Author: "Sorry for not posting for so long—I've been swamped with work. Now that I'm on vacation, I hope to get back to writing. I'll be posting shorter chapters that won't take up so much time but will still let me keep the story moving forward.
Thank you so much for sticking around!"
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A few minutes after that miracle sent everything still capable of moving fleeing...
A man in an officer's military cap walked across the battlefield that had just been condemned.
He was not wearing a gas mask because of the smoke rising from the charred bodies.
He was wearing it because of the smell.
To hold back the retching that kept crawling up from the base of his throat.
The darker the blood, the worse it smelled, especially when it burned.
The officer's uniform had been elegant once. Fine tailoring, brass buttons, officer's stripes, and a distinguished long coat. But the fabric was worn and patched, as if its owner had never bothered to keep his clothes in line with his rank.
Around him, his men worked.
The Rubbercoats dragged corpses toward the pits. They doused them with flammable liquid, then ignited them with their Arc launchers. The flames rose green for a few seconds before turning orange, and finally purple.
Meanwhile, the infantry marked the bodies that were not to be burned with white paint.
Not the bodies of the deformed animals, but the corpses of the beings born from the rot the Monoliths had brought into the world.
"Two marks on the ones still bleeding," the officer ordered. "Three if they're still moving. And no one puts a hand anywhere near their mouths, even if the damn thing's been decapitated!"
"Yes, boss!"
One of his men answered while carrying one of the bodies, as his "boss" kept walking.
He headed toward a soldier sitting on an ammunition crate in front of a corpse marked with white paint. The man wore round glasses. He was small and had barely any muscle on him.
But among the backwater fools in his unit, he was one of the few who knew how to read properly, and that was why they had entrusted him with guarding the thick book he held open in his hands.
The cover was reinforced with metal and rubber. The pages, swollen with moisture, trembled slightly between his gloves.
"Mouse, have you identified it yet?"
"Boss!"
The small soldier, as nervous as his nickname suggested, snapped rigid all at once, almost dropping the book into the sand.
The officer stared at him in silence.
"General," Mouse corrected himself, swallowing. "I meant General."
"Call me whatever you want. Tell me if you've pulled the name of these things from the Monolithicon yet."
The general asked the question while kicking the bizarre creature, unknown to both him and his troops.
The man lowered his gaze to the book and quickly turned several pages.
The sheets were full of disturbing drawings: creatures split open in anatomical cross sections, or beings whose shapes did not seem to fully fit inside two dimensions.
At last, he found a humanoid figure, blind, with large ears and long limbs.
"Yes... I think so. They're called Dre-Drexers, sir."
He ran a gloved finger over the lines written in Regnum Latin.
"Creatures first recorded when the corruption reached the Iberian Peninsula. Since then, they migrated north and spread across most of the territory."
The general did not take his eyes off the book in Mouse's hands.
"Go on."
"The Monolithicon confirms beta and alpha classifications, with a possible omega variant recognized by the locals. Still pending confirmation by the Vatican, however."
The general turned toward the enormous charred corpse lying at the center of the bay. It had been reduced to a black mass of bone, split plates, and flesh hardened by fire.
And yet, in some places, the burned meat was still contracting, trying to close wounds that could no longer be closed.
The sand around it had melted into a dark crust.
Even from there, the air was still hot.
The general still remembered the flames that had condemned the battlefield and brought the fighting to an end.
They had given off a heat so intense it did not seem to burn only flesh, but something deeper.
"So that thing was an Alpha," the general said, without taking his eyes off the scorched corpse, though it looked far too large to be only that. "At least we'll get some good-quality NecroDiesel out of it."
"Not just good."
Mouse, the nearby soldiers, and the general all turned toward the voice.
A dozen priests and nuns in black tactical habits were making their way toward them, pulling chains of dark metal.
A golden glow ran along the links, faint, almost smothered beneath the layer of soot.
At the other end, they dragged a mutilated humanoid creature.
It was decapitated, half its body had been torn apart, and half a dozen black blades were embedded in its heart.
And yet, it was still alive.
Every time the flesh tried to close around its wounds, the black blades stopped its grotesque regeneration with a wet spasm.
The Father leading the group wore a captain's plate fixed to the high collar of his tactical cassock. Beneath it, over his chest, hung the black-and-gold emblem of the S.A.S.
He stopped in front of the general. His hoarse voice sounded even more distorted through the respirator.
"They are not simple Alphas..."
The priests and nuns released the chains beside the rest of the corpses marked for processing. One of them kept hold of the head, which had been sealed with the same gold-glinting chains and a sack embroidered with psalms.
"Given their size, strength, and regenerative capacity... they are Omega category."
The word fell over the beach with more weight than the chains.
Several soldiers lifted their eyes.
For the majority, the general included, it was the first time they had ever seen an Omega.
Until then, they had been nothing more than continental rumors the Brittanic branch of the Church had spent years publicly denying.
"The locals call these Apex predators the Kings of the Forest, or of the Night,although they spend most of the year hibernating " the priest continued, shrugging. "For better or worse, they only reach that category in kingdoms with open wounds in their territory."
The general looked at the mutilated monster.
Then at the charred corpse in the center of the bay.
"You seem to know a lot, don't you?"
The priest gave the faintest smile behind his respirator.
"Let's just say we were made to memorize a more up-to-date version of the Monolithicon than the one you use."
"Of course," the officer said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm.
"At least we'll be able to get some NecroDiesel out of this. I still don't know what High Command was thinking when they refused to allocate us a portion of the kingdom's reserves, given the mission we were assigned."
The Father took a moment to answer.
Beyond the beach, in the open "mouths" of the enormous vessel that had crossed the bay, machinery was being lowered from its gates, full of valves, tanks, and burners, like a small portable refinery.
"Ninety percent of the kingdom's production is reserved exclusively for the Royal Navy protecting the islands. High Command's intention is for us to supply ourselves, since where we are headed, we should have no difficulty finding 'supplies,'" the priest replied.
The officer let out a low laugh behind his mask.
"How considerate."
The priest-captain of the S.A.S. looked at the bodies marked with white paint.
Then at the chained Omega.
And then at the charred corpse lying in the center of the bay.
"Do not worry, General Mercer," he replied. "From them, we will extract fuel far superior to what we process back home."
Mercer did not answer.
The Father tugged once on the chain, its links lined with barbs. It tore free from the limb it had been "nailed" into, making the decapitated Omega shudder against the sand.
"If you will excuse us, we will secure the other body before its regeneration begins to overcome the burns caused by the Inquisitor's miracle."
He turned his head toward the priest and nuns of his unit.
"Seal the heart. Check the skull. No one cuts anything until I authorize it."
The nuns and priests gathered the chains, adjusted their respirators, and advanced toward the charred Omega with the calm of people who had done this far too many times before.
Behind them, the processing machinery continued descending from the vessel.
Then the atmosphere around Mercer and his men changed.
Not because of an order.
But because of a presence that brought silence wherever it passed, heading toward them.
The soldiers moving the remains of their fallen comrades stopped at once. The Rubbercoats lowered their Arc launchers.
Even the engines of the trucks rolling down from the vessel seemed to sound farther away when a tall red figure, more than two meters in height, crossed the beach.
His aide walked at his side. One step behind came a younger woman in a dark beret and a light uniform of blue leather, one who did not look as if she belonged to the Regnum.
Mercer wanted to kneel.
Not only out of respect.
Also because of the pressure radiating from that figure over two meters tall, wrapped in crimson armor. A heavy presence, almost difficult to look at directly, especially while he held the weapon that gave him his title.
In his case, it was not a sword or a hammer.
It was a staff of white marble.
Mercer made the mistake of staring at it for too long. Irregular fragments, veins of molten gold, cracks joined together like scars. It did not look carved, but reconstructed from the remains of something far older.
The pain came a second later.
First in his eyes, a sharp sensation driving in behind them. Then in his stomach, as if an invisible, intangible hand had seized it and twisted.
Forcing Mercer to lower his gaze, clench his jaw, and tense every muscle in his legs before the vertigo could drive him to his knees.
"Inquisitor."
The red figure stopped in front of him.
"General Mercer."
There was no further greeting.
None was needed.
"Has the casualty count been completed?"
Asked the broken, wounded voice behind the mask with its unsettling texture.
"Yes, Inquisitor."
Out of respect, Mercer reversed the polarity of the black crystal in his gas mask as he lifted his gaze.
The visor cleared, revealing a pale, gaunt face, belonging to a man of about fifty. An unshaven beard without gray in it, sunken eyes, and the tired expression of a man who had never grown used to counting the dead among his own soldiers.
"Among the infantry, there were sixty-four casualties. Twice as many wounded. Among the Rubbercoats, thirty-four dead. Fifteen suits damaged, though the mechanics believe they can repair them... the rest were completely destroyed."
The Inquisitor listened carefully before turning his head.
"As for the cavalry..." Mercer followed the sharp eye slits in the crimson mask, which had no filters, nor any other sign of technology on it.
"They were in a hurry to secure their mounts and remove their wounded brothers. Their Lord Captain said he would report to the Inquisitor personally."
The Inquisitor let out a sigh beneath the mask.
It was not surprise. It was exhaustion.
Exhaustion at the pettiness of his own species.
He said nothing.
Instead, he turned toward the fallen soldiers laid out in rows and protected from the corrupt glow of the moon hanging over that starless night sky beneath the shadow of the vessel.
"Do not forget to cremate their bodies... We cannot allow the local 'fauna' to dig them up, nor let corruption violate their rest."
Mercer bowed his head.
"It will be done."
The Inquisitor seemed ready to leave.
For an instant, every ordinary man and woman on the beach began to breathe again as his presence and pressure lessened with his distance from them.
Then the enormous crimson figure stopped.
His cloak, the same color as his armor, swayed behind him as he turned back. When he spoke, his voice carried something more than scars for the first time.
"Inform me when the funeral pyre is ready."
Mercer lifted his gaze.
"Inquisitor?"
"I will officiate the funeral mass. It is the least I can do for them..."
Mercer took a second to answer.
"I'm sure those bastards would appreciate it, sir."
The Inquisitor observed him for a moment, as if that answer had confirmed something.
"Did you know all of them?"
Mercer lowered his gaze to the covered bodies.
"Their names, yes."
The cleared crystal of his mask revealed the tension in his jaw.
"Knew them... only a few. The ones I grew up with in London."
The Inquisitor remained silent for a moment.
"I am sorry."
Mercer gave the faintest shake of his head.
"You don't have to be, sir."
Then he snapped to attention, raising his hand in a military salute.
"Even if our mission has only just begun."
His voice hardened before he struck his fist against his heart.
"All for the Regnum!"
One by one, his men began to stop.
The Rubbercoats. The infantry. The mechanics covered in soot. Even the wounded who could still stand.
All of them mirrored the salute.
"All for the Regnum!"
The Inquisitor inclined his head.
Then a shout cut through the moment from the center of the bay.
"Inquisitor!"
The captain of the S.A.S., kneeling beside the charred skull of the Omega, shouted again. He had a short saw in one hand and a pair of long forceps in the other.
"We found something strange inside this specimen's head."
The Inquisitor did not run.
He walked toward the corpse with his aide at his side, the blond woman in the beret a few steps behind, and General Mercer following them in silence.
The soldiers stepped aside before anyone had to order them.
The captain of the S.A.S. lowered his head as soon as the Inquisitor reached him.
"Your Eminence."
"Father Toll."
The greeting was brief and sufficient.
The Inquisitor looked at the Omega's opened skull.
"Report."
"We were going to section the head to secure the specimen," the captain, or Father Toll, explained. "But we found an alteration beneath the charred area."
He pointed with the saw toward an irregular scarred section, almost lost among the black flesh and carbonized plates.
"From the outside, it looked closed. Burned like the rest. But when we opened it..."
The captain inserted the forceps into the jagged fracture. Two nuns drove hooks into both sections and pulled the opening apart with force.
It produced an unpleasant wet sound of flesh and other tissues separating, accompanied by the sharp crack of bone splitting.
The enormous head of the "specimen" opened in two, making the entire charred body contract.
"We found metallic remains inside..."
The captain pulled hard, opening the fracture completely. Even with its head split open, the creature's vitality was still fighting to regenerate, but the red spikes driven into the dark violet brain prevented it.
Mercer frowned behind his mask.
"That is not bone."
"No, General," the captain replied.
With his forceps, he removed one of the pieces and dropped it onto the steel tray held by one of the nuns. Then he inserted the forceps again and extracted another.
And another.
They were metallic fragments.
Small.
Curved.
Crimson.
Like flower petals... that had opened violently inside the head of that monstrous creature.
They were not pieces of common shrapnel. The edges were too clean. The surfaces, too carefully worked. Even blackened by the inside of the skull, the metal still preserved fine engravings, elegant lines that looked as though they had been chiseled one by one.
"This is preventing regeneration from within."
The flesh around the wound trembled again.
It tried to close.
It could not.
"It acts like Sacred Metal," the captain added, more quietly. "But I do not recognize the alloy."
Mercer leaned in to get a better look.
"Neither do I."
The Inquisitor extended a hand.
The captain hesitated for only an instant before placing one of the fragments on his glove.
And after he finally did, the intimidating figure of the Inquisitor... simply passed his thumb over it, cleaning the dark blood from the engravings.
As he smiled beneath the mask and said:
"It is not a Brittanic alloy."
The captain and the general looked at him.
"It is Metal of Santiago. Sanctified with the blood of pilgrims," the Inquisitor said.
No one spoke.
Even the woman in the beret observed the crimson fragments closely, both those resting on the steel tray and those still embedded in the brain of the charred creature.
The Inquisitor held one of the fragments between two fingers.
"Common Sacred Metal can only absorb a limited amount of divinity. There comes a point when, no matter how many times you bless it, it will retain no more."
The crimson fragment glowed between his fingers.
"The Metal of Santiago is different. The iron in the pilgrims' blood binds to the Sacred Metal and allows it to surpass that limit."
General Mercer looked back at the Omega's opened head.
"Then why the hell don't we have entire crates of this?"
"Because almost all of it goes to the Andalusian Front," the Inquisitor replied. "The south bleeds too much to export its finest weapons."
The general stared at the crimson petals on the tray.
"Then someone from the south shot this thing before you burned it."
The Inquisitor did not answer immediately.
He raised his eyes and looked beyond the beach.
Toward the dark line of the forest.
"Yes."
A smile formed beneath his mask.
"Someone did."
Then he took one step toward the trees.
The soldiers moved aside without understanding why. Mercer and Toll watched him in silence.
The red figure stopped and drew breath.
As if he were about to call out to someone he already knew was listening.
But before he could speak, his aide stepped closer to his side.
"Your Eminence."
The Inquisitor did not take his eyes off the forest.
"You should see this."
Only then did the red mask turn slightly.
His aide pointed toward the road descending from the hills.
First, there was one light.
Then another.
Lamps covered with dirty glass.
Then an enormous torch in the shape of a cross, with flames that burned especially bright.
A small procession was descending toward the bay in the middle of the night.
The Inquisitor remained still for a moment, until he released the breath he had been holding through his nose.
"Locals."