Chapter 8

The echo of footsteps resonated through the catacombs as the Church knight descended toward the vast extraction hall. The constant heat emanating from the metal conduits, and the unmistakable sour scent of crystallized Diesel floating in the air, grew stronger with each step he took.

Crossing the threshold of the vaulted stone chamber, the knight saw the acolytes, dressed in rough, plain white robes, using shovels and picks to break the crystallized plates and extract the Diesel-C adhered to the rectangular pools carved into the stone.

He turned to his companion, who neither took his eyes off the workers nor his hand off his sword—quelling any temptation the Acolytes might have to keep a bit of the precious Diesel for themselves. He asked:

"The Priest?"

"Resting," his companion replied, before adding, "And your task?"

"Fulfilled. The chest was delivered to its rightful owner," the newcomer answered.

"Good." The knight tilted his head slightly as he shared their new orders.

"We'll oversee the extraction of the Diesel-C by the Acolytes. Once they finish, we'll secure the Alpha's body and protect the hall... until the Priest has rested and is ready for the next round."

As he spoke, at the center of the chamber, the dense, dark fluid with iridescent gleams still dripped slowly from the tip of the pike that pierced the chest of the immobilized monstrous creature.

Drop by drop, the essence was processed by the machinery, passing through various phases—until it could not pass the fourth and final stage. Then, instead, it was stored in massive sacred metal drums, lined with pages from the Regnum's Bible, aged by the years.

"Understood," was the knight's only reply before joining the silent supervision of the slow process.

-

A few hours later... deep into the night.

The intricate alloy gates, infused with enough sacred metal to emit an amber glow, sealed the extraction chamber.

Its machinery sat silent. The two cages holding the Alpha's corpse remained well apart from each other, secured with runes and seals engraved into the floor, flooded with wax from the candles arranged around them.

Outside, guarding it, the two Church knights stood motionless... until the catacomb lamps cast long shadows from the channels leading to the entrance.

An acolyte emerged. The same one who, hours earlier, had received the first samples of Diesel-C from the Priest to fuel the golden flame of the tower.

He walked with a clumsy gait, dragging his feet.

The knights' helmets turned in unison. One looked at the other. They said nothing—just a slight nod in silent warning.

The one closest raised his voice with authority:

"Acolyte. What are you doing here? Why did the guards let you—"

Before he could finish, his incomplete question was answered in a way.

Behind the acolyte appeared the two guards who, just that afternoon, had been stationed at that very door.

They too were dragging their feet, eyes glazed with the same vacant stare.

"Stop!" one of the knights roared, as if trying to snap them out of it. "You're violating Church protocol. This chamber is under direct seal from Priest Salazar!"

His warning was met with "..." Silence.

The three figures kept moving slowly forward. The sound of their steps was uneven, as if even standing upright required effort.

"Final warning," said one of the knights, needing no further words as he drew his sword and pointed it directly at the intruders.

The acolyte at the front stopped just as the steel tip met his chest. He slowly lifted his head, revealing eyes wide open—pupils twitching uncontrollably, jittering without rest.

As if he were in REM phase…

Then he smiled.

Not with mockery.

Not with rage.

But with pure joy—almost ecstatic. As if something sacred stood before him… something beautiful… his deepest desire, the one that haunted even his dreams.

And it made us step forward...

Even as the blade pierced his chest and blood filled his mouth, the acolyte didn't lose that smile. On the contrary, he leaned in further, impaling himself, as if trying to touch the very thing he longed for… the thing that, quite literally, was killing him.

The second knight, who hadn't moved an inch while watching, spoke in a neutral tone—almost mechanical, like reciting something memorized since childhood.

"Anomalous psychic activity. Recommending action under Protocol 223."

His partner answered without hesitation "Agreed."

As he moved with force, yanking the sword brutally from the acolyte's body. The viscera hit the floor before the semi-split torso collapsed with a wet sound

Despite the acolyte's death, the knights didn't apply the same lethality to the guards—but they did use the same brutality.

One of them moved forward and drove a kick straight into the first guard's chest with such force it lifted him off the ground. The body was flung backward through the channel like a ragdoll, then skidded several meters, leaving deep grooves in the ground.

The second didn't fare any better. The other knight delivered a sharp, horizontal blow with the back of his gauntlet, straight to the jaw. The impact not only shattered it—it sent the guard flying sideways into the wall, where he crashed with a dull thud and collapsed like a sack of bones.

One of the knights stopped, watching them from a distance. His companion, on the other hand, sheathed his sword and stepped forward to check the guards' limp bodies.

With luck, they were still breathing.

"You shouldn't touch them," said the first, his tone a warning. "We don't know what might be controlling them. Physical contact is a risk."

"Our blows count as contact too," the other replied without breaking stride. "And we're fine."

He knelt beside one of the bodies and began inspecting it carefully. The other knight kept watching in silence—until something made him tense.

When he turned around and faced him… he saw what he feared most.

From the cross on his companion's helmet visor, something began to ooze.

A thick liquid, as dense and dark as the essence of the Alpha, dripped slowly, staining the metal shaped into a holy cross with dark streaks.

Without hesitation, following a different protocol, the knight raised his sword and brought it down in a strike meant to end the corrupted life of his companion.

But lifting his weapon just in time, his companion managed to block the blow and save his life.

They fought. With every clash of their swords, the black liquid gurgled from inside the helmet, as if trying to speak—but the sludge choked the voice.

The knight heard only growls and the metallic clang of their blades.

Finally, letting his arm be pierced by the corrupted knight's sword, the knight landed a brutal blow with the hilt of his weapon.

With such force that it dented the helmet. The body collapsed—not dead, but unconscious.

Breathing heavily, the knight pulled the sword from his arm. He didn't pause, didn't flinch, didn't let out even the slightest groan. His companion lay at his feet—unconscious, corrupted. There was no salvation. Only the certainty that he must not be allowed to wake as something worse.

But just as he was about to deliver the final blow...

Clank.

A dry, metallic sound broke the silence of the room and slipped through the intricate grates that sealed it.

The knight turned immediately. And, as if the nightmare hadn't ended, he saw the Alpha's cage trembling.

The body—split in two, the head locked away at one end of the room, the torso impaled at the center—began to shake. Not with life… but with violence.

CLANK.

Another blow, stronger this time, made the ground vibrate.

The chains pulled taut, the bars groaned, as if they might give way at any moment.

Then it happened.

Veins and muscle fibers began to grow from both halves of the body, like twitching roots sprouting from flesh, stretching, searching through the gaps between the cells.

He couldn't allow it.

The knight opened the alloy gates sealing the room, drew his sword once again, and began cutting the nerves and muscles emerging from both sides, trying to stop their reunion.

Or at least, that's what he thought he was doing...

The Alpha's corpse thrashed like the headless beast it had become, warping the bars that barely held it back.

With no other option, the knight opened the piranha-solution pits.

Unable to literally move the pillar that impaled the Alpha's torso, he chose the lesser of two evils.

He ran to the rotary crank that controlled the rail system of the head's cage and turned it with force.

Even if it meant bringing it closer to the rest of the corpse beneath the spike. The cell began sliding slowly toward the center of the room—where he could submerge it in the solution.

The head, until that moment lifeless, began to truly thrash—jerky spasms slamming it against the bars.

Before he could continue…

"Something smells... fishy."

A voice, calm and commanding, snapped the knight out of his trance.

It came from the man who had just crossed the threshold of the room—wearing only leather boots, loose khaki pants, and a strap running across his bare, scar-riddled chest, securing the sheath of the two-handed sword slung across his back.

One of his eyes was closed, leaving only the right one visible: human and green.

The astral creature—unseen by human eyes but perched on the knight's shoulders, manipulating him—released its grip.

As if swimming through air, its face lined with tentacles where a mouth should be, it recoiled and slid toward the newcomer.

It came close enough that, when it opened the crown of eyes on its forehead—shaped like a cruel crescent-moon smile—they could get a good look at him.

Each of them could see something different:

The first could see past memories.

The second, desires and ambitions.

The third, traumas and fears.

The fourth, the part that never spoke: the unconscious.

The fifth, the strength that came not from the body or muscles, but from deep within the mind.

And together… they could perceive the very essence of the soul.

It was there that the astral being found a black-haired child, crying in the middle of a battlefield, surrounded by corpses.

The child suddenly stopped crying... and lifted his head, meeting its gaze.

Causing the being… to hesitate.

Especially when the child took a step forward—and with it, became a teenager clad in armor. Another step, and he was a man wielding a colossal sword.

The astral being watched, stunned—for the first time—as the essence of a soul fought back.

One more step, and his body was now covered in a living armor, one that seemed to devour him from within.

Until, with the final step… he was no longer human.

Now, standing before the astral being and its unsettling crown of crescent-smiling eyes, was no man—but something shapeless, monstrous, and just as claimed by the void… as the being itself.

So much so that, upon recognizing it, it was the one who stepped back.

Causing both the creature in the dreamscape and "Ashe" in the extraction room to speak as one, in a tongue born of the Empty:

"Thal'enae sevarian il'khar... Ysaer'cuth C'thulhuun."

The being shuddered.

The C'thulhuun—or, the closest approximation in our language; C'thuloid—upon hearing the name of its race spoken in that "mother" tongue, had its worst fears confirmed, prompting it to try to retreat as far as it could from the young man at the entrance of the room.

Who, upon opening his closed eyelid while unsheathing his sword, could even see the tentacles twitching nervously on the face of the astral projection, invisible to the human eye.

As he tightened his grip on the hilt, "Ashe"—or rather, the entity controlling his body—couldn't stop the corners of his mouth from lifting at the feeling of a sword in hand once more, after such a long, long time...

Then... after erasing it as if it had never existed in the first place. He vanished.

Reappearing just behind the projection that was attempting to flee, bringing down his two-handed sword with one arm. An attack that seemed casual… if not for the raw strength contained in that... simple vertical slash.

Which didn't break the air's barrier. It cut it.

Causing a metallic cacophony to flood the room as it clashed against the knight's sword—who barely managed to intercept it, forced to kneel in order to absorb the impact of the blow.

"Hoo," exhaled 'Ashe,' visibly surprised. He had used more strength than any human should possess.

Enough to—Crack—break the stone floor, which split open, forming a small crater beneath the knight's knees—who, nonetheless, had stopped him.

Proving he was not... normal.

With the same determination with which he would protect Salazar, the knight rose once more, placing himself as a living shield before the astral projection.

'Ashe' watched, intrigued. He had seen these knights before, many times, in the 'young one's' memories. And what had always caught his attention was the discomfort—perhaps even disgust—that the boy's old master had shown in each of those memories.

Curious to know what lay hidden behind that visor-shaped cross helmet, 'Ashe' raised his greatsword—the blade had lost the symmetry of its edge after being reforged—and pointed it directly at the knight.

Like a symbol that transcended creeds, races, and even creation itself, for two beings wielding swords... the knight of the church charged without a word.

Ashe responded without taking a single step back.

The first clash was swift. Silent—almost clean. The blades met with a sharp, unadorned impact.

Just steel seeking steel.

Then came the next strikes. Faster. One, two, ten times—twenty...

The air filled with sparks and whistling gusts. Each clash echoed, trapped within the stone and metal of the extraction chamber.

It seemed like an even fight—until one paid attention to the difference between the two swordsmen. It looked, quite literally, like a duel between a... child and an adult.

The knight's breathing grew heavier with every attack, using every muscle in his body. He shifted his guard with force, pressed forward, forced openings... trying everything he could.

Ashe, on the other hand—with just one arm—was able to use the debole of his two-handed sword as if it were the forte to deflect and stop each fervent strike that came his way.

(*Debole and Forte: The weak and strong parts of a sword when defending. These may vary depending on the situation, but almost always, the tip is weaker for parrying, and the area near the hilt is the stronger.)

And yet, despite the clear advantage, he did not strike. He only parried each thrust.

Drawing out the duel, like someone savoring a fine meal... or simply something edible after eons of starvation. Until, once he was "satisfied," with a single move—not only did he disarm the knight, but he tore off his helmet.

The counterattack wasn't spectacular, but it happened in an instant—carrying the fluidity that only vast experience can provide.

He redirected the blade of his greatsword, twisted his wrist slightly, and delivered an upward strike that ripped the knight's sword from his hands. The blade flew through the air, spinning, until it embedded itself into the cavernous ceiling with a dull clang.

The helmet, caught in the path of the rising greatsword, fared no better. It was launched in the same direction, smashing against the stone before clattering to the ground with a metallic echo.

'Ashe'... lowered his greatsword, stopping it just millimeters from the exposed face of the knight—Clicking his tongue in disgust upon understanding the old man's reaction.

"No matter the world or civilization... the Church always disgusts me."

Though his age was hard to determine, given the developed muscles climbing up his neck and framing his face,

His youthful features made it clear—he couldn't be older than twelve.

A child trained and conditioned before he could even speak, trapped in an adult's body, engineered for war.

Surprised by the refreshing annoyance he felt at the thought of killing a child, 'Ashe' twisted his wrist and struck the boy-knight with the pommel of his sword.

The boy, whose eyes were wide open and whose pupils trembled in REM phase, shut them and collapsed to the ground.

It was in that moment of safety—after neutralizing your enemy—that he had to lean his head and back backward to dodge the new blade that silently appeared from his blind spot, aiming to slice his throat.

In the same motion, he drove his greatsword into the floor, and the blade served as a shield to block a second edge aimed at his heart.

There was no tension in the air. No warning. Neither of the two strikes carried even a hint of murderous intent. As if those wielding the blades weren't trying to kill... but prune vegetation.

They were the two guards. Their eyes, wide open, showed pupils in REM phase too. One of them had his jaw brutally fractured, hanging crookedly.

Both were dead in motion.

Each breath came out as a wet, high-pitched wheeze, like wind slipping through the cracks of the catacomb they were in.

Revealing multiple punctures in their lungs—caused by the knights' brutal attacks during their capture, and worsened by the manipulation that forced their wounded bodies to move.

The C'thuloid stood with three of its five eyes shut, leaning behind the second knight—the one with the dented helmet—who had entered alongside the guards during the fight.

Aware of what he was trying to do, upon seeing the knight finish turning the crank...

'Ashe' shook his head and turned with elegance, chaining measured steps as if dancing instead of fighting.

And as his body turned… so did his sword.

The blade traced a cut as fluid as his steps, slicing through the knees, chest, and necks of both guards in a single motion.

Not one of the six pieces their bodies were reduced to hit the ground before the movement was complete.

After finishing... "Do you truly believe that creature—touched by the blood of Val'tha, the same one the child managed to defeat alone—stands any chance against me?" He said in perfect Regnum Latin, pointing to himselves multiple times, each time referring to someone different.

Which the C'thuloid seemed to understand without issue, judging by the way it hesitated.

"Please…" 'Ashe' added, resting calmly on his sword. "Go on. I'm sure it'll be a more satisfying fight than with most mortals."

Despite the obvious provocation, the C'thuloid projection didn't change its plan...

It finished bringing the two cages together until, through the bars, the nerves, veins, and muscles extending from both parts… connected.

The moment they touched, the process accelerated—hundreds of muscle fibers and nerves erupted from both sides, violently fusing head and body.

Each new connection reinforced the last, ignoring the bars that now became the ones imprisoned—by flesh and bone.

Then, once the parts were fused tightly enough, the engine roared back to life… with a deep, ominous heartbeat.

It grew louder, until the Alpha's body… came back to life, shaking within its prison.

The cage didn't hold—Exploded.

A metallic groan. Pistons burst. The hydraulic arms that had kept the structure stable ripped clean from the frame. Pipes ruptured in a storm of superheated steam. Valves blew one after another, plunging the room into a thick white cloud that spread from its center.

Chains groaned, their links clashing against each other.

The pike—suspended from the ceiling and meant to keep the Alpha impaled—began to rise slowly before vanishing into the thick steam.

Only to reemerge for a split second, launched toward 'Ashe,' who dodged it with the slightest shift of a shoulder.

It flew across the room. The massive pike, over five meters long, smashed through the wall, shaking the entire structure with a brutal tremor.

Though nothing compared to what followed.

The catacombs trembled—and with them, the central plateau of Urdyales that held them.

Everything paused for a moment, as the Alpha roared with all its might.

Finally free.

The entire city heard it.

The primal sound cut through stone, tunnels, and the hearts of those still alive above.

"I wasn't expecting that…" Even 'Ashe' was surprised

When the Alpha emerged from the steam with five eyes… crowning its once-blind forehead.

-

A few seconds later...

The church bells shattered the silence with their dry, urgent toll. It wasn't a usual call. That sequence was only played in case of alarm.

Under the protection of the Golden Flame —which crowned the complex bell tower, filled with pipes and valves— the townsfolk began to gather in the village square, in front of the church.

Some arrived still in the simple clothes they wore to sleep, armed with whatever they had at hand: hoes, knives, rusted swords, or old firearms that barely worked.

A dull tension hung in the air. Most didn't know what was happening, but all of them linked it to that primal roar that had ripped them from their dreams, hearts pounding, like a rabbit sensing a predator in its burrow.

Salazar and the mayor took control of the situation, giving instructions to the guard and the church acolytes who handed out weapons to the poorly equipped.

Many of them sighed in relief when they saw Crowley, Master Marcelus, and Red arriving from different parts of the square —each followed by their men: knights clad in imposing exo-armor, and soldiers with soaked faces and clothes.

As if they'd been forcefully awakened by cold buckets of water, enough to shake off the remnants of alcohol still clinging to them.

While the Master caught up with Salazar, Crowley asked from behind:

"Where are Lena and Mary?"

"I knocked on their door after gearing up, but they didn't answer," Red replied, slightly spreading his arms, revealing the complexity of the hydraulic and magnetic systems beneath the armor plates —something that, undoubtedly, took time to put on, before finishing— "I assumed they'd already left..."

Looking around, Crowley disagreed. "I don't see them anywhere."

At the same time, amidst the crowd, Cael pushed his way through, scanning the faces around him, looking for someone.

After the roar, he had ordered his nervous daughter to stay at home. She was restless; Ashe had left a bit earlier without his gear to retrieve his sword, and hadn't returned.

He left the house with the promise that he would find him. Taking advantage of his height, Cael scanned the entire square, but saw no trace of the boy. What he did find was a familiar face that might help him.

"Round old man..." he growled, raising his voice as he approached a muscular man wearing a specially designed metal breastplate that covered his generous belly. "I'm looking for Ashe. According to Tessa, he went to your forge for his sword."

Grehel glanced at him sideways, then nudged his apprentice with an elbow—the boy stood pale and motionless at his side.

"So it was him…" murmured the blacksmith.

"What's wrong with him? Is he like this because of the roar?" Cael asked, frowning. "We still don't know if that thing escaped."

"No," Grehel replied, in a tone deeper than usual. "He was like that before."

Gerthel turned his head toward the boy and said in a dry voice, "Boy. Tell Cael what you saw."

The apprentice hesitated for a second before speaking, a touch of reluctance in his voice. "Shortly after the old man finished fixing the sword and went up to rest… the door suddenly slammed open."

He swallowed hard. "At first I thought it was Ashe… but no one came in. Freaked out, I went to shut the door… but halfway there, the gas lamps went out. Even the damn forge, which was still hot, went cold!" he exclaimed, then added weakly, "Like the air had frozen all at once."

As he listened, Cael accepted a weapon handed to him by a passing acolyte distributing arms.

"I-I'm not sure what I saw after that..." the boy continued. "I felt like something passed right by me... and when I turned around, someone was examining the sword on the counter. I didn't see their face. Everything was dark... everything except for their left eye—"

Before he could finish, from the top of the steps in front of the church, Priest Salazar raised his voice with a sharp authority, as dry and sudden as the crack of a rifle.

Literally. He fired into the air with the elegant rifle he carried, a large golden cross engraved on the mouth of its magazine. The tracer round lit up as it rose into the starry sky that spilled through the open peak of the mountain above their heads.

"Everyone, prepare to move out!"

No further words were needed—something was threatening their town... and they would have to defend it themselves.

The entire square responded instantly. Cael gripped his weapon tightly as Oier and the other miners approached, already armed and ready.

Gerthel let out a snort as he adjusted his breastplate. "Say what you want, boy. I still think we just got robbed..."

"That's not true, master! I swear on my honor as a blacksmith!"

"With the little talent you've got, that doesn't mean much..."

The apprentice lowered his gaze and fell silent. Even though he wasn't sure what had happened or what he had seen... that unsettling left eye, burned into his memory, made it impossible to question what he'd witnessed.

It had no pupil. Only a jagged crack, as if something had clawed the retina from the inside—an open wound radiating a violet glow against a blackness deeper than any well.

And yet, the most disturbing part was that the eye… didn't even look at him. It just vanished after uttering a brief: "Thank you."

Priest Salazar descended the steps with a firm stride, and without needing to raise his voice this time, made a clear gesture with his hand for the others to follow.

With everyone in the square beginning to move, Gerthel tapped the sword with his hardened hand—like a hammer striking metal—and said, "Forget it. If Cael's right, then with any luck, the sword is back in its owner's hands."

With no other choice, the apprentice nodded before joining the short march to the entrance of the catacombs, just behind the church.

Before even ringing the bells, the very first thing Salazar had done after being startled awake by the roar... was to seal them.

The knights in exo-armor, led by Master Marcelus, positioned themselves at the front. At their flanks, Crowley's soldiers stood with rifles shouldered.

Behind them, the townsfolk—some still in socks, all resolute—aimed their firearms and makeshift weapons.

Salazar walked up to a console embedded in the ground: a metal plate nestled between roots and stone, hidden beneath an emblem of the church.

From within his robes, he drew the Dawn Seal—a thick ring set with a shard of Golden Flame at its center. The same seal used to operate the massive pike meant to restrain the Alpha. And he prayed that it had worked.

He inserted it into the slot on the console, turning it with force. A sharp click. A low hum. And the reinforced doors of Sacred Steel began to sink slowly into the earth, revealing the dark throat of the catacombs.

From within, a dense cloud of white vapor burst forth, billowing outward in heavy gusts.

As it continued pouring out like a broken pipe, even after long seconds of waiting... Red stepped forward, entered the mist, and sharpened his ears—listening at the threshold of the catacombs.

After the hiss of the hydraulic joints and the servos in his armor fell quiet, Red was finally able to catch something vibrating through the mist.

Clashing metal. Grunts. Multiple footsteps, followed by the unmistakable sharp whistle of a sword cutting through the air.

Red turned sharply and raised his voice to the large group behind him. "I hear signs of combat… I think someone's fighting."

Salazar didn't hesitate. "My knights might still be alive!" he exclaimed, hopeful.

Emerging from the vapor cloud, Red turned to the Maester. "Sir? Do we advance?"

Marcelus nodded with a metallic sound that needed no words. His knights regrouped, moving forward like a steel spearhead. Crowley's soldiers followed closely behind, checking their magazines.

But no sooner had they stepped into the column of mist... a new roar escaped from the catacombs. This one carried sorrow, like the cry of a deep, festering wound.

Everything stopped. Even the knights in their exo-armor hesitated, unsure whether to move forward or fall back.

In that uncomfortable silence... the ground began to shake again. Not like before. Smaller. Closer. More frequent.

'Footsteps—too heavy to be human, and getting louder. It's coming closer.' Marcelus thought, as he raised his fist and said; "Get ready."

At his command, the knights planted their feet, raising their submachine guns in one hand while using the other as a shield. They locked their armor into place,

Becoming a wall of steel encircling the catacomb entrance—one that Crowley's soldiers used as cover, completing the formation.

A few seconds later... the Alpha burst out of the mist like a projectile of flesh. Bullets met it mid-charge, piercing its body. Sparks, torn flesh, and dark blood splattered into the steam. But the monster didn't stop.

With a roar that made the cobblestones tremble, the Alpha spread its arms wide as if to sweep everything aside—and that's exactly what it did. The impact was brutal, momentarily dispersing the column of steam.

The Armors creaked, and then... bodies were flung like broken dolls.

Marcelus, refusing to be thrown, was pushed backward, carving trenches and scattering cobblestones as he dug his feet into the ground with everything he had. He finally dropped to his knees, his legs trembling from the titanic effort.

Three of his knights rolled to his side, hitting the pavement. Crowley was thrown along with two of his men onto an empty cart that splintered on impact.

The exo-armor saved many lives... but it also crushed others. Three soldiers died as the suits landed on their heads, chests, or backs. Others were lucky enough to have only a limb crushed.

When the villagers saw the bodies flying and blood pouring out from under the armor, a chorus of muffled screams rose among them—only to be cut short when the Alpha's silhouette emerged from the mist

Stopping before fully stepping out, it felt its skin bubbling under the golden glow of the Flame burning atop the tower.

Even though it had just regained control of its body and only wanted to escape... it was trapped.

With no other choice... the creature took a step back, retreating toward the catacomb—only to stop halfway when the very thing it was fleeing from emerged from it...

The Alpha hesitated. Desperate, it would rather let its flesh burn than be sliced apart again, hundreds of times.

With an agonized roar, the Alpha charged out, exposing itself to the tower's golden flame, trying to break through the villagers and flee toward any shadow beyond its reach.

But the moment it set foot outside...

Something followed.

The steam compressed instantly, pulled by a sudden, violent vertical force that shot out from the entrance, slicing through the air—then straight through the Alpha, from top to bottom.

A perfect incision. From crown to pelvis.

The slash kept moving, reaching the villagers, knights, and soldiers as an unnatural gust that struck their faces and tousled their hair.

No one understood what had just happened.

The Alpha, equally unaware, took a step.

Its claws trembled.

Another step. Its legs faltered.

Then, both halves of its body split apart with a sickening, wet crack.

They took one more step before collapsing like the halves of a tree struck by lightning.

The plaza, already stunned, fell silent.

The steam—dragged by the vertical pressure—danced over the split corpse, still stirred by the lingering violence of the cut, until it condensed again behind it, where a human figure stood upright, wrapped in the white veil.

Everyone ended up staring at its left eye, which seemed capable of piercing through the steam and the space between them, perceiving each of them as if they were standing directly before it...

Staring back at them.

The feeling was especially heavy for two people: Master Marcelus, who was certain that eye was looking directly at him among all the others.

And Grehel's apprentice, who recognized the fracture suspended in the air.

Which vanished once more... as if it had never been there at all.