Operation Lifeline Part 1
The western district of Roake was quiet now. Too quiet, in fact.
Two cultists, robed in the indigo-and-violet garb of the Eclipse followers, patrolled the rubble-strewn alley with the lazy confidence of men who believed they had already won. One of them, a lanky man with a scraggly beard poking out from beneath his hood, kicked at a discarded mining helmet, sending it clattering into a pile of charred wood.
"Filthy heretics," he muttered. "Did you see how they fought? Like cornered rats. Pathetic."
His partner, shorter and stockier, just chuckled as he adjusted the crude spear slung over his shoulder. "Doesn't matter. Once the Hierarch completes the Convergence, this whole world burns away. The old order, the false kingdoms, the hypocrite churches—all of it. Ash and memory."
"And then?" the lanky one asked, his eyes gleaming with a fervor that bordered on madness. "We ascend, brother. We become eternal. No pain, no hunger, no suffering. Just the perfect darkness of the Eclipse's embrace."
"Sounds boring," the stocky one said, then laughed at his own joke. "But hey, at least we won't have to smell this shithole anymore."
The lanky cultist opened his mouth to reply, but his breath caught in his throat. He froze mid-breath.
A six-inch steel blade had erupted from the center of his chest, punching through his ribs like they were wet cardboard. Blood bubbled from his lips. His eyes went wide with confusion, as if his brain couldn't process that he was already dead.
The blade retracted with a wet squelch of blood, then the cultist's legs gave out. He crumpled to the ground in a heap, his body twitching once, twice, then going still.
The stocky cultist whirled around, his spear raised, mouth opening to scream.
He didn't get the chance.
A gloved fist slammed into his throat with brutal precision, crushing his windpipe. He gagged, choking on his own breath, dropping his weapon as his hands clawed uselessly at his neck. Before he could recover, a knee drove into his gut, folding him in half. Then a second blow—an elbow to the base of his skull, sent him face-first into the cobblestones.
Asep planted a boot on the back of the cultist's head and pressed down hard, the crunching sounds came from beneath his boot, then the twitching stopped.
He straightened, flicking the hidden blade mechanism on his wrist gauntlet to retract the bloodied steel.
"Anjing... these guys stink like a rotting goat fucked a sewer," he muttered in his native tongue, waving a hand in front of his nose. "Do cults not believe in bathing, or is the smell part of the 'ascension' process?"
He crouched down, quickly rifling through their pockets. A few copper coins, a vial of something oily and foul-smelling—probably poison, and a crudely drawn map on parchment. He pocketed the map and left the rest.
Standing, Asep surveyed the scene around him.
The western district of Roake was like a graveyard.
Smoke still curled from the charred remains of collapsed shacks. Broken furniture and splintered barricades littered the narrow streets. Dried blood stained the ground in dark, rust-colored splatters, painting abstract patterns of violence across the stone. Scorch marks from oil fires blackened the walls. A few bodies—cultists, judging by the robes, lay abandoned in the gutters, already attracting flies.
The sun was sinking, casting long, crimson shadows across the ruined district. The fading light turned the smoke into pillars of blood-red haze.
"A battle happened here," Asep murmured, his eyes reading the scene like a book. "Recent. Maybe a few hours ago. Defensive position..." He pointed to the remains of a barricade. "Molotovs, improvised weapons... yeah, this was the resistance."
He pulled out the folded parchment Zachary had given him before he left Loriana. On it was a rough sketch of Roake's layout, with a section of the western district circled in red ink. Scrawled next to it in Zachary's handwriting were the words:
"Merlesian Refugees. Adeline. Last known position: West District, Copper Breaker Territory. Proceed with caution. Trust no robes."
Asep glanced at the map he'd stolen from the cultist. It was less detailed, more of a patrol route, but it confirmed what he already suspected: the cultists were actively hunting the resistance in this sector.
"Right. So, I'm in the middle of a war zone. Again." He sighed, tucking both maps away. "Why do I keep doing this to myself?"
He moved deeper into the district, keeping to the shadows of collapsed buildings and staying low. His footsteps were silent despite the rubble. Years of creeping through back alleys in Bandung had taught him how to move like a ghost when he needed to.
Every few minutes, he'd pause and listening to anything around him.
Distant shouts echoed from the eastern side of the quarry. The clang of metal on metal. The rhythmic chanting of cultist hymns, faint but persistent, like a background hum of madness. Somewhere far below, in the depths of the mines, he could hear the low, rumbling grind of machinery—probably the forced labor Zachary had warned him about.
"This place is a shitshow," Asep muttered. "Feels like home."
He turned a corner into a wider street and immediately flattened himself against a crumbling wall.
A patrol. Six cultists, moving in a loose column, their torches casting dancing orange light across the ruins. They were armed—spears, swords and sheilds, one of them even had a crossbow. They moved with purpose, not the lazy swagger of the two he'd just killed.
Asep counted the distance. Thirty meters. If they kept their current path, they'd pass right by his position in less than a minute.
He could take them. Probably. Six-on-one wasn't great odds, but he'd dealt with worse. The hidden blade, a few throws of rubble for distraction, then close the distance and—
No.
He shook his head, tamping down the familiar itch for violence. This wasn't Greenpasteur. He wasn't here to pick fights. He was here to infiltrate. Gather intel and make contact with Adeline.
"Zachary said 'low profile,' not 'one-man massacre,' save the murder for later."
He slipped into the doorway of a half-collapsed building, ducking behind a pile of broken furniture. He held his breath as the patrol passed, their boots crunching on shattered glass. One of them stopped and sniffing around.
"You smell that?" the cultist said.
"Smell what?" another replied.
"Blood. Fresh."
Asep's finger is ready to flick the mechanism of his concealed blade.
The cultist who'd spoken lingered, scanning the alley with narrowed eyes. For a tense, stretched-out moment, Asep was certain he'd been made.
Then, from deeper in the district, a bell rang—three clanging notes.
"Shit, that's the rally signal," one of the cultists said. "Overseer Aria wants everyone at the eastern checkpoint. Move!"
The group turned and jogged off, their torches bobbing like fireflies in the gloom.
Asep exhaled slowly, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Too close."
He waited until their footsteps faded entirely before emerging from his hiding spot.
"Eastern checkpoint, huh?" Asep mused. "Guess that means the resistance is somewhere west. Makes sense. They got pushed back to the edge."
With that, he pressed on deeper into the Copper Breaker territory.
The buildings here were older here, more decrepit, leaning against each other like drunks after a brawl. Tattered banners—remnants of gang colors still hung from broken windows. Graffiti in a dozen languages covered the walls, most of it were obscene. A few were defiant slogans:
*"Eclipse eats shit."*
*"Freedom or death."*
*"Roake stands."*
Asep allowed himself a grim smile. "At least they've got spirit."
He rounded another corner and stopped.
Ahead, partially hidden behind a makeshift barricade of overturned carts and mining equipment, was a cluster of intact buildings. Faint light flickered from within—candlelight, not torches. And he could hear voices. Low, cautious, but unmistakably human.
Asep crouched, observing from a distance.
Two sentries stood at the barricade entrance, one armed with a bow and arrows while the other had a round wooden shield and a battle axe. They wore no robes. Just ragged tunics, mismatched armor, and the wary expressions of people who'd been fighting for days without rest. He narrowed his eyes. He recognized them.
They were Terreli and Roy, part of Adeline's militia.
He felt a profound relief upon seen them. Finally, he had found them.
"Alright," Asep whispered to himself. "Now I just gotta figure out how to walk up to them without getting shot."
He stepped out from cover, hands raised in a non-threatening gesture, and started walking slowly towards the barricade.
The sentries noticed him immediately.
"Halt!" Terreli barked, raising his bow. "Identify yourself- wait, Asep?!"
"Hoi. Terreli! Roy! It's me!" Asep waved. The two of them immediately lowered their weapons and went to him, wide smiles on their faces.
"Asep! You're here! Man, I thought you were dead or something!" Roy quickly gave him a friendly hug like he was meeting an old friend.
"Haha, you can't kill me, brother." Asep replied. "But you guys look terrible. What's going on?"
"There was a battle hours ago. The Cultists attacked us. We fought them off but... yeah, many of us got wounded, Mark too." Terreli explained. "But never mind that! How did you even get here? I mean, Cultist patrols are roaming around the district!"
"Long story. I killed some of them." Asep shrugged. "Anyway, I got some supplies for you guys. And also... is Adeline here?"
"Yeah, she is. Inside the safehouse. She's probably resting. Come on, I'll show you the way."
The two sentries led him through the barricade, past clusters of exhausted refugees huddled around small fires. Children with hollow eyes. Women clutching infants. Men with bandaged wounds, staring into the flames with the vacant expressions of those who had seen too much.
Asep felt a familiar, uncomfortable tightness in his chest. This wasn't just a military operation. These were people. Families trying to survive.
He followed them to a larger building at the center of the compound—a former warehouse, its roof partially caved in but still structurally sound. Lanterns hung from the rafters, casting warm light across rows of bedrolls and makeshift medical stations.
And there, standing near a table covered in crude maps and supply lists, was Adeline.
She looked exhausted. Her dark brown hair was coming loose from its tie, strands falling across her face. Her simple tunic was stained with soot and blood. There were dark circles under her eyes, and her shoulders sagged with the weight of responsibility.
But when she looked up and saw him, her eyes widened.
"Asep?"
"Hey. It's been a while, Adeline." Asep said with a slight smile.
Adeline didn't smile back. Not really. The corners of her mouth twitched upward, a ghost of a reflex, but it didn't reach her eyes. Those warm brown orbs, which Asep remembered being full of quiet resilience, were now dull, rimmed with the red irritation of smoke and unshed tears.
"Come," she whispered, gesturing him to follow. "Not here."
She led him away from the main cluster of refugees, towards a secluded corner of the warehouse where a few crates served as a makeshift command desk. As they walked, Asep's gaze swept over the huddled masses. It wasn't just injuries from the battle but also combined by lethargy. The way people moved—slow, heavy, as if the air itself was pressing down on them. He saw a man chewing on a piece of boiled leather. He saw a child, no older than five, staring at a stone on the floor with glazed, unblinking focus.
Adeline leaned against a stack of crates, her legs seemingly giving out for a moment before she locked her knees.
"We have food for two days," she said, skipping the pleasantries. "And that's if we cut rations to a quarter of a loaf per person. Water is worse. The cultists poisoned the upper wells three days ago. We've been boiling runoff from the stalactites, but it's not enough. Not nearly enough."
Asep frowned, his hand instinctively patting the heavy satchel at his hip. "I brought some rations. Dried meat, hardtack. It's not a lot, but—"
"Thank you," she interrupted softly. "But unless you brought a caravan, it won't stop the dying."
She looked down at her hands. They were trembling.
"Yesterday," she continued, her voice dropping to a fragile whisper. "Maria... the baker's wife. Her baby. He was only six months old. He... his mother couldn't produce milk anymore. She was too starved. And the dysentery..."
She didn't finish the sentence. She didn't have to. Asep saw the flinch in her shoulders, the way she gritted her teeth.
"We tried everything," Adeline finally said. "But there was no medicine. No clean water. He just... faded. Small and quiet."
Asep felt a cold, hard knot tighten in his gut. The silence between them stretched, filled only by the distant rattling coughs of the sick.
He looked around the warehouse again, but this time, he didn't see a fantasy dungeon. He saw newsreels from a previous life flickering behind his eyes. He saw the skeletal frames of children in Yemen. He saw the bombed-out neighborhoods of Gaza where aid trucks were turned away at the border. He saw the weaponized famine in the Congo and Sudan and many parts of the world.
Why do people do such horrible things all the time? No matter what world, it's always the same. He thought bitterly. It's just plain evil... Even for a scumbag like me. No matter how you look at it, no matter the justification. It is outright evil to let innocent children die.
The cultists weren't just fighting a war. They were conducting an extermination. They were starving the rats out of the hole. But the 'rats' were people.
Was 'sapience' actually a curse for us? Was the ability to think nothing but an excuse to invent new ways to inflict cruelty? Animals killed to eat. People killed for ideas. For belief systems. For lines on a map. This makes us no different than animals... No, we are worse than animals.
He looked at Adeline. She stood there, holding the weight of a hundred dying souls on her thin shoulders, refusing to break because if she did, they all died.
And here he was, worried about awkward small talk.
Asep stepped forward. He didn't think about 'Asep-brand nonchalance' or witty one-liners. He just reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder.
"We aren't going to let them die," he said. His voice was low, devoid of its usual lazy drawl. It was hard and serious for once. "Roake isn't alone anymore."
Adeline looked up at him, her eyes searching his face.
"Castalia is coming," Asep promised. "Not just us. A whole army of pissed-off mercenaries, miners, and crazy foreigners. Zachary is mobilizing everyone. We're going to break that siege, Adeline. We're going to bring food. Medicine. Water. Everything."
"Why?" Adeline asked, a tear finally escaping, tracking a clean line through the soot on her cheek. "Why would they come for us? We have nothing to pay them with."
"Because Zachary is stubborn. Because the Princess is angry," Asep said, a small smile touching his lips. He squeezed her shoulder gently. "And because I promised I'd find you."
Adeline's breath hitched. There's a flicker of real hope sparked in her eyes.
"Caw!"
A sharp, piercing cry cut through the emotional moment. They both jumped as a dark shape swooped down from the hole in the warehouse roof.
It was massive bird, even for a raven, its feathers shimmering with an iridescent sheen of midnight blue and violet. But the most striking feature was its wings—four of them, arranged in a sleek X-formation. It landed heavily on the crate next to Adeline, its talons clicking against the wood. It fixed Asep with an almost human stare.
"A four-winged raven?" Adeline gasped, taking a step back from the animal.
"Ah," Asep relaxed, he instantly recognized the creature. "Meet Zachary's voicemail."
The bird opened its beak, but instead of a squawk, a distorted but unmistakable voice emerged—calm, authoritative, and slightly tinny.
"Asep. Adeline."
It was Zachary's voice, projected through the familiar.
Adeline stared at the bird, stunned momentarily before regaining her composure. "Lord Zachary?"
The raven bobbed its head. "I can see you both clearly. The familiar's senses are linked to mine. Briefly. Maintaining this connection over this distance is... taxing."
The bird ruffled its feathers, turning its gaze to Asep.
"Status report, Asep. You made contact. What is the situation on the ground?"
Asep's expression hardened. "Bad, Boss. Real bad. They're starving them out. Poisoned wells. No food. Disease is spreading. Adeline says they have two days, max, before people start dropping like flies. The cultists are squeezing the choke points. It's a siege."
The raven fell silent for a moment. When Zachary spoke again, his voice was colder and sharper now.
"Understood. The cultivation of misery is their fertilizer. They want desperation to force conversions."
"Listen closely. The Coalition force is moving faster than anticipated, but the terrain is difficult. We are still twelve hours out from the main gate. However..."
The bird hopped closer to the map spread on the crate, tapping its beak on a section marking the northern cliffs.
"...Stark and a vanguard of light cavalry have broken off from the main column. They are now en route to the western district. The main force will be the diversion to make noise at the Eastern Gate, taking most of their attention. We will use the diversion to pierce through the western district and rescue the civilians. That's why I want you to coordinate with Adeline and the others to prepare for a breakthrough."
Adeline's eyes widened. "Breakthrough?"
"Correct. The civilians need to be rescued. You and your militia should prepare too. We should work together from inside and outside."
Asep cracking his knuckles, a determined grin etched on his face. "Sounds like a plan. Anything else?"
"Yes," Zachary's voice through the bird softened slightly. "Tell them to hold on. We are coming. The sun will rise over Roake again."
"Connection... fading. Out."
The raven let out a final squawk, shook its head as if shaking off a headache, and then flapped its four wings, launching itself back into the rafters to perch silently in the shadows.
Asep turned back to Adeline. Her expression had changed. The despair was gone, replaced by a steely resolve.
"Twelve hours... we just need to survive twelve hours."
"No," Asep corrected her, pulling the hidden blade gauntlet tighter on his wrist. "We need to get ready for a fight."
He looked at the map, then at his satchel of gadgets Treste had given him.
"If Stark is hitting them from the outside, we need to create chaos on the inside. Draw their attention. Make them look the wrong way." Asep's grin turned feral. "And I have just the toys for that."
"Adeline, get the militia ready. Gather anyone who can hold a stick or throw a rock. When the cavalry arrives, we're going to punch a hole in their line so big you could drive a truck—uh, a wagon through it."
Adeline nodded, wiping the last tear from her cheek. She straightened her spine, looking every bit the leader she had been forced to become.
"I'll rally them," she said firmly. "Roy, Terreli! Get everyone up! Weapons check! Now!"
As the warehouse erupted into activity, Asep walked towards the exit, staring out into the twilight-covered ruins.
Just plain evil, he thought again, remembering the dead baby.
Alright then. Let's see how you fanatics like a little 'modern warfare'.
He pulled out a round, metallic sphere from his bag—one of Treste's 'Thunderflash' prototypes.
"Time to act like a terrorist to fight terrorists."
___
Deep Sanctum of the Eclipsed Sun—Estella's Hidden Chamber
The only illumination in Estella's private quarters came from the pulsating veins of corrupted violet Lumite embedded in the cavern walls. It cast long, dancing shadows that seemed to writhe independent of any light source, twisting and curling like grasping fingers.
Estella sat on a throne carved from obsidian, her legs crossed elegantly beneath the folds of her silk robes. In her hands, she held a heavy tome bound in pale, textureless leather—skin, tanned to a pristine white. Her fingers traced the lines of the text, her lips moving silently as she read the verses of the Scripture of the Dark Sun.
"...and the false light shall scream as it dies, for it is a lie painted over the void. Only in the absolute shadow is there truth. Only in the cold is there peace..."
She turned a page.
To Estella, these weren't just words. They were a lullaby. A promise for a better world. The world above—with its bickering kings, its greedy merchants, its sun that burned and blinded was a chaotic mistake. A wound that needed cauterizing. She was, in her mind, healing Roake from the corruption of the world at large. She was putting a rabid dog out of its misery.
A soft knock echoed against the heavy iron doors of her sanctum.
"Enter," Estella said, her voice melodic, barely raising her eyes from the scripture.
The heavy door groaned open. A scout scuttled in, keeping his head low, practically dragging his forehead on the stone floor in reverence. He wore the standard cultist robes, but they were dirt-stained from the surface.
"High Overseer," the scout said, his voice trembling and breathless. "The preparations... are complete. The Vanguard is assembled. The Thralls... they are restless. They hunger of blood."
Estella finished the sentence she was reading. She marked her place with a sliver of black ribbon and closed the book with a gentle thud. She placed it reverently on the small table beside her throne, stroking the cover once before standing up.
"Hunger is good," she murmured, descending the dais steps. "It means they are eager to embrace our lost brothers and sisters."
She stopped in front of the kneeling scout. He flinched as her shadow fell over him, but she only reached out and touched the top of his hood.
"The heretics in the West District," she asked softly. "Are they still clinging to their delusions?"
"Yes, Mistress. They... they have fortified the ruins with traps and barricades. They fight like... like animals."
"Like children afraid of the dark," Estella corrected him with a pitying smile. "They do not understand that the dark is warm. That it is safe."
She walked past him, her teal eyes fixed on the open door. Beyond it, she could hear the low, guttural growls of the transformed abominations waiting in the main cavern. The sound of chains dragging on stone. The unified, rhythmic breathing of hundreds of zealots preparing for slaughter.
"I will lead this procession myself," Estella announced.
The scout's head snapped up. "Mistress? B-but... it is dangerous. The mercenaries... that woman with the cursed stone..."
Estella stopped. She turned her head slightly, fixing him with a gaze that was terrifyingly vacant.
"Danger? Hehe~" she let out a small, musical laugh. "There is no danger for the chosen, my child. Only inevitability."
She swept her arm out, her sleeves billowing like wings.
"These 'mercenaries', these refugees... they think their resistance matters. They think their little walls and their sharp sticks can hold back the tide. I wish to show them the error of their ways. Personally."
Her face hardened, the maternal mask slipping just enough to reveal the fanatical steel beneath.
"I want them to look into my eyes as their world ends. I want to be the last thing they see before the Eclipse takes them. It is immense cruelty to let them die without knowing why."
She stepped out into the hallway.
The main cavern was a sea of indigo robes and nightmare flesh.
Hundreds of cultists stood in formation, armed with serrated blades, spears, and crossbows. But in front of them, straining against heavy iron chains held by teams of handlers, were the Thralls.
Dozens of them.
Some were like the miner Estella had transformed earlier—tall, lanky horrors with crystalline spikes erupting from their spines. Others were hulking brutes, their muscle mass expanded to grotesque proportions by the corrupted Lumite, their arms dragging on the ground like gorillas. Their skin pulsed with violet veins. Their eyes were burning coals of purple light.
When Estella appeared on the balcony overlooking the cavern, a hush fell over the army. Even the Thralls seemed to quiet down upon sensing her presence.
"My children!" Estella's voice rang out, magically amplified to fill the vast space. "The time for patience has ended! The sun sets, and the shadows lengthen!"
A roar of approval went up from the cultists.
"In the West, the non-believers hoard their misery! They cling to their pain! They reject our gift!" She spread her arms wide. "Will we let them suffer in ignorance? Will we let them die in the cold light of their false hope?"
"NO!" screamed the congregation.
"Then march!" Estella commanded, her eyes blazing with zeal. "Break their walls! Shatter their bones! Bring them the silence they deserve! For the Eclipse!"
"FOR THE ECLIPSE!"
The chains were loosened. The handlers whipped the Thralls into a frenzy.
With a unified, terrifying roar, the horde began to move. They surged toward the tunnel leading to the surface like a dark landslide, a wave of madness ready to crash against the fragile dam of the resistance.
Estella watched them go, her serene smile returning. She adjusted her collar, checked to ensure her own personal dagger—a wicked, curved blade of black glass—was secure at her hip, and followed in their wake.
Tonight, she would save them all. Whether they wanted it or not.
____
West District - The Frontline
The ground shook.
It started as a subtle vibration, rattling the few remaining loose stones on the barricade wall. Then it grew—a rhythmic, thudding bass note that resonated in the chest.
Thoom. Thoom. Thoom.
Adeline stood on the observation platform of the warehouse roof, peering through a cracked spyglass. The sun had fully dipped below the mountains now, plunging the district into a bruised twilight.
"What is that?" Roy asked, gripping his axe hard. "Siege engines?"
"No," Adeline lowered the glass, her face pale. "Footsteps."
From the eastern gloom, a sea of torches emerged. But unlike the scattered patrols from before, this was a solid wall of fire. And leading it were shapes that had no business existing in a sane world.
Towering, hulking monstrosities smashed through the outer perimeter of the Copper Breaker territory. They tore through stone walls as if they were wet paper. Their violet eyes glowed like beacons in the smoke.
"Thralls," Adeline whispered. "A whole vanguard of them."
Below her, in the warehouse, chaos erupted.
"Incoming! Massive host from the East!"
"Get everyone to the secondary line!"
"Archers! Fire at will!"
Asep was already on the ground floor, checking the mechanism on his wrist. He looked up at Adeline as she scrambled down the ladder.
"Well," he said with serious tone. "Looks like we don't need to create a distraction anymore. The distraction just came to us."
He grabbed a handful of Treste's Thunderflash grenades from his satchel.
"Twelve hours, huh?" Asep grunted, watching the first of the massive Thralls smash a refugee hovel to splinters with a single blow. "This is going to be a long night."
___