Lus, one of the youngest miners — his beard still growing in uneven patches — lay with his head resting on the ground, the last among his comrades.
The damp, cold mud stained the blood-soaked bandages that covered his gashed cheek.
Like the rest, he pleaded for the Church's help, praying silently for yet another miracle.
Suddenly, a flat voice — completely out of place among the chorus of desperate cries — cut through his prayers:
"What are you doing?"
Lus answered without thinking:
"We're praying for the Church to send help… to save you."
A brief pause followed. The same voice, devoid of emotion yet burdened with deep weariness, replied:
"And how's that going?"
"Not very well…" Lus muttered, without lifting his head.
Then his body trembled.
Not because he'd reflected on his own words, nor on the person he was speaking to, but because of the horrible stench of rotten eggs that suddenly filled the air around him.
It was suffocating — and at the same time, familiar.
He had smelled it countless times before: every time he or his comrades opened fire and their bullets tore through a Drexer's flesh. Even the clothes stained by their blood carried that same foul odor.
'The scent of Demon blood' Lus thought.
After all, for the past two centuries, that stench had been one of the main reasons the Monoliths were deemed the very gates of Hell — and the creatures that emerged from within, the demons the sacred scriptures had warned about.
Because of their reek of sulfur.
At least, in those corners of the world with Christian roots.
But this one… this one was stronger. So concentrated it felt acidic. It was like being slapped by a thousand rotten eggs mixed with the sharp chemical sting of ammonia.
Lus lifted his head and looked the person over — from head to toe:
Worn, dark leather boots — reinforced with metal plates at the toe and heel — trapped the ends of loose, beige trousers. They were made of a fabric that looked heavier, tougher than his own reinforced mining coverall.
At knee height, a deep green cloak draped over the rest of the figure's body, leaving visible only what they held in one hand — something almost dragging along the ground.
A wave of relief crossed the young miner's chest, only to die out the moment his eyes fell upon the source of that unbearable stench.
Despite the cold mud, with that monstrous, eyeless face right before him... again, Lus didn't hesitate to roll through it, desperate to get away as fast as he could. His screams cut through the others' prayers, drawing every gaze.
To their astonishment, the young ranger was still alive. He advanced through the improvised corridor the miners formed as the stench reached them.
He stopped before the old ranger — the one who had found him among the debris, who had taught him everything he knew. His superior… his mentor… his— Grandfather.
Though neither would ever admit it aloud.
Ashe, Lus thought, as the ranger gave a slight nod and turned his flickering emerald visor — still active, despite the damage to his armor — toward the High Priest.
Showing neither need nor desire for the Church's aid, he let the Alpha's head drop at their feet.
Though it was just a small gesture... proud to see that his disciple had inherited the same "fondness and respect" for the most powerful institution in the Regnum —the Church— his master smiled inwardly as he pulled a flask from beneath his cloak and took another swig.
When the Alpha's head was exposed to the glow of the cross-shaped torches, it revealed why they could still speak untroubled in the darkness of night. Smoke burst from its surface in violent wisps, the skin hissing and blackening as if igniting on contact with the holy fire.
Before that grotesque sight, silence reigned—no one spoke, no one even breathed.
Not until the miners —far more used to such horrors than most knights— cursed under their breath, frowning at the stench:
"That damned thing again…"
"Bloody hell, what a stink! I'd almost rather have it chasing us!"
Meanwhile, the friars and devotees —who had never been within fifty meters of a living "demon," much less an Alpha— collapsed to the ground or scrambled back, gasping between prayers and exorcisms:
"May the Lord protect us!"
"Burn that abomination at once!"
It was only a head —a monstrous one, yes, but just a still-active fragment of the Alpha's body.
Its twitching jaws, too close to the High Priest for comfort, made his knights step forward.
They drew their swords without flourish, and… "immobilized it."
Half-submerged in the mud, its skull pierced by two blades, the jaws kept twitching—
though more erratically now, as the brain damage took hold.
Meanwhile— "You're late…"
The master's trained eye didn't miss the small motion as his disciple dropped the head. He grabbed the younger man's arm—the one he'd been avoiding moving—and forced a sharp crack as he popped the dislocated shoulder back into place.
Ashe gritted his teeth, massaging the blood-stained shoulder, streaked with purple ichor and splinters.
He looked at the Alpha's head before replying in his usual flat tone: "Ran into a bit of trouble."
"So I see," the old man answered, the corners of his lips lifting ever so slightly— as he had nothing left to teach him.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile.
But Ashe caught it.
Then, suddenly, a rough voice shouted —clearly unaware that the High Priest and two Officers were present:
"Hey! Rock-breakers! We're done here! Hurry up or the barges'll leave without you!"
-
At the same time, at sea level…
After the last logs slid down through the gorge, they emerged from within and rolled along a ramp pointing straight into the holds of the barges waiting below.
Once filled, the ramp lifted, and the vessel drifted slowly away, yielding its place to the next in line.
The captain of the new barge waited for the signal from his lookout, who watched the flag codes atop the cliff with practiced eyes.
When the green flag was finally replaced by orange, and the one marked STOP by ADVANCE, the lookout on deck raised his voice—rough, salt-worn, carrying the accent of a Britanic seaman.
"Sir! We're clear to move in. Also, change in cargo—this time it's minerals."
The captain nodded firmly and turned toward the men on the bridge.
"Good. Twenty minutes before the convoy sets out. Get us in position and alert the loading crew."
The barge moved forward, closing in on the rocky cliffside until it rested beneath the rusted ramp jutting twenty meters above the tide.
Following his crew's signals, the captain steered carefully, aligning the open hold with the heavy iron chain descending from the ramp—a guide link for the load.
A flash of light from a handheld lamp signaled their readiness.
Moments later, a returning flash came from the top of the cliff.
Then, with a metallic roar, the ramp dropped and the gates split open, releasing a torrent of minerals.
The barge shuddered beneath the impact. The crew paused for barely a heartbeat, then resumed their work.
Inside the hold, men moved methodically, redistributing the load. The air reeked of salt, hot oil, and scraped metal. The barge creaked under the weight, while the pale, corrupted light of the moon shimmered across the black water.
"Even if we are behind the Saint Michael leaf, I don't want a single eye asleep," growled the captain, his voice rasped by years of salt and smoke. "If anything moves where it shouldn't, I want it torn apart before it touches my little Lovecrafta."
The sailors stationed behind the .50-cal machine guns—lined along the deck of the barge Lovecrafta—nodded silently at their captain's warning.
One of the newer recruits, eyes fixed too intently on the darkness of the sea, gripped his weapon so tightly that the barrel trembled.
Seeing it, the sailor at the next gun—unluckily assigned to "watch the rookie"—let out a coarse sigh.
"Relax, kid. Don't take the Captain too seriously. It's not like we're pastthe Leaf."
Still staring at the water, the rookie asked quietly:
"Hey… Beryn, can I ask you something?"
Despite the weapon in his hands—or perhaps because of it—Beryn answered with a hint of irony as he lit a cigarette rolled from the torn page of a cheap book.
"Shoot, kid."
"What exactly is the Saint Michael Leaf?" the boy asked. "I've heard the Captain and a few of the crew mention it, but I've got no idea what it actually is."
Beryn looked at him with that weary mix of disbelief and patience. He didn't judge him; he hadn't known either, back when he'd fled his hometown to escape the Church's draft.
"Three weeks out here and you still don't know that?" he sighed, letting out a slow plume of sweet smoke before replying in the same tone it had once been taught to him.
The way things were taught.
"The Leaf, kid, is over two hundred kilometers of sacred iron chain and blessed powder, holding back the corruption of the Atlantic, from the northern sea that conect four kingdoms of the Regnum. From Finisterre, in the Kingdom of Hispania, all the way to Portmagee, in Éire* one"
(*Ireland in Gaelic)
The young man, who came from the Britanic Kingdom and barely knew the Regnum's maps, frowned.
"That's it?" he said, unimpressed.
Beryn snorted before snapping back, clearly annoyed: "That's it?"
"I mean… it sounds impressive, but…" The rookie glanced at the water, where something dark seemed to slide beneath the surface, before finishing, "I don't see it stopping the corrupted beasts."
Beryn spat the bits of tobacco his improvised filter couldn't catch into the sea and turned toward the young man, as if realizing something too late.
"I see… you're an idiot, huh?" he muttered. "The Leaf kept the greatest horrors of the Atlantic at bay, but the small ones… that was another story. Besides, it was built to hold back the hordes of the Breached."
The rookie swallowed hard, his eyes widening as he recognized the name.
Every child in the Regnum grew up with the fear etched into their souls —
the fear of breaking, of becoming a traitor, a heretic.
Those who had turned against their own kind, their faith, their Church;
who had stopped fighting for our survival and now fought for the inevitable fate they said had awaited us since the Monoliths first appeared.
"And believe me, kid," Beryn said, spitting to the side, "that alone is more than enough."
The rookie lowered his gaze and, in silence, gave thanks for the Leaf's existence.
For the next few minutes, the supplies kept falling until the hold was completely filled.
Then the captain of the Lovecrafta turned the helm, and the barge drifted aside, making room for the next one waiting patiently behind.
The process repeated for another twelve minutes, until, from within the mist where the rest of the convoy waited, a blue flare rose and burst against the purple night sky — the signal to depart.
The last barge, its hold still open, waited until the final fragments stopped falling, then slowly pulled away, joining the others on their journey back — bound for the various factories and foundries scattered across the North Sea and the surrounding kingdoms, feeding the Regnum's vast war machine in its endless crusade against the Hells.
All of it was meticulously overseen by the Church, as could be seen within the cliffside station, where an accounting friar verified and filled in the great ledger, its golden embroidery barely held in place by his struggling apprentice.
"All right," he muttered, "three barges filled. On the last day, but within the deadline. Quarterly quota fulfilled. Congratulations."
The silence broke in an explosion of cheers.
The miners, who had been holding their breath until that moment, raised their fists and roared in relief and joy — coarse laughter, slaps on the back, shouts of triumph echoing off the cliffs and vanishing into the salty air.
Amid the uproar, a teasing voice called out:
"Not just the lumberjacks… you lot too. Seems your village's luck still holds."
"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say…" Cael snorted, a grin still on his lips. "But you know what we're waiting for."
With a weary sigh, the Church accountant pulled out a form, filled it with mechanical precision, and handed it to the miners one by one — indifferent to the immeasurable value it held for them.
"Take it to the High Priest for stamping. Once it's sealed, and as faithful citizens of the Regnum, you and your families won't have to atone for any… 'Pilgrimage' to Santiago, or the frontlines, for the next quarter."
At his words, more cheers erupted.
Some dropped to their knees, others laughed through tears. It wasn't just a piece of paper — it was a sentence of life, for them and their loved ones.
At least for three more months.
-
Meanwhile, with the torchlight at his back, Ashe walked toward his mentor, who was drinking from his flask on the cliff overlooking the station.
"You did well…" said the old ranger as he watched the convoy of barges vanish into the dense veil of fog kilometers off the coast.
Aware that killing an Alpha was not something achieved by skill alone, the old man turned to him and asked,
"Now tell me… how much did you spend to bring down the Alpha?"
"I used my Crimson Bullet."
The old man nodded slowly, unsurprised, as if he had already expected that answer.
"And what else?"
There was a moment of silence before Ashe sighed and reached behind his back.
His fingers closed around the hilt of his sword and, with an automatic motion—one shaped by years of habit, by the familiar weight and length of a blade that was no longer there—he drew it with a horizontal sweep through the semi-open section of the scabbard designed for back-draws.
Metal scraped softly as it slid free, but instead of the majestic greatsword, only a shadow of what it once was emerged…
A steel blade half its original size, ending abruptly as if it had been cleaved clean through.
Despite its condition, faint golden streaks still shimmered across the width of the blade, glinting between the layers of its damascened steel —a glow betraying the large amount of sacred metal used in its forging… and its immense worth.
Ashe presented the remains of his sword to his mentor, an odd mixture of resignation and sorrow on his face, before "explaining."
"I had to break it."
The old forest ranger lowered his gaze to the shattered blade, then to the dull eyes peering through the slit of the helmet.
"Did you break your own Toledo sword?" asked the master.
His disciple replied, "Yes."
Something began to simmer within the old man as he narrowed his eyes.
"Do you know how valuable it was?"
"More than most lives."
"That's right… and yet, you broke it."
"Yes," the young man answered, then added—without doubt or regret—"Because it was necessary."
The old man gave a low grunt, constrained by the lesson he had once taught and was now hearing from his pupil's mouth, as he urged him to continue.
He nodded, and recalling the moment he pulled the trigger after locking the bolt of his Blitz-Breaker—with that bullet of metal red as blood inside its barrel—he said:
"The Crimson Bullet wasn't enough to stop the Alpha's regeneration... Before it could expel the fragments, I used the sacred metal of my blade to pierce its heart and slow it down—if only for an instant."
The Alpha's roar thundered in his mind as he drove the Montante blade into the Demon's chest, using the direct impact of the Crimson Bullet.
Then came the metallic taste of blood flooding his mouth when his cuirass buckled and warped, absorbing the worst of the creature's monstrous counterattack.
It closed its knuckles and brought them down straight into his chest in a single, brutal, bone-dry strike that hurled his body backward, while his arms —screaming in pain— refused to release the hilt.
Clutching it as if it were an anchor in the midst of a hurricane trying to fling him in the opposite direction.
Reaching his left shoulder just as the pain returned —and that unpleasant pop echoed as it dislocated— Ashe finished simply:
"So… while the sword was still buried in it, I broke the blade… and used what remained to cut off its head."
"Just like that, the Alpha let you take its head off?" his master asked, unconsciously arching one of his old eyebrows.
Believing it unnecessary to explain more than what was essential…
Ashe "…" fell silent, reexamining what had happened.
He remembered the extreme effort it had taken simply to remain conscious after the impact.
Exhausted, wounded, and with barely any air in his chest, he'd had to rely on every fragment of his gear just to stay alive.
He could still feel the trembling in his hips from the violent thrust of his Jump Kit before the space he had occupied was torn apart by the Alpha's claws.
After being thrown clear, and before the creature could expel the fragments of the Crimson Bullet, he tried to raise the grapple gun built into his gauntlet, reaching for his sword still lodged in its chest… but his dislocated left arm barely responded.
The Alpha roared with fury, charged at him… and in the span of a blink, its two monstrous hands interlocked, creating a sonic boom as they came down like a hammer to crush him.
Another ignition, pure instinct, saved him from the blow —but not from the shockwave.
As he shot out of the dust cloud, a single click of the mouse integrated into his glove released the hooks on the harness, which unfurled by sheer inertia like a comet's tail before slamming into the ground.
The Alpha burst out of the crater its own strike had formed, heavy strides gaining speed as it pursued him.
He pushed himself up and ran the other way, a new blaze roaring at his back, using the trunk of a tree —which a moment later exploded into splinters— as a base to climb higher.
He dodged the Alpha's charge again, and as it thundered past him, his right hand seized a handful of cables dangling from the harness; with a single whip-like motion, the hooks at their end wrapped around the blade still embedded in its chest.
With every swipe he dodged, dragging himself across the ground through violet flames, the cables pulled tighter and tighter around it.
The monster's wild thrashing increased the tension until, with a metallic groan followed by a dry crack…
The blade snapped.
The hilt flew free, spinning through the air like a coin tossed at random.
He used the Alpha's bald, eyeless head as a platform and pushed off once more with his Jump Kit.
In the air, his fingers closed around the hilt, and with a click from his injured hand, the grappling system retracted instantly, yanking him with brutal force.
His body spun midair, his world blurring as he became a human top.
All the speed—every ounce of physics—was focused into the broken edge of his sword.
In a clean, circular slash… one that produced only silence, save for the sound of his heavy breathing rising and falling in his chest… until something wet detached and hit the ground.
Once he finished revisiting the memory,
Ashe answered with a simple, "Yes."
To his master's question—having recounted practically what had happened in full.
After filling in the gaps his sparse words left behind, and noting the dents in the armor that hadn't been there before… the old ranger let out an almost imperceptible sigh.
He didn't feel disappointment, nor anger—only a painful, monetary stab.
"Take off the helmet," he ordered heavily.
Ashe blinked behind the slit of his visor.
For an instant, he thought his master was going to strike him.
Reluctantly, he brought his hands to the sides of the helmet and began to lift it.
But just as strands of ash-gray hair fell beside a chin marked with small scars, and the shadow of a tattoo showed beneath his left eye… the noise of a group approaching made him let it fall back into place.
Turning around, both he and his master saw the high priest, flanked by his two knights, walking toward them, while a cluster of low-ranking acolytes carried one of the torches on their shoulders.
Ashe understood immediately why they had come.
"Get ready…" his master murmured. "A hunt isn't truly over until you sell the quarry for a fair price."
"Normally you handle those things, Master…"
"Don't worry. I'm still here," he replied with a calm that didn't quite reassure his. "But I won't always be the one to do it. And this time, since you're the one who brought it down, it falls to you."
He nodded and straightened up, though the gesture did little to hide his discomfort. He had faced the Alpha without hesitation… but deep down —and he knew it all too well— he would rather trade blows with the beast again than have to bargain with the Church for Sacros.
-
"A thousand Pesetas of the Kingdom would be a fair price."
"..." Faced with his disciple's uncomfortable silence, it was the master who scoffed with contempt, arms crossing over his chest.
"A thousand? For an Alpha in almost perfect condition?" His tone was that of someone who had just heard a joke. "Not a chance."
The priest sighed and brought his hands together in that conciliatory gesture clerics used when they wished to calm their flock.
"Don't be so harsh. You know well that a humble priest from a small village like mine doesn't have the amount of Sacros you're asking for."
The old man smiled to the side—without a trace of humor.
"Do you take me for one of your timid little lambs? The kind you exploit in exchange for 'protection'?" His voice creaked like old wood straining in a tree trunk. "We don't even live in your 'small' village."
The priest kept his composure, but the ranger didn't give him the chance to answer.
"And we both know that a 'humble' priest like you—" The old man paused, letting his gaze slide toward the two knights guarding him, the unspoken words hanging in the air. "—is more than capable of blessing the Sacros we want. Unless, of course, you'd prefer I process the body myself… as I've been doing so far."
The priest blinked, his posture tensing.
"You have processed other Alphas?" he asked, tinged with both surprise and indignation.
The old man shrugged.
"A couple in the last few years. We turned them into Diesel-C ourselves," the old ranger said, patting the jump-kit engine strapped to the back of his hip. "And if you don't give me the price I want, I'll do it again…"
The priest pressed his lips together.
He knew that the Church —and the Cardinal— would greatly value the acquisition of an Alpha's body: its glands were coveted by biologists and alchemists, and its flesh and bones were the primary ingredient of the fuel that kept the war against the Monoliths running.
The cleric clicked his tongue, shaking his head.
"Well… as much as I'd love to bless the Sacros you ask for… there is a problem."
The ranger raised a brow. "And what would that be?"
"You are not the one with rightful claim over its remains."
The priest moved, and when the old ranger tried to follow, the two Church knights stepped forward, blocking his way.
Ashe watched the scene in silence.
'The old man never reacted well to this kind of thing… but this time, he's being surprisingly calm.'
The thought crossed his mind as he watched the priest walk toward the edge of the ravine.
When he reached Ashe's side, he spoke in that serene, almost paternal tone of his:
"Ashliath, my child, I am certain that a self-sacrificing soul like yours understood my decision not to endanger any more lives… Even so, I offer you my apologies."
He paused before adding, with a faint smile:
"And at the same time, I'm glad you were able to overcome adversity on your own…"
His eyes drifted to the grayish cloth resting between the young man's boots, its Latin seals written by his own hand to immobilize the Alpha's head.
The salty wind tugged at the folds of his tunic as he extended his hand in the same conciliatory gesture as before.
"Your actions have shown that the miners' lives matter to you. And now, would you not do another favor for the Church, for the village, and its people?"
He asked rhetorically before continuing. "You will sell us the Alpha you hunted… for a reasonable price?"
The priest turned and raised his arms toward the flickering flames burning in the tall torches behind him—the ones responsible for the protective glow that allowed them to speak on the surface after sundown.
"With the Crystallized Diesel we produce, the Sacred Flame that guards the village will be secured for the entire season…"
Sensing the young man's silence as doubt, the priest went on:
"Of course, I understand the value of your kill. I can offer you up to one thousand Pesetas of the Kingdom. It is a fair price, and given the Vatican's support to strengthen the Andalusian front, the current value of the Peseta is three-quarters of a Sacro. Which means you could exchange one thousand Pesetas for seven hundred and fifty Sacros later on…"
Ashe remained silent, staring expressionlessly beneath his helmet at the night sea—dangerous and, at the same time, unsettlingly beautiful. The moonlight reflecting off the partially corrupted atmosphere gave the water a faint violet sheen.
"Well? What do you say? Not everyone has the chance to draw closer to the salvation of their soul, helping the Church in our fleeting earthly existence… with something as simple as a fair transaction."
The priest waited for his response through several long, uncomfortable seconds of silence. And just as he was about to insist—
The distant, absent young Forest Ranger turned toward him. Interrupting him, giving him the answer he had long awaited, yet did not want.
"Since the great reconquest of the peninsula by all the kingdoms of the Regnum in 2080… the attacks from the Strait have done nothing but increase. Each year, the Andalusian no man's land expands, while neither the Crown nor the Church have managed to stop it completely… only delay it."
Despite his youth, the experience of the front—where his master had taken him every season since he was twelve, as part of his harsh training—filtered through every word.
"If the frontier falls… the Kingdom of Hispania will collapse…"
Letting his heavy words drift through the damp sea breeze, the young man concluded with a grim certainty:
"And the value of those thousand Pesetas will crash… like bullets in a trench."
The priest blinked, taken aback by the bluntness of the response.
If the young man before him had not been an officer—someone beyond his reach in more ways than one—and had instead been a simple villager, he would already have ordered his capture and punishment.
His words, though sincere, were dangerously faithless, casting doubt on the Church's ability to protect its people.
The priest's tone hardened, shedding the paternal patience from moments before.
What followed sounded dangerously close to a threat.
As he warned him: "Be careful with your choice, my child."
Ashe nodded slightly, as if he understood he had overstepped.
Or at least, that's what the priest believed…
Until, with eyes devoid of expression or emotion—eyes that had witnessed too many deaths and survived horrors of the Void enough, even at his young age, to dim their light—there shone instead a quiet, unsettling opacity filtering through the slit of his helmet.
Ashe replied in his usual flat tone:
"I'll take the Sacros… though seven hundred and fifty is far too little."
To prove the price was too low, he tapped the dented piece of consecrated metal on his chestplate.
"My gear is damaged, I spent valuable ammunition, and I was even forced to break my own sword. So due to my expenses, I will need a great amount of sacred metal to recover. And, as you can see…" His dim gaze fixed on the priest with an intensity that bordered on threatening. "…to survive it as well."
The priest kept his posture firm, but something in the stare leaking from the slit of the helmet… unsettled him.
He had seen zealots challenge the authority of the Church.
He had heard far more dangerous words from men who later ended up at the stake.
But this was different.
There was no rebellion in his words.
Just a statement of fact.
After facing the Alpha alone, after feeling its jaws graze his throat and its claws dent his armor nearly to the point of piercing it… the threats of the clergy before him simply didn't bear the same weight.
Before the priest could answer, a brief, dry chuckle—mocking his attempts to exploit the boy through the Church's authority—escaped the old ranger.
'I taught him well… I don't need to worry.'
The thought crossed his mind like a whisper, accompanied by a strange sense of nostalgia. Perhaps because, deep down, he knew his time as a mentor was drawing to an end.
It made him remember finding a seven-year-old boy with ash-colored hair, hidden among the rubble of a collapsed building…
A boy who had lost all trace of memory… or had only just begun it.
Because of the heated negotiation… none of them noticed the enormous shadow beginning to form within the fog over the sea, a kilometer off the cliff where they stood.