Chapter 3: The Chains of Faith

The Arunafeltz States, a land where faith reigned supreme and mercy was but a whispered myth, stood as a grim monument to the unyielding grip of devotion-turned-dogma. Its cities, crowned with towering cathedrals and labyrinthine temples, loomed like stone sentinels over the land, casting long shadows that swallowed the downtrodden whole. Golden mosaics and holy relics decorated every avenue, each one a tribute to the divine—or more accurately, to the egos of those who wielded it. Behind these sacred façades, however, the silent suffering of the native people festered like an untreated wound.

Once the rightful children of these lands, the natives had long since been shackled in a gilded cage, their voices drowned beneath the sermons of their conquerors. The alchemists—those silver-tongued interlopers who had slithered in from Rune-Midgarts—had woven themselves into the very sinew of Arunafeltz, first as scholars, then as rulers. Through the arcane, through industry, and most of all, through the careful courting of the holy see, they had ascended the hierarchy, erecting a society where power was not measured in bloodline nor bravery, but in how much scripture one could bend to one's will. The natives, stripped of their heritage, were now little more than second-class specters haunting their own ancestral homes. To love across caste lines was an unspoken heresy; to defy the order was a death sentence—wrapped, of course, in the velvet of divine decree.

And yet, no doctrine was strong enough to curb the rebellion of the heart. Love, that foolish, defiant little creature, had wormed its way between the cracks of Arunafeltz's rigid laws. Natives and immigrants whispered their vows in the shadows, their passion a quiet act of war against a world that denied them even the right to belong to each other.

"Faith and tyranny always seem to share a bedroom, don't they?" I mused, curling my tail around my paws as I perched atop the map-laden table.

Mhelfrancovince, brow furrowed in thought, traced a gloved hand over the borders of Arunafeltz, his lips pressed into a tight line. "I swear, this is exactly how it was in that game I used to play—Ragnarok Online. The alchemists, the church, the second-class natives… It's all the same."

Airanikka, standing beside him, let out a scoff. "What's next? Are we going to find Prontera and Geffen too? Maybe a Baphomet waiting to smack us upside the head?"

"Perhaps we already have," Nikkimae added, her arms crossed. "This so-called 'pope' lording over Arunafeltz like a deity sounds suspiciously like the kind of self-important megalomaniac we've encountered before."

I flicked my ears, amused. "Ah yes, another pious hypocrite. I wonder what flavor of cruelty they prefer—fire and brimstone, or the slow knife wrapped in a silk glove?"

Mhelfrancovince exhaled through his nose, his gaze darkening. "Either way, it doesn't matter. If history has taught us anything, it's that those who build their thrones on the backs of the oppressed rarely get to die peacefully in them."

I stretched luxuriously, letting my claws unsheathe for a moment before retracting them. "And here I was, thinking we'd finally found a place that wasn't on the brink of violent political upheaval. Silly me."

For generations, the divide between first-class immigrants and second-class natives in Arunafeltz had been more than just social—it was a system, rigid and absolute, upheld by faith and enforced by fear. The alchemists, having wormed their way into power with knowledge and manipulation, had reshaped the land to their liking, turning the natives into a permanent underclass. Forbidden from mingling with their rulers beyond servitude, they lived under strict, unwritten rules that kept them in their place.

Yet, for all the control, love had a way of ignoring the rules. Hidden in dark corners and whispered between stolen moments, some dared to defy the system, binding their fates to those they were never meant to have. And, naturally, the powers that be reacted as they always do—swiftly and mercilessly.

Mhelfrancovince frowned at the holographic map of Arunafeltz, scrolling through intercepted reports. "This entire system is broken."

Airanikka crossed her arms. "It's a powder keg. The natives want freedom, the alchemists want control, and the Pope just wants everyone to shut up and obey."

I flicked my tail, unimpressed. "Sounds like every theocracy ever. Shall we start preparing the 'official liberation' speech, or are we still pretending this won't end in orbital bombardment?"

Mhelfrancovince shot me a look. "We're building a diplomatic case first. We go in as liberators, not conquerors."

Airanikka smirked. "The Pope won't like that."

I yawned. "Then he can pray about it."

It was into this fractured land, steeped in faith and chained by oppression, that Alpha-02, known as The Immortals, first set foot. A force unlike anything Arunafeltz had ever known, they marched beneath the banner of Grand Duke Mhelvayne—a name that carried the weight of conquest, whispered in fear by those who understood what it meant to stand against the Netherwards. Their commander, Lieutenant General Soldierboy Benjamin, led them with an unwavering gaze, a man whose mere presence on a battlefield was often enough to make lesser enemies reconsider their life choices.

A hundred thousand supersoldiers, their bodies enhanced beyond human limits, their minds sharpened by war and duty, marched across the foreign land, a tide of steel and blood waiting to be unleashed. They were no ordinary soldiers; they were instruments of destruction, molded in the crucible of science and magic, an army that did not falter, did not fear, and, most importantly, did not take kindly to the suffering of innocents—especially when it was happening right under their noses.

Among them, a mechanized infantry battalion moved ahead, sleek war machines humming with power as they cut across the vast Audumbla Grassland. Their mission was simple—scout and report. But, as anyone with half a brain and a knack for storytelling knows, simple missions never stay simple for long.

It was there, amidst the whispering grass and the dying light of the sun, that they encountered the atrocity. A beast, towering and bloodstained, loomed over the shattered remains of a village. It was no ordinary monster; this one carried a cleaver the size of a small car, swinging it with murderous intent, its howls drowning out the cries of the doomed. A werewolf, but not the kind that made lonely hearts swoon in those ridiculous romance novels—no, this one was pure carnage given form, its eyes glowing with the mindless hunger of a predator that had known nothing but slaughter.

The battalion came to a halt, the air thick with the anticipation of violence. And then, as if on cue, the Lieutenant Colonel turned to me. "So, uh… what do you think, Benetton?"

I blinked up at him from my perch, tail flicking lazily. "Oh, don't mind me. I'm just a humble observer, watching as you decide whether to put down that thing before it turns your men into a fine paste."

He exhaled, rubbing his temples. "Great. Advice from a cat. The Emperor really does have a sense of humor."

I stretched, yawning as the first shots rang out, the roar of heavy machine guns shredding the evening air. "Oh, he does. And so do I. But you'll laugh later. If you survive."

Atroce. A name that slithered through the fearful whispers of villagers, a bedtime horror story meant to keep unruly children from wandering into the dark. A name spoken with the same reverence one might give to an incoming plague or a tax collector. And yet, here it was, in the cursed flesh—a nightmare clawing its way into reality. A werewolf of impossible size, its frame a grotesque amalgamation of muscle and rage, fur matted with old blood, wielding a cleaver so massive it could have been mistaken for a monument to overcompensation.

Its eyes burned with an unnatural hunger, the kind that spoke of endless slaughter, of an insatiable craving for carnage that no amount of screaming victims could ever sate. It did not hunt for sustenance—it butchered for the sheer joy of it. And as it roared, splitting the air with a sound that sent lesser creatures scampering for their lives, I had to give it credit: it really knew how to make an entrance.

But, unfortunately for this overgrown mutt, the audience it had so rudely interrupted was composed of seasoned killers—Netherward soldiers who had long since lost the ability to feel fear. They did not hesitate, did not falter. Like a well-oiled machine, they took their positions with lethal efficiency, the whirring of servos and the mechanical clicks of weapons loading forming a grim symphony of impending violence.

Engines roared to life. Heavy machine guns, mounted on sleek, death-dealing exosuits, spat fire and steel, their rounds punching through flesh and bone as if the beast were made of paper. Bullets tore into its hide, ripping apart the sinew beneath, sending geysers of dark blood into the air like some grotesque fireworks display. Atroce staggered, its agonized howls shaking the heavens, but the soldiers did not let up. They were not here to test the limits of its endurance; they were here to end it.

The beast, in its frenzied desperation, lashed out with its cleaver, carving through the earth, tearing apart trees, anything within reach. But brute strength was no match for cold, calculated firepower. A well-placed incendiary round struck true, igniting its fur in a blaze of burning agony. It wailed, a sound so shrill it could have shattered glass, and with one final, shuddering gasp, its monstrous form crumbled. The ground beneath it was drenched in blood, its colossal frame twitching one last time before stillness overtook it.

And just like that, a legend fell—not with an epic duel of blades, not with a heroic last stand, but with the overwhelming might of modern firepower. Truly, there was something poetic about it.

As the smoke cleared, the Lieutenant Colonel turned to me, adjusting his visor. "Well, that was easy. Almost disappointingly so."

I flicked my tail, surveying the smoldering corpse of what had once been the terror of the grasslands. "Yes, well, the thing about legendary monsters is that they tend to forget that legends don't mean jack when you're up against people who brought guns."

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "We just killed a creature that's supposedly been haunting this place for generations."

I stretched lazily, letting out a yawn. "Mmm. And yet, I feel no great sense of accomplishment. It's almost as if having superior technology makes these things a little... one-sided."

The Lieutenant Colonel scoffed. "One-sided is good. I like one-sided."

"Yes, but where's the drama? The suspense? The grand battle of wills? Instead, we just showed up and turned it into a glorified chew toy full of bullet holes."

He glanced at me, then at the corpse. "Well, the villagers will be happy. You know, the ones who've been living in terror of this thing?"

"Oh, certainly. But I imagine they'll also be grappling with the existential crisis of realizing that their boogeyman was no match for a couple of well-placed .50 caliber rounds." I sat up, licking my paw. "Anyway, what's next? Shall we go terrify a pope?"

The Lieutenant Colonel smirked. "That depends. Do popes bleed?"

I purred. "I suppose we're about to find out."

As silence draped itself over the battlefield like the final curtain of a tragic play, the only sounds that remained were the mechanical whirs of cooling weaponry and the gentle, rhythmic hum of our exosuits recalibrating. The wind, once howling in defiance, had become eerily still, as if even the elements held their breath in the presence of something greater.

Then, from the ruins of what once passed for homes—shattered shacks of mud and stone barely fit to be called shelter—the natives began to emerge, their eyes flickering between the monstrous corpse of Atroce and the steel-clad titans who had felled it. Their faces bore the expression of those who had long since abandoned hope, only to find it standing before them in the shape of war machines and guns far beyond their understanding.

To them, we were not men. We were something else entirely—retribution given form, vengeance clad in armor, the answers to desperate prayers whispered into the void. And yet, instead of falling to their knees in joyous gratitude, they hesitated, as if they feared that salvation, once touched, might crumble to dust like all the broken promises before it.

A frail elder stepped forward, his back bent from the weight of suffering rather than age. His eyes—clouded, not by blindness, but by the scars of too many years spent waiting for a rescue that had never come—locked onto us. His breath trembled as he spoke, the words clawing their way from his throat like they had been trapped there for decades.

"Please," he rasped, his voice hoarse with grief, his hands shaking as he clutched the tattered remains of his robes. "Help us break our chains."

Now, if there's one thing I've learned about humans, it's that they have an undeniable talent for turning every moment into a dramatic monologue. But even I, with all my cynicism and refined taste for sarcasm, had to admit—this one? This was good. The perfect blend of desperation, sorrow, and the kind of weary dignity that made for an excellent movie trailer voiceover. If I had a hat, I might have tipped it.

Of course, the question remained: Would we?

I flicked my tail, tapping into the communications link, a sleek little device wired into my earpiece.

"Mhelfrancovince, you there?"

A beat of silence, then a familiar voice crackled through, thick with irritation. "No, Benetton, I'm not here. You're hallucinating. Of course, I'm here. What do you want?"

I smirked, reclining atop my perch on the armored carrier. "Well, my dear Grand Duke, it appears we have ourselves a bit of a situation. A very old man, presumably important by virtue of his wrinkles and air of quiet suffering, has just asked us to liberate his people from centuries of oppression. Thoughts?"

A pause. Then, "You do realize what that entails, right?"

"Oh, absolutely. Political fallout, massive destabilization, possibly a war with an entire theocratic state, and of course, the inevitable headache of establishing order in the aftermath. Sounds fun, doesn't it?"

I could almost hear him pinching the bridge of his nose. "You have the soul of a jester and the patience of a cat waiting for dinner."

"That's because I am a cat waiting for dinner. Now, are we doing this, or shall I politely inform the old man that we're terribly sorry but their regularly scheduled suffering must continue?"

There was another silence, this one heavier. Mhelfrancovince was not a man who made decisions lightly, nor one who let sentiment sway him. He was a tactician, a ruler—someone who saw moves on the board that others didn't.

At last, he sighed. "We don't do half-measures, Benetton. If we commit, we commit entirely."

I purred. "Ah, music to my ears. Shall I inform the elder that the gods have, at long last, decided to show up?"

A low chuckle from the other end. "Tell him we don't deal in gods. We deal in results."

I turned back to the elder, my tail curling in satisfaction. "Well then, old man, today is your lucky day. Because you just got yourselves a reckoning."

Their story was old, worn thin like a prayer whispered into deaf ears. It was a tale of suffering, of chains that had rusted into flesh, of oppression so deeply embedded that even the sky seemed to bow beneath it. And yet, like all good tragedies, it was draped in the finest robes of righteousness.

The so-called Holy See of Arunafeltz—an empire built not on faith but on fear—had perfected the art of subjugation, wielding belief as both a blade and a barricade. Its self-proclaimed divine ruler, the ever-radiant, ever-bloody Pope, sat atop his gilded throne in Rachel, his hands washed clean of sin by the suffering of those beneath him. Oh, but he was no mere tyrant—no, he was a maestro, conducting an orchestra of obedience where every note played was a life broken in service to the great celestial farce.

The natives? Once, they had been his flock. Now, they were little more than ghosts, stripped of purpose beyond servitude. Laborers worked until their bodies withered, beggars were left to rot in the gutters, and those who dared raise their heads too high were reminded—swiftly, brutally—that salvation was not theirs to claim.

And so, when they finally knelt before us, it was not in worship but in desperate defiance. They did not ask for mercy, nor did they waste their breath on pleas for charity. No, their demands were sharper, more precise.

They wanted liberation.

They wanted fire and steel, the kind that would raze centuries of suffering to the ground and salt the earth so that it could never take root again. And in return? They offered everything. Their land, their fealty, their very souls if that's what it took. To them, our presence was not just a chance—it was a reckoning, the long-overdue answer to a silent war they had been losing since the first time their ancestors were forced to kneel.

A single step forward, and the elder raised his gaze to mine. His face was carved with time, his eyes hollowed by grief, but there was something in his expression that had not yet been extinguished.

Hope.

I flicked my tail, feigning disinterest despite the gravity of the moment. "Well, this is dramatic," I mused, my voice dripping with its usual smooth amusement. "I do love a good revolution. Nothing gets the blood pumping quite like a theocracy on fire."

The elder studied me, brow furrowing slightly, perhaps uncertain whether to take offense or comfort in my words. Before he could decide, a voice crackled through my earpiece—gruff, pragmatic, and entirely unimpressed.

"Benetton, cut the theatrics," came Lieutenant Colonel Everett's voice. "This is above your pay grade."

I let out an exaggerated sigh, stretching luxuriously atop the armored transport. "Ah, Lieutenant Colonel, always so serious. You wound me." I rolled lazily onto my back, watching the sky. "I'm merely pointing out the poetry of it all—oppressed people, righteous vengeance, an empire about to get a rather aggressive lesson in humility. It's beautiful, really."

Everett's patience was legendary—mostly because it had been tested to its limits daily since the moment he met me. "We are not here to start a war."

I smirked. "No, no, of course not. We're here to offer strategic and morally ambiguous assistance. With weapons. And perhaps the occasional explosion. Totally different."

The elder remained silent, his gaze flicking between me and the Lieutenant Colonel. Then, he did something unexpected—he smiled. A grim, knowing smile, one that spoke of men who had long since made their peace with bloodshed.

"War was started the day we were deemed unworthy of salvation," he said, his voice calm, his words sharp enough to cut. "The only difference is whether we die on our knees or standing."

A weight settled over us then, the kind that comes when the last bridge has been burned and all that remains is the road forward.

Everett exhaled through his nose. "We don't make decisions lightly."

I purred, tilting my head. "No, but we do make them quickly." I turned back to the elder. "So, tell me, old man—if we do this, if we break your chains, what do you intend to do next?"

His reply was immediate, his voice unwavering. "We fight."

And, just like that, a war that hadn't been ours became a war we could not ignore.

Lieutenant General Soldierboy Benjamin, a man with a name that could have belonged to either a war hero or a discount action figure, stood amidst the wreckage of faith and flesh, his gaze moving over the battered survivors like a collector appraising relics of a dying age. These were not people begging for salvation—they were bargaining for vengeance, and he had seen that look before. It was the look of men and women who had lost everything but their hatred, who had been ground down to dust yet somehow refused to disappear. There was an unspoken promise in their eyes, one that spoke of blood yet to be spilled, of altars yet to be defiled, of the long-awaited hour when the executioner's blade would be turned upon the hand that once wielded it.

Benjamin exhaled, the weight of inevitability settling over his broad shoulders. "Then so be it," he declared, his voice carrying across the ruinous landscape like a death knell. "You will have your war."

And just like that, the dominos began to fall.

For centuries, the Arunafeltz States had thrived under the grand illusion of divine rule—a beautifully woven lie wrapped in incense and dogma, its threads stitched together with suffering. The pope, that gaudy little emperor of piety, had sat upon his golden throne, draped in robes that cost more than the lifetime earnings of the serfs he crushed beneath his heel. His word was law, his will unquestioned, his crimes buried beneath the weight of scripture and steel. The faithful bled, toiled, and died for a god that never answered, their sacrifices feeding an empire that only ever looked down upon them with the cold amusement of a butcher eyeing cattle.

But illusions, no matter how grand, no matter how steeped in centuries of reverence and fear, could not withstand the march of progress. Faith was a brittle thing when met with fire and lead.

The Netherward banners would rise, unfurling like the wings of a carrion bird over a battlefield yet to be claimed. The chains of faith, rusted with time and hypocrisy, would snap beneath the relentless grind of a world that had long since outgrown the need for invisible masters. The age of the pope would come to an end, not with prayers or whispers, but with the resounding chorus of artillery and the laughter of men who no longer feared the wrath of a god they had never seen.

And now, of course, it was time for the logistics—the part of war that lacked the poetry of battle but made up for it in sheer, maddening complexity.

"Mhelfrancovince, darling, you may want to pour yourself a drink. Or five," I purred into the comms, stretching luxuriously on top of a recon drone that did not appreciate my presence. "We have a full-fledged crusade brewing, and you know what that means—long nights, bloodstained ledgers, and at least one poorly thought-out siege that ends in dramatic explosions."

There was a pause before my dear sovereign's voice came through, the unmistakable weight of an oncoming migraine laced in his tone. "Benetton, I swear on all things unholy, if you've just committed us to another war without proper discussion—"

"Oh, please, Francovince," I cut in smoothly. "We both knew this was coming. What were we supposed to do? Politely decline while they get flayed alive by the pope's inquisition? Not a very charming look for us. Besides, I find it rather poetic—crushing a theocracy with the same cold efficiency as one steps on a particularly arrogant cockroach."

A new voice joined the line—Nikkimae, ever the strategist, her tone already laced with calculations. "If we're doing this, we need immediate territorial control. Od Canyon, the Audumbla Grasslands, the Plain of Ida—those will be our staging grounds. We'll need Portus Luna for naval support, the Shores of Tears for supply routes, and Veins as a strategic foothold."

"And what of Thor Volcano?" a deeper voice rumbled—one of the elders, his tone cautious. "It is the heart of the faithful. The pope's stronghold. They will never surrender it."

I smirked. "Then we won't ask them to."

A beat of silence.

Mhelfrancovince sighed, the sound of a man resigned to inevitable madness. "Gods help me."

"No gods here, my liege," I reminded him, watching the desperate eyes of those who had placed their fate in our hands. "Only us."