Chapter 5.

Between the rocky shores, a formidable warship breached the bay.

Its black silhouette maintained relentless momentum even as it plowed into the coastline, hurling up dust clouds and stone fragments that briefly illuminated the darkness with friction-born sparks.

The deafening crash that followed drew the attention of every predator within miles. Over a hundred shadows began darting through the bay's surrounding stones and trees - drawn by the apparently lifeless metal leviathan now stranded ashore.

Driven by insatiable hunger, the Drexer emerged into the open and advanced.

Their low, rumbling growls interspersed with sharp clicks reverberated through the air, their bizarre ears swiveling toward the warship as they employed echolocation to scout for prey.

But... when the pack reached midapproach... the warship awakened.

A fresh flare erupted, bathing the area in an ominous crimson glow that foreshadowed the bloodshed to come.

From the warship's deck, thousands of bullets began raining in all directions - shattering boulders, splintering trees, and drowning out the shrieks of creatures seeking shelter behind them.

The encircling predators charged the ship in fury, only to freeze when an ear-splitting metallic screech assaulted their hypersensitive hearing.

The source revealed itself as thick armor plates forming the warship's razor-sharp prow began separating like horizontal jaws, folding back to expose an artificially lit interior. A massive ramp slammed down onto the beach.

Armored vehicles, heavy tanks, and soldier formations poured forth, weapons blazing as they descended the ramp.

Yet the first to deploy and claim the honor of initial kills... were the cavalry riders.

Astride mutated horses boasting three pairs of legs, both riders and steeds wore layered plate armor of almost industrial design - a bewildering mix of eras and styles.

Their armor stood adorned with heraldic engravings, yet augmented by interlocking gears and hydraulic limbs that elevated its functionality far beyond standard plate mail – effectively transforming it into powered exoskeletons.

Both riders and mutated steeds wore helmets integrated with gas masks, enabling chemical warfare assaults without breaking stride.

Their armor stood adorned with heraldic engravings, yet augmented by interlocking gears and hydraulic limbs that elevated its functionality far beyond standard plate mail – effectively transforming it into powered exoskeletons.

Mirroring their steeds' headgear, the riders' helmets merged with gas masks, enabling them to charge while actively employing chemical weapons or advancing under their toxic cover.

Each cavalryman wielded weapons blending medieval brutality with industrial lethality: jousting lances fused with rotary cannons. Mid-shaft, a stepped housing contained an eight-barrel revolving assembly.

In synchronized motion, the riders raised their lances, aiming at the Drexer horde, and pulled their triggers.

A mechanical thunder tore through the air as the barrel rings began spinning, unleashing sequential bursts of gunfire that lit the night striking flesh.

The inherent inaccuracy of mounted fire was drowned beneath overwhelming volume – ammunition belts snaking from rectangular metal packs on the riders' backs fed the weapons' endless hunger.

Trapping the Drexer beneath a storm of gunfire that left them unable to advance or retreat as the distance closed.

Until, in one final brutal push, every ounce of force from the six-legged mutants' charge merged with the hydraulic amplification of their riders' exo-armor, focused into lance tips that struck with piston-driven fury.

Released explosively in a synchronized strike that pierced the Drexers' chests as if their tough hides were paper.

Some beasts hung impaled on lances, only to be obliterated by point-blank gunfire into bursts of violet gore. Others, bisected by the initial impacts, writhed mindlessly on the sand – still twitching as hooves reduced them to pulp beneath sixfold stomps.

Meanwhile, the Drexer surrounding the bay endured the warship's suppressive fire. Each healing wound only amplified their ravenous frenzy – a biological imperative they could no longer restrain.

When the creatures detected the galloping heartbeats of riders, their mutant steeds, and disembarking troops – biological drumbeats screaming food – their last vestiges of reason evaporated.

Instead of retreating, those perched on the cliffs flanking the bay's far end exploited their vantage. They unleashed guttural howls before hurling themselves onto the cavalry below, whose charge had stalled against the narrowing beach.

The riders barely managed to glance upward – crimson flarelight glinting off falling Drexer claws as they descended like execution blades. Only the sacred-metal of their plate exo-armor saved them from being cleaved mid-saddle during that first assault.

However... driven wild by the ecstatic promise of finally quenching their hunger with their "canned" prey rightwithin reach, their cunning and echolocation sharpened. Instead of futilely striking the sacred-metal, their claws aimed for the weak points in the riders' and mounts' armor: the joints of the elbows, the backs of the knees, the slits in the helmets.

The riders fortunate enough to be the ones merely wounded clung to their saddles, enduring the pain.

Unlike those whose mounts were struck.

When they fell—shattered or dying—their riders were either trapped beneath their bodies or hurled to the ground. Before they could rise, the Drexer swarmed over them like a ravening pack.

In their final moments, they watched in horror as the beasts brutally tore through the seams of their breastplates and the gaps in their visors, reaching the fresh flesh beneath and feasting on it.

At the same time, the rest of the Drexers charged directly at the troops still disembarking.

They were met by tanks, with patches of metal corroded by sea salt on their armor, which turned their turrets and spat fire, unleashing explosions that lit up the tainted night, and made raining chunks of bisected Drexer onto the sands.

Meanwhile, the trained soldiers advanced behind the armored vehicles, covering the cavalry, which—despite their dwindling numbers—managed to resume their charge.

The survivors never stopped again, circling the coast until, within minutes, the battle was over. The beach was strewn with corpses—both of the corrupted creatures and of the fallen soldiers and knights who had fought in the victorious clash.

-

With the battle over, activity on the beach intensified.

The soldiers worked tirelessly, recovering the bodies of the Drexer and their fallen comrades, while others unloaded crates from the ship. The wounded were guided toward the first tents that the engineers had erected in the fledgling camp.

Beyond them, the priests, escorted by their personal guards, began lighting long, cross-shaped torches over three meters tall, planted around the perimeter.

The glow of their sacred flames created a safe haven amidst the corrupt night, just as it had for the miners.

Suddenly, the activity ceased.

The inquisitor and his retinue descended the ship's ramp, silencing even the cries of the wounded.

Still, it was not his mere presence that led everyone to lower their heads, trace a cross with their fists over their chests, and begin to pray.

Nor was it the imposing armor he wore—of the same dark crimson hue and the same furrowed texture as his mask, capable of distorting light in unsettling ways.

It was the cane he leaned on.

Despite its humble shape, it was unmistakable due to the mysterious material from which it was made: fragments of pale stone, streaked with elegant golden fissures, as if molten gold had sealed each fracture, holding them together as one.

A "weapon" that only inquisitors could wield.

There were countless stories, some mythologized, others documented, of soldiers on the battlefield who, upon attempting to return an inquisitorial weapon to its rightful owner, screamed in agony before collapsing lifeless... from merely touching it.

The Inquisitor advanced with firm steps and entered the command tent. Behind him, without even needing to be ordered, his guard halted, surrounding the area. Only his assistant, Lena, and Miss Mary from the American scouts accompanied him inside.

This caused the soldiers to sigh with regret as the two beautiful women disappeared behind the crimson wall formed by the Inquisitor's pretrorians guards.

Inside, the only light came from a hanging oil lamp, casting wavering shadows on the floor and on the solemn table in the middle of the tent. Awaiting him, a couple of men and their lieutenants observed silently.

The first to react—a middle-aged man of short stature with receding hair but surprisingly keen eyes—greeted him with the Regnum's hybrid greeting, both military and religious at once.

"Inquisitor," he said, striking his chest—or rather, his breastplate—with his fist and drawing a cross upon it.

His rough voice was answered by an even deeper, hoarse one: "Commander Crowley."

The Inquisitor nodded, satisfied with his choice of Commander Fergus Crowley standing before him, selected from among all the officers that the Brittanic Crown had offered him.

As recorded in his file, he was a sensible, down-to-earth man who had risen through the military ranks not by blood or ecclesiastical favors, but by his own cunning—both on and off the battlefield.

He dressed like any ordinary soldier: a dull brown uniform consisting of a wool shirt and trousers, high boots, a sacred metal breastplate, a helmet under his arm, and a solitary insignia that served as his only mark of rank.

Beside him, and in contrast to his solemn greeting, the man with the grayish beard and complete plate exo-armor—marked by claw marks and crusts of purple blood—held his woolen mantle, which fell like a cape, to perform an elaborate bow, accompanied by the less-than-decorous sound of metal scraping and gears creaking.

"Grand Master Marcellus," added the Inquisitor.

He greeted the commander of the Blitzkrieg-style brigade and the Master of the Knights' Order, who made up the reinforcements of the Brittanic Royal Family to bolster the Regnum's most important battlefront in the Viceroyalty of Constantinople, alongside thousands of boxes filled with weapons and ammunition that were still being unloaded from the ship.

Commander Crowley, with a courteous gesture, invited the Inquisitor to take a seat. The figure clad in crimson mourning shook his head. His broken voice scraped the air.

"Prepare a group of your men; we will head to the nearest village."

Crowley nodded silently, knowing his place and not daring to question an Inquisitorial order. Instead, he turned toward his assistant.

"We find ourselves in lands touched by corruption, and as the night has shown..."

His gaze shifted to the corner of the table, covered with worn maps and moisture-stained papers, where several dozen metal badges—each representing a man fallen in the previous battle—rested.

"...It is dangerous. The safest course of action would be to spend the night at the camp and advance at dawn."

As the Inquisitor remained silent, Lena shook her head in response, her medium-length black hair swaying slightly as she said:

"We cannot afford even a second of delay. According to the Church's agreement, reinforcements from the other kingdoms will join us on our way to New Constantinople. Any delay could jeopardize the remaining engagements."

Turning her attention away from him and addressing everyone else in the tent, Lena explained:

"Our orders before departing are to locate the Ranger designated by the Hispanic Crown to protect these woods. According to the information we have, he lives with his master outside the church's safe Havens.

We hope that the locals—or the priest of the nearest town—can provide us with the information we need to meet him as quickly as possible."

Turning back to address Crowley, Lena concluded, "Your men may stay, but a small contingent will accompany us."

The Grand Master, subtly questioning the commander's prudence, intervened. "Despite the losses, the knights of the Order of San Hexa-Celeris have no problem moving through these lands forgotten by the grace of God. You can count on us."

No sooner had he finished speaking than the young redhead with spiky hair beside him—dressed in the same type of Exo plate armor, and who had been more focused on the beautiful young woman in form-fitting leather armor accentuating every curve, with blue reinforcements, white details, and a matching vest, than on the meeting—loudly struck his breastplate with his gauntlet, silently reaffirming his Master, while unsuccessfully trying to catch the attention of Miss Mary behind the Inquisitor.

But it was Lena—rolling her eyes, fully aware of the perverse thoughts swirling in the young knight's mind—who brought the meeting to a close.

"Prepare yourselves to move. We will depart when the Inquisitor's vehicle is—"

Before she could finish, a broken voice interjected: "The vehicle won't be needed…"

The Inquisitor's eyes. hidden behind the fine slits of his mask, swept over the hills and trees surrounding the coast, scarred with craters and still-smoking bullet holes.

Then, as he fixed his gaze on a grove several kilometers away on the horizon—which offered a privileged view of the bay—his broken voice seemed to conceal a hint of amusement beneath the mask:

"Knowing that old man... surely he already has his eyes on us."

Intrigued by the Inquisitor's almost "friendly" tone, everyone present followed the direction indicated by the slits of his mask and scrutinized the grove for anything out of place.

After finding nothing but the rustling of leaves swayed by the wind, they looked back to see that the Inquisitor was already leaving the tent.

"We will depart on foot."

That was all he said.

-

At the same time, in that very distant grove…

"Tch, as unpleasant as I remembered…" murmured a voice, weathered by age and tinged with annoyance.

A couple of leaves detached as his figure moved, disappearing among the branches with an agility that belied the years he carried. His disciple followed him silently, while his mind remained preoccupied with a single doubt.

On the screen of his helmet's visor, it still displayed the capture of that figure dressed in red, staring at them intently from kilometers away.

'Did it really detect our presence… or was it just luck?'

-

By merely moving five hundred meters away from the safe refuge created by the torches surrounding the budding camp…

The "small" group of fifty men—not counting the mounts—that had departed from it sensed the hungry presence lurking in the shadows lining the old road along which they traveled.

The asphalt, almost non-existent, was merely a vestige of the world that once was before the arrival of the Monoliths, now reduced to sinkholes and cracks consumed by vegetation and time.

The mutated horses—the "Helix" of the dozen knights who had volunteered to participate in the advance—were the first to react. The muscles beneath the riveted plates of their armor tensed as they neighed nervously upon feeling surrounded.

And they were not the only ones…

The soldiers and knights gripped their weapons firmly—whether rifles or spears—remaining alert after the "warm" reception that the corrupt Iberian Peninsula had given them.

Carried by the nervous energy that spread like a current of air, Mary, the American scout, advanced alongside Lena, guarded by the inquisitor's personal guard—which he did not employ despite leading the group.

Having no memories to compare it to, other than the gigantic and pseudo-peaceful industrial city of London—where she had awakened after her accident and from whose walls she was never allowed to leave—compelled her to ask the woman beside her without taking her eyes off the surroundings of the old road:

"Do all the European kingdoms have so many… creatures?"

"No, most are safer… but due to the Andalusian front open within the Peninsula, all sorts of creatures ascended northward and spread throughout the rest of Europe like a cancer."

Without giving the frightened young woman beside her a moment's respite, Lena added, "The same happens with our destiny; the Viceroyalty of Constantinople. The closer we get to the monoliths… the more, and stronger, the creatures become…"

Mary's next question died in her throat as the shadows stalking the periphery finally took shape.

They were the same Drexer that had fled the massacre at the bay, but they hadn't gotten very far. The constant activity at the base kept them trapped—a perpetual reminder of their insatiable hunger that forced them to prowl, always on the lookout.

And now, seeing their prey removed from the shelter of that detestable light that had kept them at bay, their primitive instinct prevailed. They could no longer resist.

Commander Crowley, leading his soldiers, and Master Marcellus, with his knights, reacted immediately.

"Prepare to fire!" he shouted, while he himself aimed his rifle.

"Remember not to fall off your Helix!" advised the great Master.

But an irreparably broken voice stopped them.

"It won't be necessary," said the Inquisitor, leading the group, showing no concern—only annoyance.

Seeing the creatures approach, Commander Crowley gritted his teeth as he gave the counterintuitive order:

"Do not fire... do not waste bullets."

Despite having placed all his faith—and the lives of his men—in the Inquisitor, Fergus watched with his heart in his hands as the creatures pounced on them.

However, before they could even raise a claw…

The Inquisitor activated his revered weapon, as if he were nothing more than an old man clad in unsettling crimson armor.

Without any grand gesture, he gripped both hands around the handle of his cane and delivered a sharp blow to the ground with it.

The act was simple… but the reaction was scorching.

The divine particles, dormant in the night, instantly awakened within a radius of thirty meters around the group, reacting to the presence of the corrupt creatures that were approaching.

They shone like fireflies—or perhaps like fleeting sparks—as they refracted and distorted the light of their surroundings.

Whether it was the glow of the knights' and soldiers' lanterns and spotlights, the distant torches of the camp, or the pale, corrupt reflection of the moon, each source of light fragmented and amplified as it passed through them.

Just by illuminating the grayish skin of the Drexer… they barely had time to let out a shriek before being enveloped in flames, as if they had spontaneously combusted.

What, a second before, had been a path immersed in night was now lit up with vivid flames. Like an inexorable chain reaction, the light they generated intensified the glow around the nearby Drexer, each flaming body fueling the next until they were reduced to ashes.

Yielding a result similar to Divine Breath, but unlike that "miracle" which required reliquary torches and the participation of many devotees, this was wrought by a single person… with a simple strike of his cane.

Everyone was paralyzed before that "miracle," even the Drexer that were out of range.

"Inquisitor!" Lena, the assistant, exclaimed as she saw thin columns of smoke escaping from between the layers of crimson cloth falling around her boss.

"It seems I'm a bit rusty…" murmured the Inquisitor, explaining a moment of distraction… which was enough for the glow to fade and for him to feel the secondary effects.

Even after watching their comrades burn, the remaining Drexer did not hesitate. As soon as the glow ceased, they launched a new attack, their hunger overcoming any instinctive fear.

Commander Crowley and Master Marcellus did not hesitate, giving the order to open fire.

The Inquisitor, despite literally emitting smoke—as if his very body were being consumed from within—once again raised his cane, ready to repeat his miracle on the creatures entering his radius of influence.

But before the first bullet was fired… before the cane touched the ground…

Something fell onto the road in front of the group.

A cloth bag, soaked in a purple blood so thick it appeared black, burst against the asphalt with a wet sound, releasing an unbearable stench.

The air became filled with a nauseating aroma of rotten eggs and sulfur, but it wasn't just the smell that made it so repulsive. A cocktail of pheromones spread like an invisible cloud, enveloping the charging Drexer.

The change was immediate.

The voracious frenzy that had driven them crumbled in an instant. Their bodies tensed, their steps faltered, and suddenly, hunger transformed into pure panic.

Without warning, they let out heart-wrenching shrieks and fled in all directions—stumbling over one another, scratching at the ground in desperation, fleeing from the source of that odor with a primitive, almost irrational terror.

The group, astonished, watched as the danger dissipated in a matter of seconds. Although the threat was vanishing, a new unease loomed over them: at what cost?

The soldiers, knights, and even the steadfast protectors of the Inquisitor felt the suffocating stench burning their nostrils. Dry heaves swept through the ranks as some covered their faces in a desperate attempt to block out the nauseating air that permeated the road.

In search of the culprit behind that fetid "miracle," they raised their flashlights, following the trajectory of the bag.

The darkness before them returned the gaze.

Two bright points slowly emerged from the shadows, with the same natural ease as a corrupted beast would.

Mary, struggling to stifle her nausea, looked up. Amid the interplay of light and darkness, two figures materialized like spectres gliding from the blackness.

The first thing that caught her attention was the glow escaping from beneath their hoods: one a serene, spectral green, like the shine of a radar; the other, an intense orange, like a glowing ember.

Despite the darkness, Mary discerned the pattern of their garments—they were no ordinary soldiers. They did not wear the thick armor of knights nor the ceremonial robes of inquisitors or priests.

Their bodies were cloaked in muted green mantles, long enough to conceal their silhouettes without hindering movement. Deep hoods covered their heads, casting shadows over their helmets and leaving only the ominous gleam of their visors exposed.

Beneath the fabric, they wore practical, durable outfits: an armored chest piece secured by a harness dotted with small pockets, cartridges, and straps. In contrast, their wide, functional khaki trousers featured multiple compartments.

The only touch of color in their attire was the red sash tied around their waists—a striking detail amid their otherwise discreet uniform, which Mary couldn't tell whether it was merely an adornment, a distinctive mark of their unit, or the remnant of an ancient tradition.

A heavy silence fell over the group. No one dared speak until, with visible effort, the Inquisitor broke the tension. His voice, though tinged with exhaustion and pain, regained the familiarity he had shown in the tent—a tone that, in another moment, might have been almost warm.

He spoke in Regnum Latin, that modernized version of the ancient tongue which merged the European languages into a single solemn voice.

"I'm glad to see you again, old fri—"

But before he could finish, the hunched figure with the orange visor interrupted him.

"Get out of here. You haven't missed anything on these shores."

The atmosphere instantly tensed. The crimson Praetorians—the elite of the inquisitorial guard—rose like wolves on the prowl. Upon his imposing Helix, the Master of the Order narrowed his eyes, and his knights shifted uncomfortably in their seats—their lack of decorum not well received.

Amid the commotion of the men and the restless movement of the Helix behind him, the Inquisitor raised a hand. A simple gesture, yet laden with authority, enough to command silence.

He allowed himself a brief pause, slightly surprised by the cold welcome. His eyes swept over the hunched figure before him, keeping its distance from the group.

You were always aloof... but at least you used to show some restraint with familiar faces. And especially with old ones...

His gaze then shifted to the calm emerald reflection shining beside him.

'So, despite your years... you've grown fond of him, huh?'

The Inquisitor's sharp mind quickly connected the dots. His old acquaintance's behavior told him more than any words could.

'Ahmm...'

Sighing internally, the Inquisitor wondered:

'Do I really need to remind you of something you already know all too well, old friend?'

'In the times we live in...'

As he pulled a finely decorated scroll of metal and leather from his waist, adorned with engravings and inscriptions, he concluded in his mind:

'There is no room for sentimentality.'

With a dull, unceremonious crack, the Inquisitor unfurled the parchment it protected, exposing its golden script to the cold, corrupt light of the night...

"I, León V, humble servant of God, Head of the Vatican Kingdom, and Great Pope of the Regnum, personally write this missive for the good of Constantinople… in these dire times..."

The moment those first lines were spoken, the weight of their authority fell upon those present.

The first to react were the Inquisitor's Crimson Guard and the attendant Lena, who, ignoring the stench, knelt on the ground in unison.

They led Mary and the soldiers, who immediately followed their example.

Meanwhile, the knights bowed their heads and struck their breastplates with their gauntlets in reverence. Even their Helix mounts, attuned to their riders' unease, neighed with their six legs shifting restlessly.

The cold, corrupt air of the night seemed to turn solemn as the Inquisitor continued...

"To those who bear and safeguard any branch of human knowledge and use it for the good of the Regnum, holding the title of Officer, you are hereby ordered to come to the aid of the eastern front and lend your wisdom to the holy war against the Monoliths, which threaten creation and the will of God..."

Though many more paragraphs of pomp and formalities dictated by the Pope remained, the Inquisitor was unable to finish. A voice, hardened by age, cut through the air with a simple, dry reply:

"I refuse."

The silence that followed was uncomfortable, almost suffocating.

A missive written by the Pope himself was not a mere order from a feudal lord or a village Priest that an Officer could question—it was the unquestionable voice of authority throughout the Regnum… and beyond.

Refusing it had only two possible outcomes: Dead, and not a short one, or forced conscription into a pilgrimage of redemption, sent to the worst fronts from which no one ever returned.

And yet… the Inquisitor's reaction—neither offended nor angered, but rather amused by the response—kept the soldiers and knights from moving, as they normally would in similar circumstances.

"This decree has been signed and sealed in blood by the Crown of Hispania, the Viceroy of Constantinople, and His Holiness the Pope."

The old ranger did not waver. His answer came with the same indifference:

"I don't care whose blood was used to sign it… I wasn't even born in this kingdom."

'Tch… it didn't even exist.' He told himself in irritation before continuing:

"The little I've done for the Crown has been out of pure convenience."

A murmur of disbelief rippled through the soldiers, but the Inquisitor barely reacted. Instead, his gaze shifted to the emerald glow beside him, and with his broken voice, he added:

"It doesn't matter what you say… besides, it's not you the Viceroy seeks, nor the one the Crown is bargaining for...."

The emerald visor flickered between his master and the Inquisitor, as if he were uncertain.

Ignoring him, the old master inquired, "Is the front… truly that bad?"

Once again… the silence that followed his question was heavy.

No one spoke. No one made a sound, still kneeling.

Although, the soldiers had trained for this, and the knights had sworn their lives to it—earning the right to wear their armor— none of them truly knew what awaited them at their destination.

Now, with a rare chance to hear an honest answer—directly from an Inquisitor—they all held their breath. Not out of respect, but out of fear that even the faintest sigh might cause them to miss it.

Especially when… it was just a single word.

"Yes."

The Inquisitor pronounced it like the final nail sealing a coffin.

The old ranger let out a deep breath, as if the confirmation merely cemented something he had already known.

"The time has come, hasn't it…?"

Subtly lifting his gaze beneath his mask, the Inquisitor looked at the "bird" circling furtively above them. Watching the scaled creature they used for communication he gave his inevitable reply.

"You know it well..."

Calmly, he crouched down and took the bag containing Alpha's head. He held it for a moment, as if weighing the significance of what it represented, before breaking the empty space that separated both groups.

He advanced along the barely existent road toward the confused emerald glow.

Upon reaching him, the Inquisitor extended his arm and handed him the bag. Without looking away, he asked:

"Ashliath Bennet, do you accept the call for aid from Viceroy Baldwin XIII, returning 'home' to implement the advancements made by your old tutor and master in Constantinople's fight against the Monolith hordes?"

Ashe raised his hand and deactivated his visor, revealing his dull green eyes through the horizontal slit of his helmet.

Before answering the summons of a Viceroy from a city he had no memory of… he turned to the only family he had left.

His mentor, who slowly removed his helmet. The extra wrinkles on his face were not marks of age but of his disdain for the situation. Without a word, he nodded reluctantly, as if each movement cost him.

That simple confirmation, made the confusion in Ashe's eyes shift into a sharp determination as his orders became clear

Ready to depart for a new front, he made the soldiers and those present smile, reminding them of their oaths...

As he removed his helmet, revealing his face, and dropped to one knee, to simply respond:

"I accept."

-

After Ashe rose once more, his old master wasted no time in asking:

"When will you depart?"

"Tomorrow," replied the Inquisitor, his voice deep and measured. "The last reinforcements of the Hispanic Crown, who travel alongside the caravan of pilgrims to Santiago, we will join on us, our way to the Frankish Kingdom."

Knowing the caravan he mention that crossed the entire Kingdom every three months, the old man nodded with a slight grunt.

He brought his hand to his chin in a thoughtful gesture, observing for a moment the broken sword on Ashe's back and then the multiple legs of the armored beasts behind the Inquisitor.

Finally, the old ranger asked with feigned innocence, while suppressing the smile that threatened to creep onto his lips:

"Since you're here... would you do an old friend a favor?"

The Inquisitor raised an eyebrow beneath his mask.

"A favor?"

"Yes... a small one," the old man replied, bringing his fingers together until there was barely any space between them.

-

After notifying Commander Crowley and Grand Master Marcelus of the change of plans, caused by the "small" favor...

When the new order reached the soldiers...

One of them exclaimed, staring at his commander in disbelief, "Is this a joke?!"

Another burly soldier, clean-shaven and with several scars on his face that spoke of his veteran status, shoved his way through his comrades.

Upon reaching Crowley, he threw his helmet to the ground at the mere thought of venturing deeper into those dark forests... without the strength of an Inquisitor backing them up.

And he added, "You're screwing us over, Commander, huh?" It almost sounded more like a threat.

Despite the obvious difference in height and build between Crowley and the furious specimen before him — who looked like he was about to grab him by the neck, judging by how red his face was —

Crowley sighed and, crossing his arms with forced patience, replied, "You've heard it. Unless you want to find yourselves in front of a firing squad... get ready to move out."

"You son of a—!" Before he could finish, another member of the old guard covered his mouth, pushed him behind the others, and asked...

"But boss... couldn't we do it at dawn?" With the same familiarity he used to treat Crowley back in his days as a small-time gang leader.

"No. These are the Inquisitor's orders. If you don't like it, go and tell him yourselves," Crowley replied, nodding subtly toward the imposing figure clad in crimson armor and robes standing with another group behind him.

The soldiers glanced sideways at the Inquisitor, only to find him staring back at them with an unsettling calm, as if he had heard every word and dared them to protest in person.

His "invitation" had an immediate and opposite effect, causing everyone to avert their gaze, pretending to be interested in anything else...

While cursing under their breath:

"Damn it... who wants to be burned alive?"

"Better that than being eaten..."

Hearing them, Crowley allowed himself a faint smile. Having used the stick, now came the...

"We're still near the coast..." he said casually. "If you're so unhappy with the task... I'll go find a few men willing to work for an hour... in exchange for a free night in the nearby village."

The response was immediate.

"No need for that, boss!" the same shaved veteran soldier quickly said. "Let those beach boys 'rest' unloading crates... we'll handle it, even if we have to march through these damned woods at night."

Crowley smiled, satisfied with his little manipulation. As had just been made clear, he wasn't the kind of commander who expected blind obedience, and his men... well, they weren't exactly devoted patriots to offer it.

His battalion didn't function solely out of fear of punishment or discipline. It was held together by bonds far older and far grittier than the uniform of the Brittana Crown's army they wore.

"That's what I wanted to hear. Prepare to move out!"

"Yes, sir!" the men shouted, their resignation now replaced with the promise of drinking themselves unconscious by nightfall.

While the soldiers received their orders with grunts, open complaints, and tavern jokes, a similar scene unfolded among the knights... though more restrained.

"So... we have to protect the scout?" asked the red-haired disciple of the Grand Master, frowning.

He glanced at the hooded figure who would join them on their journey — a young man with ashen hair and dull green eyes — standing a few steps behind his master, who was conversing indecorously with the Inquisitor.

With studied calm, the Grand Master replied, "No. The Inquisitor has asked us to use the strength of our Helix to haul a 'valuable cargo' to the nearest village."

Noticing the longsword strapped to the young man's back and the cloth soaked in black blood he held in his hands, the disciple could already guess what this "cargo" might be. The Grand Master added, turning to his second-in-command:

"Though young, he is apparently an expert at navigating these semi-corrupted lands. He will guide you to the cargo and then to the village. Rest and regain your strength there, at least it will have a church where you can properly pray after so much time relying solely on the ship's chapel."

Just like the soldiers, the knights disliked the idea of venturing deeper into the forest at night without the Inquisitor. But unlike the soldiers, who voiced their displeasure without restraint, the knights' reaction was... restrained.

A brief pause, where each of them swallowed their discomfort before responding with the rigid discipline of their order:

"Whatever you command shall be done, Grand Master."

Their voices were firm, but their eyes, hidden beneath their helmets, told a different story.

The Grand Master nodded, pretending not to notice the tension in his men.

"Red. Take care of your brothers."

The disciple looked up, surprised.

"You're not coming with us, Master?"

The the maestre gave a faint smile.

"No. I will follow the Inquisitor."

Finally, the third and final group received their orders.

"Are you sure you don't want me to accompany you?" Lena asked in her usual professional tone, wearing a more practical version of her uniform, with boots and other details, while maintaining her captivating silhouette.

"That won't be necessary. If it weren't for the Maester's insistence and..." the Inquisitor cast a fleeting glance at the leader of his guard, clad in the same dark crimson armor, "the captain of my guard would set out with only Lord Bennet."

Upon hearing that surname, which brought back memories of another time when his father was called that... the old ranger grunted in displeasure, "Don't call me that..."

The Inquisitor ignored him.

"Besides, I'd rather you handle keeping the men in line during my absence. I don't want any trouble."

"Understood," Lena replied, placing her hand on her chest in a formal gesture.

Knowing his "old" friend well and preferring to travel with as few people as possible, the Inquisitor added:

"Take Miss Mary with you as well. Take the opportunity to rest in the village... we have a tough road ahead."

While they spoke, old Bennet exchanged a glance with Ashe and, with a simple nod, signaled him to follow.

A few meters away, the old man raised his arm and held it rigid in the air for a few seconds. No other signal was needed. Something swiftly descended from the sky and landed on it with silent precision.

Under their hoods, Ashe and the old man smiled at the sight of their scaled companion after three weeks of absence.

The creature before them had the bearing of a bird of prey, but with features that set it apart from any common species. Its body was covered in dense, mottled plumage designed for camouflage. On its chest, the feathers were lighter, gradually darkening toward the wings, where they became stiffer and intermingled with thick, earthy scales. On the legs and chest, the transition between feather and scale was natural and stable, as if evolution itself had been unable to decide between bird and reptile.

Its head retained the structure of a falcon, with a strong, curved beak, but the most striking feature was its eyes—cold, elongated, devoid of any trace of docility. Its wings, though folded, hinted at their impressive span, with hardened feathers that bordered on the reptilian. They weren't just built for speed but also to withstand impacts.

It made no unnecessary movements, nor did it emit sounds without purpose. Its mere presence was imposing, like that of a silent predator that didn't need to roar to command respect.

"I'm glad to see you, Drawk."

The mutated creature, much like the Helix of the cavalry, raised its wings and let out a deep caw—its version of a satisfied response. Even more so when the old man pulled out a piece of dried meat and tossed it to him.

Ashe also took out a ration to offer, but Drawk merely stared at him. He didn't approach, nor did he make any move to take it.

"Still the same," Ashe murmured with a hint of resignation. He had been getting the same response since he was eleven years old, when he first met his master's pet and companion.

The old man smiled. "I told you already. He simply… doesn't like you."

Ashe glanced at the Helix, who snorted subtly and stepped aside upon noticing his presence.

"Seems like no animal likes me."

The old man let out a dry chuckle.

"Don't exclude humans… they don't like you much either."

Ashe smirked.

"That's you, master."

After that brief exchange between master and disciple, watching the soldiers and knights prepare to depart, the old man murmured while stroking the scars on Drawk's chest, almost making him purr

"Use them to recover the remains of your sword and transport the Alpha's corpse. Make sure you get the Priest's money… you'll need it." He paused briefly before adding, "Then wake up the blacksmith and have him finish it before you leave, even if he has to stay up all night."

"Understood."

"Good…"

After another moment of silence, neither of them spoke, but no one moved. Ashe said nothing at first, yet his hesitation did not go unnoticed. In the end, curiosity won out.

"Will you really take them home?"

He didn't need to gesture or glance at the Inquisitor's guard for his master to understand who he meant. Bennet cast a quick look at the group and answered bluntly:

"It's none of your business. It's my home, remember?"

"I'm just saying it doesn't fit your character…" Ashe hesitated, searching for the right word before finally settling on: "Reserved."

"You were going to say 'hermit,' weren't you?"

"No… antisocial."

Bennet scoffed, amused by his disciple's lack of tact.

"Make the most of the night, kid, just like the soldiers. After leaving your sword with the blacksmith, you're free until dawn. Don't come back until then… say your goodbyes to the townspeople and to your friend... Tessa"

The sudden mention of "Tessa" caused Ashe to react slightly. It was nothing more than a faint blush, barely noticeable, but enough for his master to flash a knowing smirk.

As Ashe wondered, 'Does he know her?,' his lips said:

"I don't know what you mean, Master. I just like the way she cooks."

The old man let out a raspy chuckle as the groups began to move, and he headed toward the Inquisitor.

"I don't care. Enjoy your free night in town, kid… it might be your last."

He didn't say it because he believed his disciple would die on the battlefield—after all, he had trained him far too well to allow that. But with both of them leaving, the small town they had protected for over a decade would be left adrift. Perhaps it would slowly fade away until it disappeared… or, if luck was on its side, it would become a decaying shadow…

-

15 minutes later… deep in the forest

"Follow the tracks and don't stop running…"

With that brief warning and a mechanical hiss, the guide who was supposed to lead them vanished into the shadows cast by the lanterns and spotlights of the forty men and the Helix following him.

From within those shadows, violent growls, flesh being torn apart, and the wet sound of blood hitting the ground grew more intense with every step they took along the tracks cutting through the forest.

"What the hell is going on?!" shouted one of the soldiers, his voice barely audible over the chaos surrounding them.

"I have no idea, but keep running! Don't lose formation!" responded Crowley, his pulse racing as he ran alongside his men.

Covering them, Red's firm voice, commanding the knights, controlled their panic by focusing on issuing orders to his brothers:

"Hold your Helix in check! Maintain the wall!"

The knights rode in two parallel lines, forming a moving barrier that shielded the people in the center.

As they ran, Mary clutched the lantern strapped to her chest, its beam trembling with each frantic step. Then, in a sudden jolt, the strap loosened, and the light swung wildly, cutting through the darkness and landing on the source of one of the unsettling noises echoing through the trees.

The beam illuminated a Dexer, its claws tearing into the bark of a tree with frenzied intensity, as if possessed by a mindless rage.

Before she could make sense of it… something above their heads caught her attention.

First came the irregular dripping of purple blood splattering against their armor, then the wet thuds of flesh falling among them, forcing Mary to lift her gaze.

Above, swarms of bat-like creatures flailed in a violent frenzy. Their bodies were unnaturally large, their plagiopatagia—the muscle between their membranous wings—overdeveloped to a grotesque degree, far beyond the realm of a mere mutated animal.

There was a threshold, and once crossed, they were no longer simple aberrations of forced evolution. They had become corrupted beasts.

As they pressed forward along the tracks, the nauseatingly familiar stench grew stronger, and the behavior of the corrupted creatures—Drexer or otherwise—became even more erratic and violent.

Through the shifting shadows, lanterns and spotlights illuminated vaguely humanoid figures, hunched like frogs ready to leap. But they had no skin. Instead, raw, exposed muscle twitched and tensed in irregular spasms, each fiber visible in a grotesque display. Even what seemed to be their brains bulged from their pulsating skulls, throbbing with a sickening rhythm.

One of them suddenly snapped its head toward them as if it had detected their presence, but instead of attacking, its body convulsed.

It lunged at what seemed to be empty space—until the sound of flesh being pierced filled the air. Its elongated, blade-like claws had sunk into something that hadn't been there a second ago.

Another of its kind, now revealed as its camouflage shattered upon impact.

Without hesitation, the newly exposed creature turned on its attacker, and the two began tearing into each other.

"What the hell is wrong with them?" one of the soldiers asked, breathless as he ran.

"They seem to be in a frenzy, unable to distinguish friend from foe," Lena replied. "As long as we don't cross paths with one head-on, we should be fi—"

She never got to finish.

Right in front of them, illuminated by their lanterns and spotlights, stood a Drexer, motionless on the tracks. Its head twitched, long ears swiveling erratically, as if searching for something to unleash its fury upon.

Its maw, filled with jagged teeth of varying sizes, dripped thick saliva. A single strand fell to the ground, viscous and slow—like a rabid animal ready to strike.

"What do we do? Do we attack?" Mary asked, her heartbeat quickening once more.

"Anything, but we have to move…" a soldier watching the rear responded, noticing that the skinless creatures they had left behind were starting to become aware of their presence.

"Tch…"

Red gritted his teeth as he yanked the reins of his Helix, preparing to charge at the Drexer blocking their path. He cursed every second in his mind, blaming the cowardly scout who had abandoned them in the middle of a pack of corrupted creatures.

But just as he was about to charge… a small pack of three Drexers bolted across the tracks at full speed, slamming directly into their motionless "companion."

What happened next left everyone momentarily stunned.

The three creatures, who had been fleeing in terror just a second ago, seemed to forget why they were running. Instead, they became entangled in a storm of claws and fangs, relentlessly attacking the Drexer that had stood in their way.

Knights and soldiers exchanged glances, unsure whether to seize the opportunity and run or not.

Then, a mechanical whistle cut through the air.

From the darkness, the silhouette of the supposed coward reappeared, landing precisely on the tracks. Ashe observed them through the emerald lens of his visor and gave a single order:

"Move..."

Without wasting any time, he started running again, forcing the group to keep up with his pace.

Red, still irritated, spurred his Helix forward with a couple of quick gallops until he was level with him.

"Where the hell were you?!" he snapped, not bothering to hide his anger.

"Stragglers," Ashe replied without stopping.

"What are you talking about?"

"The Drexers that freeze up due to pheromone saturation and don't act like the others… we call them stragglers. They're the most dangerous because they're the most unpredictable."

Red frowned, processing the information.

"And what does that have to do?"

"The one standing still in front of you was one of them. Even if I had used the Alpha's head, it wouldn't have run away. It would have stayed there… and a battle we can't afford in the middle of a frenzy wave would have been inevitable.

So I looked for an alternative and used their frenzy— to our advantage."

Overwhelmed by the sudden explanation and unfamiliar terms, Red could only mutter:

"What?"

Ashe didn't respond immediately. Instead, he looked ahead and said firmly:

"We're close to the body. We can talk there."

-

Inspirations/references