The group advanced along the tracks, surrounded by growls, clawing, and howls that echoed far too close—close enough that some soldiers squeezed their eyes shut as they ran. They tried to ignore them, along with the unsettling sensation stalking them, as if something might pounce on them at any moment.
Thanks to the cloth—or rather, its contents—that their guide carried like a lamp lighting the way, and the luck of not encountering more stragglers, the creatures blocking their path reacted instantly, jerking away.
Until suddenly, they felt it.
They had crossed an invisible threshold.
It wasn't something they saw that alerted them—it was the stench. The same repulsive odor they had been following along the tracks... had intensified. The thick, nauseating air invaded their nostrils with the aggression of a chemical gas, burning as it entered.
When their guide slowed down, as if they had entered a "safe" zone, the soldiers and knights did the same.
Without wasting time, they raised lanterns and spotlights to sweep the darkness around them...
The corrupted creatures had stopped. They didn't attack, they didn't roar—they just stood motionless, held back by that invisible wall they had just crossed. As if the same trance that had driven them into a frenzy now overwhelmed them to the point of paralysis, unable to attack or flee.
Starting to grow accustomed to the stench, Red, the knights' provisional captain, frowned and asked:
"Why did they stop moving?"
Their guide lifted their visor, allowing their dull gaze beneath the helmet to meet that of the mounted knight.
Hoping they would have to speak less if the others saw for themselves. Instead of answering, Ashe tilted their head slightly and began walking again.
"Tch." Displeased, Red reluctantly followed—until his own Helix halted a few meters ahead, and the spotlight on its armor illuminated the massive corpse lying in the middle of the forest…
Even its rider, Red, murmured in disbelief, "An Alpha…?"
Upon hearing him…
"That can't be," a soldier said, stepping closer to the towering, decapitated specimen—over four meters tall, with an incredible musculature—something he had only read about, supposedly possible only in corrupted zones near the front.
"Who the hell could have killed—?"
As if offering a silent answer to the unfinished question, Ashe stepped onto the Alpha's chest and drew their broken sword.
The scar on its incomplete blade matched perfectly with the fragment of sacred metal protruding from the corpse.
In the silence that followed that "answer," a new image of their guide began to take shape. A few raised their brows, and at least one red-haired knight scoffed under his breath, but the rest welcomed the revelation. The stronger their group, the safer their journey to Constantinople would be.
Without ceremony, Ashe plunged the broken sword into the beast's body and began cutting away the flesh around the embedded fragment. The blade slid through the hardened tissue, releasing an even denser, more nauseating stench.
Before continuing, Ashe activated a filter in their helmet. A faint click broke the silence, and when they spoke again, their voice was more muffled, filtered through the system.
"The insatiable hunger of corrupted creatures—no matter how much they eat, they will always crave more—drives them to feed on the Alpha's corpse. But at the same time, the pheromones it releases have the opposite effect."
The soldiers and knights listened in silence, watching, mesmerized, as Ashe stabbed and cut into the beast's chest.
"The closer they get, the stronger the concentration of pheromones. They want to flee, but their hunger forces them to keep moving. That internal struggle burns their brains, stripping away what little reason they have left and making them extremely violent."
Ashe lifted his gaze toward the motionless creatures beyond the invisible threshold, giving weight to his own words and prompting the soldiers to follow his line of sight.
"However… when the saturation of pheromones becomes too much, it overwhelms them. Paralyzing them."
The heavy silence that followed his explanation was broken by a soft voice—one that felt out of place in the cold night.
"Besides its size.... What is it about the Alpha that terrifies them so much? Isn't it just the leader of the pack?"
Ashe raised his head, his eyes meeting those of Lady Mary.
He paused for a moment, taking in the young woman's beauty, before replying with the same indifference as he continued slicing through the beast's flesh.
"Alphas don't act as leaders at all. On the contrary, they have no qualms about devouring their own. In fact, the old man has a theory that this is precisely what makes them evolve in the first place."
As he finished speaking, he also severed the last muscle fibers surrounding the fragment of his embedded sword.
Red, eyeing the corpse with disdain, frowned. "These monsters killing each other… I don't see the problem."
Jumping down from the Alpha's chest, Ashe responded, "It wouldn't be—if it weren't for the fact that when something surpasses a certain limit by feeding on corrupted creatures… it evolves."
A tense silence settled among the soldiers and knights at the revelation—knowledge they had never heard before.
Even Crowley, recalling his studies as an officer, was the first to object…
"Wait… there's nothing about that in the Mono-cronomicon."
Before Ashe could respond, Lena spoke for him.
Having read the same volume as Crowley until she joined the Inquisitor's retinue—where she gained access to a… less censored version—Lena replied calmly:
"It's possibly unverified information. The Mono-cronomicon only includes data that is 100% confirmed. Anything less than that could cause confusion or, worse, unleash chaos if it falls into the wrong hands."
Her tone wasn't accusatory, but it carried an uncomfortable truth: a lack of recorded information didn't mean something didn't exist—only that it hadn't been deemed safe enough to be documented.
Crowley frowned but found no immediate rebuttal.
As Ashe loosened the bag tied to his waist, he addressed the soldiers with a firm tone:
"Tie its limbs with ropes and chains. Make sure it can't move."
The soldiers exchanged glances, hesitant.
"Why? It's dead," one murmured, making no move to obey.
"Make sure it can't move... if you want it to stay that way."
After his cryptic remark, Ashe turned to Crowley, offering him the bloodstained cloth that contained the Alpha's head.
Without even considering it, the commander refused, his expression neutral.
Unfazed, Ashe then extended the same offer to Lena, who stood beside him.
She held his gaze for a moment before subtly redirecting the unpleasant duty toward Mary, who had been silently observing.
Not wanting to appear weak, Mary stepped forward and took the bundle with feigned firmness.
Once the soldiers secured the Alpha's limbs, Ashe climbed back onto the corpse. Keeping the head out of reach to avoid any accidents, he prepared to extract the sword fragment still embedded in its body.
But the moment he began to pull the blade free…
"Ahhh!"
Mary's scream shattered the silence as the violently trembling head slipped from her hands and fell to the ground.
"Pick it up, now!"
For the first time, Ashe's voice betrayed a hint of urgency as he watched the head slowly roll toward the corpse.
At the same time, the body reacted, as if sensing its severed part drawing closer.
Before they could touch, Crowley, with visible reluctance, stepped forward and snatched the cloth from the ground.
No one wanted to imagine what might have happened if he hadn't, and both soldiers and knights exhaled the breath they hadn't realized they were holding.
"I'm sorry… I didn't know… it could still move," Mary murmured, avoiding the tense gazes fixed on her.
Regaining his calm tone, Ashe ignored Mary's mistake and warned the commander:
"Make sure it doesn't get any closer."
Crowley gave a solemn nod and stepped back, gripping the bloodstained cloth firmly.
Without further delay, Ashe pulled on the blade once more.
The corpse reacted instantly.
What first seemed like mere post-mortem spasms—purposeless reflexes—became far more unsettling as its fingers began to flex, slowly curling in an unnatural motion. At the same time, the sound of chains tightening grew louder, as if the creature were trying to move.
The soldiers stepped back, fear and disbelief evident on their faces.
"Shit! Is that thing really dead?"
"It doesn't have a head, what do you think?" one muttered, just as unnerved as the first.
"Then how the hell is it moving?!"
"What do we do? Do we shoot?"
"Silence."
Crowley's voice cut through the rising commotion, silencing both his men and those who weren't under his command.
"This isn't the first strange thing to come out of a Monolith… and it won't be the last." His eyes scanned the still-bound corpse. "Watch and learn… because things like this will only become more frequent on our way to Constantinople."
The clinking of chains continued to grow until, finally, Ashe fully extracted the fragment of his sword.
But what followed only heightened the unease of those present.
Even "dead," the Alpha began to regenerate. The wound in its chest and the stump where its head had once been started to close slowly, flesh twisting over itself in an attempt to mend.
A single question floated through everyone's mind:
"If its head had been nearby..."
Ashe observed the corpse for a moment, his eyes tracing the taut chains that kept it restrained. His mind replayed his master's teachings:
"According to the old man, it would take at least half a day to regenerate a new head..."
But something in his instincts made him hesitate.
"I can't get complacent. All Alphas are unique… and this one might have a dangerous mutation."
"It's best to process it as soon as possible."
Pushing those thoughts aside, his attention shifted to the fragment of his sword. He frowned in displeasure upon noticing the layer of brown and purple rust beginning to eat away at the sacred metal of the blade.
"Tch."
Wasting no more time, Ashe pulled a bandage from the pocket of his harness and carefully wrapped the blade.
"Let's not waste any more time. Tie it to the Helix and let's head back to the village."
This time, it was Red who stepped ahead of Crowley. Wanting to leave those woods as soon as possible, he gave the order firmly:
"Listen to the scout. Move."
-
At the foot of one of the most imposing mountains in the region, near the coast, its peak did not end in a sharp summit but in a massive indentation, as if a gigantic hand had scooped out the top with a colossal spoon, leaving a crater open to the sky.
Beneath its shadow, at the entrance carved into the rock, two guards stood watch on their night shift, lazily leaning against the stones on either side of the wooden and metal gate.
"Tch… I shouldn't have listened to my mother," one grumbled, adjusting his helmet in frustration. "'Join the guards,' she said. 'You'll have food on your plate and a warm place to sleep.' Yeah, right."
"Tell me about it…" the other sighed, spinning his old rifle between his hands. "While we're out here freezing our asses off, the miners and lumberjacks are drinking themselves unconscious."
"Those bastards meet their quota, the Church grants them a pardon so they don't have to go on pilgrimage… and on top of that, they throw a damn party to celebrate."
The other spat on the ground bitterly.
"Sometimes I think about joining the extraction teams. At least they have something to celebrate."
"You?" His companion let out a dry chuckle. "You know? I used to think that was one of the worst jobs in the village."
"That's what my old lady said. A decade ago, according to her, it was a death sentence. Dangerous, exhausting… almost a one-way ticket to the grave."
"Bah. You know how the old folks are: 'Back in my day this,' 'when I was young that,' 'you kids don't know how good you have it'... Always the same. I bet they just say that crap to mess with us."
Both of them laughed half-heartedly, but it died instantly when they felt something beneath their feet.
A subtle vibration rippled through the ground, making them exchange tense glances.
The older of the two instinctively crouched, pressing his hand against the ground.
The tremor persisted.
It wasn't the rhythmic trot of a caravan. It was heavier, deeper.
The guards exchanged nervous glances.
"Do I pull the trigger?" one whispered, his hand already on the safety lever.
Activating it would set off the controlled collapse of the entrance. Nothing would get in or out for weeks.
But if they pulled it and it turned out to be a false alarm… the punishment would be severe. At the very least, they'd be sent on pilgrimage to Santiago.
As the tremor intensified in the dead of night—when no one, not even caravans, was supposed to be moving—fear took root in the guards' chests.
One of them swallowed hard before finally caving under the pressure.
"Do it!" He took a step back, ready to sprint down the tunnel toward the village before the rocks sealed the entrance
The other guard nodded and began to pull the lever.
But just as he was about to activate it, a mechanical whistle sliced through the air, followed by a silhouette emerging from the darkness.
"Don't pull it. They're friends."
The familiarity of the voice made them release the breath they had been holding.
"Ashe!"
The two guards nearly spoke his name in unison, relieved to hear the familiar voice.
But the tension didn't completely fade.
The one still gripping the lever shot Ashe a wary look.
"Are you sure? What the hell is going on?"
Ashe, too lazy to explain, simply turned his gaze toward the source of the tremors, where the trees shook with each approaching step.
Seconds later, the answer revealed itself.
A group of thirty soldiers burst into the clearing, emerging from the forest with ragged breaths. Their footsteps mixed with the metallic pounding of fifteen armored Helix, their hooves striking the ground forcefully as they dragged something heavy behind them.
The guards barely had time to recover from their shock before Ashe issued a direct order:
"Go call the Priest. Tell him we brought him a gift… and to prepare the Noble District. We have overnight guests."
The guard opened his mouth, a hundred questions on the tip of his tongue, but none made it out.
Knowing his place, he simply nodded before turning and sprinting down the tunnel leading into the mountain.
Ashe waited for the group, but then, as if suddenly remembering something important, he turned back toward the tunnel and, with a louder voice than usual, shouted:
"AND TELL HIM TO HAVE MY MONEY READY!"
-
A few seconds later...
The group entered the same hand-carved corridor, reinforced with dark metal beams, that the guard had used to rush off and warn the Priest.
It wasn't just a simple passageway; it was a subterranean road wide enough for several knights mounted on Helix to advance in formation without difficulty. The heavy clatter of their hooves echoed through the stone, accompanied by the rumbling of the supply carts' wheels.
Gas lanterns, fixed at regular intervals along the walls, cast a flickering golden glow. Between the metal supports, lines of copper pipes snaked along the tunnel, connected to small pressure generators.
The smoked glass on some of the lanterns made the light waver with a soft hiss as the gas ignited, creating a hypnotic effect.
While the soldiers chatted among themselves, the officers held their own conversations.
"I'm looking forward to seeing the village," Mary said, her voice carrying a mix of curiosity and excitement.
Unlike the others, she had only ever known the imposing, industrialized, and suffocating London. The idea of a village within a mountain felt like something straight out of a storybook.
Crowley shrugged indifferently.
"I don't care, as long as it has a tavern and something strong to drink."
Unintentionally, his words lifted the men's spirits, earning a round of cheers.
Red, now more relaxed in a safe place, had removed his helmet, revealing a sharp-featured face, a well-developed neck, and red hair. Seeing the young spotter's enthusiasm, he tried to temper her expectations.
"To be honest, I'm surprised there's even a village in the first place."
"Why?" Mary inquired.
"In Britannia, some beasts managed to nest on the island, and we've been forced to live secluded behind the walls of industrial cities. Here, in a place so overrun with corrupt creatures… I'm surprised people survive long enough to build anything worthwhile..."
His tone made it clear that he wasn't expecting much. Not liking his words, Mary turned her attention to Lena, who walked with her characteristic elegant poise, despite the field military uniform that barely concealed her figure.
"And you? What do you think, Miss Lena?"
Lena briefly glanced at the heavy load the Helix were dragging before calmly replying, "With an open front in their lands… I lean more toward the young knight's opinion."
"Thank you," Red interjected upon hearing her agreement.
"That wasn't a compliment."
The redhead frowned for a moment before letting out a resigned exhale.
Wanting to know the truth, Mary finally asked the only person who had actually been to the village.
"So then, Ashe, right? What is the village like?"
The young ranger, without shifting his gaze, replied in his usual flat tone, "Most villages in the kingdom, especially those further south, are just as the red-haired knight describes—"
"It's Red!" the mentioned one interrupted.
Ashe cast a brief glance at his red hair and then at his face. Without saying a word... he turned his gaze forward and kept walking.
Red, misinterpreting the gesture, frowned in displeasure, believing he saw the shadow of a smile where there was none. But the truth was that Ashe neither laughed nor mocked him...
He simply recognized the irony of sharing a similar fate with the knight.
After a few steps, he added in a barely audible tone, "But… I like this 'village.'"
The group advanced in silence until they reached the light at the end of the tunnel.
As they took their final steps and crossed the threshold, entering the hollow heart of the mountain...
The expectation of a small, humble village vanished in an instant.
Mary, her eyes alight with astonishment, whispered, "This isn't a village… it's—"
Lena, her voice barely above a breath, unable to hide her surprise, completed the thought, "A small city."
Red remained speechless, taking in the sight before him. What they had all imagined as a forgotten village had instead revealed itself as a monument to human perseverance—a place where engineering and hope intertwined to create a thriving refuge in the mountain's shadows.
Ashe allowed himself a faint smile at their reactions. He had felt the same way the first time he saw the "village."
Turning to the knights and soldiers, he calmly said:
"Welcome to Urdyales."
Urdyales stood in majestic splendor, suspended within the rock, with multiple terraced levels ascending toward the summit. Large bridges and walkways connected its various sectors, while from the cavernous walls, buildings of stone and metal either rose or, more accurately, hung—clinging to the rocky surface like stalactites.
At the heart of the hollow mountain, dominating the view, stood a plateau crowned by a towering structure. At its peak, a brilliant golden flame burned, illuminating and protecting the interior like a sacred beacon.
All around it, trams and steam pipes carved pathways that linked the city's sectors, releasing plumes of vapor that rose toward the mountain's upper opening.
Through the vast opening, light from the outside poured in, along with fresh air and, most importantly, the rainwater that nourished the pond forming at the base of the mountain, beneath the plateau.
Before they could advance any further, a group approached with firm steps from the hanging bridge that connected the village's central plateau to the platform where they stood. Leading them was the guard who had gone ahead to announce their arrival.
At the forefront stood Priest Salazar and the mayor, followed by their entourage. Upon noticing the stench emanating from the load dragged by the Helix, the accompanying figures covered their mouths and noses in disgust. Only the priest remained unfazed before exclaiming:
"Welcome!" He extended his arms in a gesture of hospitality.
Ashe remained unmoved. "Priest..." he responded flatly.
"Please, Ashliath, call me Salazar," the cleric said, forcing a smile. "Now then, would you do us the favor of introducing our guests?"
Ashe sighed, clearly reluctant, and gestured toward the newcomers. "They're the forces from the Inquisitorial ship that docked on our shores. They'll spend the night here before continuing their journey to Constantinople."
The priest's brow furrowed as he scanned the group before asking suspiciously:
"Don't tell me you brought an Inquisitor?"
Ashe shook his head. "No. He left with the old man."
Salazar's expression hardened. "What business does your master have with an Inquisitor?"
"No idea. I didn't ask," Ashe replied indifferently. "But they seemed to know each other."
Salazar fell silent, deep in thought, before turning his attention back to the outsiders. Wasting no time on unnecessary introductions, he scrutinized them carefully until he identified the leaders. With a confident stride, he approached Lena and offered a slight nod. Then, he greeted Mary, and finally, the red-haired knight, Red.
Crowley, however, he ignored entirely. Without a visible symbol of rank, Salazar saw him as nothing more than another soldier.
"It is an honor to have you as our guests," he said solemnly. "Allow me to be your guide. We have already prepared the noble quarter for you. Although..." He shifted his gaze toward the soldiers before adding, "I'm afraid the rest will have to stay in the villagers' residences."
Crowley, knowing the type of people who only respected rank, left the engraved insignia on his chest visible and smiled ironically. "Don't worry, Father. Just what we wanted. As long as someone guides us to the nearest tavern, that will suffice."
Before heading into town, Father Salazar gathered the altar boys in his entourage. With a calm gesture and a firm voice, he ordered them to transport the Alpha's corpse to the church's sacred workshop. "Have it processed before sundown," he said, tracing a cross in the air.
When his assistants nodded with an almost military bow, he turned his attention back to the knights. His gaze, now less severe, rested on them as he adjusted the folds of his cassock.
"Knights," he began, inclining his head slightly in courtesy while pointing to the corral near the tunnel, "I ask that you leave your noble steeds in our care. My assistants will provide them with fresh water and a ration of oats."
The knights accepted and thanked him for his hospitality. As they dismounted, they disconnected the thick cables that linked their plate exo-armors to their Helix batteries, forcing them to activate the diesel engines on their backs to move without their mounts.
As they prepared to cross the bridge to the town's central plateau, a rough, angry voice echoed from the tunnel:
"Stop!"
Everyone turned and saw a figure emerging...
"Maestre Marcelus, what are you doing here? You should be protecting the Inquisitor!" exclaimed a surprised Red, reflecting his bewilderment at seeing him and the Inquisitor's crimson guard.
Without answering, Marcelus dismounted and disconnected from his Helix. Then, he turned to the confused Ashe and, without a word, grabbed him by the neck.
Thanks to the hydraulic gears in his exo-armor, he lifted him off the ground effortlessly.
The group reacted instantly in alarm. Lena was the first to intervene.
"Maestrer! What are you doing?"
Ignoring her, Marcelus tightened his grip on Ashe and roared, "Where has your master taken the Inquisitor?!"
Ashe struggled, fighting for breath, but did not answer. In his mind, his master's twisted smile flashed once more—the same smile he had when he asked if he truly intended to lead a handful of strangers to their home.
Now, having his answer.
Lena stepped forward, remaining calm despite the tension in the air.
"Maestre, what exactly happened?" she asked firmly.
Marcelus clenched his jaw, still holding Ashe by the neck. His voice was tense, almost furious.
"That old bastard led us up the mountain along an increasingly narrow path, forcing us to move forward until neither my Helix nor the Inquisitor's guard could follow. As if he had planned it from the start..."
The knights exchanged glances before turning their attention to Ashe, waiting for the response their Maester demanded.
"What are you waiting for? Answer!" one of them exclaimed distrustfully.
As Ashe struggled, barely able to breathe against the grip on his neck, Crowley, trying to prevent the situation from escalating beyond repair, raised a hand in a calming gesture.
"Maester, let him go. You won't get answers if you asphyxiate him."
Lena, observing the Inquisitor's guard—who seemed relatively unbothered—and aware of her boss's tendency to act alone and in secret, inquired in an authoritative tone:
"What did the Inquisitor say before you lost him?"
"What does that matter? The Inquisitor could be in danger!" replied another knight, reinforcing his Maestre's doubt.
"Silence!" Lena exclaimed before repeating her question. "Maestre, what did the Inquisitor say before you lost him?"
Her simple question made the Maestre hesitate for a moment. His eyes scanned those present until he finally murmured in frustration:
"He told us not to worry. To return to the village and rest."
Silence took hold of the group. Even among the indignant knights, a realization began to settle—the blame did not lie solely with the old ranger.
Lena exhaled before saying, "Then what are you waiting for? Follow the Inquisitor's orders! Let him go now!."
Marcelus clenched his teeth. With no other choice, he loosened his grip slightly, though he did not fully release Ashe.
However... that small margin was enough for Ashe to react.
With a swift motion, he grabbed the knife from his boot and sliced through the power cable connecting Marcelus's armor to his diesel backpack.
The power supply was immediately cut off with a mechanical whine, leaving Marcelus trapped inside his own exo-armor. His fingers involuntarily uncurled, and Ashe fell free.
Before his feet even touched the ground, Ashe had already drawn his Mauser 96-R—a 'revolvized' evolution of the classic Mauser 96. This modernized hybrid combined the rugged firepower of a revolver with the precision engineering of its predecessor, boasting an extended barrel, an integrated laser sight, and a reinforced frame built for high-caliber devastation.
And with it... he aimed directly at the Maester's head, unfazed by the modified Thompson submachine guns now trained on him by the knights.
Simultaneously, though not pointing at anyone in particular, Crowley's soldiers raised their rifles, ready to act at a moment's notice.
Trapped in his own armor, Marcelus felt a chill run down his spine. He could only see the dull glow of those piercing green eyes locked onto him... with a coldness that suggested he wouldn't hesitate to pull the trigger.
-
At the same time...
Through the dense forest, two figures moved forward with steady steps. The moonlight barely filtered through the treetops, casting long shadows over the leaf-covered path.
The Inquisitor walked in silence, following the agile silhouette of the old ranger, who seemed unaffected by their recent sprint.
"Do you think it was right to leave them behind like that...?" the Inquisitor asked, keeping his eyes on the path.
The old man didn't stop, nor did he turn around. "I don't care. Either we left them behind, or I would've never led you to my base."
The Inquisitor exhaled sharply before saying, "The Maestre seemed really angry with you... Aren't you worried he'll take it out on your apprentice?"
This time, the old man did stop. Not to answer, but to let out a dry, raspy laugh, laced with amusement.
"I'd like to see him try..." he murmured with a smirk. "The boy, despite appearances... has a spine."
Without another word, he kept walking through the trees.
"Come on. We're almost there."
-
In the meantime, at the Urdyales impasse...
"Lower your weapon. That's an order."
Lena's firm voice cut through the tense air like a sharp blade, addressing the young man with his arm extended, aiming directly at the leader of a knightly order.
He did not respond immediately.
His green eyes, emitting a disturbingly dull glow, scanned the woman's face before returning to the helpless Maestre, trapped in his exo-armor, and giving his response...
Click.
Lowering the hammer of his Mauser revolver. Meanwhile, the knights around him tightened their grips on their auxiliary weapons.
Crowley, feeling more aligned with Ashe's mindset than with the inflexible Maestre, raised his hands calmly and took a step forward.
"Kid..." His lopsided smile did little to conceal the seriousness in his gaze. "Though part of me... wants you not to do it... lower the weapon."
His eyes swiftly scanned the knights surrounding him before he concluded:
"Nothing good will happen to you if you pull the trigger."
Disagreeing with his opinion... Ashe pulled his free hand from beneath his green cloak, revealing the cylindrical metal object he gripped firmly.
The knights' fingers trembled over their triggers, caught between the instinct to open fire and the urgency to move away. They reacted instantly.
"GRENADE!"
The shout cracked through the air like a whip, tightening the nerves of everyone within the possible blast radius.
Chaos erupted as Crowley's soldiers, left with no other choice, also aimed their rifles at Ashe, completely disregarding their commander's orders to stand down.
"This is just a misunderstanding…" Mary intervened with a forced smile, raising her hands in an attempt to defuse the situation. "Why don't we all calm down and lower our weapons?"
Lena, however, had no tolerance for insubordination.
Her response was another spark in an already volatile powder keg.
With a swift, firm motion, she drew her revolver—a Webley-Fosbery automatic, its rifled barrel reinforced with a recoil compensation system powered by small pneumatic pistons visible along the metal's sides. It gleamed with an amber glow, revealing the Sacro-Metal that composed it.
"I won't repeat myself." Her already sharp voice honed even further. "Regardless of your rank, the moment you answered the Viceroy of Constantinople's call, you placed yourself under the Inquisitor's jurisdiction." She paused, her finger grazing the trigger. "As your superior, I order you to lower your weapon. Right now!"
The safety of her pistol snapped off with a dry click, and the barrel aligned directly with Ashe's head.
The silence grew thick, as Ashe shifted his gaze toward Lena.
Up until that moment, to her, he had been nothing more than a nineteen-year-old with a vacant, drowsy expression. But now… now she saw something different.
His eyes had changed.
That unsettling dull glow reflected something beyond mere defiance. There was no fear. No anger. Not even hesitation.
They were the eyes of someone already half-dead, indifferent to the dozens of weapons trained on him—as well as to the grenade in his hand, which he now… 'Click' …stripped of its safety pin with his thumb.
Holding it steady, knowing it wouldn't detonate as long as he didn't unclench his fingers—something that would inevitably happen if he took a bullet.
Ashe kept his gaze locked onto Lena and, with a voice devoid of emotion, spoke slowly:
"I am a Grade Four War Engineering Officer. That means that if I feel my life is in danger, I have the right to defend myself… regardless of whether the attacker is a noble from another kingdom, a priest of the Church, or a…"
His wrist barely shifted, but it was enough for the barrel of his revolver to press directly against the Maestre's forehead. As if emphasizing his next words.
"Knight."
A murmur rippled through the soldiers.
"Grade Four? You're kidding me—I've never met one before."
"Tch… What the hell is in his head? Old Joel, the guy in charge of tanks and artillery, is barely a Grade Two."
"Must be some experimental tech… or maybe something Nu-cu-ler?" another added, betraying his years of experience working at a power plant.
Ignoring their whispers, Lena asked, "Is threatening your life right now?"
As if it were a joke, Ashe flicked his gaze to the barrel she had pointed at him, then to the many dozens also trained on him, before responding with flat irony:
"What do you think?"
Lena didn't blink.
"Then lower your weapon."
Ashe barely raised an eyebrow.
"You first."
"When you stop aiming at the Maestre!" came Red's tense voice.
Due to how that Mexican standoff had even halted the transport of the Alfa's corpse—which needed to be processed immediately, given the danger of its still-active core inside the mountain...
Priest Salazar, long accustomed to the Maestre's stubborn nature—which his student seemed to have inherited—shook the hem of his robe, embroidered with silver sigils, before leaving behind the two guards shielding him with raised shields.
"Priest Salazar!" one of them exclaimed, trying to stop him. He ignored the plea.
He stepped forward, walking straight into the lines of fire and the grenade's blast radius, until he came to a halt beside the Inquisitor's aide.
"Ashliath… I know that asking you to lower your weapon would be about as effective as asking your master, so instead, I'll make a more practical proposal."
He gestured toward the bloodstained bag hanging from his waist and made his offer:
"I'll give you 150 Sacros for the Alfa's head. And if you lower your weapon, I'm sure the Inquisitor's aide would be willing to donate another 50—as a gesture of support for the defense of the town, which is more than happy to welcome them."
Salazar turned toward the striking woman at his side. "What do you say, miss?"
Not liking this at all… Lena remained silent. She was the superior officer and expected the soldiers to follow orders. But…
"I understand you demand obedience… but, in a way, the young officer is right. He was attacked prematurely, and he does have permission from the Regnum to defend himself."
Having no other choice… Lena gave a slight nod.
Salazar smiled, extending his hand toward the young man to seal the deal.
"Do we have a deal?"
Ashe stared at his hand for several long, unsettling seconds before finally responding:
"I accept."
Upon seeing him lower his aim from the Maestre and holster his weapon, everyone released the tense breath they had been holding.
Only to choke on it... when, immediately after, they saw him seal the deal—firmly grasping the outstretched hand of the perplexed Priest. Using the very same hand that, just moments before, had been securing the grenade, which he simply... let go of.
The device hit the ground with a dull thud.
CLICK.
CLICK-CLICK.
CLICK-CLICK-CLICK.
The timer came to life, its clicks increasing in frequency, filling the air.
"Priest!" Salazar's bodyguards roared.
Without hesitation, they lunged at the priest, dragging him behind their shields as chaos erupted.
Lena, along with most of the others, reacted instantly—throwing herself to the ground, covering her head. Others scrambled away as fast as they could, seeking shelter behind columns and barricades.
All except Red.
Without thinking, he charged toward his Maestre, arms outstretched in an instinctive attempt to shield him from the imminent explosion.
Ashe, on the other hand, had been waiting for this moment. Feeling the vibrations beneath his boots, he took advantage of the chaos to release the Alpha's head onto the ground and calmly move toward the cliffside near the bridge.
The clicks blended into a continuous hum… until the grenade finally detonated.
Or rather, it suffered a dud performance.
Instead of deadly shrapnel and explosives, only a feeble wisp of smoke escaped from the casing—an underwhelming climax to all that tension.
The silence stretched a second longer than was reasonable. Until, as if victims of a cruel joke, soldiers and knights slowly raised their heads, bewildered, unable to comprehend.
That was when Mary, seeing Ashe standing at the edge of the cliff, arms spread wide as he tipped forward, tried to stop him.
"Wait!"
But it was already too late.
With calculated calm, Ashe let himself fall.
Crowley, Mary, and several soldiers rushed to the edge just in time to see him land on a minecart, speeding down the suspended tracks toward Urdyales.
-
A few seconds later.
Ashe remained motionless atop the moving cart, his gaze fixed on the flickering lights of the industrial district, emerging through the intricate metal framework of the hollow mountain.
The screeching of the rails echoed through the cavern as the train sped forward. A second before the cart took a sharp turn, he bent his knees and jumped.
The void enveloped him. For an instant, there was only wind and the sensation of falling. Then—impact.
His body struck painfully against a steep rooftop with force. The wood groaned under his weight but held firm. Letting gravity do its work, he began to slide over the damp shingles.
Before reaching the roof's edge, Ashe grabbed a hook from his harness and hurled it toward a ledge. The cable went taut in an instant, slowing him down just enough to land gracefully on the cobbled street below.
He adjusted the green cloak over his shoulders and pulled up his hood before vanishing into the alleys that would lead him to the blacksmiths' district.
The air was thick with coal and molten metal, mixed with the dampness of the night. It didn't take him long to find his destination: a modest forge with a wooden sign barely illuminated by a lantern.
[Gethren's Smithy]
He pushed the door open firmly.
Inside, a young apprentice glanced up dully from his workbench. He wore a soot-stained leather apron, and his calloused hands betrayed years of labor.
"We're closed," he muttered with little enthusiasm, his hand subtly inching toward a nearby hammer, uncertain about the mysterious figure that had just entered.
Ashe advanced without hesitation until he stopped behind the counter. Slowly, he pushed back his hood, revealing his face.
"Jules, wake Gethren. I need his help."
Jules let go of the hammer he had grabbed, blinking before exhaling in relief.
"Fuck, you could've said so sooner! You nearly gave me a heart attack." Approaching the counter with a huff, he added, "Forget it. The old man's been working all day. He's not getting up for anything."
Ashe didn't argue. Instead, he slipped a hand under the red sash at his waist and let a small pouch drop onto the table. A metallic jingle filled the room.
Jules' eyes gleamed instantly.
"MASTER, WAKE UP!" he suddenly roared, with a strength impossible for someone so apathetic just seconds earlier.
Heavy footsteps echoed from the upper floor. Moments later, a door swung open, and Gethren appeared in the doorway, rubbing one eye with the back of his hand. Despite his stocky build, he remained an imposing figure—broad shoulders, powerful arms, and copper-toned skin, toughened by decades of working the forges.
"This better be important, brat…" he grumbled as he descended, first eyeing his apprentice, then Ashe.
Wasting no time, the ranger placed the two broken halves of his sword on the counter—the hilt and the shattered blade.
Gethren raised a brow in annoyance, but his expression shifted the moment Ashe removed the cloth covering the fractured metal.
The blade, once forged in Sacred Metal, was unnaturally corroded. This wasn't mere rust—it looked as if the metal were being consumed from within. A rough, pulsating crust clung to the steel, with blackened veins spreading like roots of corruption.
The blacksmith exhaled sharply, running a hand through his beard.
"By all the fuckiing Monoliths…" he murmured, reaching out to touch the darkened metal. The moment his fingers brushed it, he withdrew them instantly, as if the mere contact sent a shiver through him.
"Can you fix it before dawn?" Ashe asked bluntly.
Gethren didn't answer immediately. He examined the blade with a mixture of fascination and disgust before crossing his arms.
"This isn't normal… This thing is eating through Sacred Metal like a damn cancer. Where the hell has this sword been to end up like this?"
Ashe simply stared at him.
"No need to tell me," the blacksmith grunted. "Olier and Cael's boys haven't shut up about what happened…" Eyeing the eerie blade again, he muttered as if accepting a challenge, "The corruption of an Alpha, huh?"
Gethren clicked his tongue and turned toward the forge, tossing more coal into the fire.
"Damn it… Fine. But you're going to owe me big time, kid. And so will your old master."
Knowing he wouldn't be around for them to collect that debt, Ashe nodded without protest.
"Don't expect miracles," the blacksmith warned. "I can put it back together, but I'll have to remove all the Sacred Metal around the crust. Your Toledo steel won't be the same."
Ashe held his gaze for a moment, a hint of sadness in his eyes. His fingers brushed over the worn leather of the hilt, as if trying to memorize every crack before it changed forever.
He clenched his jaw and nodded. At least he would have a sword.
Seeing his silent agreement, Gethren let out a gruff snort.
"Jules, help me with the forge… It's going to be a long night."
-
Ashe left the blacksmith shop with his head down, shoulders slightly hunched. Not even the fresh air brushing against his face could lift his spirits.
His stomach protested with a loud growl, making him place a hand on his abdomen.
Remembering his master's recommendation, now that he had finished his duties...
A faint, almost imperceptible smile appeared on his lips.
"I'd better go see Tessa," he murmured before setting off...
The tavern 'The Last…' seemed unusually quiet from the outside. No shouting, no fights, none of the usual drunken commotion. But as Ashe approached the entrance, the rough voices and bursts of laughter made it clear that a very different story was unfolding inside.
"The kid didn't even flinch!" roared a voice Ashe recognized instantly—Crowley. "With all our weapons pointed at him, he just said: 'I am a rank-four officer. If I feel my life is threatened, I have the right to defend myself... be it against a noble, a priest... or a...'"
During the dramatic pause, Ashe could picture Crowley mimicking his own gesture—tapping the Maester's forehead with the barrel of his revolver.
"…Knight."
Crowley finished, triggering an eruption of excitement.
"WHOOOO!"
"No way!"
"The kid's got balls!"
Amid the tavern's laughter, a soft yet intrigued female voice cut through the storytelling:
"And then? Nothing happened to him, right?"
"Don't worry, young lady," one of the soldiers replied mockingly. "Your boyfriend didn't get a single scratch."
Relieved that her father wasn't present—"HE'S NOT MY BOYFRIEND!"—Tessa's voice burst out, sharp and flustered.
Ashe could almost see her cheeks turning red.
"Well, what happened next?" someone else insisted.
"Priest Salazar—gotta give him credit—had guts," Crowley continued. "He offered a hefty handful of sacros for the Alpha's head and convinced him to lower his weapon."
"And that's it? You all just let him go? Just like that?"
"Not a chance!" another soldier cut in, excited. "With the grenade he had pulled—"
Before he could finish... having heard enough... the tavern door swung open with a dry creak.
When Ashe stepped inside, the silence grew heavy. For a moment, no one moved—until suddenly, both miners and lumberjacks raised their mugs in his honor and cheered, a tribute far from silent to him and his master for protecting them in their dangerous work.
Even Crowley's soldiers—the same ones who had aimed their weapons at him barely twenty minutes earlier—joined the celebration, along with Crowley himself.
Despite the warm welcome, Ashe's expression remained unreadable. He simply shook his head slightly and made his way to his usual corner, the quietest part of the bar.
He rested his rifle against the wooden counter, where no one could reach it without stepping over it, and dropped onto the stool. That was when his expression changed—just slightly—as the corners of his lips curved in response to the warm smile of the beautiful woman behind the bar, who asked him affectionately:
"What will you have?"
-
At the same time...
In a vast coliseum of reddish sand, a metallic roar shattered the tense silence.
The iron gates groaned open, and from the darkness beyond, something emerged, moving on four legs.
Beneath a coat of coarse, grayish fur—uneven and jagged like corroded bark—bulging muscle fibers twisted beneath the skin, writhing with an almost grotesque strength. Only its tail, smooth and thick like a freshly flayed tentacle, escaped that rough mantle.
Its face was a nightmare of half-open jaws, lined with jagged, yellowed fangs—splintered and uneven—while its eyes—two lidless pits of black resin—scanned its surroundings with a feral sharpness.
Each movement arched its curved claws, which did not scratch the sandy ground but tore through the metal beneath it.
And it was not alone.
From the flanks of the coliseum, more rusted gates screeched open, releasing a dozen identical creatures—torn gray fur, writhing muscles, and glassy black eyes.
Their behavior could only be described as violent and erratic. Despite being of the same kind, they would not have hesitated to tear into and devour one another—if not for the being of metal, waiting for them in the center of the arena.
It came to life, its orange lens flaring to life as it moved its mechanical limbs with an unsettling fluidity, as if stretching its "old" joints.
The creatures' chitinous eyes locked onto it before they lunged in a frenzy.
The metal being did not retreat.
It did not hesitate.
It had been designed for this.
When the largest of the beasts rose onto its hind legs, its shadow completely engulfing the warrior's silhouette, its curved claws descended like scythes.
The metal being caught its wrists, stopping them cold.
For an instant, beast and machine tested their raw strength.
But with more than one enemy to deal with… without hesitation, the metal being clenched its hands—producing a sickening 'crack' of breaking bones, followed by a squeak of pure agony.
Interrupted—when the metal warrior swiftly twisted his upper body, dragging the creature he still held and using it as a club to strike the others preparing to pounce.
The creatures hesitated, recoiling at the rejection and the sight of their largest kin's condition… But reason lost against the violent instincts that drove them into a frenzy. They all charged at him.
The creatures attacked with savage ferocity, while the metal being fought in an entirely opposite manner.
Despite being unarmed… his metallic fists were all he needed.
With precise, fluid movements, he anticipated every attack. Each of his strikes was a calculated counter, swift and final—a brutal uppercut sent one beast soaring before it crashed lifeless to the ground, its neck broken in a single blow; a kick to the stomach halted another just long enough for him to finish it with a crushing hammer strike, shattering its skull against the sand.
One creature managed to leap onto his back, its jaws wide open, aiming for the rear of his "head."
But the metal being twisted his torso again, facing it directly, and immediately caught its maw with both hands.
And… with a violent wrench, he dislocated its jaw with a dull snap.
The shriek that followed was that of an animal realizing—too late—that they were not the hunters… but the prey.
The battle raged on. Savage. Unrelenting.
The metal being showed no mercy. His armored body was a weapon in itself, blocking attacks with terrifying precision and responding with lethal counters.
One by one, the monsters fell… Until only he remained.
Standing in the arena, surrounded by the mangled remains of the twelve mutated creatures, the metal being raised his orange visor and arm. His metallic hands, stained with purple blood, gleamed under the artificial light as he looked up at the metal cage that formed the coliseum's vaulted ceiling.
Gesturing as if he were the one speaking, addressing the lone spectator of the arena, he asked;
"Well? What do you think…?"
There was a brief silence until the spectator opened the cage and took the small yet dense winner of the fight in his hand—a 20-centimeter-tall metal warrior, still warm from the battle fought in the miniature arena.
With a mocking smile hidden beneath his crimson mask—one that did not reach his unnervingly hoarse voice—he responded:
"Since when did you become a toy maker?"
"Ha-ha... Very funny." Bennet snorted as he removed his helmet and disconnected from the metallic structure surrounding him—an exoskeleton anchored to his backplate and covering his arms, designed to capture his every movement... and transmit them to the small mecha the inquisitor was holding.
"So, your plan is to use these constructs to wipe out all the mutated rats in Constantinople, huh? Ambitious..." the inquisitor said sarcastically, examining the sturdy design of the small iron giant.
After parting ways with the Maestre and his guards, the Inquisitor was finally led to his destination—a hidden refuge and home deep within the mountains.
From the outside, it appeared to be nothing more than a modest cabin, worn down by time, surrounded by stacks of supplies piled up haphazardly. A simple façade to conceal the entrance to the underground bunker.
As they descended, the air changed. The smell of damp earth gave way to a metallic stench and the scent of burnt oil.
The first level was a workshop filled with all kinds of machinery, from generators to dismantled vehicles. The walls were covered with tools, blueprints, and shelves packed with spare parts. A freight elevator and several staircases connected to the lower levels.
Further down, the bunker's functionality blended with the comforts of a home. A vertical farming area filled one section, with rows of plants illuminated by full-spectrum lamps. To the side, a small but well-equipped kitchen held a table cluttered with blueprints, metal cups, and the remains of a recent meal.
The refuge also had a couple of rooms—austere but well-organized—with bunk beds, shelves full of old books, and well-maintained weapons. Deeper still, the engine room roared with the energy of a massive generator, keeping the underground sanctuary alive.
"Tch... I almost preferred when you kept your composure because you had men under your command." grumbled old Bennet, regretting having brought him.
"Let me relax a little with a brother," the Inquisitor replied, dropping the rigid and formal tone he always used with his subordinates.
"We are not."
"Of course we are. We both took the same vows of brotherhood."
Bennet clicked his tongue in displeasure. He couldn't argue, even if he wanted to.
The Inquisitor smiled faintly beneath his mask and placed the small mecha on the edge of the miniature arena. Then, with a heavy breath, he set the jokes aside.
"So... you've finally solved what has tormented you for so long."
Without a hint of hesitation, Bennet responded immediately:
"Yes. I helped create the Guardians, and I bear the responsibility for all the souls that inhabit them and all the tragedies they have caused."
Before he could continue, the Inquisitor added, as a fact cemented in history, "Also for all the lives they saved... If the Guardians had never been created, we would have perished when the monoliths reopened."
Ignoring the good and focusing only on his sins, Bennet also disregarded his brother's words of comfort. "This version of the controller is safe. There is no direct connection between the Sacred Metal and the human."
Holding his helmet, he turned it to show the Inquisitor its interior. Intricate copper circles were engraved into its inner lining.
"I've developed a passive brainwave reader. It doesn't require an invasive method..." Containing his bad memories, Bennet finished heavily, "Like in previous cases."
"Hm..." The Inquisitor pondered in silence, weighing the implications of safely manufacturing Guardians once again. Finally, he murmured:
"This might be just what finally lets the Viceroy sleep at night..."
Bennet snorted with a sarcastic smile.
"The kid-king, huh?"
"To you, we're all kids... Alfie."
The old man clenched his jaw at the name, but the Inquisitor continued as if he hadn't noticed his reaction.
"The Viceroy, though young, has shown exceptional talent. He's uneasy about the enemy's movements. When I told him about you, your disciple..." He glanced at the small mecha before continuing. "And your research… he was the first to insist on securing your cooperation."
Bennet nodded, a spark of satisfaction in his gaze.
"Ho!... Seems like he has a good eye."
The Inquisitor let out a faint grunt, and for a moment, his rough voice almost sounded warm. Almost human.
"Not just that. The troops and civilians respect him and believe in him... even the Order of Chivalry founded by his sister is the most revered in Constantinople."
"Even here, we've heard rumors of the famous all-female order.Imagine being one of their squires... Hehe."
Despite ignoring Bennet's dirty old man joke, the inquisitor's tone hardened. "If not for the 'illness' that consumes them..."
Aware of the euphemism, meant to avoid a painful truth, Bennet let out a faint sigh. "Yes... I know."
This time, it was he who tried to comfort his 'brother' by changing the subject.
"I've recorded every little detail of the Pasive reader and the design of the Guardians' structure in Ashliath's brain. If he makes it to Constantinople, he has all the knowledge needed to develop the project."
A brief silence settled between them.
"So they're finally going to meet..."
"Seems like it..." The Inquisitor leaned slightly forward. "Now tell me, how is your... disciple, Ashliath, like?"
Bennet took a deep breath, as if searching for the best way to answer. In the end, he simply shrugged.
"Not much to say. Since he's been under my care, he's been a quiet, reserved Kid. Maybe too much so..."
The Inquisitor nodded approvingly.
"Hm. That's good."
His reaction was calm—until Bennet added in a more serious tone:
"Although... the boy has nightmares."
The Inquisitor frowned slightly, hoping it was due to his harsh training. He asked,
"From the frontlines?"
"That's what I thought at first..." Bennet replied as he pulled out an old flask from beneath his sacred metal armor. He brought it to his lips and took a sip, as if he needed a push to continue.
"Until one night, I heard him say a name. One he shouldn't know."
A chill ran down the Inquisitor's spine.
"What... what name?"
Bennet narrowed his eyes, as if reliving that moment in his mind.
"He called out to a woman in a broken voice..."
The Inquisitor tensed.
"And then, with rage in every syllable, with his fists clenched so tightly they bled..." Bennet took another sip before raising his gaze toward the thin slits of the Inquisitor's mask. Then, he moved his lips without uttering a single word.
The reaction was immediate. The Inquisitor stood up abruptly.
"Are you sure about this?"
Instead of answering, Bennet pressed a key on the miniature keyboard embedded inside his armored wrist guard. One of the nearby screens lit up, playing a low-resolution video. In it, Ashe thrashed violently in his bed, murmuring in his sleep.
"No... Askari!"
His breathing was erratic. His body trembled as his fists clenched so tightly that blood began to seep from them...
Suddenly, his body arched sharply, as if something invisible was pulling at his insides. With his eyes open—but vacant—he let out a scream so piercing it seemed to tear through the very air itself:
"FERTH!"
The camera shook. The image distorted violently, as if something more than just the force of his voice had interfered with the recording.
Then, his body collapsed onto the mattress. The footage continued, showing Bennet bursting into the room with a weapon in hand, clearly alarmed. The recording ended there.
Bennet glanced at the Inquisitor before speaking in a deep, firm voice.
"I'm sure."
-
Inspirations/References.