machines sitting under canvas like sleeping animals. This wasn't the part of the army that worried about regulations. This was where desperation went when it needed to pretend it was innovation.
Malik wandered slowly, hands clasped behind his back, eyes moving from one project to the next. "You people really throw money at anything that looks angry enough," he muttered in English.
Jeanyx stopped in front of a wide drafting table. The paper was yellowed, edges curled, the ink heavy and confident. He leaned in, eyes narrowing.
A troop carrier aircraft. Not elegant. Big. Broad wings. Reinforced hull. Something meant to stay in the air even after being shot to hell.
Stamped along the corner in English:
Vickers Limited
Jeanyx huffed softly. "Of course."
Malik stepped closer. "You know them?"
"Да," Jeanyx said. "Колокола. Металл. Церкви."
(Yes. Bells. Metal. Churches.)
Nyxia's voice chimed in immediately, amused. Oh, that's poetic. Church bells turning into war machines. I love irony.
Jeanyx straightened, thinking. Rome was far. Even with the hellcycle, pushing it to full speed meant days of travel—and worse, slowing down so Malik didn't get left behind or turned into paste by air resistance.
"I don't feel like waiting," Jeanyx said aloud.
Malik raised an eyebrow. "That sentence usually means something expensive is about to happen."
They didn't take anything official.
They went where unfinished things were sent to rot.
The scrapyard sat behind the facility, fenced off and forgotten, snow gathering on twisted wings and broken fuselages. Plane corpses piled on top of each other, metal eaten by rust, propellers bent like broken fingers. Engines stripped, cockpits shattered. Failed dreams stacked ten meters high.
Malik followed Jeanyx out onto the open ground, boots crunching. "You sure this is—"
Jeanyx stepped forward and placed his hand against the nearest pile.
Fire bloomed instantly.
Not orange. Not yellow. Black and violet flames poured from his palm, crawling across the scrap like liquid hunger. The gems in his panjas bracelets flared deep red, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat. Red energy bled into the fire, thicker, heavier, like molten blood.
Nyxia practically purred. Oh yeah. This is my kind of art project.
The flames spread fast. Too fast. Metal groaned as if waking from a long sleep. Wings twisted, snapping back into shape. Fuselages folded inward, merging, stacking, reforging themselves. Engines screamed as they reassembled, pistons slamming into place with violent precision.
Malik stumbled back. "Jeanyx—"
The fire surged higher, blotting out the sky. Something massive began to take form inside it. A shadow with wings. No—multiple wings. Reinforced. Ribbed with metal veins.
The ground shook as landing gear slammed down, reshaping themselves into clawed, armored supports. A skull-like prow emerged from the flame, forged from overlapping steel plates, teeth cut from propeller blades. Exhaust vents ignited, spitting fire like dragon breath.
The flames finally died down.
What stood before them was not a plane.
It was a weapon pretending to be one.
A colossal airborne machine, wings stretched wide, patched together from a hundred dead aircraft and something else—something alive. Iron crosses scorched into its wings, not painted but branded. Engines growled low and steady, heat rippling the air around them.
Malik just stared, mouth open.
"…Jesus Christ."
Nyxia laughed outright inside Jeanyx's head. Don't flatter him. He had nothing to do with this.
Jeanyx tilted his head, inspecting the thing like a craftsman looking over finished work. "It'll fly."
Malik finally found his voice. "Fly? That thing looks like it's gonna hunt."
"Да," Jeanyx said calmly. "Именно."
(Yes. Exactly.)
The engines flared brighter, as if responding to his attention.
Nyxia added, smug and delighted, And it's hungry.
Malik ran a hand through his hair, still staring up at the towering machine. "You know… I was expecting maybe a faster horse."
Jeanyx allowed himself a small smile as smoke curled upward into the gray Petrograd sky.
"This will get us to Rome faster," he said.
And somewhere deep inside the demonic aircraft, metal shifted again, settling into place—ready to carry its riders toward something the Church had never prepared for.
The scrapyard didn't stay quiet for long. Once word spread that the Prince hadn't just found something but had made something, soldiers moved with a kind of frantic purpose that bordered on panic. Crates were dragged across frozen ground, ammunition counted twice, fuel siphoned and poured, tools passed hand to hand without anyone really knowing who had ordered what.
The massive aircraft loomed over all of it, heat still radiating from its engines, metal ticking as it cooled. Every so often, one of the engines would flare, almost impatient, like it didn't enjoy standing still.
Jeanyx stood a little apart from the chaos, coat fluttering faintly in the updrafts of warm air. Malik leaned against a crate beside him, watching soldiers scramble like ants around something far bigger than they understood.
Nyxia stretched lazily inside Jeanyx, her voice light and amused. You know, if they keep running like that, someone's gonna trip and fall into the engines. I'm not saving them.
Jeanyx exhaled through his nose. "Let them learn."
Malik glanced at the plane again, then back toward the soldiers. "So," he said casually, "we flying straight to Rome, or you got… layers to this?"
"Rome," Jeanyx replied. "But how we arrive matters."
Malik nodded slowly. "Yeah. That tracks."
They fell into silence for a moment, watching a group of soldiers struggle to load crates onto a flatbed. One of them slipped, swore loudly in Russian.
"Осторожно, идиот!" another shouted. (Careful, idiot!)
Nyxia snickered. I like this crew. Very professional.
Jeanyx continued, voice thoughtful. "Fear alone isn't enough. Rome has seen sieges, fires, massacres. If we only burn it, they'll rebuild and call it a test of faith."
Malik scratched at his jaw. "So we need something that sticks."
"Yes."
"Something they remember every time they preach."
Nyxia chimed in immediately. Ooo, I love where this is going. Trauma is my favorite teacher.
Jeanyx tilted his head slightly. "What would you suggest?"
Malik was about to answer when something caught his eye. His gaze slid past Jeanyx, brow furrowing. He straightened a little.
"…Hold up."
Jeanyx was mid-sentence when Malik reached out and grabbed his chin, turning his head sharply to the right.
"Hey—" Jeanyx started.
Malik didn't apologize. He just nodded toward the edge of the yard.
A lone soldier was jogging past, struggling slightly under the weight of a long, awkward weapon. A metal tube with a thick hose trailing behind it, fuel canisters clanking against his back. The nozzle gleamed dully in the cold light.
A flamethrower.
The soldier muttered something under his breath in Russian as he adjusted the straps.
"Чёртова штука тяжёлая…" (Damn thing's heavy…)
Jeanyx stared.
Malik stared.
They looked at each other.
Slowly, the same grin spread across both their faces.
Nyxia didn't even try to hide her excitement. Oh. OH. Yes. That one. I want that one.
Jeanyx turned fully now, eyes following the flamethrower as the soldier disappeared behind a stack of crates. "Fire terrifies," he said quietly. "But controlled fire… that sends a message."
Malik chuckled. "You're thinking symbolism."
"I'm thinking theater."
Nyxia laughed, sharp and delighted. Rome loves its spectacles. Let's give them one they can't unsee.
Malik pushed off the crate, rolling his shoulders. "You realize," he said, "if we mix that thing with whatever the hell you're doing with fire, it's not gonna behave like normal."
Jeanyx's smile widened just a fraction. "Good."
Malik nodded toward the aircraft. "Imagine it. You descend out of the sky in that thing, hellfire engines screaming, and then—"
"And then we let them watch," Jeanyx finished.
Nyxia added, —as their holy city learns the difference between faith and consequence.
In the background, a soldier shouted,
"Груз готов!" (Supplies ready!)
Another replied,
"Топливо загружено!" (Fuel loaded!)
Jeanyx watched the flames flicker faintly along the aircraft's vents, already envisioning how it would look reflected in marble and gold.
Malik followed his gaze, then glanced once more toward where the flamethrower had gone.
"…Yeah," he said quietly. "Rome's gonna remember this."
Jeanyx didn't answer right away. He just nodded, the idea settling into place—not as a plan yet, but as a shape, something waiting to be sharpened.
Nyxia's voice hummed contentedly in his head. Oh, this trip is gonna be fun.
The aircraft's engines roared as it banked hard over the burning city, firelight rolling across its armored belly. Below, Rome was no longer a single shape but a patchwork of flame and shadow—columns collapsing, roofs caving inward, crowds scattering through streets that had carried prayers for centuries.
Jeanyx leaned back into the open doorway, wind tearing at his coat, heat washing over him in waves. He reached forward, his arm dissolving into black mold that stretched, hardened, and wrapped around Malik's chest like a living harness.
"Pilot," Jeanyx called into the cockpit, voice steady despite the chaos. "Уводи. Возвращайся через полчаса."
(Pull away. Come back in half an hour.)
The reply came tight and immediate.
"Понял." (Understood.)
Before Malik could ask what that meant, the mold tightened and yanked him off his feet.
"Jeanyx—what the hell—"
They went over the edge together.
The wind slammed into them like a wall. Rome rushed up fast, fire and stone blurring into a single rushing force. Malik yelled, cursed, shouted Jeanyx's name in a stream of half-formed threats that were torn apart by the air.
Nyxia's voice cut through Jeanyx's thoughts, playful and sharp. Relax. I've got the landing.
They hit the ground like a falling star.
Stone exploded outward as they slammed into a wide plaza, the impact carving a deep crater into marble and ancient brick. Dust and debris shot skyward, the shockwave rippling through nearby streets. The sound echoed, long and thunderous, before collapsing into stunned silence.
Malik lay there for half a second, staring at the sky, chest heaving.
"…I hate you," he said hoarsely.
Jeanyx rose first, brushing dust from his shoulders like he'd stepped off a curb. "You're alive."
Malik sat up, coughing. "That was not the deal."
Nyxia snorted. It was absolutely the deal. You just didn't read the fine print.
Jeanyx extended a hand. Malik took it, pulling himself to his feet. Around them, people stared from doorways and alley mouths—shock, fear, disbelief freezing them in place.
Jeanyx looked out over the streets, fire reflecting in his eyes. "They chose this," he said quietly. "Wreak havoc."
Malik nodded once. Not eager. Not hesitant. Just resolved.
He lifted the flamethrower.
The first stream of fire cut across the street in a roaring arc, consuming a line of guards rushing toward them. Malik moved with intent, not rage—angling the fire, pulling it away from fleeing families, letting others scatter before he advanced. He burned what stood against him. He burned symbols. He burned messages into stone.
A building collapsed inward under the heat, its upper floors folding like paper. Malik turned, sweeping flame across another avenue, forcing soldiers back, scattering resistance.
"I'm not proud of this," he muttered under his breath. "But I'm not stopping either."
Jeanyx didn't answer.
Black mold poured from his feet, spreading outward like ink spilled across parchment. It crawled up walls, across windows, along arches and statues. Where it touched people, it didn't simply kill—it changed. Bodies twisted, reshaped, rising again as hollow-eyed figures bound to the mold's will.
Nyxia hummed approvingly. Efficient. Messy, but efficient.
The Molded surged forward, attacking anything that moved, spreading the black growth further with every step. Streets vanished beneath it. Alleyways became veins feeding something vast and hungry.
Jeanyx walked through it all without urgency, directing the spread with small movements of his hand. Where the fire raged too close, the mold parted. Where resistance gathered, it surged harder, faster.
Above them, bells rang once—then stopped.
Malik watched a Molded figure tear through a barricade and looked away, jaw tight. He turned his fire on a line of approaching soldiers instead, driving them back, forcing retreat.
"I said I'd help you send a message," he called out. "Not erase the whole damn city."
"This isn't erasure," Jeanyx replied calmly. "This is correction."
Nyxia added brightly, Think of it as… aggressive education.
They moved deeper into Rome together—fire and mold carving separate paths that overlapped only when resistance thickened. The city fought back in fragments: gunfire from rooftops, prayers shouted in desperation, orders screamed and ignored.
None of it stopped them.
By the time the distant roar of engines returned overhead, smoke had swallowed the skyline. Streets lay buried under black growth and glowing embers. The aircraft circled back into view, descending through ash and heat.
Jeanyx paused, looking around at what Rome had become—not finished, not destroyed, but forever altered.
Malik lowered his weapon, breathing hard. "They'll remember this."
"Yes," Jeanyx said.
Nyxia laughed softly. Oh, they'll never forget.
The aircraft touched down amid fire and ruin, and as they moved toward it, the city continued to burn behind them—not as an ending, but as a scar written into history, still smoking, still spreading in whispers long after the flames would finally die.
They were only a few steps from the aircraft when the night fractured.
Searchlights snapped on all at once, harsh white beams cutting through smoke and drifting ash. Shouted orders followed, sharp and panicked, then the unmistakable rattle of rifles. Bullets tore through the air, sparks jumping where they struck stone, engines, armor plating.
"Contact!" Malik yelled, already turning, flamethrower swinging up out of reflex.
Jeanyx didn't even flinch.
He stepped forward instead, placing himself squarely in front of Malik as gunfire intensified. The first rounds hit him center mass. They didn't punch through. They didn't ricochet. They sank into him and died, metal softening, glowing red for a heartbeat before liquefying and dripping uselessly to the ground.
Nyxia's voice came in light and amused. Wow. They're really committed to the bit.
Jeanyx inhaled once.
Then his skin burned away.
Black and violet flame consumed him from the inside out, racing across bone as his form twisted into something older, heavier. A skull stared back at the soldiers now, empty sockets blazing with hellfire, chains rattling as they manifested along his arms. Heat rolled off him in waves so intense the nearest men stumbled back without understanding why.
Malik stared for half a second, then ducked behind him instinctively. "Yeah," he muttered. "Still not used to that."
Jeanyx planted one foot hard against the stone street.
The ground answered.
Black ice burst outward from the impact point, spreading faster than thought, cracking and crawling along the street like a living thing. It swallowed cobblestone, climbed boots, wrapped around legs mid-stride. Soldiers screamed as the cold seized them, flash-freezing flesh, armor, breath. In seconds, a dozen men stood frozen in place—faces locked in terror, weapons trapped in hands that would never move again.
Jeanyx turned his head slightly, noticing the state of his coat—what little remained of it. Torn. Burned. Ruined.
That seemed to annoy him more than the gunfire had.
He raised his hand and ignited it.
A stream of hellfire roared forward, sweeping across the frozen line. Black ice statues didn't melt—they vanished, shattered into ash and steam in an instant. The heat rolled on, unchecked, slamming into the advancing line behind them. Screams cut short. Shadows burned into walls.
Nyxia sounded pleased. That's better. Much more you.
Malik exhaled slowly, watching it happen, then turned away and fired again—short, controlled bursts of flame that drove the remaining troops back, forcing retreat, forcing silence.
Ahead of them, the palace loomed.
Jeanyx didn't hesitate.
He walked straight toward it.
The fire followed him like a tide. The moment it touched the palace walls, marble blackened and ran, stone glowing dull red as centuries-old brick began to sag and collapse inward. Windows burst outward in showers of molten glass. Inside, screams echoed—priests, guards, clerks—voices layered in panic and disbelief.
"È l'inferno!"
(It's hell!)
"Perdonaci!"
(Forgive us!)
The flames did not forgive.
Jeanyx stood at the threshold, hellfire pouring through the halls, devouring tapestries, altars, gilded doors. The building burned from the inside out, collapsing into itself as the heat consumed everything that had once claimed divine authority.
Malik watched from a distance, jaw tight, eyes reflecting orange and violet light. He didn't cheer. He didn't look away either.
When it was done, Jeanyx let the fire fade.
The skull vanished. Flesh reformed. Breath returned. He stood there again as himself, coat gone, soot clinging to his hair, eyes calm like this had been an errand rather than an execution.
Nyxia settled back into him with a satisfied sigh. Message delivered.
They turned back toward the aircraft as it lowered itself through the smoke, engines roaring low and steady. The ramp dropped. Heat washed over the hull.
Jeanyx climbed aboard first. Malik followed, pausing just long enough to look back.
Rome was burning.
Not the old monuments. Not the bones of history. Those still stood, silhouettes against the firestorm. But everything around them—power, arrogance, certainty—was reduced to smoke and flame.
The aircraft lifted, banking away as fires continued to spread below, uncontrolled now, unstoppable.
Inside the cabin, Malik leaned against the wall, breathing hard. "You think they'll ever try that again?"
Jeanyx looked out the window, watching the city recede beneath clouds of smoke. "No."
Nyxia added, blunt and cheerful as ever, If they do, they'll be even dumber about it.
The plane climbed higher, leaving Rome behind—still burning, still screaming, not finished, not erased, just permanently changed, the night carrying the memory forward whether anyone wanted it to or not.