Mordane's group advanced toward the communications room. Every chamber they checked was the same—walls painted with blood, spent shells scattered across the floor, drag marks smeared toward the same direction they were heading.
"I don't like where this is going," Stroud muttered.
Mordane raised a hand. "Slow it down. From here on, no one moves alone. No wasted noise. No mistakes. And above all—never let your guard down."
The three men answered with a silent nod. None of them said it out loud, but their shoulders were tight, their grips a little too firm on their weapons. Even the General's breathing carried a quiet edge of unease.
They moved through the corridor like shadows. Every step deliberate, every breath loud against the silence.
An hour crawled by before they had covered any distance.
Elsewhere, Shrikecoil and his thralls pressed forward without caution. The communications room lay behind them, flames consuming the bodies inside. Those corpses had been left where they fell, burning.
"This base is enormous," Shrikecoil said, his voice echoing. He turned his crimson eyes toward one of his puppets. "Did you really need it this big?"
The soldier's lips twisted into a smile. "It was the impregnable fortress. It had to be large enough to house the most elite men and weapons."
Shrikecoil's laugh tore through the hall. "Impregnable? Elite? You were undone by nothing more than a broken fragment of my wing."
He stopped walking, and his followers froze behind him. Turning to face them, his grin widened.
"I am among the weakest of our king's soldiers. Yet here I stand, after slaughtering eighty percent of your so-called finest. The rest of you I bent into my toys. Tell me—what do you think would happen if our king sent his best?"
The followers erupted with manic laughter.
"We'd be dead!" one cackled.
"The world would be destroyed!" another jeered.
Shrikecoil exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "Shameful. You once swore to lay down your lives for your country and your people. Look at you now. Slaying your comrades, laughing like madmen, imagining how our king's best would burn your world to ash."
His voice dropped, cold and mocking. "And yet…" He joined them. His laughter spread, echoing through the hollow halls of Ironwatch Hold.
From a side room, Mordane risked a glance.
There he was—Milo. Standing before the soldiers, their laughter echoing around him. Yet it wasn't Milo's body anymore. The flesh gleamed crimson like wet metal, his wings pulsing with blood-red light, phasing in and out of the walls as if reality itself could not contain them.
Milo—?
No… why does he look like that?
Don't tell me he's behind this.
Mordane pulled back into the room, signaling with hand signs. "The enemy is right outside."
Voss responded with a hand sign of his own. "How many?"
"More than twenty," Mordane signed back. The faces of Voss and the others drained of color. Mordane signaled again: "Fall back."
Sharp nods followed, and the team moved quickly, but quietly, away from the threat. Once at a relatively safe distance, Morren asked, "Were they… all our men?"
Mordane's jaw tightened. "Yes. Each one is a member of this base."
"Shit," Morren muttered under his breath.
Stroud exhaled and pulled his magazine from his rifle, checking it with a precise click before reloading. "We have to do what needs to be done," he said, eyes hard.
Morren nodded. "Yeah… you're right."
Voss and Morren checked their magazines as well. Mordane raised a hand. "Wait a second."
All three turned to him.
"There's something wrong," Mordane said, voice low.
Voss asked, "What is it, General?"
"There was one person," Mordane explained, "I think he's the leader. But he isn't human. I'm sure of it."
Stroud frowned. "Not human? What do you mean?"
Mordane's eyes narrowed. "Human appearance… but crimson, metallic body. Six wings radiating light, phasing through walls like ghosts."
Voss swallowed. "Could it be one of those creatures?"
Mordane gave a slow, deliberate nod.
Morren's eyes widened. "Fuck me."
As they spoke, the enemy began advancing again. After a few minutes, a low-pitched hum filled the hall. "This is taking too long," a voice called out. Wings spread wide, vibrating with power, and the hum intensified. Walls shook, dust vibrating, blood rippling away from him, lights flickered, mirrors and glass trembled before they cracked and shattered.
The team ran, but the sound wasn't just noise—it was a weapon. Like echolocation, it mapped the base, pinpointing Mordane's team, the engineers in the control room, even Captain Blythe and the remaining soldiers tending Dr. Grant. A grin spread across the enemy's face as he sprinted forward at inhuman speed, chains forming in his hands as his followers trailed behind.
Instincts screaming, Mordane ducked and rolled, narrowly avoiding the chains by inches. The chains slammed against walls, tearing out chunks of concrete.
Shrikecoil stopped the vibrations and slowly advanced. Mordane and his team leveled their weapons at him.
"If it isn't the General himself," Shrikecoil said, his voice cold and amused.
"What the hell are you?" Mordane demanded.
"I am Shrikecoil—the Executioner," he replied.
"Did you do something to my men?"
"I will be the one asking questions," Shrikecoil said. He pulled one of the chains back toward him, and as it recoiled, it struck Morren's left cheek. A sharp cut opened, blood arcing from it and splattering to the floor
"You alright?" Stroud asked.
"Yeah… it's just a small cut," Morren said, gritting his teeth as he wiped the blood from his face.
"Give the location of Angelo," Shrikecoil said, voice smooth and threatening, "and anyone close to him. I promise… your deaths will be painless."
The team answered with a hail of gunfire. Bullets tore through dust-choked air, muzzle flashes strobing the corridor in violent bursts of white. Shrikecoil didn't move. Not a flinch. Not a twitch. The rounds struck his crimson body and ricocheted with metallic shrieks, fragments whining past the soldiers' ears.