"Classified Transcript of an interrogation with an officer of NS (Nowy Świt – New Dawn).Translated from Naribian into the languages of this world"
English Edition."
Note 1: The translator's (author) command of English is… let's say, questionable :) possible errors
My name is Silvia Nowicka. I am a Special Officer of NS (Nowy Świt, New Dawn).As for my so-called career… well, let's not exaggerate. It wasn't anything spectacular.True, I got promoted fairly quickly, but there was really nothing to celebrate.The title of Special Officer looks impressive only on paper.
On the one hand, at least they didn't send me straight to the front line the moment the Gate opened. On the other, I probably wouldn't even be here if it weren't for the unexpectedly high death rate in that first wave.
After stepping through those damned gates and spending what felt like a week wrestling with paperwork, I finally received my assignment: Unit Four.Not that I was the first officer there.
I used to joke that the number itself was a curse. After all, this was NS, and dying on the job wasn't exactly unusual. Sometimes one small mistake was all it took…But over time, I started to feel that some kind of fate really did hang over this unit.
If our friends from the East were right, I should've been twice as worried: I was the fourth officer in Unit Zero-Four.Because of that unlucky number, almost no one wanted to join us. Almost. Except for one—Akira. I never knew what drove him, but I was glad he did.
Not just because I needed more people. Though that too.Alongside him came his friend, Alia.
Then there were Artur and Weronika, who at least had some actual field experience.Ivan, who had far too much of it.Antek and Damian, transferred over from Unit Eight for disciplinary reasons—which said plenty about the quality of my squad.
Aleks, who hadn't set foot outside the archives since the day he enlisted. And Erika, who in contrast had a burning hatred for any kind of paperwork.
Like it or not, it was a collection of more or less accidental recruits—but I can't say a bad word about them. Despite our differences, we bonded quickly. Even grew to like one another.
As for our service, aside from our less-than-enthusiastic attitude toward the unit—being its fourth crew already—the first weeks and months were actually rather calm.Sure, we had some work to do, but it was mostly things I already knew.
The trouble began when some cultists summoned something… bigger.Something that caused us a bit of trouble, and for some… well… let's just say it was worse.
The day it all started didn't seem any different from the others. After breakfast, we were once again slac— I mean, working very hard.To be honest, I had the impression that command had forgotten about us, since for over a week we hadn't been assigned a single task.
Not that we missed risking our necks all that much, but still, when we finally got the orders to investigate that case, some of us were even pleased.At least it was a change of pace. Maybe not terribly exciting, but still.
Our previous missions usually involved lower-class PTRs, so we weren't expecting anything major.Akira was hoping for an NV of the seventh, maybe sixth class at most—but that was the upper limit of what we could imagine.
Naturally, he was one of the ones I took with me for the job. Along with him came Alia—who practically never left his side—plus Ivan, Werka, and Antek.I wanted to bring Erika too, but Aleks begged me to send her to help with the paperwork instead.I agreed, though knowing Erika, if she didn't tear him apart over those documents, we could already call it a success.
As for us, we brought the usual gear—mostly weapons, plenty of ammo, some food and water, and a few artifacts.The trip to the site took about five or six hours in a rickety old bus with no AC. I think Alia was the only one who didn't complain. She could almost feel at home, for once.
Although our destination was out in the middle of nowhere, it wasn't hard to find. The place glowed like a hundred-watt bulb, overloading our detector.We stopped about four kilometers from the target, leaving our limousine on a forest path. Werka did camouflage the vehicle, though honestly, I don't know how desperate a thief would have to be to steal that wreck.
Unless, of course, someone wanted to fine us for littering in the forest. In that case, the camouflage made perfect sense.
Back to the point: according to the reports we'd received, our target was some rich folks' forest residence.Oddly enough, the strange ritual mentioned in the intel was supposed to begin around six in the evening.Now that I can respect. None of that three a.m. nonsense. We like to sleep too.
As for the residence itself, from the outside it looked like the perfect example of too much money and too little taste.Huge windows in golden frames that clashed horribly with the thick marble walls.A terrace bigger than our entire bunker.And massive wooden doors that looked like they'd been stolen from a medieval stable.All of it thrown into the middle of a forest, as if the architect was trying to prove to the trees who was in charge.
Personally, I'd have preferred to blow the whole thing to hell. But like it or not, we had to go in and at least try to figure out what was really going on inside.
Still… something about the place felt off from the start.It was quiet. Too quiet.
As we approached that blatant crime against taste and aesthetics, everything suddenly fell silent.The forest that had been alive with sound just seconds earlier now lay dead still.We could hear our own breathing and the pounding of our hearts.
That was definitely not normal.
I sent Akira ahead to scout. He came back about ten minutes later."There's some kind of zone around the building, radius maybe twenty meters," he said, confirming my suspicions.
"Any idea what it could be?" I asked.Akira shrugged."Whatever it is, the real question is whether we even want to mess with it. Just a couple of meters in, even though I could see you talking, I couldn't hear a damn thing. If we start shooting, at least we won't alert half the region. And who knows who else might be lurking around here. I'd leave it be."
In the end, I agreed with him. Sure, it could've been more than just some kind of silencing field—but just as easily, we could've found Satan himself waiting behind those doors.
There was no point slipping into paranoia. Besides, I honestly doubted those halfwits were capable of setting up anything beyond a halfway functional Silencing Zone.
And when Ivan and Werka checked the windows, they found no alarms, no security systems, nothing.Maybe the idiots thought the zone itself—and the rumors surrounding the place—were enough of a deterrent. Or maybe whatever protection they had just didn't work.
With obvious relief for my sense of aesthetics, I smashed one of those hideous windows, and we slipped inside.
The interior was even worse than the outside.The cavernous hall looked like a cross between a battered Renaissance opera house and some oligarch's palace.
Above our heads hung massive crystal chandeliers, each the size of a small car. In front of us, surrounded by marble columns, rose a grand staircase covered in a red carpet straight out of a brothel. Halfway up, it split in two, as if the architect couldn't make up his mind which way to go.
On the white marble walls hung red fabric panels embroidered with gold thread, clearly meant to give an impression of luxury.
Ivan actually liked them. He had carpets on his own walls back in the barracks—nicer ones, too.
We didn't have long to… admire… the décor, because soon enough we heard the sound of footsteps. Then came something else: a strange shuffling noise.
Like someone dragging a body across the floor. Anyone who's heard it knows that sound. And we knew it all too well.
Moments later, from behind a marble column to our right, an older man appeared—pulling, or rather dragging, a young girl. She crawled on all fours, barely able to move her limbs, while he tugged her forward with a rope tied around her neck.
Ivan instantly grabbed his pneumatic rifle, aimed, and with a single shot sent the bastard straight to the other side.
After the faint hiss, the echo of the man's skull hitting the granite floor rang out across the hall.
The girl didn't flinch, didn't try to run, didn't even attempt to get up. She just curled up on the ground and froze.
"Hey… it's all right now," Akira said gently as we approached.
She didn't react at all. She didn't even raise her head.
Ivan stepped forward, knelt beside her, and without hesitation grabbed her hair and yanked it upward.
The sight of her face sent a chill through me. Her eyes were unnaturally empty, as if something inside her had been extinguished. Her face twisted in a grimace of pain blended with madness.
"I've seen this before. Too many times…" Ivan muttered under his breath. "There's no helping her." He rose with a heavy sigh.
"Wait!" Akira protested as Ivan leveled his rifle at her bare back. "There has to be some—"
"Let it go, kid," Ivan cut him off. "There's almost nothing human left in her. The only thing we can do now is end her suffering—and get the bastards who did this to her."
"But—" Akira still wouldn't give in.
"Officer." Ivan turned to me, as if Akira's words hadn't even existed.
"Shoot her," I replied, feeling the weight of those words settle on me.
I didn't want to. But I wasn't as naïve as Akira, clinging to the belief that something could still be done, that she could somehow be saved.
That was the worst part of all this—not the demons, not the beasts from legends, but people. They were always the real monsters. At least there was some grim justice in the fact that such bastards were often cultists—so we could kill them as part of the job, two birds with one stone.
I'm no NR officer, but even for me this crossed a line. A man who did this didn't deserve to be called human.
Werka's medallion consumed the girl's body in flames.
"I'm sorry, Akira," Ivan said as the fire devoured her, "but there really was no other way."
Within seconds, not even a pile of ashes remained.
As for her tormentor, at first we thought about leaving him where he lay. Ivan even wanted to toss him to the Reaper later, but of course Akira protested again. And in the end, mostly thanks to him, the bastard got one last chance.
Soon after, we started checking the other rooms. None of them held cultists, though I can't exactly say they were emptyeither.
But I really don't want to go into detail about what we saw in there.Let's just say that what we found on the stairs—that vision of hell on earth—wasn't the worst of it. It was only a taste of what awaited us.
All I'll say is that eventually we ran out of poisoned rounds for the pneumatics, and had to resort to steel.What I regret most is that Akira and Alia had to witness it.
Even Ivan, after a while, had more than enough. And by then, most of us weren't thinking about anything else except catching those damn cultists.
"Officer," Antek said, coming out of one of the rooms. Through the open door, rows of rusted cages could be seen. "I've really had enough."
"How much longer?" Ivan spat, slamming the door behind him as Damian stepped out. "How much longer are we going to let things like this keep happening?"
"Today we put an end to it."
"And what difference does it make? How many more places like this are there? Hundreds? Thousands? The people who did this should never have been born. And I'm almost certain all this horror has little to do with what they claim to worship."
I rarely agreed with Ivan, but in this case, he might've been right.All this carnage—if it had anything to do with the object we'd come for—it was probably marginal.
At least there was some small consolation in the fact that such bastards were usually cultists. That way we could kill them as part of the job—two birds with one stone.
We continued searching the rooms, but found no one left we could actually help.Even Ivan had had enough by then. All of us were thinking about just one thing: finally getting our hands on those damn cultists.
It wasn't even about revenge anymore—we just wanted it all to be over.
After a quick sweep and clearing of nearly all the rooms, only one remained. Something that was supposed to be a conference hall, or something of the sort. Massive oak doors barred the way.
We weren't planning on quiet eliminations anymore—not that we had the ammo left for that.We grabbed our assault rifles and pulled down the active earmuffs clipped to our helmets.
Firing in a space like that could easily leave us half-deaf, especially if the Zone worked the way I suspected.
There was no cinematic door-kicking entrance in a blaze of gunfire.The doors were heavy as hell. Akira and Alia had to strain together just to force them open.
I did wonder how the cultists managed to open them so easily—maybe there was some mechanism inside that my pair had to fight against. Or… whatever. At least the doors didn't creak.
The moment they opened wide enough for us to slip through, we charged in.
At first, the cultists didn't even notice us. They sat around a circle drawn in blood, a mutilated body at its center, muttering under their breath.
Ivan didn't hesitate—he opened fire, cutting down three cultists in a burst.
"On the ground!" he growled, aiming at the next one.
Before they could react, Ivan squeezed the trigger again, sending another straight to hell, and already lining up his next target.
By then, they must've realized we hadn't come to arrest them politely and escort them to a station.
Without a word, they knelt on the floor, raising their hands—but their eyes never left the circle.
I'd never seen one like it before. Not the usual satanic scribbles or the symbols used by the cults we knew.This was… something else.
The markings didn't resemble symbols at all. More like veins and nerves, radiating out from the body in the center.
For a moment, I could've sworn it moved. I had the impression those grotesque veins were really pumping blood, and impulses were traveling through those nerves.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the cultists whisper something under his breath. Antek noticed it too. Without a word, he put a bullet straight through the man's head.
"If you want to live, you'd better stay quiet," I said, drawing all of their eyes to me. "Though honestly, survival's a long shot anyway."
"Who are you?" one of them finally asked, trying—poorly—to mask his fear.
"Soldiers of NS (Nowy Świt, New Dawn). Though I've no idea why you'd even want that information," I answered, studying him more closely.
He wore a suit worth about my yearly salary. But I didn't see any weapon under his jacket, and with his hands in the air, he wouldn't have had time to do anything before one of my people sent him to the other side.
"What do you want from us?" another spoke up, no longer even trying to hide his fear. "Gold? Money?"
"You do realize that if we wanted your money, or anything else, we'd just take it, right?" I cut off his pointless babbling.
"You have no right to—!" another suddenly barked, glaring at me with what seemed like practiced disdain.
"But we do have the desire," I shrugged. "We've already shot… one, two… and that one makes three, four, five… well, several of your friends. And what exactly are you going to do about it? Besides…" I paused for a beat. "I'm not some zealous NR officer, but I don't appreciate that kind of thing looking at me like that."
"You still don't get it, do you? It's over," Ivan said, cutting him off. "No matter what you do, no matter what you summon here—you're going to die. Understand?" he asked, locking eyes with him.
I saw the fire in Ivan's gaze. A burning intensity that seemed to scorch away the cultist's last scraps of pride and power.
There was something in Ivan's eyes—something unique, terrifying in its own way. Something that instilled a deep, piercing fear. As if you were staring directly into the eyes of death itself. As if you were facing the embodiment of the end.
"You can scream, but no one will hear you. You can run, but you won't escape. You can hide, but I will find you." Ivan enunciated each word slowly, and I watched as the arrogant pride on the cultist's face drained into raw terror. Pure, primal terror.
For a moment, silence fell. I think they all understood then: nothing they said or did could save their lives.
I saw hope fading from their eyes. The will to live slipping away.On some instinctive level, they must have felt it—that our bullets carried not only death, but oblivion.
I was looking at people who had already surrendered, who knew there was no hope—not here, not on the other side. Only emptiness.
Their victims must have looked the same way. Except they'd done nothing to deserve such an ending.
The victims could at least count on mercy—assuming there was anything beyond eternal fire, beyond the end of time. But the cultists… well. Maybe I didn't want to damn them to nothingness, but I certainly had no intention of letting them live.
Talk of repentance always sounds noble, but let's be honest—what court would ever judge them, sentence them to life, and hope they'd one day see the light? If they ever would at all.
Rumors of what went on here had been circulating for a long time, but no one intervened. And really, who would? Courts, police, the media? They were all feeding from the same hand.
Besides, Ivan and Antek had already sent some of them over, and the best the rest could hope for from us was eternal fire.
"Who were the people we found?" I finally asked, breaking the silence. "Choose your words carefully," I added, tightening my grip on the rifle.
"They were just our…" he faltered halfway, then finished, "Those wretches were mainly for our entertainment. Sometimes we used them in rituals, as sacrifices."
"Sacrifices for whom?"
"The entity we worshiped."
Out of the corner of my eye, I suddenly noticed the body lying in the circle twitch. I wasn't the only one—Werka and Akira instantly leveled their weapons at it.
"What kind of entities?" I asked, and for a moment, real fear ran through me.
I was genuinely afraid—without even knowing exactly why. Even if a high-class PTR suddenly showed up, it wouldn't have been anything I hadn't faced before. But this… this was different.
I could see it in my people too. A strange, inexplicable fear crept over them. Something primal, something… that couldn't really be described, but also couldn't be mistaken for anything else.
I felt it. I felt that primal dread rising in me.
"What the hell did you summon here?" I snapped, watching the body suddenly tremble harder, moving more violently, more clearly.
"The Lord of Borrowed Faces," one of them answered, visibly terrified.
And then, from above the body, something rose—roughly a meter seventy in height. But it wasn't a shadow or some distorted humanoid.
It looked like… a man. An ordinary man. He wore a simple leather jacket, a black T-shirt, jeans, and chain-store shoes.
It didn't look like a monster—at least not until you looked at its face. Or rather, its faces.
I can't even describe it properly. In one instant, it had dozens—maybe hundreds—of faces, all of them… existing and shifting at the same time.
The same with its hair—I couldn't tell what it had. Long, short, black, blond, even… sometimes white. All at once.
It wasn't transforming. It simply was hundreds of people at once.
"Frank, what are you—" one of the cultists blurted out, nervously glancing around.
His companion, however, sat frozen. Not because he wanted to, but because something seemed to hold him in place and gag him. He clearly tried to speak, but nothing came out.
Maybe it wasn't very humane… but then again, they weren't exactly innocent. We'd already killed some of them, and besides—I wanted to test something.
So I drew my pistol and shot the man in the shoulder—the one whose identity the creature seemed to have stolen.
The creature didn't react. I fired a second shot, then a third, then a fourth. The fifth was the last. The bullet pierced the man's chest, and his body crumpled lifeless to the floor.
The beast still didn't react—or at least, I saw nothing.
I couldn't shake the feeling I wasn't shooting at a man anymore, but at an empty shell. A body without a soul.
"Why are you shooting at the wall?" one of the cultists asked, bewildered.
"I wasn't shooting at the wall. I was shooting at your friend. And whatever you're talking to—that's definitely not him." I answered, leveling my weapon at the monster.
Something didn't add up. Why wasn't it defending itself? Did it really think I only had regular rounds in my magazine?
"What do you want?" I asked, aiming straight at its chest. Right at its heart.
"Who are you?" the being asked instead. Its voice was outwardly neutral, stripped of any emotion, but something about it was deeply unsettling.
"You don't know it's rude to answer a question with a question? When are you things ever going to learn? Every damn demon, god, or whatever else—it's always the same. I asked you what you want. Souls? Sacrifices? What is it this time—blood? Flesh?"
"I desire human existence," the entity replied.
"And I desire a raise. Looks like neither of us is going to get what we want. Tell me… what's your name? Everyone has a name, don't they?" I said, pulling from my neck the silver chain that carried a pistol round tipped with a gleaming black bullet.
"And you're about to have the once-in-a-lifetime chance to lose yours," I added, slowly swinging the round. "You know what this is, don't you? A Persycherian bullet. So? What's your name?"
"Tharaver," it replied.
I'll admit, I felt a flush of heat, and my heart jumped into my throat when it spoke that name. Not that I'd ever encountered it before, but from books and reports, I knew well enough what this thing was.
Tharaver—or rather Tharawerus Wertaratus. That was its true name. The Soul-Ripper.
Well. At least now I understood the source of that strange, gnawing dread.
"I get it, times are tough," I said, "but don't you think this is a bit much? Being worshiped by a bunch of perverted businessmen? Tharaver's chosen?"
I tried to keep my composure, but what stood before us was a being disturbingly close to the Primordial. Or in this case, the Primordial She. Tharavera.
The upside was at least we knew for certain this was a TR, not a PTR or an EZ. That saved us some work with classification.
The real question was whether any of us would live long enough to file the paperwork.
Then, as if to demonstrate its strength, it snuffed out—and maybe even took more than just life from—all the cultists who were still breathing.
You could say we helped a little, but let's be honest: even without our interference, Tharaver would've killed them without blinking. They were weak. Too weak to even try to defend themselves.
He couldn't hurt us much, not right away—but that didn't mean he didn't try.
I saw Antek stumble on his feet, Alia drop her weapon, and even I felt the world spin around me. But that was all.
NS may have lowered its standards, but it still held onto that iron NR core.You can be clumsy, you can have two left hands, but you can't be weak. Weakness will get you killed by the first PTR you run into.
As for our charming guest, the least he could do in return for us lightening his workload would be to offer us his head. He wasn't a Primordial per se, but that wouldn't have stopped me from putting "slayer of a Primordial" on my CV.
So I tore the round from my chain, loaded it into the magazine, and racked the slide.
"Why kill only your followers?" I asked with a hint of amusement, aiming at the monster's chest. "Did you think you'd get rid of us too? Not happening."
"I only fulfill the will of the Mistress," it answered flatly.
Suddenly, a gunshot split the air. The entity collapsed, and within seconds its body began breaking apart.
"I'm sorry…" Akira stammered, his voice trembling. "I… I… I couldn't…"
"It's all right," I said, patting his shoulder. "Nothing happened."
"I… I saw her face… Aiko's."
"Your sister's, right?"
Akira nodded.
"I'm sorry, but…" I hesitated for a moment. "How did your sister die?" I asked, knowing full well how delicate the subject was. Akira had never spoken of when or why she died, and I knew he didn't want to. But we didn't have the luxury of subtlety—there was a very real risk we might share her fate.
"The same way she did." He pointed toward the sacrificed body.
With a single motion, I pulled back the slide and grabbed the ejected round with its black bullet—Persycher's blood. Corrupted, yes, but still enough to bring the beast a fate worse than death.
For a moment I turned the bullet over in my fingers, forgetting the world around me. There was something oddly hypnotic about it—something I knew damn well I shouldn't stare at for too long.
That unassuming piece of metal, steeped in black blood, carried the power to annihilate even gods. It bore not only oblivion, but also the story of an old war.
A war where rounds like these—hundreds of thousands, maybe millions—were spat from countless rifles and pistols straight into OZAW's armies.
I'm not saying OZAW, or the NR soldiers who fought under its banner, were saints. But they never stooped to this.
The Republic, however, had no such qualms.
Just before its collapse, most of this ammunition was destroyed. But a small portion survived—hidden in basements, shelters, bunkers. And though the bullets themselves didn't really degrade over the centuries, there were precious few left.
And I was about to deplete our already pitiful stock even further.
"Here." I handed the round to Akira. "Now it's personal."
"I don't need it," Akira said, giving the bullet back. "It won't bring her back… or anyone else."
"Hate to break it to you, kid, but not just life is at stake here—" Ivan began.
"I know," Akira sighed.
"Even if we catch it, are you sure you'll be able to—"
"What makes her life any different from all the others? Is it special? Worth more? If you're not going to kill it for all those people, then my sister shouldn't matter either. And no matter what I do, I can't turn back time."
Honestly, I was glad for his answer. Not because he was right. Telling the truth isn't the hard part—the hard part is being able to accept it.
Besides…
"Who said we weren't going to?" I replied, sliding the round into the magazine. I racked the slide and looked straight at Akira.
"As long as people like them exist, beasts like the one we saw will always have something to feed on," Ivan threw in his two NR cents.
"Why would they even worship something like that?" Alia asked.
"Worshiped," I corrected her, with a touch of sarcasm.
"They worship because they worship." Ivan shrugged. "There's no deeper meaning. For degenerates like them, simple contact with the supernatural is enough. We treat objects as weapons, potential allies, enemies, or tools—not as something to kneel before. For them, it's often just an excuse to indulge their sick urges… and nothing about that has changed since the Republic."
Of course he had to. He just couldn't help himself. I know he's a veteran of the Old War, but honestly—if Ivan goes a day without bringing up the Republic, the NR, or OZAW, that day was clearly wasted.
"All right…" I finally said, drawing my people's attention—and maybe that thing's too. "Anyone have an idea what we actually do now? Ivan? Maybe you can tell us something? Have you ever seen symbols like these?"
Ivan silently walked over to the blood-drawn circle, knelt, and traced its outline with his finger.
"This thing is alive," he said as he stood again. "These aren't normal symbols."
"You ever seen anything like it?"
Ivan shook his head.
"Never. Not even in the capital."
"You flattened the capital to the ground. What exactly did you expect to see there?" I cut in dryly. "But anything similar at all?"
Again, he shook his head.
"I could be wrong, but… she probably isn't dead yet. This thing is most likely directly tied to her body and her consciousness."
"So what? We shoot it?" Antek asked.
"Shooting would probably break the circle, but that thing would still be here. Still… better to close it, so nothing else crawls out. Although…" I hesitated for a moment.
"No, Officer. That's not a good idea," Ivan protested loudly. He knew what I was planning.
"Oh, come on, don't you want to see a Primordial?" I smiled faintly.
"What is a Primordial, exactly?" Alia asked—and I swear, my hands nearly dropped to my sides.
I know NS has been lowering standards lately—these days it's mostly about whether the first PTR you meet kills you—but even then. I wouldn't expect those two to read anything more than a menu in the mess hall of their own free will. Still… there are things you should know.
"I'm not going to tell you the whole legend right now, but in short—'Primordial' refers to the ruler of one of the Primordial Signs. Sounds clumsy, I know, but that's how it is. Standard stuff—fire, water—but we also have Persycherion, Veratia, truth, and so on. Most entities can be linked to one of the signs. One line, so to speak—like PTRs, which fall under Persycherion.
The problem with our little friend here is different. Normally, we know the ruler's name and their sign. In this case, we know the Mistress's name—but not her sign. Tharavera is the ruler of… hell if I know. All we've got are guesses. But judging by her spawn, it's nothing good."
"This is all so complicated," Alia muttered.
"You should've been reading about important things, not nonsense," I grumbled. "Because if I asked you who Senka was sleeping with and what drama went down, you'd recite it by heart."
"Of course." She nodded with a wide grin. "But I'm pretty sure you're interested in that too."
"Quiet."
"Exactly. Quiet," Ivan cut in. "Did you hear that?"
We fell silent at once, gripping our weapons tighter.
But I heard nothing.
One second, two, three, ten, twenty—each stretched into eternity. Still nothing. For a moment I thought Ivan was just sick of our chatter—until I finally heard it. A faint sobbing. From… somewhere. Hard to tell where.
My first thought was the sacrificed body. But no—the voice didn't echo through the room. It resonated inside my head.
That wasn't possible. Tharaver, or whatever else of their line this was—this wasn't a PTR. They shouldn't have been able to touch our minds. Not in this state.
That was the theory. The reality was that I heard someone's quiet sobbing. And judging by the terror etched on my comrades' faces, so did they.
The sobbing grew louder. Louder and louder. And then the sound warped—pain and grief twisting into laughter. Mad, inhuman laughter. Drenched in pure insanity.
I'd had enough of this thing's games. No one was paying me extra to put up with a spoiled TR, no matter how ancient it claimed to be.
Then suddenly, the demented laughter stopped. And I could see from the looks on my comrades' faces—they couldn't hear it anymore either.
"What was that?" Antek asked me.
"I don't know… But we'll deal with it later. First, let's clean up this mess before it's too late."
We immediately set about disposing of the bodies. Weronika's medallion consumed them in eternal fire.
Maybe it wasn't fair that the tormentors met a fate kinder than that of some of their victims. But revenge wouldn't bring back anyone's life—or their humanity. I only hoped Tharaver hadn't had the chance to rip their souls apart.
I don't know exactly what happens to a person after death, but I do know what happens after an encounter with the Soul-Ripper. There was no leaving a corpse to rot and a soul to await judgment—or whatever came after.
In the eternal fire, the soul—or consciousness, if you prefer—waits until the end of time, whatever that may look like.
"How are you holding up?" I asked my people. "Alia? Akira?"
"I'm fine," the boy replied. "I think the worst is behind us."
"Your optimism is refreshing," I said half-jokingly. "What's a third-class TR anyway?"
"Officer," Alia spoke up. "Honestly… I'd almost rather face a Primordial itself than… than what we just saw. I just… I feel sorry people do such things to others. I don't even feel angry, just… why do people like that even exist?"
"They're not people," Ivan cut in harshly. "They shouldn't—"
"Enough." I interrupted him. I really had no desire to argue with the old NR man again.
"We need to search this dump," I announced. "Maybe we'll find something useful. Akira and Alia, you'll go with Ivan—but keep an eye on that damn NR veteran. Werka, you go with Antek. I'll check this room and keep an eye on the circle."
"Come on," Ivan said amiably, motioning to Akira and Alia. "Let's check upstairs."
"Come on, Wercia," Antek turned to her. "We'll search the ground floor. Mostly the kitchen. I'm starving already, aren't you?" he added with forced cheer, trying to keep things normal.
"Yeah…" she replied uncertainly. "I didn't even have breakfast this morning, and now…"
"Ivan, can you tell me—" Alia started.
A muffled, "Alia, don't test my patience," was the last thing I heard before they all went their separate ways. And I was left alone with the half-living body sprawled on the floor.
Against one wall stood an impressive-looking bookcase. I wasn't expecting miracles, but I still hoped to find something of value.
Of course, my suspicions were confirmed. Apart from a few pages ripped from some old tome and shoved between the covers of other books, there was nothing of interest.
The shelves were full of heavy, gold-embossed, leather-bound volumes, but their content? Utter drivel. At best, wild over-interpretations. Nothing more than worthless hackwork from different eras—good for nothing but stylish kindling.
With a heavy sigh, I shut the last book and put it back on the shelf, about to return to the circle. But something didn't add up.
Maybe the others would stumble on something useful, but logically—books wouldn't be lying around in a kitchen or a toilet. If there was something worth finding, it should have been here.
Tharaver wasn't a figment. The whole ritual—even if performed clumsily—wasn't just some idiotic masquerade. And yet, there wasn't a shred of truth in those books.
Petty NVs and low-grade PTRs exalted to the level of gods, arranged into a pantheon mostly pulled out of someone's ass. No way you could summon anything real with that junk—least of all a TR of that class.
The answer, on the surface, seemed simple. The entity must've contacted them itself. Their souls held no value to it, but they could help it reach the ones it couldn't touch on its own.
Even so… the entity should've protected them. It should've spared them, not slaughtered them.
Maybe there were hundreds like them. If you asked Ivan, he'd say thousands. Maybe millions. Maybe Tharaver just silenced them before they said too much.
But I still couldn't make sense of that line—fulfilling the Mistress's will.
Who the hell was this so-called Mistress?
My head was starting to ache. The more I tried to piece it all together, the less it made sense.
I could still feel eyes on me—someone's gaze drilling into my skull, faint but distinct. And with it came something else. Not fear, but something closer to sorrow. Maybe even despair. Yet it was strangely thin, like the faint shadow of a real emotion.
All of it vanished the moment Alia walked through the doorway with a smile, Akira just behind her, and Ivan trailing last, his face a mixture of fatigue and irritation.
"Found nothing," Ivan announced flatly.
"Same here."
"Let's just break the damn circle, torch this dump, and head back," Ivan suggested.
"As much as I'd love that, we can't just ignore a TR of this class. We're not leaving until—"
That's when it spoke. And I was almost certain it wasn't Tharaver anymore.
The voice was… peculiar. Calm, almost pleasant, even welcoming, but there was something in it—off, inhuman, alien.
I know, I know, we hadn't exactly been chatting with a person before either. But this voice was different. Even more foreign.
"Greetings," it finally spoke—and judging from the tone, it was… well, a woman? The voice was decidedly feminine, but pinning down who—or what—it truly belonged to was impossible.
"Greetings," I replied cheerfully. "Nice to finally meet a being that actually knows how to say hello properly."
"My name is Tharavera. I trust my messenger did not trouble you too much… Officer Silvia."
I didn't bother asking how she knew who I was. Didn't care either way. At least I didn't have to waste time introducing myself to this thing.
"He tore apart the soul of my friend's sister, so let's just say I hold a bit of a grudge," I answered.
"Aiko simply died. Just as the girl you killed did."
"Well, at least that's something." I exhaled, heavy with relief—odd as it sounded, it was still a relief. "But why did you let it happen at all?"
"It had to be so, Silvia. You think of us as monsters, but…"
"And what the hell else am I supposed to call you? You lot are the reason that word drips with meaning."
Tharavera laughed. Warm, pleasant, almost cheerful—but underneath it was something that made my stomach churn.
"My sign is Tharawa. Despair. And what is yours, Silvia?"
"Persycherion," I shot back without hesitation, pride in my voice. "Command still can't get me out of their heads. Granted, it's because of the trauma I gave them, but hey—that counts too."
Tharavera laughed again, like that irritating acquaintance who laughs too hard at every one of your jokes, desperate to win your approval. With just one little difference: he usually wasn't trying to steal my soul.
"All right, let's cut to the chase. We've already got enough of a mess here. Thanks for making our job easier, but that still doesn't mean we don't have objections to what you've done."
"I had no choice."
"Don't piss me off!" I hissed, not giving a damn that I was literally talking to a Primordial.
NS does not kneel. Never. And I sure as hell wasn't about to get all polite with some wretch born before time and space.
"You could have stopped this. And you did kill them anyway, so I don't know how twisted your—"
"You're wrong, Silvia!" she thundered suddenly.
And for some reason, I hated that she kept repeating my name. Yes, it was a beautiful name, and no one had better say otherwise—but it still made my skin crawl every time this thing spoke it.
"I couldn't do anything but accept the broken, trampled souls they offered me. At least until today. You broke the Oath and severed the bonds."
"In plain language? A blood oath, right? One of them must have been bound to you by a Thread. Only once he lost the will to live could your messenger kill him—and the rest. That it?"
"Not quite, Silvia."
"Could you stop saying my name all the time? It's creepy."
"Why? When it sounds so beautiful."
"That's exactly why it's unworthy of your mouth. And just so you remember—it's mine."
Tharavera laughed again—that same nauseating, inhuman laugh, clearly testing the limits of my patience.
"Tell me one thing. What's the deal with Aiko? Why—"
"She was one of the sacrifices, Sil—" Tharavera broke off suddenly. "She served, just as you do, in the Fourth Division."
"So that's why Akira…" I looked at the boy. Now I understood why he had joined the Fourth, even though that number was considered cursed in his culture—and as it turned out, his people had unfortunately been right.
"When the sacrifice stands above the Lord, the Thread may be cut. When the servant's blood boils, when he kills the Lord, then the Thread will be severed," she recited—words of some ancient oath, no doubt.
At least a few things finally clicked. Tharaver hadn't stolen that cultist's face by accident, and he hadn't taken on Aiko's face for no reason. He knew Akira would pull the trigger. That also explained why I felt like I'd been shooting at a puppet.
Which meant… Akira really did kill the Soul-Ripper—and, incidentally, that man as well.
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but… From what I understand, Tharaver stole the face and soul of that guy—what was his name… Fra—"
"I'd advise you not to speak his name," Tharavera cut me off.
"Fine. He stole the soul of that bastard. Officially, to protect him, so he didn't break your oath. I killed the cultist's body, and Tharaver still—let's call it—shielded his soul. And then he provoked Akira."
"You are correct."
"And here I thought I was the one stretching procedures and living by the principle of 'we'll wing it somehow.'"
Tharavera laughed again. And still, her laughter carried something deeply unsettling… and infuriating.
But something about this didn't sit right with me. Not even the chaos—I was used to that. No, this went too smoothly. Way too smoothly. If that guy really had a Primordial at his beck and call, then… Well, let's be honest. He probably just found some dusty book, started worshipping this thing without even being able to speak to it.
Ninety-nine percent of the cases I've dealt with went exactly like that: some family connection gives someone power over a being, and they bow and scrape without even knowing what—or why—they're worshipping.
But the Thread itself… That worried me. I was betting this imitation of a human didn't exactly have descendants. My assumption was that Tharaver—or whatever else was acting in the Primordial's name—made sure every victim of that sadist died before conceiving a child. Even so, cutting a Thread, especially one like that, was no simple matter.
"Akira…?" I asked, though I already knew what Tharavera would probably answer.
"When the servant kills the Lord, when the Thread is severed, a new one shall be tied," she recited—the next lines of the oath, or pact, or whatever you want to call it.
"So you're one of those objects. Bound forever."
"Indeed," she replied. "But I would a hundred times rather serve Akira than some depraved monster."
"Well, I just hope he doesn't end up serving you."
I glanced at Akira—the boy was clearly struggling to process everything that had just happened.
"You don't realize the unimaginable power you now hold in your hands…" I told him.
He tossed his weapon aside, dropped to one knee before me, and placed his right hand over his heart.
"This power lies in your hands, not mine, Officer. I am only the executor of your will."
I'll admit, that caught me off guard. His reaction might've seemed overly formal—even exaggerated—but in its own way, it pleased me. More importantly, Akira wasn't the kind of person who craved power over others, or destruction for its own sake. He'd already proven that more than once.
Thank God it hadn't been Ivan. Maybe we'd be safe, but the rest of the world? Not so much.
"Akira, don't you think—" Ivan started.
"Don't you dare," I cut him off sharply. I knew exactly what that NR relic was about to suggest.
Either way, we still had to sweep the building again, clean up, and close that circle.
"How can I order you to leave?" Akira asked.
"Akira, that's not how it works." I shot him a look of disapproval. "You don't just say 'go' and expect it to trot off. For God's sake, start reading something once in a while."
I sighed heavily and pulled back the slide. Better not to leave the black round lying around where I might forget it—and at this point, it wasn't good for much anyway.
"You'll just have to deal with her constantly," I went on. "In theory you could try sealing her, but the real question is: how, and why? Oh, and by the way—a Primordial has the privilege of entering your head. They can't rummage around in it like a high-class PTR, but they can communicate with you almost at will. Unless you forbid it—and I strongly suggest you do."
"You heard her," Akira said. "Don't talk to anyone but us. Understood? Can you do that?"
"As you command," Tharavera replied, probably feeling a twinge of embarrassment at the way Akira asked her—almost servilely—whether she would be so kind as to obey.
"And could you follow Officer's orders as well?" Akira asked.
"To a limited extent… yes."
"Then do it."
I won't deny it—I was glad Akira hadn't thought to share control of the being with anyone else. Ivan, of all people, could never be trusted with authority over a Primordial. Even limited.
The only question was, what would fall apart first—the world, or the Lady herself?
"I've got a few questions for you. But if you'll allow, let's finish our job first."
"Of course."
"Could you even show yourself to us?"
"I fear that could be dangerous. A human should not dwell in the presence of a Primordial Lord."
"Bullshit. Alia secretly used the Soul Reaper the other day just to see if Akira liked her. Spoiler—he did."
"Officer!" Akira and Alia practically shrieked in unison, their faces flushing as they instantly looked away from each other.
"What's the usual practice?" I asked.
"It is extremely dangerous, and I cannot guarantee—"
"Yeah, yeah, fine, have it your way." I waved a hand. "At least tell me where the book is. The diary, whatever."
"I don't have one," Tharavera said calmly—and a cold shiver ran down my spine.
"What do you mean, don't have one?" I really tried to keep my voice steady.
"Some things cannot—and above all, must not—be bound in words."
"So what instead? A transfer ritual?"
"Exactly, Silvia."
"I told you about my name," I snapped. "So that man didn't make a pact—he just kept doing sick shit like this for centuries…"
"And who was supposed to stop him?" she cut in. "A bound being? The people here aren't just weak, Silvia. They're evil. Rotten to the core. And I don't say that to echo Ivan's ideology. Most never lifted a finger. And the rare few who did intervene over the centuries were doomed from the start. They couldn't cut the Thread. There is no servant Tharaver cannot kill. And none who share his blood."
"Even so, you killed an NS squad. You drove Aiko to…"
"I'm sorry. But it had to end eventually. Someone had to put an end to this nightmare."
"I don't like the game you're playing. I don't buy your good intentions."
"You don't have to. I am your servant, and the servant of Akira's future children. That is pure blood, and the proof lies on your subordinate's arm. You don't even need to speak to me. I cannot act without your command."
"Just like you 'mercifully' killed off your previous Lord? Get the hell out of our heads. Don't come back until we summon you."
"As you command," she answered obediently.
"I don't know what game she's playing, but she's scheming. I'm almost certain of it."
"She's clearly trying to sharpen our hatred for the locals," Alia said.
"Yeah… I noticed that too. And no, Ivan, she's not right."
"We're not here to protect anyone, much less serve people," he shot back. "But we don't have to hate them either. That's all I'm saying."
"Exactly." I nodded. "We do our job. That's it."
"They already hate us," Ivan muttered.
"So what? That doesn't mean we have to hate them back. Or that we can't help them once in a while."
"They don't want our help."
"Ivan, I couldn't care less. A man on death's door often doesn't want help either. Do we just leave him to die?"
"That's not—"
"Enough." I cut them off before the bickering really caught fire. "Go get Werka and Antek. We're done here."
"What about the estate?" Akira asked.
"Destroy it. Burn it. Do whatever. You've got a Primordial at your service." I glanced at the red-black symbols crawling over his forearm.
When we left the mansion, Akira used the Primordial's power to collapse it into a pitiful heap of rubble, a faint fire still smoldering on top—and that was that.
The source of all these 'incidents' was gone. But I couldn't say the problem was solved.
I felt it in my gut—we had a heavy evening ahead, and an even heavier night. Tharavera has her own game in all this, and it's on me to figure out what she's planning—and put a stop to it.
We lingered a moment, watching the ruins of that hell on earth, then headed back to the bus and straight for base.
Our brand-new Lord of a Primordial was dozing peacefully on Alia's shoulder, unbothered by our loud chatter and Ivan's pompous speeches.
And me? I couldn't shake the one thought hammering at the back of my skull: do I report all of this upstairs?
It wasn't about distrust. It was about not causing unnecessary panic.
It still hadn't fully sunk in what had just happened. Many would give anything for even scraps of knowledge about the Primordials—and we had one at our service.
Though, whose service she was really in… that remained very much up for debate. And could change at any moment.
"Lieutenant," Alia spoke up suddenly, almost as if she'd been reading my thoughts. "Are we going to report any of this?"
"I'm still thinking about it… I don't want to trigger a panic. What do you all think?"
"I wouldn't report it either," Ivan said flatly. "But whatever you decide, we'll take responsibility."
"Of course," Antek added. "But I'd report it. The brass are a pain, but it'd give us broader access to records. And if we start requesting specific books and files, they'll suspect something anyway."
"As if they'll even deliver them," Werka muttered. "They drag their feet on our paychecks. Trust me, they'll brush this off too."
"This is a Primordial we're talking about."
"Primordial or not, they'll still drag their feet."
The argument dragged on for another hour, long enough for even a bleary Akira to join in after being shaken awake. In the end, we agreed not to officially report it—not yet. The after-action file would stay open, omitting the matter of our new "recruit," but we wouldn't hide the subject of the Primordial itself. Maybe that way, at least, we wouldn't be starved of information.
When we were finally close to base, we pinged Erika and the others to get dinner ready. We ate together, trading stories about what had happened on the op. The rest of the unit didn't really know what to make of it—and honestly, I didn't blame them.
Alia, though… Alia was something else.
"Lieutenant…" she whispered at one point, tugging on the sleeve of my uniform.
"What is it?" I looked at her. But judging by the sparkle in her eyes and the wide grin on her face, I already knew what was coming.
"How's Aleks doing?" she asked, confirming my suspicion.
"Alia, for fuck's sake."
I truly couldn't fathom how she managed to keep her spirits up after everything we'd just gone through—after staring into the maw of something born of Tharawa's despair. And yet, maybe this was her way of coping with reality.
Honestly, not a bad one.
"Don't tell me you're not curious," she teased.
"I am," I admitted, "but still—"
"Erika!" Alia suddenly blurted out.
"What do you want?" the girl snapped, shooting her a glare from under her brows.
"You done with that work yet?" Ivan cut in unexpectedly, directing the question at Erika.
"Yeah, but don't even remind me… I thought—"
"Listen, I need some info on the Illusionist. I've got a feeling this whole Primordial thing is some kind of scam."
"Now? Go to Aleks."
"Now. And I don't want to listen to his rambling and drooling over scraps of old paper. You're finished eating anyway."
With a heavy sigh, Erika stood and left with Ivan, muttering under her breath.
"Alia, for fuck's sake!" Antek scolded her.
"What?!" she shot back, utterly unbothered.
Honestly, I was relieved the conversation had taken this turn. I had neither the strength nor the patience for another hour of dissecting the Primordial. All I wanted was to finally collapse into bed.
"I'm off—" I didn't get to finish.
"Alright, diversion aside… Ivan might have a point," Damian cut in out of nowhere.
So much for greeting my pillow in peace.
"I didn't see what you did, but what if it was just some PTR? Something like the Illusionist? The cultists could've been killed by anything, and the rest—just an illusion. Only a PTR can get into your head. Antek, Werka—you heard what that so-called Tharavera was saying?"
"Enough," I said, pushing back my chair and rising. "Talk all you want, all night if it makes you happy. I'm going to bed. Good night."
"Good night," the others echoed.
"But Lieutenant," Damian blurted. "What do you think? Could it have been—"
"I think we shouldn't spin convenient stories just because reality isn't what we'd like it to be. That wasn't a PTR. We're screwed, and the only thing left is to start getting used to it. Good night."
Someone kept talking at me, but I ignored it. After a quick stop in the bathroom, I headed straight for my bunk and collapsed.
Sleep claimed me instantly—no strange visions, no nightmares, no sudden wake-ups. I slept like the dead.