing an instrument far too delicate for a place like this—a harp.

It was large, nearly reaching her chest as she lifted it upright. Its wooden frame was dark, polished to an elegant sheen, the strings so fine they shimmered like silver in the dim pub light. The moment her fingers brushed the strings, the air itself seemed to shift.

Then, she played.

The first note was soft, a ripple through the silence, but as her hands moved, the melody grew. It was not a song of joy or comfort—it was something unreal, something that could not be explained by words. The notes resonated through the shattered pub, not just heard, but felt, as though they bypassed the ears and sank directly into the soul.

Then she sang.

Her voice was ethereal, a whisper and a chorus at once. It did not echo in the room, yet it seemed to exist everywhere. She was singing, and yet she was not—her words slipping through reality like mist, vanishing and reappearing between each note of the harp. It was as if the world itself strained to listen, unsure if what it heard was real or an illusion.

For thirty seconds, the song wove through the abandoned pub.

Then it stopped.

Her fingers stilled on the strings.

A sharp pain slammed into her skull.

She gasped, her body stiffening as images and sounds attacked her mind, flooding her senses with raw, uncontrollable visions. Flashes of movement. A swarm of figures stumbling through the streets. A distorted voice—no, many voices—whispering incomprehensible words. The scent of rot, thick and suffocating. Cold, lifeless eyes turning toward her.

Her teeth clenched, her body trembling as the onslaught of visions clawed through her thoughts. Her expression twisted in pain—her usually poised face now marred by strain, her breath hitching as she fought to regain control.

And then—

Silence.

She exhaled shakily, her grip tightening on the harp. The pain faded, leaving only a dull ache behind. Her face returned to its usual unreadable stillness, but something lingered in her eyes—a flicker of fear.

She pulled her mask back up, concealing her features once more.

Then, with steady hands, she packed up her harp, buckled the case, and waited for others.

She had seen enough.

Minutes passed.

Then—footsteps.

Three figures emerged from the shadows outside, their boots crunching against broken glass as they stepped through the wreckage. Their coats were streaked with dirt, their expressions grim beneath their masks. One of them, the tall man with sharp green eyes, pulled down his cloth covering with a heavy sigh.

"Dead building, No survivors, This place is a pub with an inn due to the lockdown. There are likely no people except the pub owner living were staying here."

The blonde woman exhaled slowly, a heavy sigh escaping her lips. She had seen what became of this place.

"Until now, the corpses had merely wandered the streets, infecting those unfortunate enough to cross their path, but that has changed. They are no longer just aimless husks drifting through the city. They are breaking into the buildings infecting the people inside. The lockdown has failed"

Her hands curled into fists.

"Damn it."

"Are you sure? If that's the case this city is in deep waters."

"I checked the fate of this building."

Nobody argued any more distress evident through their eyes

She turned sharply to the youngest among them. "You," she ordered. "Return to the church immediately. Increase the rank of calamity from Rank 5 to Rank 3 and request for immediate aid."

The young man stiffened. Even beneath his mask, his alarm was clear. "Rank 3? Are you sure?"

She met his gaze without hesitation. "I saw it myself. If we don't act now, this entire city will be lost in a few days and not only this city, other cities are in danger too. Delaying any now is aiding the Demons."

The others exchanged glances. A Rank 5 calamity was bad enough—a contained outbreak, a localized threat. Rank 3 meant widespread disaster.

The young man hesitated only a second longer before he nodded sharply. "Understood."

Without a word, he moved out of the bar into the streets, unstrapped the leather case from his back and pulled out a violin.

Lifting the instrument to his shoulder, he drew the bow across the strings, filling the air with a tune as sharp and unyielding as ice. Cold. Steady. Unforgiving.

As he sang, the frigid melody took form. A slab of ice materialized beneath him, solid and unshaken. Without hesitation, he stepped onto it, his song slowing but never ceasing.

The ice rose, lifting him into the air, silent and effortless.

Then, with one final note, he vanished into the night.

The blonde woman exhaled again, slower this time.

She glanced at the remaining two. " We must track them down from a distance."

"And burn everything," the tall man finished grimly.

The three operatives stepped out onto the street, the silence of the night broken only by the distant echoes of shuffling footsteps in the dark.

As they reached a lone streetlamp, they stopped. One by one, they pulled down the cloth wrappings covering their faces and hair.

The tall man ran a gloved hand through his short, dark red hair, his sharp green eyes reflecting the dim light. He sighed, stretching his jaw. "Finally. I hate these damn masks. Too damn hot."

The second woman shook out her dark hair, strands falling loosely over her shoulders. Her brown eyes flickered with quiet exhaustion as she glanced at the other two, staring back at the ruined structure. Without hesitation, she reached for her leather case once more, unfastening it with swift, practiced movements.

She pulled out a banjo.

It was an unusual instrument for the battlefield—small, round-bodied, its polished wood reflecting the flickering streetlights. Yet, as she ran her fingers along the strings, the air itself seemed to hum in anticipation.

She plucked the first note.

The sound was sharp, twangy, unnatural. It resonated through the empty street, carried by something more than mere vibration. As the note lingered, she inhaled deeply and began to sing.

The fire responded before the words had fully left her lips.

From the base of the building, golden embers flickered to life, weaving like threads of molten light across the wooden beams and shattered furniture. The flames spread unnaturally fast, as if they had been waiting for her command.

The tall man with green eyes watched the growing inferno and let out a quiet, approving hum. "Efficient," he muttered.

The stocky man chuckled. "They always tell us to burn everything, but she does it with style."

The second woman, the one with dark hair and sharp brown eyes, crossed her arms. "We don't have time for admiration. Move."

They turned and made their way down the dimly lit street, the fire behind them spreading hungrily through the pub's remains. The glow cast long shadows against the cracked stone walls of the surrounding buildings.

As they walked, the orange light from the flames revealed something parked on the side of the road—a sleek, black automobile. The vehicle was large and heavy-built, with thick wheels suited for rough terrain, a steam engine humming faintly beneath the hood.

The three operatives climbed in.

The tall man ran a hand through his short, dark red hair, his sharp green eyes gleaming with approval as he leaned back into the driver's seat. "I have to admit," he said with a smirk, "these new horseless carriages? So much better than before, smooth rides, easier to control, no mess, no complaints."

The woman with the Harp shot him a sharp glare. "This is no time for stupid statements."

"Come on, Commander," he said, grinning as he adjusted the controls. "Can't I enjoy modern progress for a second?"

"No!"

The automobile rumbled forward, rolling down the empty street. Behind them, the fire continued to rage, consuming the last remnants of the pub.