Chapter 3.

A small but powerful locomotive descended the mountainside, dragging more than 57 wagons behind it. The clatter of wheels on the old iron rails echoed like a steady heartbeat, a sound that blended with the palpable nervousness of the more than 60 miners.

The men, grouped in pairs in the personnel sections of each wagon, were partially protected by metal plates on the sides and front, with slits designed for firing the old rifles and firearms their foremen had handed them before leaving the mine.

However, as they entered the valley, the sun hid behind the branches and leaves of the trees. The shadows stretched, almost completely engulfing the tracks ahead.

Then, the miners felt it.

First, a faint growl...

Then, movement among the trees.

Something slithered between the tall trunks, silently following them.

With their hearts skipping beats, the miners pointed their weapons through the slits, ready to fire at anything that emerged from the shadows.

The clatter of the wagons against the tracks and the sound of their own pounding hearts were the only things they could hear.

Though he knew he shouldn't, one of the younger miners, unable to contain his nervousness, whispered:

"Do you see anything?"

Although his voice was barely audible over the noise of the train, his companion clamped a hand over his mouth.

"Shhh," he warned, staring at him with bloodshot eyes, knowing what that whisper could provoke.

Until now, the sound of the tracks had masked the noise of their anxious heartbeats—and with it, their presence. But that question...

Made a dry branch snap.

The falling leaves stirred—moved by something other than the wind.

And finally, after the sound of claws sinking into the bark of a tree...

Something burst from the undergrowth with an imposing leap, landing atop the very wagon of the young miner who had given away their presence.

It was grotesque.

Tall, gaunt, with grayish skin that seemed stretched too tightly over its body, as if there wasn't enough of it to cover its frame. Its broad ribcage contrasted sharply with an unnaturally narrow waist, giving it a twisted silhouette.

Its ears—disproportionately long and razor-sharp—curved backward like blades of flesh, vibrating subtly as they caught even the faintest echoes in the darkness.

But the worst part was its head.

Smooth. Eyeless. Faceless.

And then—it opened.

The retractable membrane of skin that covered its mouth tore backward, revealing rows of razor-sharp fangs, dripping with thick, dark saliva. Even the miners in the rear wagons could smell the rot on its breath—like burnt, decaying flesh.

The two foremen, in the first wagon beside the locomotive, raised their weapons.

"A Drexer!" Oier shouted, and Cael completed the order: "FIRE!"

At once, hundreds of bullets tore into the Drexer, piercing its gray skin and black flesh. The monster shrieked—a high-pitched, inhuman wail that made the nearest miners instinctively cover their ears.

But that was all. The creature didn't flinch or flee. Its scream wasn't one of pain but of annoyance, as its pierced flesh regenerated in mere seconds.

"Shit!" Cael growled, reloading his rifle.

The creature moved too fast.

The miner who had silenced the rookie had no chance to react.

The Drexer's claws—black and razor-sharp like blades—sank into his shoulder with a sickening, wet crunch. With a single motion, the creature lifted him off the ground as if he were nothing more than a rag doll.

The man screamed—a harrowing sound that echoed through the forest—as he kicked helplessly in the air. But before the Drexer could disappear into the shadows with its prey, a ray of sunlight pierced through the branches, illuminating them both.

The Drexer shrieked, this time with a sharp, agonized cry. Its gray, taut skin began to bubble where the light touched it, as if being consumed by invisible acid.

The creature dropped the miner, who crashed onto the wagon, and staggered back into the safety of the forest's shadows, its twisted silhouette writhing in agony before vanishing.

The miner lay on the floor, writhing in pain from his mangled shoulder... but alive.

However, it was hard to appreciate their luck when it finally ran out;

The sun continued to sink, and the last slivers of light filtering through the branches—the same ones that had saved them moments ago—vanished.

The tracks ahead were swallowed by absolute darkness, and the moment the locomotive crossed that threshold, the forest came to life.

The shadows shifted, and two Drexers leaped from the trees.

The first, similar to the previous one, landed atop the locomotive...

But the other—the one that fell onto the last wagon—was different.

A female.

Unlike the males, who were monstrous in every way, the females… were something worse. They still retained a semblance of humanity.

Her body was thin, almost skeletal, with pale, grayish skin stretched over her bones like aged leather. Her eyes—white, blind, devoid of pupils—yet radiated an insatiable hunger.

Her hands, thinner and more elongated than the males', ended in black, razor-sharp claws, ready to tear flesh apart. Her large, pointed ears twitched at every sound, catching even the faintest heartbeat of the terrified.

Her torso—deformed yet disturbingly familiar—was exposed, displaying, as a cruel mockery of what she once was, a pair of withered, sagging, repulsive breasts.

As was well known in these parts, and the reason why only men used to leave the shelter...

When the Drexers hunted, they devoured men.

But women…

They suffered a far worse fate.

They were infected. Transformed.

Turned into something trapped between what they had been and what they were never meant to become.

And through them, the Drexers ensured their species... endured.

When she looked at the miners, her jaw—stained with dried blood—opened in a gesture that was both human… and utterly monstrous. Revealing jagged fangs and a long, twisted tongue that writhed like a restless serpent.

Before either of them could move, every single miner pulled the trigger.

Again and again, even after they ran out of ammunition.

They only managed to stop them for a few moments as the bullets tore through their bodies.

When the hail of gunfire ceased, the Drexers lunged.

The male charged at the two foremen closest to him. Before its claws could reach Oier, Cael shoved him aside—

Throwing him to the ground and causing his head to slam against the locomotive's furnace.

Oier, his vision blurred by his own blood, barely saw the Drexer's claws closing around Cael's neck, lifting like a broken marionette.

Unlike the first Drexer, this one didn't wait to take a bite out of its prey. The membrane of skin over its maw retracted, revealing hundreds of dagger-like fangs and the nauseating stench of rotting flesh.

Just as it seemed ready to tear Cael's collarbone clean off with a single bite… out of nowhere, three crossbow bolts struck the creature's chest, surrounding its heart.

The Drexer didn't even flinch. Without letting go of Cael, it tilted its massive ears toward its torso, using its echolocation to examine the bolts protruding from its flesh.

Unbothered, it turned its attention—and its fangs—back to its prey, still trapped in its grasp.

But it was already too late.

The bolts activated.

From their fletched ends, three cables shot downward, stabilizing the structure against the embedded surface, like a tent being anchored.

Then… the tips of the bolts began to spin, drilling into flesh with a grotesque mechanical whir that sent chills down the spine.

Both parts of the bolts worked in tandem—while the tips burrowed deeper, the fletched ends retracted the cables, keeping the tension taut.

The Drexer howled in agony as they dug into its body, but its scream was cut short when the tips detonated inside. The sound that followed was a sickening symphony of shredded flesh, splintering bone, and seared nerves.

The upper half of the Drexer—now an unrecognizable mass of violet blood and blackened tissue—was sent flying off the train. Meanwhile, the lower half—its arm and the person it had been holding—fell safely onto the wagon.

At the same time the bolts drilled and exploded…

A mechanical whistle echoed from the darkness of the forest, preceding the metal grappling hook that shot out from between the trees, latching onto one of the last wagons with a sharp metallic clang.

A second whistle followed—and a second hook tore through the female Drexer's shoulder, stopping her claws in place just as they grazed her prey.

The female Drexer shrieked—a high-pitched, gut-wrenching sound that mixed insatiable hunger with furious helplessness.

Before she could break free, the owner of the hooks emerged from the forest at full speed, propelled forward by them.

Fifteen-year-old Lus could barely process the warm, wet sensation trickling down his face and between his legs. The claws had been so close that, not feeling pain immediately, his mind—desperately trying to shield him from future nightmares—made him believe the Drexer hadn't actually touched him.

Paralyzed by fear, he bore witness—front row—to a pair of dark, worn leather boots, their steel toes appearing horizontally in his field of vision.

The boots struck the Drexer's face with a sickening crunch. The sheer force of the double kick distorted and compressed the last remnants of humanity in the creature's features, moments before sending her flying off the wagon.

By luck or misfortune—depending on the perspective—the Drexer crashed against a nearby tree. But not before being impaled at a right angle by one of its broken branches, with a gruesome snap.

And yet, the creature didn't stop moving. Her claws tore through the air with longing, in the direction of the wagons moving away. The hunger she felt was so voracious that it made her ignore the pain of the branch piercing through her body… and, in a way, filling her stomach.

Meanwhile, the hook lodged in her shoulder snapped shut and returned to its owner like a silver serpent, retracting through the air with a mechanical hiss.

The miners remained still, trapped in a silence thick with tension. Their chests rose and fell rapidly as they exhaled all the air they had been holding in—a mix of relief and astonishment.

Shrugging off the unpleasant, lifeless arm still gripping his neck, someone managed to speak, recognizing the newcomer by the faint emerald glow escaping from beneath his hood.

"Thanks, kid!" he exclaimed, his voice shaky but full of gratitude.

Dangling from the side of one of the last wagons, secured to it by a cable running from the harness at his waist, the kid responded in a flat tone—devoid of emotion or nervousness:

"If something happened to you, your daughter's food might taste worse…"

"I don't give a damn that you just saved me!" Cael roared, aiming his weapon at him from the locomotive. "If you so much as lay a finger on my Tessa… I'll kill you! Even if the Church sends me as a 'sinner' to the front... I-dont-care!"

His contumacious threat only made the faint emerald glow that watched him under the hood turn around like a child, ignoring him.

Cael ruffled his short hair in frustration and asked,

"Where the hell is your old man?"

The young Ranger, gripping the cable with a gloved hand that left his fingers exposed, answered with the same unshaken calm:

"He went to protect the lumberjacks…"

As he straightened up, scanning the faint glimmers his night vision picked up—watching them from the shadows—he completed his sentence with an almost indifferent tone:

"They, too, have pushed the last light to its limits."

Cael spat on the ground, cursing under his breath.

"Greedy bastards…"

Fully aware of his own hypocrisy—after having done the exact same thing.

Their conversation was interrupted when more howls and growls echoed around them, accompanied by swift movements among the tree branches.

Just as a new group of Drexers prepared to leap onto the train... a howl unlike any before thundered through the forest.

It was deep, guttural, and filled with a primal authority that made the betas in the branches lower their ears and flee.

The silence that followed was even more terrifying.

For a second of absolute tension, the miners, already on the verge of panic, froze in place, aiming their weapons at the surrounding darkness.

Before they saw it, they felt it.

Something big was coming.

The ground trembled under the weight of its steps, and the sound of snapping trunks and branches being torn off filled the air.

Each step was faster and heavier than the last, as if the creature was gaining speed. The echo of its footsteps reverberated in their chests, as if the forest itself were shaking.

Before it was too late, the young Ranger moved.

With a fluid motion, he used the cart as a foothold and leaped.

He used the pull of the grappling hook, still embedded in the side, as an anchor point, letting the centrifugal force carry him through the air with an almost supernatural grace.

The cable went taut, guiding his body in a perfect arc before he released it at just the right moment, allowing him to land in a firing stance atop the narrow roof of the passenger section.

With no time to waste, he didn't reach for the sword or rifle on his back. Instead, he drew the crossbow from beneath his cloak.

A handcrafted marvel, its exposed mechanism resembled the inner workings of an ancient clock. The stock, grips, and part of its frame were made of dark wood, carved with intricate Celtic patterns that twisted and coiled down to the base of the barrel.

As the Ranger squeezed the trigger, the cylindrical magazine beneath the barrel began to spin, feeding the crossbow with bolts that fired in rapid succession.

They followed the green laser guiding their trajectory beneath the barrel.

Despite striking the imposing figure charging toward them, the bolts failed to penetrate, bouncing off its thick hide as if it were natural armor.

The young Ranger remained unfazed. Without releasing the trigger, he flicked a small switch on the grip with his thumb.

The next bolts fired... detonated on impact against the creature's hardened skin, eliciting a furious howl.

Slowing it down but unable to stop it, the Ranger didn't hesitate and fired at its feet—toward the dozens of undetonated bolts scattered on the ground...

Forcing them to explode.

This time, the creature didn't roar in fury but in pain.

The chain explosion briefly illuminated the forest, creating a barrier of fire and metal fragments that halted the creature's charge.

Holding his firing stance, one knee planted on the roof of one of the last wagons, the young Ranger shouted in his usual flat tone:

"Accelerate!"

Increasing the locomotive's pressure was dangerous, but not as much as the Alpha Drexer emerging from the forest—a beast over four meters tall, enraged by the relentless explosions.

Unlike the Beta Drexers, with their skeletal, bony frames, this one looked swollen to the limit, as if it had been fed on steroids and pure rage. Its muscles, taut like steel cables, bulged beneath its skin.

Like other Alphas, an incandescent glow throbbed in its chest, pulsing in sync with its heartbeat, as if the overwhelming energy in its cells built up as heat, dyeing the skin of its torso a scorched crimson.

With a guttural roar that rumbled like thunder, it slammed a fist into a redwood trunk beside the tracks. The wood groaned with a dull crack before exploding into a storm of splinters, scattering in all directions.

Some even reached Oier and Cael in the locomotive. The two foremen exchanged glances—no words needed—before shoveling more coal into the furnace.

The engine growled under the increased pressure. The speed picked up, but not enough.

The Alpha lunged in a horizontal leap. Its massive claws dug into the last wagon, ripping through half the structure as if the metal were mere paper.

Luckily, the "lost" section had been carrying minerals. Poor Lus—who would no doubt have nightmares—and his companion wobbled on the wreckage, one step away from the rattling abyss.

The impact was so brutal that the entire train, including the locomotive, shook violently. The wheels screeched against the tracks, and the convoy teetered on the edge of derailment.

Barely missed its true target—the human who had wounded it, perched on the roof of the last wagon.

Despite its monstrous size, the Alpha recovered quickly and began chasing them with terrifying speed, closing the distance with every stride.

The young Ranger, knowing he couldn't allow the creature to reach the train again, stowed his crossbow beneath his cloak and grabbed the Blitz-Breaker (or B/B) resting on his back.

The weapon combined the sheer power of the Germanic Kingdom's anti-tank rifles—like the Tankgewehr—with the functional aesthetics of the Britons' Lee Enfield. Designed by the "Old Man" to hunt things tougher than tanks, the Blitz-Breaker was a beast in its own right.

Its magazine, maintaining the classic wedge shape of the Lee Enfield, was elongated to accommodate the massive 13.2×92mm anti-tank rounds. The full-wooden frame gave it a sturdy yet familiar look, while the barrel—thanks to advancements in metallurgy—wasn't excessively long. Compact, yet strong enough to withstand the weapon's immense caliber.

Its horizontal muzzle brake was a last-ditch effort to tame the brutal recoil of a gun as dangerous to its wielder as to its target.

So much so that the young Ranger anchored himself to the wagon's roof using four of the six grappling hooks on his harness, ensuring that neither the rifle's recoil nor the train's swaying would throw him off balance.

As he pressed the B/B's stock against his shoulder, the rifle's weight became familiar, like an extension of his own body.

Slowly exhaling the air from his lungs, he lifted his visor, revealing—through the narrow horizontal slit of his helmet—a pair of serene green eyes that aligned perfectly with his rifle's sights.

No telescopes. No unnecessary luxuries.

Just iron sights.

Just as the Old Man had taught him.

Aware that not even a direct shot to the head would be enough to take down an Alpha, he locked the rifle's bolt.

His world shrank to the iron protrusion at the end of his barrel and the monstrous leg just beyond it.

Listening to his pulse echo through his own eardrums, his finger tapped the trigger in rhythm with his heartbeat.

'One… Two…'

And in the space between heartbeats…

A sharp click shattered the silence.

The roar of the Blitz-Breaker was no mere gunshot—it was a dry, devastating thunderclap that lived up to its name.

The recoil was a beast in itself, capable of dislocating the shoulder of an experienced shooter. Yet, the young man redirected it with mastery. He absorbed the impact with his clavicle, guided it down to his hip, and distributed it through the cables anchoring him to the ceiling, bending the structure's edges under the sheer force of the shot.

The 13.2×92mm projectile crossed the distance in a blink. On impact, flesh burst into a purple mist, bone splintered, and the knee vanished in a rain of shattered fragments and ruined tissue.

The monstrous limb was torn away, ripped apart by the sheer violence of the blast.

The beast did not scream; it cried in pain.

However, the miners—who had barely begun to celebrate the shot—fell silent as they watched the crimson glow in the Alpha's chest intensify.

The glow descended through its body, tracing its way down its thigh to the ruined knee. It seeped into the last thread of purple blood still tethering its severed leg to the rest of its body… and then, the blood began to writhe.

Its cells multiplied at a frenzied pace, thickening into muscle fibers that wove together unnaturally. As if driven by their own will, they contracted and fused the lost limb back in place with a grotesque, wet snap.

Reversing the damage as if time itself had rewound.

The regeneration was so swift that the Alpha didn't even fall. It merely staggered before planting its newly restored leg firmly back on the ground.

Sighing as he confirmed they wouldn't be able to outrun it, the young Ranger turned to the miners.

Through the slits in his helmet, they caught a glimpse of dull green eyes—so calm they became unsettling, making them question whether the person standing before them was even alive.

Finally, he broke the tense silence.

"Is there any food left?"

The miners blinked, bewildered.

"W-what?"

The Ranger shrugged.

"I'd like to eat something good… just in case."

No one answered. Perhaps due to the suddenness of the question, or maybe because of the towering figure of the Alpha looming behind him.

Taking their silence as an answer, the Ranger sighed.

"Guess that's a no…"

Without a hint of change in his flat tone, he turned toward the beast and bid them farewell.

"Take care the rest of the way."

Without waiting for a response, he opened and locked the bolt of his rifle, reloading before firing again.

The blast shook the forest.

The 13.2×92mm projectile tore through the Alpha's other knee, making it reel. The impact was so brutal that the roof of the mine cart lifted even higher, threatening to tear away from the rest of the train.

Seizing the opportunity, the Ranger activated two of his grappling hooks, anchoring them to the trees on either side of the tracks.

Using the train's momentum in the opposite direction of his new anchor point, he held as much tension as possible until the coil at the lower back of his harness—where the cables of his grappling hooks were stored—groaned on the verge of collapse.

But before it gave out… the roof of the mine cart did first.

Metal tore apart with a deafening screech and was sent flying like a projectile, dragging the Ranger along with it.

The miners said nothing, not even those who had pulled the remnants of their sandwiches from their lunchboxes...

They could only watch, caught between awe and horror, as the Ranger used the metal plate as an improvised battering ram, slamming into the Alpha mid-motion.

Stopping it—and vanishing with it—into the overwhelming darkness left behind by the speeding train.

A bone-chilling howl echoed through the forest, followed by sudden showers of sparks that, for an instant, cast long shadows of two figures locked in battle across the thick trunks of the sequoias.

Cael cursed himself inwardly for forcing someone his daughter's age to face such a monster alone. He clenched the cross hanging from his wrist until it dug into his flesh… and bathed him in his own blood.

Even as he loathed himself, the worst part was knowing he would have made the same decision.

-

Just a few seconds later...

The train roared over the rails, devouring the last meters of the forest while Oier and Cael shouted words—commands—of encouragement.

"Hold on a little longer!"

"Keep shooting!"

The weapons thundered relentlessly, spewing fire at the shadows between the branches before they could leap upon them.

Finally, the locomotive and its fifty-six and a half wagons emerged from the forest.

But no one celebrated.

On the contrary, Oier cursed under his breath, casting a reproachful look at Cael.

The sun, just like in the forest, had already vanished behind the mountainous cliff.

Eight hundred meters of track stretched before them to their destination, but instead of safety, they found only more shadows.

The same shadows that allowed the dozen Drexer to continue their relentless hunt, leaping from the forest and gliding through the tall grass.

Even the wounded miners—with pierced shoulders or slashed faces—kept shooting as best they could, fighting for their lives and those of their comrades.

Every Drexer that emerged from the undergrowth, trying to reach a wagon, was met with a rain of bullets, halted midair, and thrown to the ground… until it resumed its ravenous pursuit.

With only two hundred meters to the ravine...

Since every neuron of the miners was trapped, anticipating the next leap from the tall grass, no one noticed—nor rejoiced at—the faint glow that became visible, waiting for them at the end of the tracks.

The Drexer instinctively coordinated. Like a pack driven by hunger, more than half of them jumped at the same time.

The miners couldn't stop them all.

Two beasts fell under the gunfire.

Six landed on the wagons, warping the metal beneath their weight or tearing through it with their claws.

The impact shook the entire convoy, teetering between derailing and staying on track.

As the two overseers watched, the beasts towered over their men, ready to tear at their flesh, bones, and life.

And they thought, 'It's over.'

Convinced that deaths were inevitable.

Something streaked through the air above their heads.

Small. Bright.

It looked like a simple ember escaping from a torch, dancing in the wind... before fading...

But this one remained alive, glowing as it cut through the emerging purple night, soaring over the miners' heads until it collided with something in its path.

A Drexer's torso.

The beast had its claws raised, ready to end the lives of two miners on one of the wagons.

But it was interrupted.

Where the small ember made contact, its skin began to bubble.

With a gut-wrenching scream, as if the sun itself were burning it, the Drexer instinctively leaped from the train, seeking refuge.

And then...

A familiar, dry, and devastating roar shattered the surprise of both prey and hunters alike.

Preceding the 13.2×92mm projectile that blew apart another Drexer's skull, reducing it to a rain of dark purple blood.

There was no time to react...

Because, immediately after, as if that very divine torch had been smashed against the ground, thousands of embers burst forth from the light at the end of the tracks.

The incandescent bits cut through the air, colliding with the locomotive, the wagons... making no distinction between their occupants.

For the miners, it was no different from an ordinary spark, barely noticeable against their clothes.

But for the Drexer...

The heat was unbearable.

A single ember made their skin bubble.

A dozen charred it to the point where even their regeneration struggled to heal it.

And finally, a hundred... reduced them to ashes, choking the miners they had been about to attack with their dusty remains.

Those who hadn't jumped and weren't as exposed howled in pain and fled in terror, retreating to the safety of the forest.

The overseers were the first to react. Still with their hearts hammering in their chests, they ran toward the locomotive and began to slow the train.

The screech of the brakes filled the air, and the train gradually lost speed, as if it were just as exhausted... as its passengers.

Behind them, their men were in no hurry.

After witnessing, quite literally, the miracle that had saved them, they collapsed to the ground, defeated. Their faces showed a mix of relief, incredulity and exhaustion.

The train slowly made its way toward the opening in the rocky cliff. Inside, after a slight incline, a small train station had been carved into the stone.

It was a modest, functional place, bustling with activity, where the tracks and locomotives of the various gathering groups from the Village converged.

And where the unloading of freshly collected raw materials took place.

The sounds of the lumberjack crew ahead, focused on unloading, blended with the echo of the tide.

Their specialized wagons, designed to carry logs, moved along automated tracks that led toward an opening facing the sea.

Dumping their contents, and since they were anchored to the tracks, they would flip over and re-enter from below, like a conveyor belt.

Before entering the opening, Cael and Oier relinquished control of the locomotive and disembarked.

Not to give orders. Not to secure the cargo.

But to thank the group of clerics who awaited them and had just saved their lives.

On both sides of the tracks stood a group of four devotees, dressed in simple, worn white robes. They held with reverence two long metal torches, each over three meters tall, planted firmly in the ground.

Their hands were wrapped in bandages, as if they were not permitted to touch the sacred symbols they carried.

The structure of the torches was formed by two finely carved cylinders, intertwining in a harmonious manner. Their ends resembled a candelabrum in the shape of a Christian cross, with different arms burning...

With flames that were far from ordinary.

Reacting to the tiny particles that lay dormant in the absence of the sun at dusk.

Creating a safe haven with their light.

Or a divine breath with their embers, turning every impure being... into mere ashes... as they had just witnessed.

Scrolls wrapped around their arms—inscribed in Latin and Aramaic—fluttered in the coastal breeze, their dark ink standing out against the yellowed paper aged by time.

Around the torches, friars—or students of faith—knelt on the ground, struggling to breathe. Their pale, sweat-drenched faces betrayed the effort they had just exerted.

Not mental or physical, but... spiritual.

After assisting the priest in performing the 'miracle' that had just saved them.

On either side of the group's leader, two figures stood firm.

Knights of the Church's inner orders, their faces concealed behind helmets with cross-shaped slits. Their armor had lost its luster, covered by worn cloth, leaving only their weapons exposed—a silent warning.

A not-so-subtle display that the person they followed... was someone of certain rank within the Church, worthy of protection.

The Village Priest.

An elderly man, yet with a straight back, wore a white tunic adorned with intricate golden embroidery. His cloak, though noble and elegant, showed signs of wear: folds hardened by time, slightly frayed hems, and barely perceptible stains along the fabric's edges.

Beside him, yet clearly separated from the group, stood the one who had fired the shot.

The old hermit, leaning on his rifle, held a helmet—intact—with a bulky, rectangular visor and an orange-tinted lens in the center.

He wore a tattered cloak, covered in remnants of leaves and dirt. His eyes, though aged, were sharp and weary, scrutinizing them in silence.

He displayed his displeasure when Cael and Oier knelt before them.

With exaggerated humility, they lowered their heads, smearing them with mud, not daring to look up. Playing their part, fully aware of the priest's vain personality.

"Thank you, my lord! For we are not worthy..." Cael began, his trembling voice filled with calculated devotion. "Thank you, Father. Thanks to you and the Church, our faith has been renewed."

Turning, without raising his head, to his fellow swindler, Cael added, "Isn't that right, Oier?"

Oier nodded quickly, adding, "Yes, Father. We are but mere peasants, yet today we have seen the hand of God work through you."

The priest puffed out his chest and stroked his beard with barely concealed satisfaction.

His eyes gleamed with vain pride, and a nearly imperceptible smile formed on his lips. "My children," he said, his voice deep and paternal, "as a good shepherd, it is my duty to care for my flock."

The old ranger, standing a little further back, said nothing. He merely smirked, almost mockingly, as he observed the scene.

He was well aware of what 'those two fools' were doing, yet he did not intervene.

For now...

Then, Cael and Oier changed their tone.

"Father..." Cael murmured, glancing sideways at the old hermit before lowering his head until it was smeared with mud. "We beg for your assistance!"

The priest furrowed his brow, intrigued, though he maintained his composure. "What has happened?"

Oier swallowed hard, nervous. "Father... it's... it's the boy. Ashe, the ranger who came to our aid." Fearing the priest's reaction—and, more than anything, that of the...Old ranger.

Who, irritated by the overused abbreviation of the name he had chosen himself, shot a sharp glare at the two overseers.

"What has happened to Ashliath?"

Cael finished, his words escaping in a whisper: "He stayed behind... fighting against an... Alpha."

The friars and the devotees holding torches exchanged uneasy glances before once again scanning their surroundings with renewed concern.

Everyone knew what it meant when a corrupted beast rose to the rank of Alpha.

Not only were they stronger, faster, and more intelligent, but they were also incredibly resilient. Even the Divine Breath—one of the few surefire ways to kill them—was not enough on its own.

First, they had to be hunted down.

Weakened and exhausted of their overwhelming energy.

Otherwise, they would evade or regenerate from any attack with ease.

And that usually came at a great cost in human lives.

The old ranger, for his part, said nothing. He merely tightened his grip on his rifle. His knuckles turned white, yet his expression did not change.

Had this been any other time, he would already be on his way... but now, he had to wait and, ironically... have faith.

"He needs help," Oier insisted. "It's only been a few minutes. He might still be alive!"

The priest did not respond immediately. His expression remained serene, almost impassive. Instead, he looked at his guards.

The two knights, almost in unison, shook their heads. There was no need to deliberate. A single man against an Alpha. The chances of survival were simply too low.

The priest sighed, clearly uncomfortable, especially with the boy's mentor standing beside him.

Choosing his words carefully, he said, "I fear... that risking more lives at this point would be unwise. What that young man has done is an act of devotion and sacrifice. His bravery will be remembered in the upcoming masses in the village. I will send a recommendation to the cardinal... so that his name may be honored. Perhaps he could even be recognized as a minor martyr, associated with the saint of laborers..."

His words felt empty, even to himself.

But Cael and Oier did not give up. "Father, please..." Cael pleaded, his voice breaking. "We cannot let an officer die so easily. If it weren't for him, all of us would have perished."

"What are we supposed to do tomorrow?!" Oier asked rhetorically.

The priest looked at them with a mixture of pity and veiled indifference. "My children, I understand your pain. But as Christ taught us, sometimes sacrifice is necessary... both in our daily lives..." He erased his soft expression and concluded coldly, "As well as in our work."

His words struck like a dull blow, revealing how little he cared about the potential rise in deaths.

Still, the overseers did not lift their heads from the mud.

And they were not the only ones.

Having had their lives saved as well, the miners began to step off the slowly moving train. One by one, until several dozen knelt in the mud beside their overseers.

They did not do it out of devotion.

They did not do it out of faith.

They did it because of an unspoken debt, having been saved countless times by the young ranger. The least they could do was beg for a chance to return the favor.

"Please, Father!" one of the miners exclaimed, prostrating himself in the mud.

"We beg for the help and power of the Church!" another shouted.

"It was our fault for pushing until the last light!" added a third, his voice broken by guilt.

The priest watched the scene with a mix of discomfort and irritation.

But what caught his attention the most was the old hermit beside him, who shook his head and muttered, "What nonsense..."

It almost seemed as if he were mocking the miners' pleas for his own disciple—or at least, that's what the priest beside him thought.

When in reality... he simply had good eyesight. Better than most, despite his age.

Even young Lus, with bloodstained bandages covering his split face, rested his forehead on the cold mud at the back of the group.

Silently praying for another miracle.

Then, a flat voice—out of place among the miners' passionate pleas—interrupted his prayers, asking:

"What are you doing guys?"

Lus responded without thinking:

"We are begging the Church for help to go save you..."

There was a brief pause. Then, the same voice, devoid of emotion but heavy with exhaustion, asked in return:

"And how's that going?"

"Not very well..." Lus murmured, his head still bowed.

And then, he stopped.

Not because he had realized the weight of his own words.

But because of the awful stench that suddenly filled the air around him...

A suffocating odor, a mix of rotten eggs and ammonia, that invaded his nose like a slap he couldn't avoid.

When Lus checked where the smell was coming from, he fell silent and scrambled away through the mud.

At the same time... proving that he neither needed nor wanted the Church's help, the young ranger "Ashe" hurled the source of the foul stench at the feet of the group of clerics—right in front of the prostrated miners.

For a moment, no one reacted.

Until the screams shattered the silence.

Some were cries of panic, while others—like those of the miners, far more accustomed to these horrors than many "knights"—cursed crudely as they stepped back, scowling.

"Fuck!"

"That damn thing again..."

"Shit, I'm gonna have nightmares about this."

Meanwhile, the friars and devotees, who had never been within fifty meters of a monster, collapsed to the ground or scrambled backward, gasping between prayers and frantic Christian invocations.

"May the Lord protect us!"

"Destroy that abomination at once!"

"Merciful God!"

The Alpha's head lay on the ground, right in front of the priest.

The knights reacted instantly, drawing their swords and positioning themselves in front of their leader, shields raised.

Because despite being severed—despite lacking the rest of its body...

Its jaws still twitched spasmodically, as if trying to form a growl without the vocal cords to sustain it.

Meanwhile, Ashe walked through the still-kneeling miners. As they lifted their heads and saw him alive, they greeted him with discreet taps on his legs. No cheers, no words of gratitude—yet among men, that gesture meant more than any formal recognition.

A silent "thank you" without needing to say it.

At last, he reached the old ranger—his superior, his mentor, and a grandfather, though neither of them would ever call him that or admit it out loud.

The old man looked him up and down, making sure he was still in one piece.

Then, once he was done... "You're late..." he muttered before grabbing Ashe's arm and forcing his dislocated shoulder back into place with a sickening pop.

Ashe let out a quiet sigh of pain. Massaging his freshly set shoulder, now smeared with purple blood and dust, he replied in his usual flat tone:

"I ran into some trouble..."

Glancing briefly at the still-twitching severed head of the Alpha, the old man simply said:

"So it seems."

As the corners of his lips lifted slightly.

A small gesture, almost imperceptible.

But Ashe didn't miss it.

He knew his grandfather was proud.

Suddenly, a rough, booming voice—clearly unaware that the priest and two officers were present—shouted:

"Hey! Rock breakers! We're done here—hurry up or the barges will leave without you!"

-

Concepts/inspirations/references.