Chapter 16: Blood Bargain

Chapter 16: Blood Bargain 

The screams were already dying.

Sir Alaric stood in the heart of the slaughter, his Vaporguard armor a monument to the dead around him. Blood pooled at his feet, steaming in the night air, bodies split open where they fell. His longsword hung low, slick with gore, the weight of its work done.

 The first strike had been clean—quick, decisive. The second? Merciful, if it came at all.

For a brief moment, he paused. 

His free hand ran along the edge of his blade, fingers brushing over the steel, a gesture from a time when a knight's sword dulled with use. His sword would never chip. But still, the ritual remained. 

A second's hesitation. A ghost of a man long gone.

The desperate native lunged, ochre-painted face twisted in fury. His spear shot forward—fast, precise.

Pistons hissed. Gears locked. The spear glanced off his breastplate, useless.

His sword answered. One stroke—bone split, a hand hit the dirt.

A heartbeat later—he reversed. Steel met flesh. A wet gurgle.

The native crumpled, throat opened to the night.

Alaric didn't watch him die. He was already stepping past, already bringing his blade up, already cutting through the next.

Across the camp, Ingrid moved like a ghost in the firelight, her blacksteel whips coiling and lashing. 

Every strike sang, splitting flesh, stripping skin, reducing men and women to nothing but music in the night.

She hummed as she danced, stepping through the carnage with a detached grace.

A native woman tried to flee—Ingrid caught her by the throat. The whip tightened, flesh searing beneath the heated coils. A sharp pull, a silent scream, and the woman hit the dirt hard.

 Ingrid stepped closer, crouching low, her pale face glowing in the firelight.

"Do not scream. Your voice ruins the melody."

The woman's eyes were wide, bleeding, terror plain on her face. Ingrid smiled, almost gently. Then the whip twisted. 

She would never scream again.

A larger tent still stood at the heart of the camp. Alaric strode toward it, unfazed by the carnage, stepping over bodies with methodical precision. The deal was simple: A sacrifice in exchange for cooperation.

And tonight, they would burn an offering worthy of a king.

 Two tattooed braves barred his path, weapons raised—one with tomahawk and shield, the other a spiked mace of bone. Their stance was firm, unshaken.

'Shamans?'

Alaric's armor groaned, hydraulics priming. His sword pulsed amber, the heat licking up the blade's edge.

The warriors flicked their arms, hard and fast—once, twice—like shaking off water. But it wasn't water that spilled free. Burning shapes peeled away, ghostly blue doubles of their weapons, mirroring their every move.

Alaric's lips curled. His eyes flared to life, the glow of his augments finally awakening.

"Now I see! This is why!"

Laughter ripped from his throat—raw, mad, exultant.

He charged, but the tomahawk came first.

Alaric caught the steel—CLANG—redirecting the blow. But the phantom followed. A flash of blue—whistling for his throat. He barely twisted in time.

The mace swung next. 

He stepped in, armor groaning as he took the hit to his vambrace. A second later—CRACK—the phantom slammed into his ribs.

They came in two's. Flesh and spirit. A perfect rhythm.

Alaric gave ground, sword flashing between parries and blocks. 

His armor hissed, servos whining to match their speed. But for every strike he turned aside, another followed, relentless. 

The braves weren't stronger. Weren't faster. But they didn't need to be.

They just needed to keep time.

A blow slipped through. The tomahawk bit deep, splitting steel at his shoulder. The mace crashed into his side—BOOM, BOOM—the phantom doubled the force, driving him back. 

His boots skidded. His breath ragged.

They saw it, quickly moving for the kill.

Alaric laughed.

His blade flared—amber flames slicing upward through the dark.

The tomahawk warrior twisted, but not fast enough—steel bit across his ribs.

Alaric moved.

Faster. Heavier.

The braves barely had time to react before he was on them.

His blade carved through the space between them, each strike explosive, each step crushing the earth.

Their phantom attacks followed, flashing blue echoes trailing his movements—but they may as well have been chasing smoke.

A tomahawk swept for his ribs—Alaric twisted, catching the warrior mid-motion. He slammed his gauntleted fist into the man's chest.

 CRACK!

The brave flew, tumbling through the dirt, blood torn from his lungs.

The mace came next—whistling for Alaric's skull.

 He stepped into the swing, let it scrape across his pauldron as he grabbed the warrior by the throat, lifting him.

Choking, legs kicking, the brave's fingers clawed at the vice around his neck. 

The steam knight grinned, squeezing—then hurled him aside with ease.

Flying through the air, the shaman hit and rolled through the dirt like a rogdoll. Coughing and bleeding he struggled back to his feet.

Too slow.

Alaric was already on him, sword slashing down—

CLANG!

The tomahawk warrior recovered, intercepting. His shield barely held, the redirected impact sending him skidding back.

Alaric exhaled, dragging his blade free, watching as they staggered, panting.

They were good. Trained. Disciplined. But—

"Not enough."

A flicker of realization crossed their faces. A glance toward the tent. Then—each other.

A decision was made.

The mace-wielder threw his head back and screamed—a war cry that split the night.

 Before Alaric could move, he turned the weapon inward—blade sinking deep into his own heart.

Silence.

The warrior stood rigid. His skin cracked, darkening—shriveling—as if time itself abandoned him. Flesh pulled tight over bone, breath vanishing, muscles turning brittle and dry.

A second later, he collapsed, dust spilling from his leathers where a man had once stood.

Alaric's grin split wide. 

The tomahawk warrior spasmed, his body bulging. Muscle swelled, veins darkened beneath his skin. Then, just as fast, his form snapped back, settling into something sharper. Refined. The same size, the same man—yet… more.

Alaric adjusted his grip.

"Good."

The shaman lunged.

Steel met steel. Sparks lit the dark as tomahawk and longsword clashed, each strike faster than the last. 

Alaric weaved through the onslaught, his armor singing with the force of combat. The braves' phantom strikes still followed, blue echoes tracing every movement, but now, Alaric was stepping through them. 

Moving before they landed. Dodging by inches.

Every time their weapons met, the ground shuddered beneath them.

A strike—parried. A feint—ignored. A hook of the tomahawk that should have caught him—missed, by a hair.

The brave's breath turned ragged. Alaric's grin widened.

The fight burned hot, the world shrinking to the space between them. 

Attracted to the sounds, Ingrid stepped from a tent, her pale skin smeared red, hands still glistening. Her blonde braid had come loose, wild strands falling across her face.

She tilted her head, watching the fight unfold, her lips curling.

"He's having fun."

The brave roared, his war-cry ripping through the night as he leapt.

His tomahawk raised high, his silhouette carved against the full moon—

Alaric took a deep breath.

The blood. The smoke. The cold bite of steel in the air.

He spread his arms wide, tilting his head back.

"Amen."

His blade rose. Smooth, effortless.

A single arc of steel.

SHNK!

He turned. Casual. Walking away.

The warrior split. His body tore apart mid-air, two halves falling like broken wings, blood and guts raining against the dirt.

The knight met Ingrid's gaze before turning toward the center tent.

"Let's end it."

Ingrid followed in his shadow, death itself cutting a path before them.

"Those pagan bastards never mentioned shamans. Ve vill have to make sure they know better than to hide information."

Inside, a large fire roared, the heat heavy in the thick air.

Seated opposite was an old man—bronzed skin creased with time, long white hair flowing beneath a headdress of blue feathers.

Alaric didn't hesitate. His voice was final. Absolute.

"Chief Broken Feather. Convert, or die."

The chief took a long, steady pull from his pipe.

Silver smoke drifted from his lips, curling into the fire. His clouded eyes settled on them—but not truly. They looked past. Beyond.

He saw only his people.

"No death. Only change."

Ingrid twitched. 

"You dare to preach?"

Her nostrils flared. Heat rushed to her skin, her fists clenching tight.

"Blasphemy."

ZZSINK!

Her metal whip shot out.

The tip speared through the chief's skull, piercing flesh, bone—ending him before the final breath could leave his lips.

His body slumped, smoke still drifting from his mouth.

Ingrid barely glanced at the corpse as she retracted her whip, the segments clicking back into her palm. She turned, nose wrinkled in disgust.

Storming out, she kicked over a smoldering basket.

"Disgusting."

Alaric stepped beside her, his voice level, calm.

"Send your men. Inform them it's done. The Blackfoot can start their search for Subject 231 while we focus inward."

Ingrid huffed, brushing soot from her black leather sleeve.

"I knew there was something off about this. Wipe out a small tribe, and they comb the land for us? Schisse! Two shamans?! They're lucky we came along."

Alaric ignored her complaint. It was irrelevant.

"It doesn't matter. The job is done. Besides—"

He sheathed his blade. Raising his palm, he turned it toward the chief's tent.

"God will purge them in time."

FWOOM.

Flames erupted, thick and unnatural, spreading like molten tar. The fire clung, devouring.

He turned, sweeping his arm wide. Death followed.

As they walked, flames crackling behind them, Alaric's mind drifted.

"Any word from Mad Gear?"

 Ingrid's jaw tightened. She wiped a speck of soot from her cheek, eyes locked forward.

"He vill report soon. Do not concern yourself."

Alaric exhaled, a deep, knowing hum, but said nothing more.

The two servants of the Lord departed, leaving the village to the flames.

Hundreds of bodies—braves and elders, mothers, fathers. Children.

A sacrificial pyre, stretching to the heavens.

From miles away, the night sky glowed with pain, with loss, with the death of a people.

And the march of God.