The land trembled.
With fear or sheer weight, no one knew.
There it was, looming in the distance—an abomination born of nightmare and hunger. As large as a castle wall, armored in plates of black-red chitin that shimmered like wet stone under the dim light. Nine colossal legs sank deep into the soil with each step, cracking the ground and shaking the very air. And upon its monstrous back, embedded like a crown, jutted a crystal-like structure that pulsed with a steady, blood-red glow.
The Crawler Sire.
Surrounding it, a seething tide of its lesser kin poured over the ridges and pits. Thousands of chittering bodies scuttled, clicking, their mandibles snapping in hungry rhythm. The earth seemed alive with them, a living carpet that surged outward as the Sire's herald.
The great Cardinals stood unmoving, their frames aligned in immaculate order. Ten thousand warriors inside ten thousand machines, bracing themselves against a terror that could shatter men at the sight alone.
Lances lowered. Shields shifted. The joints of every frame glowed faintly with rune-circuits, blue and gold light threading along armored limbs. Pilots whispered low chants—half prayer, half command—words meant not for saints but for themselves, to steady their breath against the weight of what they faced.
The march's steady rhythm had stilled. No more drums, no more pounding cadence. Only silence, thick and suffocating, broken only by the skittering of the Crawlers across the field.
Sous stood at the open hatch of Penelope, unmoving, unflinching. His crimson-and-gold harness hummed around him like a beast poised for slaughter. He did not blink at the sight of the Sire; he watched with eyes sharp and hard as a drawn blade. The thing was prophecy incarnate, a living inevitability.
Even Penelope itself seemed to shudder, its servos straining, as though the machine's spirit could sense the unnatural presence before them.
"Saints preserve us…" murmured the captain at his side, voice trembling as it bled into the air.
Sous did not turn to him. His voice came low and steady, iron dragged against stone.
"No saints here. Only steel. Ready the men."
The order ran down the lines like a current. The Cardinals shifted, discipline answering discipline.
Fifteen minutes later, the field had become a crucible of anticipation. The Sire had halted its advance, the red crystal pulsing like the beat of a monstrous heart. Its brood gathered in swarms, their bodies undulating, waiting for the signal to strike.
Sous rose in Penelope, lifting his blade high into the light. The crimson plating caught the pale sun, flaring bright as if the harness itself had ignited. His voice carried across the plain, cutting through fear like a bell.
"Everyone, keep calm." His tone was steady, commanding, absolute.
"And be brave."
The Cardinals answered not with cheers, but with motion. Every man knew what was at stake. Every man knew what he must do.
The formation surged forward.
On the flanks, spear-bearer units spread outward like wings, their heavy weapons braced to intercept the inevitable rush. Shields locked, runes blazing as a barrier of steel and light formed the ribcage of their army.
Behind, the pelter units formed tight batteries, their cannons and crossbows primed with runed bolts that glowed like embers in the twilight.
At the center, the Ember-Fang squad took the vanguard. Their blades already shimmered with fire enchantments, slashing arcs of flame through the air as they cleared the path for their lord.
Sous himself led them, crimson Penelope striding through the storm of motion. The great harness radiated elemental invincibility, its aura flaring crimson and gold like a burning sun at the heart of the line. Every step carried the certainty of command.
The Ember-Fangs roared, voices rising as fire met steel. A torrent of slashes carved bright gashes through the air, flames licking the chitin tide.
And then Sous leapt.
Penelope's servos hissed, propelling the massive frame skyward in a bound that cracked the earth beneath it. The crimson armor gleamed midair, suspended against the backdrop of the monstrous Sire.
Sous unsheathed his blade in a single, fluid motion. The steel caught the red glow of the crystal atop the Sire, and for a heartbeat it looked as though lightning itself had been caged within its edge.
He raised the sword high in a high-guard stance, every rune in Penelope flaring alive. Power surged, channeled into the weapon until the blade burned with furious light.
And as he descended, he struck.
"Thunder—Strike!!"
The shout rolled like a storm, and lightning answered.
From the blade burst a torrent of electric fury, jagged arcs that tore through the air and slammed into the crawling host. The very ground screamed as bolts split stone and scorched chitin. Crawlers burst apart in shuddering explosions of light, their bodies convulsing as the current ripped through them.
The shockwave shook the plain. For an instant, day returned to the battlefield, bright and merciless.
Sous landed in the heart of the swarm, Penelope's armor smoking, the blade still crackling with residual arcs. Around him, the Ember-Fangs surged forward, blades aflame, cutting through stunned Crawlers like fire through dry leaves.
The Sire roared. The crystal on its back blazed brighter, its red glow burning into the clouds. The ground shook harder as it advanced, its nine legs digging deep, crushing both soil and stone. Thousands of its kin swarmed with renewed frenzy, throwing themselves at the human host.
But the Cardinals did not falter.
The line held.
The flanks speared forward, bracing against the tide. The pelters unleashed volleys that lit the horizon. Fire, steel, and lightning clashed against chitin and fang, and the battlefield was drowned in a storm of sound and fury.
And at the center of it all, Sous Angelus stood, crimson Penelope blazing. Sword raised high, lightning in his grip, he met the Sire's endless hunger not with prayer, but with defiance.
The battle for the Crimson Peak had begun.