Secret of Light and Shadows: Chapter 9

For the next few nights, the slums became a hive of preparation. Hunched over in the dim glow of fire pits, men and women sharpened makeshift weapons—axes, spears, and clubs forged from scavenged iron. Planks were hammered into crude shields, jagged spikes nailed onto them for maximum damage.

This was not just a fight. This was war.

While the others prepared, Marco had his own mission.

Under the cover of night, he and a handful of his most trusted allies slipped away to the nearby farmlands. They kept to the shadows, their feet silent against the damp soil. The scent of hay and manure filled the air as they reached the stables.

Marco moved quickly, untying the horses and slowly opening the gate.

"Come on, move," he whispered urgently.

The horses neighed softly as his crew climbed onto their backs. But just as they were about to take off, a lantern flickered to life near the barn.

"HEY! YOU CAN'T TAKE THOSE—GET BACK HERE!"

The farmer's voice was laced with fury as he scrambled for his bow, fumbling an arrow onto the string. He let it fly—

Miss.

The slums galloped into the night, disappearing into the forest before the farmer could even notch another shot.

They had only taken a handful of horses, but it was enough. Enough to lead the charge.

—

The Day of Battle

Their goal was clear: take the church. Burn it down.

But this was no ordinary church. This was one of the first to have access to a printing press. With that machine, they could publish their findings. They could prove the church wrong, convince millions—no, billions—to question everything.

It wasn't just a battle. It was a revolution.

With a mighty roar, the slums charged.

The guards stationed outside the church barely had time to react before the first wave was upon them. Arrows rained down, striking a few of the rebels on foot, but the horsemen were too fast.

A heavy club smashed into a guard's face, sending him sprawling. Another was trampled beneath a charging steed. Blood spattered the cobblestone streets as the slums tore through the defenses, their fury unrelenting.

They broke through the church doors, spilling inside like a flood. Fire caught onto the wooden pews, the flames licking higher and higher.

But just as Marco dismounted to set the final blaze—

THWACK!

A sharp pain tore through his side. He gasped, looking down at the crossbow bolt buried in his ribs.

A slow, mocking clap echoed through the burning hall.

"Man," a familiar voice drawled. "You guys really put on quite the show."

Inquisitor Raize.

He stood at the entrance, his signature nonchalant smirk plastered across his face. Smoke curled from the torch in his hand, his crossbow still aimed.

One of the horsemen roared and charged at him—

THWACK. Another bolt, clean through the chest.

More slums rushed at him, trying to swarm him.

Marco fell to the floor and crawled around looking for somewhere to hide. He noticed basement doors and opened them, crawling to get in for shelter. 

Raize shot his grappling hook upward, the rope latching onto one of the church's high windows. With a single tug, he soared into the rafters.

"Too slow," he murmured, watching as the slums tried to chase after him.

With a swift slice of his blade, he cut the rope, sending them crashing back to the ground.

Outside, his men moved in.

"Smoke the building," he ordered. "Call for reinforcements."

—

Deep in the basement, Marco looked around clutching his chest as blood was leaking from the arrow hit. He unveiled the cover of a large item and it was the printing press. Marco coughed as he struggled to drag himself and the printing press up the stairs. His fingers trembled as he pulled at the machine, sweat and blood mixing on his skin.

"Come on, come on!" he wheezed.

He couldn't die here. Not when they were so close.

Gas started seeping in from above. The doors had been locked. The others were pounding against them, their voices frantic, desperate.

Marco clawed at the hatch leading outside, but it was blocked—by the lifeless body of a horseman who had taken an arrow.

His vision blurred. His lungs screamed for air.

His knees buckled.

Darkness closed in.

—

The morning was quiet.

Raize strolled through the charred remains of the church, stepping over corpses as his men cleaned up. Smoke still curled from the blackened beams.

The rebellion had been crushed.

With a flick of his boot, he rolled over one of the bodies lying on the basement hatch. Curious, he knelt and pried it open.

A foul stench wafted up.

He lit a pocket candle and peered inside.

His lips curled in mild disgust.

Marco sat slumped beside the printing press, his lifeless eyes bloodshot, his skin stained with dried tears from the gas, and soaking in a small pool of his own blood. 

"So that's where you were," Raize muttered.

He stepped over the corpse, his gaze falling on a bundle of papers clutched in Marco's pocket. Frowning, he flipped through them.

He exhaled sharply.

These were Niccoli's papers.

Raize ran a hand down his face, shaking his head. "What a pain."

Without hesitation, he tossed them into a fire pit. The flames ate away at the last remnants of Marco's dream.

"There," he muttered, lighting a cigarette. "Now I won't have any more troubles."

He took a long drag as the last scraps of knowledge turned to ash.

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