"Right this way, ma'am!"
The medic answered instantly, straightening his posture as if the words themselves had snapped his spine into place. He turned sharply and began walking, forcing Jeanne Ancora to match his pace.
Floodlights cast long, harsh shadows across the encampment, illuminating tents, vehicles, and soldiers who moved with hushed urgency. The ground beneath her boots was uneven, trampled into mud by dozens of feet. The air carried the sterile sting of antiseptic, mixed with smoke, sweat, and something faintly metallic.
They stopped before a medical tent positioned slightly apart from the rest.
"Here." the medic said, pulling the flap aside.
Jeanne stepped inside.
The sight struck her harder than she expected.
Commander Incarceratus lay on a narrow field bed, his body unnaturally still between moments of violent movement. His skin was pale—far too pale—like parchment stretched thin over bone. Sweat drenched him, soaking through his uniform and pooling darkly in the sheets beneath. His chest rose and fell in short, uneven bursts, and every few seconds his muscles twitched sharply.
Low groans escaped his throat, broken and strained, not the sounds of a man at rest, but of someone trapped deep within pain.
Jeanne felt her breath hitch.
She moved closer, slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal that might lash out.
"Incarceratus," she said quietly.
No response.
She leaned down, her face close to his. His brow was furrowed deeply, jaw clenched tight as if he were grinding his teeth in his sleep.
"Daniel," she tried again, louder this time. "Wake up."
His body jerked violently, fingers curling into claws, but his eyes remained shut. Whatever held him was far beyond sleep. He looked as though he were drowning—lungs burning, body fighting, mind locked away somewhere unreachable.
Jeanne straightened, forcing herself to remain composed.
"Medics," she ordered sharply. "Full monitoring. Do not leave him alone. If anything changes—anything—you report directly to me."
"Yes, ma'am."
She turned and exited the tent before the weight in her chest could slow her down. Standing there wouldn't help him. She needed information. She needed control.
Outside, she demanded to know who was currently acting commander.
Lieutenant Vage was brought to her within minutes.
He stood tall and rigid, pale beneath the floodlights, dark rings beneath his eyes betraying exhaustion and fear. As he explained the situation—the dead-end tunnel, the inscriptions carved into stone, the missing soldiers, the body that had no right to move—Jeanne listened in silence.
Then Medic Sano joined them.
His voice trembled as he described the possessed soldier: the white eyes, the swollen artery pulsing with black fluid, the hand that moved on its own. He spoke of Dr. Avaritia taking control of the body, insisting she would handle it personally.
Jeanne felt a chill crawl up her spine.
She dismissed Sano with a nod and refocused on the mission. Search teams were still inside the tunnel, but the maze-like structure had disoriented them completely. They were low on supplies and nerves. The request to halt until morning was reasonable.
She approved it reluctantly.
As night fell, the encampment settled into a tense stillness. Guards rotated at the tunnel entrance and deeper inside, weapons ready, eyes scanning the darkness. Radios whispered softly. No one truly slept.
Inside the medical tent, Commander Incarceratus remained unconscious.
Once his vitals stabilized, the medics stepped out to eat and regroup, leaving him alone for just a few minutes.
That was when the man entered.
No one saw him arrive.
The tent flap stirred briefly, then fell still. A tall figure slipped inside, wrapped in a long, dark robe that brushed silently against the ground. A hood concealed his face completely, swallowing it in shadow. Only his hands were visible—old, thin, trembling slightly. One finger bore a golden ring engraved with a simple cross, worn smooth with age.
He stood beside the bed and watched the Commander for a long moment.
Then he reached out and placed his palm gently against Incarceratus' forehead.
The reaction was immediate.
Incarceratus convulsed violently, his back arching off the bed as if struck by lightning. A strangled gasp tore from his throat as his lungs fought for air. His fingers clawed at the sheets, nails scraping fabric as his body twisted in agony.
The man lifted his hand, holding it just above the skin.
And he began to speak.
Quietly.
Deliberately.
"Qui habitat in adjutorio Altissimi,
in protectione Dei cœli commorabitur."
The air shifted.
The tent felt heavier, as though unseen pressure pressed down from above. Incarceratus thrashed harder, groans tearing free from his chest.
"Dicet Domino: Susceptor meus es tu, et refugium meum:
Deus meus, sperabo in eum.
Quoniam ipse liberavit me de laqueo venantium,
et a verbo aspero."
Incarceratus' eyes snapped open.
They were completely white.
His mouth opened wide as if to scream, but only a guttural croak emerged, warped and wrong.
"Scapulis suis obumbrabit tibi, et sub pennis ejus sperabis.
Scuto circumdabit te veritas ejus:
non timebis a timore nocturno."
The bed rattled violently as Incarceratus struck out blindly, knocking equipment to the floor. His screams rose into a shrill screech that echoed unnaturally within the tent, layered with something deep and hateful beneath it.
"A sagitta volante in die,
a negotio perambulante in tenebris:
ab incursu, et dæmonio meridiano."
His head snapped from side to side. Muscles spasmed in sharp, unnatural movements. His eyes rolled wildly, pupils flashing in and out of view as if something behind them were struggling to surface.
"Cadent a latere tuo mille,
et decem millia a dextris tuis:
ad te autem non appropinquabit."
The man's voice never faltered.
Never rose.
Never hurried.
"Quoniam angelis suis mandavit de te,
ut custodiant te in omnibus viis tuis.
In manibus portabunt te,
ne forte offendas ad lapidem pedem tuum."
Incarceratus screamed again—a sound that no human throat should have been able to produce.
"Super aspidem et basiliscum ambulabis,
et conculcabis leonem et draconem."
The scream cut off abruptly.
Incarceratus collapsed back onto the bed, chest heaving violently as air tore in and out of his lungs. His mouth hung open as he gasped, muscles twitching weakly before slowly, gradually relaxing.
Color returned to his face.
The tension drained from his body, leaving him limp and still.
The man lowered his hand and made the sign of the Cross.
"In the name of theLord Jesus Christ," he said calmly, firmly, with absolute certainty.
"Begone."
Incarceratus jerked once more—sharp and sudden—then went completely still.
Peaceful.
The hooded man knelt beside the bed and whispered a final prayer, his voice too soft to hear.
Then he rose.
Without another word, without a sound, he slipped from the tent and vanished into the night.