He turned back.
The boy lay beneath fractured stone and burnt wood, barely breathing, swaddled in a torn Templari cloak stained with soot and ash. His eyes fluttered with fever.
The knight knelt beside him, resting a gauntlet on the boy's chest—just above the heart. He bowed his head, blood still drying on his armor.
His voice was low, worn, and firm.
"By the Mercy of the Most High,
by the Sword of Saint Gideon,
by the Shield of Saint Lysia,
let no corruption claim this soul.
Let no demon take him before his time.
Let him live… if it pleases You. Amen."
The boy stirred.
He stood.
No angel answered. No light broke the clouds. But the air felt less heavy.
Then he turned and walked on. The destruction deepened with every step.
Walls once covered in holy script were now claw-marked and bleeding. Monastic symbols of flame and glory had been overturned—defaced by spirals of black ink and blood. Ash fell like snow. The sun above Caligo IX was blotted out by cloud and smoke.
He passed crucified corpses—Templari nailed to metal walls with their own swords, arranged mockingly in mirrored poses. One wore the ceremonial gold mantle of a chapel cantor. His eyes were still open. The path narrowed.
The architecture twisted here—unnatural angles, stone melted and reformed as if clawed by something massive. A chasm split the center of the plaza ahead, and from its depths came the scent of sulfur and rot. The epicenter. This was where it had begun.
And something was still down there.
The wind blew—hot, reeking of sulfur and burning marrow.
He stood at the chasm's edge, peering down into a black wound carved into the temple's foundation. The walls bled heat. Red veins pulsed beneath the cracked stone, like the planet's own blood boiling toward the surface.
Infestation.
This was no mere slaughter. It was a foothold. A summoning site.
He turned to the dead Templari—eight bodies nailed to the outer wall like obscene icons. Most were stripped of gear, but one—
There.
A sergeant's frame. Rigid in death, armor still mostly intact, arms outstretched in mock benediction. The jump pack mounted to his back was scorched, but whole.
He stepped closer, pulled the body down. It hit the ground with a dull thud. He knelt beside it, checking the seals, the power core, the anchors.
Functional.
He glanced once at the man's face. A familiar one. Once a brother-in-arms. Perhaps even someone who had outranked him.
Now just another martyr.
"Rest easy," he murmured. "I'll put it to better use."
He strapped the jump pack over his own patchwork harness. It hummed weakly—half power at best.
Enough.
He approached the edge again. The heat shimmered up like breath from hell itself. No light below. Only whispers, movement, and the deep pull of something that should not be.
He stepped off.
The pack roared to life, coughing sparks as it slowed his descent. The light from above shrank until only red cracks in the walls remained. The world narrowed to darkness and the echo of his fall.
And then—
He landed.
The heat was unbearable. The air thick. The ground… pulsed. He was inside the wound now. And something else was breathing with him.
His boots crunched into spongy, cracked stone. The cavern glistened like the inside of a rotting lung—walls pulsing with black veins, air thick with spores and vapor. The chasm had led him straight into the epicenter.
He toggled the visor.
Click.
The world shifted green and red, thermal readings flickering across his HUD. Readings danced—movement everywhere. Not large, but fast. Crawling. Watching.
Demons.
He tightened his grip on the sword.
The tunnels ahead forked, carved not by machines but claw and acid. Organic architecture—hallways made of fused bone, iron, and what looked like flesh. Symbols burned into the walls—blasphemies in ancient tongues, painted in blood.
Then came the scratching.
From the walls.
From above.
From below.
They came.
Small demons first—feral things, malformed, hunched and wiry. They skittered on all fours, eyes glowing like hot embers, limbs ending in gnarled claws. Their mouths were too wide, too wet. Teeth like needles.
The first one hissed, leaping from the ceiling.
He spun and cut it in half mid-air, black ichor spraying his visor.
Another burst from a side tunnel. He pivoted, stabbed forward, impaling it through the chest. It thrashed, screeching, as more came—three, four, five—surging from cracks in the stone like rats fleeing flame.
He moved deliberately. No flair. Just violence.
A downward cleave shattered one's skull. A quick sidestep let another rush past, and he split its spine with a backhand stroke. One leapt onto his shoulder—he slammed it against the wall, again and again, until bone gave way.
Then stillness.
Steam hissed from broken vents. The ichor sizzled where it touched the floor.
He exhaled slowly, armor whining as he righted himself. The pain from earlier fights still throbbed beneath his ribs, his side. The jump pack was dead weight now—spent.
He turned down the largest tunnel, leading deeper into the black, visor flickering with heat ghosts.
Ahead, something pulsed. A slow, massive heartbeat.
Not mechanical, not human, not safe.
But still, he followed.
He stopped beneath a dripping arch of bone and blackened iron.
The tunnel forked again. From one path came whispers. The other, only silence.
He lifted his left arm, tapped a sequence into the cracked interface mounted on his bracer. The Templari datapad flickered—barely functioning, its holy circuits protesting the corrupted air.
[MISSION REPORT: LIVE TRANSMISSION | FORSAKEN #317]
—Entered confirmed epicenter of contamination.
—Tunnel network is organic, unstable. Signs of structured demonic intelligence.
—First wave of lesser demons engaged and neutralized.
—Continuing descent toward primary infestation source.
Send.
The response came moments later.
A single line.
"Acknowledged. Proceed."
Again, no guidance, no support, not even a prayer. Just that—"Proceed."
He closed the display with a sharp exhale and turned back to the path ahead.
He reached for the hilt of a dagger—short, broad-bladed, once ceremonial but now as rusted and broken as his blackened armor.
As he walked, he carved into the walls:
The Sunburst of Saint Solas.
The Sword-Wheel of Lysia the Bold.
The Tri-ring of the Martyr Lords.
The stone hissed beneath each stroke, bile bleeding from the symbols—but with each one carved, the oppressive air lightened just a little. The tunnel walls shuddered when touched by the holy blade, and some side passages collapsed entirely.
Ritual resistance. He couldn't cleanse the wound, but he could scar the infection. And so he pressed deeper.
He descended slowly. The steps beneath him weren't stone anymore—they were bone, melted and reshaped, fused with iron and sinew. The very earth had become a cathedral to something foul. Symbols clawed into the walls glowed faintly, their meaning lost to time but heavy with blasphemy.
His hand never left his sword. The cross on his armor stayed cold. Still. No fire. No burn. No divine warning. Whatever waited below wasn't powerful enough to earn Heaven's notice. But it was enough to kill him.
As he reached the base of the spiral, the air grew dense—not from smoke, but presence.
He passed a ruined altar, shattered and scorched. Around it were bones—thousands, arranged in concentric spirals like a sacrificial bloom. Some were still wrapped in Templari cloth. One skull bore the etched laurels of a chaplain.
The whispers returned, just at the edge of hearing—wet, guttural, not spoken but breathed through the walls.
He paused and touched the hilt of his dagger again, pressing it to the archway ahead. A holy glyph—the Eye of Judicium—was etched swiftly. The wall recoiled, veins pulsing as if in pain. Another corridor collapsed behind him. The tunnel would not let him leave.
He entered a chamber that had once been the sacred crypt of fallen Templari.
Statues once stood here, but they had been torn down—replaced by grotesque effigies. A great fire pit burned black flame in the center of the room. Around it stood the remnants of a summoning circle, its blood channels long dried, but still whispering their old hunger.
The light from his visor flickered. He wasn't alone. A wet hiss echoed from the far end of the chamber, behind a pile of broken armor.
Then… movement. Slow, heavy, deliberate. The cross on his chest remained cold. Not a greater demon, but still, something wrong. The thing stepped forward from behind the altar, dragging its blade across the floor.
He recognized the armor first—white ivory, trimmed in gold, stained in ichor and soot. The cape hung in tatters, the color of dried wine. At the center of the chestplate gleamed a fully restored Templari cross—twisted now, marred with black lines etched in like cracks across the emblem.
Then he saw the face. Or what was left of it at least.
Eyes black and weeping tar. Flesh stretched too tight over bone. The jaw moved as though unused to speech—but something behind it remembered.
"Brother."
The voice was cracked, but familiar. His breath caught.
"…Marshal Dareth," he whispered. "You led the 5th Legion at Rylos. You baptized me into the service."
The thing tilted its head.
"I still remember your name."
The Forsaken stepped back, grip tightening on the hilt.
Dareth the Bright. A hero. A Marshal of the Order.
One of the twelve anointed to walk into cursed war zones and survive.
Templari of his rank weren't just trained to resist demonic possession—they were consecrated. Bathed in sacred oils. Fortified by years of fasting, sacraments, and oaths. This should not be possible. And yet the cross on his armor stayed cold. No warning. No fire. Only the silence of Heaven.
Dareth moved like a beast wearing a man's skin. The ceremonial longsword he had once wielded now dragged behind him, twisted and serrated, glowing with inner rot.
Without warning, the possessed Marshal charged. Their blades met with a clash that shook the crypt. The Forsaken staggered from the blow. Even corrupted, Dareth's strength was monstrous. Every strike forced him back. Sparks lit the dark as their swords screamed against one another. His patchwork armor rang hollow—barely holding, cracking at the seams.
He ducked a brutal overhead swing, countered low, slashing through the demon's thigh. Black blood sprayed.
Dareth roared, spinning with unnatural speed, backhanding him across the room. Stone shattered as he hit the wall. He coughed blood.
"You were a father to me…" he said quietly, staggering to his feet.
Dareth hissed, voice layering over itself.
"Then die by your father's hand, son of failure."
They clashed again—closer now, no room for footwork. Every blow was a prayer of pain. The Forsaken used everything: elbows, knees, shoulder slams. He jammed his blade through a chink in the chestplate—Dareth howled, flailing—and the cross on his own armor finally cracked.
Not burning, just cracking. A warning, a wound...a mirror of the one in his soul.
At last, he disarmed the demon—knocking the possessed blade free. But Dareth lunged, biting into his shoulder, black bile flooding the wound.
He drove his dagger into Dareth's throat. Once. Twice. Again.
The creature didn't stop. It took the sword, two hands, and a roar of anguish to finally run the corrupted Marshal through, pinning him to the desecrated altar.
Dareth twitched, gasped—
And for one second… the blackness faded. One eye turned human. Tearful. Agonized.
"…Forgive me…"
Then the body collapsed into a lifeless heap. Smoke curled from its wounds. The ichor sizzled into ash.
The crypt fell silent. The Forsaken staggered back, falling to one knee. His blade trembled in his hand. He stared at the corpse. No holy glow, no light from above, just death. Another brother gone.
He knelt there for a long time, before finally forcing himself up.
The Forsaken stood in silence, blood cooling on his cheek.
He looked down at the blade impaled through Dareth's chest.
It shimmered faintly—white-gold under the grime, its core unmarred. The sword of a Marshal, hand-forged by the Smiths of Terra Sancta. Even in corruption, it hadn't broken.
He pulled it free with a grunt, the blade singing softly in the stillness.
His own weapon—a rusted, blackened, mockery of steel—lie twisted in his hand. He stared at it for a moment, then cast it aside. The broken thing clattered to the floor and cracked in two. He turned back to Dareth's body.
From the Marshal's ruined chestplate, he unfastened a golden insignia—the emblem of the 5th Legion. He wiped it clean on a scrap of cloth, pressed it to his forehead, and stowed it inside his armor.
The crypt was quiet. Dust hung in the shaft of light like incense smoke, drifting over broken pews and shattered iconography. He knelt beside the fallen body of Marshal Dareth, the man who had once called him "son" without blood. The Marshal's once-white armor, now blackened with corruption and ash, still bore the faded crest of the 5th Legion.
The Forsaken opened the data-bracer on his left arm and began to type.
[MISSION UPDATE – FORSAKEN UNIT #317]
Location: Deep Wound beneath the ruined Sanctum of Saint Florentis
Status: Active. Continuing descent.
Findings:
—Encountered demonic entity possessing Marshal Dareth, 5th Legion.
—Confirmed identity through voice patterns, combat style, and relic insignia.
—Marshal resisted internally; signs of delayed full corruption.
—Engaged and dispatched with extreme resistance.
—Insignia retrieved for return to Vault of Names.
—Possession of a Templari Marshal confirms serious breach in consecration seals.
—Personal Note:
Dareth baptized me into the Order.
He was mentor, commander, and father.
His fall is not just tactical. It is personal.
I have claimed his sword—not in pride, but in mourning.
I will carry it until mission end.
His blade will not rust in the dark.
He paused, eyes narrowing, throat tight. End report. SEND.
The reply came not in silence, nor scorn—but in solemn reverence. Typed manually. Direct.
> "Marshal Dareth's name is restored to the Book of Martyrs. His place is remembered. The sword is not permitted to a Forsaken. But we will not take it from you."
"Carry it as burden—not privilege. Return the insignia. Let it rest where his name shall rise again."
"…Recite the Rite of Flame. Purify the remains. Leave no vessel behind."
There was a long pause. Then one last line appeared:
"You are alone, but you are seen."
He knelt at the Marshal's side and unclasped his gauntlet, touched the man's brow and closed his still-open eyes.
He reached to his belt and withdrew a small vial of consecrated oil. The seal cracked open with a hiss of pressure. He anointed the Marshal's forehead, heart, and hands.
Then he spoke, voice steady.
"By the First Flame, you are released."
"By the Sword of the Throne, your war is ended."
"By the Cross, your betrayal is made clean."
"Return, son of fire. Rise beyond shadow. Rest."
He struck a match against the floor and lit the oil. The body burned slowly. Blue flame, clean and silent. No screaming, no demonic backlash, no taint released. Just ashes, just purity.
He looked down at the Marshal's sword, tied a strip of his wine-red cape around its hilt, and sheathed it behind his back. Without a word, he turned toward the tunnel's mouth—toward the deep things that still waited below and walked on.
Lost in thought on his descent into the bowels of darkness, he loses himself in thought. Loses himself in the memory of his baptizing day, the last time he'd seen Dareth.
-----------------------------------------------------------
The light of the chapel was warm that day.
Not holy in the supernatural sense—but human. Candles, real flame, flickered in brass sconces. Sunlight poured through stained glass shaped in the Cross of the Templari. Red, gold, ivory.
He stood there, younger. Clean-shaven. Armor still shining and untouched by battle scars. He was nervous—but he didn't show it. Not to him.
Marshal Dareth stood before him, tall and broad, his ivory armor etched with decades of victory. His beard was streaked with gray, and his eyes—sharp, steady—held pride and sorrow all at once. The kind of look only a man who'd buried too many men could wear.
He held a small silver basin in one hand, and in the other—a candle.
"You understand what this means?" Dareth's voice was low, stern—but never cruel.
"I do," the young man answered.
"You understand that once your name is written into the rolls, it may never be removed—except by sin or death?"
"I do."
"You understand that you will be hated. Hunted. And perhaps… forgotten?"
"…I do."
Dareth nodded once, solemnly.
"Then kneel, my son."
He did.
The Marshal dipped his fingers into the basin. Water, mixed with oil and ash from the altar. A consecrated mixture only used once: for this.
He touched the young man's forehead.
"I baptize thee in the Flame of the Throne."
"I mark thee by water, by ash, and by fire."
"You are a sword now. No longer for yourself."
"Rise, brother of the flame."
He stood, a Templari knight. Dareth held out his gauntlet, and the young man clasped it, but Dareth didn't let go. Not yet. He leaned closer, voice low.
"You were never just another recruit to me," he said.
"You were the son I was never given."
"Do not die stupidly. Do not forget your soul."
He couldn't answer, not then, so he only nodded. Something he wishes he wouldn't have done now. He should've said something...anything.
-----------------------------------------------------------
SCREECH.
A sound like iron claws on stone interrupted his memory. Scuttling—fast, too many legs. Then a second sound: a low, chattering growl, not made by any human throat.
He froze. Pulse steady. Fingers slipping slowly toward the hilt of Dareth's blade on his back.
The bottom of the stairwell opened into darkness—and he could see shapes shifting just beyond the light of his visor. Demons. Small, fast. Their outlines twisted, heads too long, limbs too many, eyes like molten wounds. Lesser beasts, but dangerous in packs.
He whispered under his breath, his voice like a blade sliding from a sheath.
"if I were the son you never had…"
He tightened his grip.
"…then let me make you proud."
And he stepped off the stairwell into the black, sword drawn, as the pack came screaming from the dark.