The air in the narrow service corridor was thick with the metallic tang of old rust and the palpable tension of men about to step into a tomb. The ten-man Breacher squad stood in tight formation, their faces grim and set. Elara moved down the line, her expression a mask of cool professionalism as she administered the combat stimulants with a reusable injector. A sharp hiss accompanied each dose, and the men stood unflinchingly as the potent cocktail surged into their veins.
For the Breachers, the effect was almost instantaneous. The world sharpened. The dim, flickering light of their shoulder-mounted lamps seemed to grow brighter, revealing the fine texture of the rusted metal walls and the individual motes of dust hanging in the air. The low, distant hum of the shelter's generator became a complex symphony of vibrations they could feel in the soles of their boots. The fear, that familiar, coiling serpent in the gut of every survivor, did not vanish. Instead, it was caged, transformed from a hot, chaotic panic into a cold, hard stone of focused alertness. Their hands, gripping the strange, perfect weapons their new Lord had conjured, felt steady and sure, the dark metal cool and solid against their palms. They were no longer just men; they were instruments, honed and ready for their bloody work.
Damien stood just behind the front line, a field commander in the heart of his own assault. He felt the constant, low-level drain on his own energy, a quiet but persistent pull. The ten sets of weapons his Breachers now held were not independent objects; they were extensions of his will, tethers of power that stretched from his own core. Every bullet they would fire, every function of the weapons' perfect, self-maintaining mechanisms, would draw a small tithe from his Saupa. He reached into a small leather pouch at his belt, his fingers closing around the cool, crystalline forms of several Ember-class beast cores. This campaign would be a constant, unforgiving exercise in resource management, both of his men and of himself.
His gaze fell upon the figure at the very front of the formation. Bane. Unarmed, his face a mask of dead-eyed resignation. A living shield. A valuable asset, but one that was currently too vulnerable.
"Bane," Damien said, his voice quiet but carrying an absolute authority that cut through the tense silence.
He stepped forward and placed a hand on Bane's massive, scarred shoulder. From the pouch at his belt, he withdrew a single, larger crystal. It was a Conduit-level beast core, and it pulsed with a deep, internal blue light, its stored energy a stark contrast to the gloom of the corridor. The Breachers watched, their drug-sharpened senses taking in every detail with a mixture of awe and terror.
Damien held the core in his open palm. He did not crush it. Instead, he focused his will, and the crystal began to glow with a fierce, internal brilliance. The light did not erupt; it flowed, a visible stream of pure, liquid energy draining from the core and seeping directly into Damien's skin. The Breachers watched in stunned silence as the Conduit-level core, a treasure of immense value, rapidly dimmed, its vibrant blue light fading to a dull grey as its power was siphoned away. He felt the raw, untamed Saupa of the beast surge into his own depleted reserves, a powerful, intoxicating rush that made the world seem to vibrate. But he did not absorb it for himself. He became a channel. When the last of its energy was gone, the core crumbled into a fine, inert dust that sifted through his fingers.
He slammed his palm, now glowing with a faint, residual blue light, against Bane's back. The energy discharged in a single, silent burst. Bane's body seized, a strangled, inhuman sound tearing from his throat as the torrent of foreign Saupa flooded his system. Motes of dark, metallic light began to coalesce around him, drawn from nothingness by Damien's will and fueled by the sacrificed core. A solid metal greave formed around his right leg with a muted CLANG, followed by another on his left. A breastplate, thick and seamless, materialized over his scarred torso, followed by pauldrons, vambraces, and a heavy, enclosed helmet that sealed around his head with a final, pneumatic hiss. In seconds, Bane was encased in a suit of perfect, articulated plate armor, its surface a matted, non-reflective black that seemed to drink the light. It was not the crude scrap-plate of the wastes; it was a masterpiece of form and function, its joints moving with a silent, fluid grace.
The Breachers stared, their mouths agape. They had seen their Lord conjure weapons. They had not seen him conjure a second skin for another man, an act of creation so profound it bordered on the divine.
Inside the helmet, Bane's world was silence and darkness, broken only by the sound of his own ragged breathing and the faint, internal glow of the helmet's simple display. The armor was a cage, a perfect, invulnerable prison. He felt the weight of it, the cold, absolute control it represented. He was no longer a man; he was a golem, a living siege engine, and the humiliation burned hotter than any physical wound. A low, guttural sound of pure, suppressed hatred rumbled in his chest, a sound no one but he could hear.
The act had cost Damien nearly all the energy from the core, a massive, upfront investment. But as he looked at the armored, unkillable behemoth that now stood ready to lead the charge, he knew the calculation was sound.
"Begin," Damien commanded.
The newly-forged hydraulic ram, braced against the sealed and rusted service door, began its work. There was no loud explosion, only a deep, groaning shriek of tortured metal as the heavy steel door buckled, warped, and was finally shoved inward with a final, deafening CRUNCH. Dust and the stench of centuries-old decay billowed out from the opening.
"Bane. Forward."
The armored giant moved, his heavy, metal-shod boots clanking on the concrete. He stepped through the mangled doorway, a black, unstoppable juggernaut, his massive frame a living shield. He was the tripwire, the sacrificial pawn sent to absorb the first, unknown horror.
He was met not with a swift, deadly ambush, but with a low, collective groan.
The Breachers, led by Fred, moved in behind him, their weapons raised, their formation a perfect, disciplined wedge. Damien followed, his eyes scanning every shadow, his mind processing the new battlefield. They had emerged into the grand lobby of the old hotel, and it was a scene of breathtaking, funereal opulence. What had once been a vast, sunlit space was now a cavern of gloom, lit only by the hazy, yellow light filtering through a thick layer of grime on the massive, shattered skylights far above. Dust motes thick as insects danced in the pale beams. The remains of plush velvet couches and elegant mahogany tables lay scattered like the bones of ancient beasts, their rich fabrics rotted to dust, their fine wood warped and split. A grand, sweeping staircase on the far side of the lobby was choked with rubble, its marble steps shattered and broken, a frozen waterfall of destruction. The air was dead, heavy with the smell of dust and the faint, cloying sweetness of decay.
And they were not alone.
Dozens of them. The Shamblers from Kenji's report. They were scattered throughout the lobby, pathetic figures in the tattered remains of fine clothing—a doorman in a rotted uniform, his hand still frozen on the handle of a skeletal luggage cart; a woman in the shreds of an elegant evening gown, a single, tarnished diamond earring still clinging to a desiccated earlobe; a businessman in a suit that was now just a second, gray skin of dust and decay, his bony fingers still clutching a rusted briefcase. They turned their slow, clumsy heads towards the sound of the breach, their dead eyes fixing on the intruders, their mouths opening in that single, coordinated, groaning moan.
The Breachers, who had been steeling themselves for a terrifying, lightning-fast assault, felt a wave of grim relief wash over them. The stimulants in their veins screamed for a target, for action, and this was a target they could handle. This was not a battle; it was an execution.
"Fire at will," Damien commanded, his voice cutting through the groans. "Conserve energy. Aim for the head."
The lobby filled not with a deafening thunder, but with a series of sharp, muffled coughs and spits. The conjured weapons were perfectly silenced. The only sounds were the soft thump-thump-thump of the submachine guns and the heavier whump of the shotguns. The brutal efficiency was made all the more terrifying by the quiet. There was no chaotic roar of battle, only the wet, tearing sound of bullets hitting rotten flesh, the sharp crack of skulls splintering, and the soft, heavy thuds of bodies collapsing to the floor. It was a silent, systematic extermination.
The Breachers, their initial fear forgotten, began to move with a swagger, a grim confidence born of overwhelming firepower. The stimulants sang in their blood, making their movements fluid and precise, their aim unerring. They felt a sense of power they had never known, a feeling of absolute superiority over the dead things that had haunted their nightmares. They advanced through the lobby, clearing the space with a brutal, systematic efficiency, their boots crunching on shattered glass and old bones.
Damien watched, his expression unreadable. He felt the steady, rhythmic drain on his Saupa as the ten weapons fired in concert. It was a manageable but constant expenditure. He discreetly slipped a hand into his pouch, his fingers closing around a small Ember-class core. He let the energy drain from it into his palm, a small, welcome trickle that replenished his reserves, a necessary top-up to keep the weapons functioning at peak efficiency. The depleted core turned to dust in his closed fist.
Bane was a walking fortress. The few Shamblers that managed to get close, drawn by the movement, swiped at him with their clumsy, rotting hands. Their attacks glanced harmlessly off his dark armor with dull, wet thuds. He didn't even seem to notice them. He simply moved forward, a mobile wall of metal behind which the Breachers could operate with impunity, and the rage and humiliation inside his metal cage grew with every step.
This was an acceptable expenditure of resources. The real test was yet to come. "Fred," Damien said over the comms channel he had established. "Report."
"Lobby is clear, Lord," Fred's voice crackled back, laced with a triumphant confidence. "No casualties. The new weapons… they perform beyond all expectations. We're ready to push forward."
"Proceed," Damien commanded. "Maintain discipline."
They moved out of the grand, open space of the lobby and into the back-of-house areas, a labyrinth of narrow corridors, industrial kitchens, and cavernous pantries. The atmosphere changed instantly. The hazy light of the lobby was gone, replaced by a thick, oppressive darkness broken only by the beams of their shoulder-mounted lamps. The air grew heavy with the smell of rust, rot, and the faint, sweet scent of centuries-old decay. The corridors were tight, forcing their disciplined formation to stretch into a single, vulnerable line.
The first sign of trouble was the silence. The constant, low groaning of the Shamblers had faded behind them, and now the only sound was the crunch of their own boots on the tiled floor and the low, tense breathing of the men. The swagger was gone, replaced by a cold, professional caution. The stimulants still kept the panic at bay, but the darkness was a heavy, pressing weight. They entered a massive, industrial kitchen, a cavern of stainless steel and shadows. Long preparation tables stood like metal altars, and the cavernous, walk-in freezers gaped open like empty tombs.
"Eyes up," Fred whispered over the comms, his earlier confidence replaced by a veteran's caution. "Something's not right."
The attack came with no warning. It was not a charge; it was an eruption of violence from all directions at once. A shadow detached itself from the ceiling above a row of ovens, and a creature, impossibly fast, dropped into their midst. It was a Stalker.