With the inquisitor still standing, motionless, his gaze fixed on the frozen image on the screen.
Bennet sighed and turned off the screen from his wrist device.
As he offered him his flask, he said, "Sit down, Robert... and have a drink."
The inquisitor blinked, as if returning from a far-off place. He looked down at the outstretched flask and, after a brief pause, took it.
"Thanks."
He dropped into one of the chairs with a heavy sigh. Without the usual comforts for drinking while wearing his mask, he brought his free hand to his face and, with a soft click of the clasps, removed it.
Only because his "brother" was the only one present.
The skin on his face was a patchwork of overlapping scars and burns, as if it had been burned again and again, each time after fully healing—in a slow, torturous process. It had built up layers of hardened, rough flesh, forming an uneven surface almost like the bark of a charred tree.
Despite the severity of the burns, the most delicate parts that should have disappeared—his nose, lips, eyelids, and ears—were still there. Marked by fire, but still present, previously protected and treated to preserve at least a trace of humanity in his face.
As the clear liquor barely made its way down his throat, Bennet, watching him without hiding it, said:
"You're still as ugly as I remember."
Robert Hmpft—choked.
If anyone else had said that, there would have been... consequences. But Bennet's bluntness made his vocal cords—just as scorched as his skin—tremble with friendly delight as he replied, "Don't make me laugh while I'm drinking..."
Bennet shrugged with indifference.
"That wasn't my intention. I was just stating a fact."
With the tension finally dispersed in the reinforced workshop on the bunker's first floor—crammed with tools and half-built or dismantled machinery—Robert took another swig from the flask before locking eyes with old Bennet for the first time since removing his mask.
His eyes were a disturbing sight. The whites had been invaded by a deep red, stained by the blood of burst capillaries, as if his gaze itself had endured unbearable pressure. And in stark contrast to the damage, at the center of that crimson sea, his pupils gave off a faint golden glow—subtle, but impossible to ignore. A glow almost divine… and somehow, profoundly unsettling.
It made Bennet click his tongue in disgust when he noticed his own reaction. Like a… "Fucking rookie," he scolded himself.
His hand went, by pure instinct, to the grip of his Mauser 96-R—in a primal, irrational reflex—triggered by the sheer weight of Divinity in the inquisitor's eyes.
Slowly pulling his hand away, he exhaled heavily. "You know…" he began, shaking his head as his words stumbled between irony and confusion, "I'll never understand the ones like you in the Brotherhood."
Robert rolled his eyes with exhaustion and took another drink. "Ahmm… here we go again."
Bennet's reaction didn't surprise him. After all... it was the reason he wore the mask in the first place.
"I can understand it in the masses… the other inquisitors, paladins, nuns, priests, monks—even the damn altar boys. After all, they were trained for it." Bennet's tone turned harsh. "But us, being able to wield the Faith… us?!"
The words seemed to burn as he spat them out—so much so that he pulled out a second flask to dull the sting with more alcohol.
He uncapped it with his teeth, and before knocking it back in bitterness, he added, "Us, the ones who know the truth... I just can't understand it."
After a few moments of heavy silence, Bennet broke it with a dry, hollow laugh.
"Heh… not even if I lived three lives… I still couldn't wrap my head around how anyone can keep 'faith' in that… thing… that—"
He paused to take a long swig. He didn't drink so much as drown in it. Then he let the flask drop onto the table with a dull thud and spat out with contempt:
"Fucking primordial bastard!"
His fingers trembled slightly as he held the flask. Something burned in his chest that the alcohol couldn't quite smother. Bennet exhaled, trying to push it down. Finally, he muttered with bitter irony:
"It fascinates me as much as it pisses me off. And that fucks me off even more!"
"Are you done now, grandpa?"
"Don't call me grandpa!"
"Alright... then how about Alfie?"
"You're starting to tip the balance on how I feel about you, you know?"
"Oh, you don't like it when you're the butt of the joke?"
Robert stopped teasing and answered calmly, with that tone of patience you only use with someone you've explained something to a thousand times.
"I've told you many times... but I guess I'll have to say it again."
He brought the flask to his lips and took another drink, feeling the heat of the liquor spread through his throat. He didn't activate any of the implants in his organs—this time, he wanted to get drunk.
"You can admire someone's work without sharing their beliefs; Like appreciating the beauty of a building's architecture without caring who—or what—designed it."
Bennet grunted, but didn't interrupt.
"Admiring is one thing... but devotion, faith…"
"You just have to put in a bit more effort."
Robert smiled. A human smile on a face that had sacrificed its own a long time ago.
"Now... tell me what you really think of 00—"
Before he could finish—
"His name is Ashliath. Don't forget it." Bennet cut him off, his tone carrying both a warning and a threat.
Slightly surprised, Robert fell silent. He hid his smile, having just confirmed that the old "brother" sitting across from him... was a kindred spirit. After a calculated pause, he offered an apology.
"My bad... So, tell me—how do you suggest I deal with Ashliath?"
Bennet didn't answer right away. Instead, he raised and wiggled two fingers in a gesture that never quite formed, while taking a long swig from his flask. When the burn of the liquor faded into a sigh, he spoke with blunt conviction:
"Food and tits."
"What!?" Robert exclaimed, incredulous.
"I told you. He's a simple kid. Feed him and he'll look at you kindly. And if it's a pretty girl giving it to him—with a nice pa—"
"I get it!"
The inquisitor sighed, bringing a hand to his face with weary resignation. He couldn't tell whether to be relieved or concerned by the boy's simple soul.
Bennet, cut off mid-thought, finished the sentence with an eloquent hand gesture, then added with a more introspective tone:
"Maybe because of that name; Askari?"
Robert narrowed his eyes. His mind was already drawing up... plans.
"Elaborate."
"The Alpha he hunted."
"What about it?"
"If Tessa's father—the tavern keeper—hadn't been on that train, I don't think he would've risked going head-to-head with that creature… not to the point of sacrificing his own sword."
"He would've let the miners die?" Robert asked, analyzing.
"Not that either... But he wouldn't have taken such risks. Maybe used a few miners as bait while shooting from a safe distance. That's how I raised him, at least."
"More human than you, huh?"
Bennet didn't bother to answer. He just shrugged.
After a few seconds of thought, the Inquisitor said: "I didn't know how to react... but this is good news. The recording had me worried."
Bennet leaned against the table, absentmindedly toying with his flask.
"About the footage..." He couldn't finish the sentence—afraid of the answer he might get.
Until Robert spoke abruptly: "Destroy it."
The old ranger's eyes widened in surprise. "Are you sure? If the Brotherhood finds out…"
Robert looked up. His expression was one of someone who had already made peace with his decision.
"And how would they find out... Brother?"
The word hung in the air, heavy with double meaning—revealing, binding. Bennet gave a small, grateful nod… until Robert continued:
"Besides," his voice was low but firm, "You'll be the one delivering the report. The Brotherhood wants you back. Having someone as old as you around gives the High Council a strange sense of comfort... They're worried."
With a hint of reluctance, the Inquisitor concluded:
"Project Eva is beginning to show signs of waking up."
The silence that followed hit hard. A chill ran down Bennet's spine, forcing him to be the one to stand.
"You're fucking with me again, aren't you?"
Robert shook his head slowly.
"I wish I was."
Bennet narrowed his eyes, studying him before asking:
"That's why you really came here... isn't it?"
"..." The Inquisitor's silence said more than words could.
Bennet let out a long sigh and collapsed back into his chair. He raised the flask to his lips but stopped before drinking.
"Goddamn it..."
-
Meanwhile, in Urdyales
From the window of her room in the guesthouse of the noble quarter, Mary watched in silence.
The view from there was unmatched: the bell tower rose tall and proud at the center of the town, crowned by the Golden Flame. A beacon whose light was meant to keep the night's darkness at bay.
Or at least, that was the idea.
Beyond the wide opening in the hollow mountain, right at the edge of her sight, winged creatures—the same ones she had seen tearing each other apart in the forest—circled overhead. Their grotesque forms, with leathery wings and twisted bodies, seemed hesitant, unable to cross the threshold of the sacred light.
But then, in the blink of an eye, a few of them dove down, launching themselves like projectiles toward the tower.
Mary held her breath as they crossed the mountain's edge.
Only to hear that monstrous shriek—a sound caught between rage and agony—as their bodies burst into flames. Some managed to pull back in time, trailing smoke and scorched flesh, but others, the more stubborn ones, pushed forward, enduring the pain to fulfill their purpose.
And their efforts weren't in vain.
Those that withstood the torment managed to get close enough to splash their own blood against the flame. Tiny dark droplets, nearly black, sizzled on contact with the holy fire. Most evaporated instantly, but a small fraction—a trace of impurity—managed to cling to the flame, weakening it perceptibly.
Mary shivered.
This wasn't blind suicide. It was a siege. Slow. Methodical. A calculated sacrifice to slowly wear down the only barrier keeping the town safe.
She turned away from the window, looking for some kind of certainty from her roommate.
Who was in the middle of undressing, peeling off her field uniform, soaked with sweat and mud. Once she was down to her refined—and slightly revealing—black underwear, matching her onyx-colored hair, Mary broke the silence.
"Shouldn't we tell Priest Salazar or the mayor?" Mary asked.
She thought of the mayor for a moment, but the idea faded quickly. An older man, weary-looking, with a presence that barely registered. A bureaucrat, holding on to civil order without much ambition. No, if anyone could be called the true authority in Urdyales, it was Priest Salazar.
Lena, however, barely reacted. She simply glanced at her with a look somewhere between indifference and faint exasperation as she slipped on a pair of black stockings—part of her more formal uniform for more "civilized" zones.
"You think they don't already know?" she replied, adjusting the fabric over her well-shaped thigh. "Keep watching. With the piece they just acquired, this town shouldn't have any trouble with the corrupted creatures for the next few seasons."
Mary frowned, but before she could turn to check what Lena was referring to, the bell tower came to life.
The valves embedded in its structure began to release pressure with a deep hiss, as if the metal itself were breathing. The machinery hidden behind the stone picked up speed, triggering a mechanism that made the nozzles along the tower suddenly open.
The sound that emerged was unexpected.
It wasn't just a mechanical rumble or the roar of steam—it was something... harmonic. The varying widths of the nozzles caused each to produce a different note, resonating together in a deep, solemn chant, as if the tower had become part of a colossal pipe organ.
And then, the Golden Flame responded.
The dwindling flame at the top flared up, growing in size and brightness until it became blinding. Its golden light surged outward like a radiant wave, scorching the air with its intensity.
From outside the mountain, the creatures flying over the summit screamed in pain. Those that believed themselves to be at a safe distance began to writhe mid-flight, their bodies blackening upon contact with the renewed sacred energy. Some fled in a desperate attempt to survive, while others weren't so lucky, becoming mere shadows disintegrated in the vastness of the night.
Mary watched the spectacle of pipes with surprised delight, until she came to her senses at the educated words of her... companion.
"Alongside the sacred metal, crystallized Diesel has become essential in the villages of kingdoms with open battlefronts across their lands"
A Few Minutes Earlier
In the heart of the village's central platform, just beneath the blazing bell tower, lay its dormant core.
A vast machine, buried deep in the rock, on which the village's survival completely depended.
Despite its importance, the two guards posted at the entrance were asleep at their posts, lulled by the usual lack of activity...
Until the voice of Priest Salazar echoed from deep within the rock and metal corridors that connected the catacombs:
"Open the doors!"
The two guards reacted immediately. With no time to straighten their crooked uniforms, they pushed the heavy iron doors.
They opened with a dry, harsh screech, as if the very structure protested being roused from its slumber.
Even before they saw Priest Salazar or his entourage, they smelled them.
A thick, putrid stench struck their nostrils. Something dead… and not entirely still.
Then, from the corridor, the Priest emerged. He walked with purpose, hands forward, carrying a cloth soaked in thick, black blood that dripped slowly. Behind him, escorted by armed guards, came the acolytes, struggling to drag the mutilated body of the Alpha.
Salazar, wasting no time—offering no greetings, no prayers, not even a glance to the guards—crossed the threshold and entered the chamber.
It was a massive space, carved into solid rock. The cavernous walls were fused with heavy machinery: gears that turned sluggishly, thick pipes and conduits running through the stone like nerves beneath skin.
Between the metal and stone, embedded stained glass windows depicted different scenes, letting in dim light that cast muted glints across the cracked floor.
As if silently telling a story—a tribute to faith... and to the human ingenuity behind the creation of such machinery.
Once inside, with the urgency of someone who knew each second meant lost resources, Priest Salazar ordered:
"Start the machine! Prepare the Alpha!"
Seconds later, the engines buried beneath the earth began to vibrate, making the ground come alive.
A kind of "life" that quickly spread to the pipes, which trembled; to the pistons, which exhaled pressurized steam, that filled the air like an ancient mechanical breath.
The Alpha's corpse was brought and placed on the central "structure" of the chamber with the help of mobile cranes, pushed by the acolytes—one of the church's lowest ranks, dressed in simple, frayed white robes.
The "structure" was a horizontal cage made of reinforced metal plates, articulated with heavy hinges that allowed each segment to be adjusted precisely to fit its contents.
Its design suggested that its creator had not only accounted for differences between species, but also for possible future size variations.
At a glance, it resembled a caged operating table, mounted on rails, directly beneath a massive five-meter-long spike made of stone and steel, hanging from the ceiling like a stalactite, supported by a system of pulleys and chains designed to distribute its immense weight.
The tip, carved with a curved groove like that of a drill, was forged from the purest sacred metal, giving it an unsettling, blood-red shine.
It was precisely aligned over the opening in the cage, which left only the Alpha's chest exposed.
The body was secured to the structure with a mix of reverence and fear. The acolytes adjusted the reinforced leather straps and the steel hinges, which creaked with every turn, careful to touch him no more than necessary.
Once immobilized and the central cage sealed, Salazar took a deep breath, pulled the Alpha's head from the sack, and placed it inside a second, smaller cage, connected to the same rail system as the main one.
"Everyone out." he ordered, without looking at anyone as he shut the small cell.
Once he had stepped away himself...
"Activate the pumps."
At his signal, several wall-mounted tanks began to empty. Their contents were channeled through a network of pipes into a chamber beneath the main structure.
When the splashing inside the chamber stopped, its gates—semicircular metal plates forming part of the floor around the structure—opened.
Two pits of piranha solution formed on either side of the rail and cage system. A radical safety measure in case something went... wrong.
Salazar raised his hand, and the two acolytes assigned to operate the elegant, time-worn copper cranks on either side of the chamber began to turn them—just another cog in the vast machinery.
With a metallic screech that cut through the bursts of steam and the roar of the engines,
the rail system activated, and the two cages began sliding slowly toward each other. As the Alpha's head and body drew closer, both began to react.
The severed sections of the neck and head convulsed from within. Torn nerves and muscles stretched like swarms of tiny snakes, slithering through the bars, desperate to reach their other half.
Despite the danger of this post-mortem reaction, the system didn't stop. The rails continued moving as everyone in the chamber held their breath—acolytes, priests, even knights trained by the Church.
Until they reached the point of no return. The fibers on both sides stretched to their limits… and touched.
The head opened its mouth like a newborn taking its first gasp of air, while every muscle in the body tensed. Each spasm made the bars of the cage groan under the strain.
In that instant of life—violent, unnatural—when the Alpha's chest lit up like a furnace blazing red-hot... Priest Salazar lowered his hand and, with the firmest voice he could muster:
"Now! Release the spike!"
At his command, one of his knights—sword already drawn—slashed the rope in front of him, releasing the secured chain.
The links screeched as they collided with the other chains anchored to the ceiling—
the very ones holding the spike, which dropped violently onto the Alpha's chest.
The corpse seized as the crimson sacred metal pierced skin, muscle, and heart like a nail driven into wood. The rest of the pillar followed, widening the wound and shaking the entire chamber as it stopped abruptly, just before hitting the ground.
Then the extraction process began. From the gaping wound in the Alpha's chest, a thick substance began to ooze slowly.
It was denser than blood, neither black nor purple like the rest of his fluids. It shimmered like living oil, like raw crude.
The essence of the Alpha—the concentrated substance in its core, the source of its incredible regeneration.
A substance that could only be extracted when activated, in moments of life... or death.
The process began the instant the essence fully covered one of the runes carved into the four faces of the pillar. Inscribed in Sanskrit, Akkadian... and other ancient tongues that not even Salazar could decipher— or replicate.
The substance descended slowly, pulled by gravity, soaking every engraving, filling each carved line with its pulsing glow—until the first drop reached the crimson tip of the pillar and fell.
Directly into the drain, positioned between the two pits of piranha solution.
From there, it was channeled into the central system, flowing through every sector of the chamber's massive machinery, triggering the four essential processes required to produce Crystallized Diesel.
1st: Distillation.
The essence entered segmented furnaces, where controlled heat separated its components by density and boiling point. The volatile rose. The dense sank.
2nd: Cracking and Reforming.
It passed through industrial centrifuges and pressure reactors, where the heavier molecular chains were broken down and rearranged into simpler, more stable, functional compounds.
3rd: Hydrotreatment.
Hydrogen was injected in the presence of catalysts to remove chemical impurities, stabilize the mixture, and normalize its reactivity.
Until it reached the 4th and final process: Blending and Finishing.
The pearlescent liquid—somewhere between purple and amber—formed from each dense drop of Essence, was channeled through carved grooves in the stone, rudimentary but effective.
It filled a series of shallow rectangular pools in a stepped sequence, each only a few centimeters deep, without spilling a single drop.
Priest Salazar approached them in silence. He closed his eyes, and for a few moments, prayed without uttering a word.
When he opened them, his pupils glowed faintly—but unmistakably. Without hesitation, he slit the palm of his hand and let his blood fall into each of the pools, one by one.
The reaction was immediate.
The liquid vibrated, tensed… and began to harden, until it fully crystallized. It retained its unpleasant, murky purple hue—but that was the true goal of the process. Purity wasn't the aim—it was unattainable. What they sought was a minimum threshold of functional balance.
The procedure was repeated with precision, until all seven pools carved into the floor were completely filled and crystallized.
Just like with the cell, whoever designed the chamber had accounted for the average volume of blood in a human body—and that crucial one-third that could be lost without risking consciousness. A biological limit, etched into stone.
After wrapping his wound with a bandage inscribed with psalms, Salazar knelt beside one of the pools and, using the hilt of his ceremonial dagger, struck a corner until a few small fragments of the crystallized diesel broke off.
He held them up to the light. The sample clearly showed the two layered colors, shifting like nacre: purple and amber.
After examining it carefully, Salazar reached into his robe and pulled out a small wrinkled piece of cloth—given to him hours earlier by old Bennet. A sample, he'd said, of what they would've done with the Alpha… if the Church hadn't bought him.
Inside the cloth, there was still a trace of crystallized diesel. Almost entirely amber, with only the faintest hint of purple.
Far purer than the one they had just created.
"How…?" thought Salazar.
Although creating Diesel-C didn't strictly require a user of the Faith, the result—without one—was always low-grade. The greater the balance in the blend, the more effective it became.
"Neither the master nor the student are practitioners. Not even true believers… bordering on heresy," he told himself. "Did they manage to refine one of the three prior processes?"
It was the most plausible explanation. And yet, it didn't quite add up.
Salazar stared at the amber shard as if it were an unspoken insult. He didn't move until one of his guards approached, concerned about his condition after the blood loss.
Without looking directly at him—perhaps to avoid seeing the pallor of his face—the guard spoke as he stepped behind him again:
"Priest… you need rest. We'll guard the chamber until the extraction process is complete."
Salazar frowned one last time, carefully wrapped the sample in the cloth, and rose to his feet.
"Very well," he replied, emotionless.
Before taking a single step, he raised his voice—fragile and tired—calling out to one of the acolytes.
"Take this…" he said, extending his hand. He dropped into the acolyte's palms the small fragments of freshly created Diesel-C. "Use the first allowance to feed the flame of the tower."
The acolyte swallowed hard. For a second, he stared at the fragments. Though they were few, he couldn't stop an intrusive—and dangerously hopeful—thought from slipping into his mind:
'How many sacros could I earn for a single splinter? Maybe even enough to avoid the pilgrimage.'
But then came Salazar's warning...
"If it's not rekindled in the next few minutes, I'll order my guard to hold you responsible."
And the subsequent turn of the Church knight's head, silently watching him from behind the cross-shaped visor of his helmet, was enough to erase any desire for death from the acolyte's thoughts.
The acolyte didn't merely run with quick, clumsy steps toward the long stairs to the top of the tower—he fled in terror, nearly tripping as he turned the corner. Salazar had just begun to leave, his robes trailing behind him, when the crunch of an armored boot on the catacomb gravel stopped him cold.
It was his second guard—the very one he had ordered to the Church vault before beginning the process—and now he carried the reason for Salazar's bitterness: a small, seven-faced coffer.
Salazar didn't let him approach. He raised his hand in a sharp gesture and gave the order, biting off each word as if spitting out bones:
"Take it to its new owner."
-
In the tavern where the new owner was…
The wooden floorboards creaked beneath the boots of miners and lumberjacks, who stomped in time with the simple yet lively music of the impromptu quartet—composed of a guitar, a worn-out violin, an accordion, and a carved flute— playing a festive tune that swept up even Crowley's soldiers.
Who were now dancing with the same village girls that, only moments earlier, had stormed into the tavern to complain about the noise.
Now, after a liquid apology courtesy of the house, they spun in the arms of calloused men or laughed while perched on soldiers' knees, as if they'd known this place their whole lives.
The air was thick with sweat, smoke, and the euphoria of those celebrating their well-deserved reprieve—or, more fleetingly and simply, those blowing off steam one last night before setting off on the long road to Constantinople.
Ashliath, though belonging to this latter group, was sat on his stool in the corner of the bar, entirely focused on the stew in front of him as if it were the only thing that mattered in the world.
Well… that, and the two exceedingly generous mounds spilling from the neckline right across from him. Each time Tessa leaned over the counter to ask, with that adorably shy and curious smile—not quite sure if she meant the meal or her own company—
"Do you like it?"
Ashe, mouth full, dragged his gaze upward out of sheer politeness and nodded silently, cheeks puffed like a hungry rodent.
That small, unexpected gesture—coming from someone so expressionless—sparked a smile on Tessa's face that lit her up.
At barely twenty, she had a calm, simple beauty, marked by chestnut hair that shimmered with subtle reddish highlights. It delicately framed her sweet, gently curved features, as if sculpted with the same tenderness her expressions carried.
Her large brown eyes, always lively and on the verge of laughter, radiated a joyful tenderness that put anyone at ease, regardless of gender.
As for her outfit, she dressed like most of the waitresses there: a white linen shirt under a dark dress, with a corset that shaped her figure and highlighted a neckline just noticeable enough to be seen, but not enough to seem indecent.
Subtle, provocative, but masked in innocence. Combined with her smile, it was an infallible lure to draw more Sacros from the customers.
Paying too much attention to one of them in particular, Tessa spoke while wiping down the bar. Her distracted movements made her neckline sway with each pass, forcing Ashe to squint to avoid looking.
"I saw the wounded, and Cael told me what happened…" she said, trying to sound calm. "Are you okay? You didn't get hurt, did you?"
Before Ashe could answer—having to swallow first in order to speak—a voice from the center of the bar cut in.
"Your father wouldn't like you calling him by name," said a thin man with sharp features and a receding hairline combed back, a half-smile on his lips as he took a sip of his almost-homemade brew.
He wore miner's clothes reinforced with leather patches, and all kinds of harnesses hung from his coveralls, strapped around his waist.
Tessa ignored both her uncle Oier and the drunk young man asking for another round just behind him, focusing instead on Ashe, who finally swallowed and replied:
"I'm fine…"
Knowing him—and wondering if that was all he was going to say—Tessa mentally prepared herself to chase the conversation. However, Ashe leaned back slightly on his stool.
Making room to tap the dented plates of his vest:
A piece that looked armored and aggressive, made of overlapping angular plates, with a small open space at the chest designed to absorb impact—as had been the case.
It was built to offer maximum protection without sacrificing mobility. Leather straps hung from the anchors between the layers, holding tactical pouches, cartridges, and even backup knives. At the upper edge, an extra rectangular plate had been welded on, jutting out slightly to shield the base of the neck.
As he tapped the dent, he added, "The sacred metal held."
His answer, far from reassuring anyone, had the opposite effect. Seeing the thickness of the armor up close, and knowing the value of the material it was made from, it was impossible not to imagine what kind of impact—monstrous, literally—could have bent it like that.
Their expressions faltered as the implications landed, before being masked with stiff smiles.
The drunk who'd been demanding another round for a while now stepped past Oier and faced Tessa from across the bar.
"Can you fill my fucking mug?! DAMN IT!"
His shout cut through the music, the laughter—even the rhythm of the footsteps. Everything froze for a moment, until Tessa simply twirled her finger in the air. The music resumed, and soon after, conversations picked back up like nothing had happened.
"Of course!" she replied, flashing a smile capable of calming any drunk, as she grabbed a bottle of dubious origin and poured it into a wooden mug reinforced with metal rings.
Ashe said nothing. He kept eating in silence while Oier trusted in the sweetness and experience of his "goddaughter" to defuse the tension.
The young drunk, receiving his drink and that kind smile, let out a long sigh—as if releasing everything he couldn't say.
When his mug was finally full, he started drinking like the bottom held the key to escaping himself.
Unlike the others, he didn't drink to celebrate—he drank to numb the fear and uncertainty gnawing at him from the inside.
Tomorrow, when the pilgrims' caravan passed through Urdyales on its way to Santiago, he would have to join it for the first time in his 27 years.
Even though some form of pilgrimage was mandatory for all citizens of the Regnum once they came of age—at 14—
There were several ways to avoid it, depending on the Kingdom.
On the peninsula, the first option—and the least used, since the cure was worse than the disease—was to enlist and serve on the southern front.
Few came back. And those who did returned as hollow shells of the people they once were, with a dullness in their eyes that came from having seen something worse than death or war.
The second was reserved for the jobs no one wanted—those most dangerous outside the safety of the refuge. If you managed to meet the Church's absurdly high quotas, you were considered a valuable cog in the Regnum's war machine, and they themselves granted you an exemption.
And the third—the most common: pay a "donation" to the Church. If the amount satisfied them, they sold you forgiveness.
His family had done just that. His parents—talented artisans—had managed, with great effort, to keep a workshop running and enough clients to buy a pardon for the family.
But when they died—of age and exhaustion—everything fell apart. He couldn't maintain the quality of their work, and with the fall of the workshop, his last chance to avoid the pilgrimage vanished too.
After downing the last drop of alcohol, the drunk slammed his empty mug against the bar, scowling at the sound of laughter from the extraction team celebrating the pardon they'd just secured.
It felt unfair to him. Why should he have to go on pilgrimage, and they didn't?
Even though he'd heard some of them had nearly died fighting an Alpha…
That was exactly why he drank—and planned to keep drinking: to escape a reality that felt suffocating.
"Another one!" he shouted, just as Tessa was putting the bottle away behind the bar.
She looked at his completely drunk face, then at the few bottles left on the shelf, and finally at the smiling, still-celebrating faces of the other patrons.
With the experience of someone who'd dealt with many like him, she chose to avoid a direct refusal, which would only escalate things.
"Of course, as many as you want…" Tessa said with a calm smile, even as she added, "But first, you should pay for the ones you've already had."
"You think I don't have money?!" he snapped, offended, drawing the attention of a few people nearby. Even Oier looked up—but not enough to stop the music again.
"Of course I believe you can pay," Tessa replied lightly. "But if you keep drinking and end up passed out, it'll be harder to collect later."
Her tone—half joking—paired with another relaxed, easygoing smile, made it hard for anyone, drunk or not, to find a reason to feel insulted.
But instead of paying what he owed, the young man—thinking Tessa hadn't been paying attention, busy as she was chatting with a ranger a few meters down the bar—lied without blinking:
"That last one was on one of the miners."
"That was three mugs ago," Tessa replied, not raising her voice, but wiping all sweetness from her face and tone in an instant.
This made one of Crowley's soldiers, seated at a nearby table, stand up behind the drunk and ask:
"Darling… want me to help? I can take out the trash."
The drunk clenched his jaw, not daring to confront the soldier who'd just insulted him. Even if, by luck or skill, he managed to knock the guy out—even in his drunken state—he knew damn well what the soldier's comrades would do to him afterward.
Seeing the look on his face, Tessa raised a hand.
"No need," she said, glancing at the burly soldier before turning back to the young drunk she knew—knew what he was going through—and added, "I'm sure Diego just needs 'one last drink' before heading off to sleep."
Holding his gaze, she asked, "Right?"
Diego, a bit thrown off, nodded. His expression softened just enough for the soldier to step back without pressing the issue.
Tessa brought the bottle out again and filled his mug halfway. It was a gesture of goodwill—enough to calm him, without wasting more alcohol than his body could take.
But Diego didn't see it that way.
"Fill it," he said, irritated, shaking the mug and splashing a few drops onto the bar, which only pissed him off more.
Tessa's patience snapped. "No, Diego. I'm not serving you another drop. I suggest you pay what you owe… or do it tomorrow when you wake up."
The mention of tomorrow lit something inside Diego. Fear flashed across his face again, and without thinking, he tried to snatch the bottle from Tessa, grabbing her wrist tightly.
At that exact moment, Cael—his father, and leader of the miners—was stepping out from the room behind the bar. He froze in place when he saw Diego gripping his daughter like that.
"Let go of me!" Tessa shouted, struggling to free her arm.
Oier and the soldier stood up immediately, ready to drag him out by force.
But before they could reach him, in Tessa's effort to break free, she accidentally knocked Diego's half-full mug with the bottle in her hand. It toppled off the bar and hit the floor—but not before spilling its contents all over its "owner," soaking him.
Wet, confused, and far too drunk to think straight, Diego reacted badly. Very badly.
With his free hand, he raised his arm toward Tessa's face, mumbling through gritted teeth:
"You little bit-"
He never finished the sentence.
His forearm was stopped cold. No warning. No shout. Just another hand clamping down on his with crushing force.
On the other side, a young man with ash-gray hair and a tattoo trailing from his right eye was chewing on a wooden spoon that stuck out of his mouth—more focused on tasting his food than on Diego.
"What the fu-?" Again, he didn't get to finish.
Ashe slowly tilted his head back and, without a word… after gaining just a bit of space… slammed his forehead brutally into Diego's face.
The impact echoed with a wet, dry crunch—Diego's nose breaking like rotten wood—followed by a howl of pain as he stumbled backward.
One of the waitresses screamed, dropping the tray she was carrying, startled by the spray of blood. Tessa stepped back, surprised, but didn't intervene...
As Ashe, not yet finished, pulled Diego's arm— keeping him from falling and yanking him back into range of her forehead. Only to ram into him again.
Another headbutt—this one more direct, and harder than the first. Diego could barely stay conscious, his legs giving out as he dropped to his knees.
Ashe still sticking from his mouth, with nothing more to say—having done enough—let go of Diego's arm and silently returned to his seat at the bar, resuming his meal.
-
A few seconds earlier…
"Thank you for coming with me," said Mary, walking alongside the two people who had left Urdyales' noble district with her.
"No need to thank us," replied Knight Red, his tone formal but relaxed. "It was pure chance we ran into you as you were leaving the church... Besides, two women shouldn't be walking alone at night."
"Maybe in less civilized places..." said Lena, glancing upward. "But here..."
From the central plateau where they walked, most of Urdyales could be seen stretched out inside the hollowed mountain. Around them, buildings of stone hung from the inner walls like stalactites. Some were so large they formed entire neighborhoods, with vegetation sprouting from the windows and climbing up the walls.
Illuminated by lights that seemed to float in the air, anchored and powered by the complex network of cables that crossed the mountain's void from all directions.
"I don't think we'll have any trouble," Lena concluded, admiring how far this refuge—likely founded by a handful of survivors—had come.
"After being locked up in London for months... I'm really curious to see other cities!" Mary said with excitement, not slowing down.
Lena, ignoring her without concern, turned to Red. "How is the Maester?"
"He's... fine," Red replied after a short pause. He was dressed simply yet elegantly, keeping his knightly status even without his Exo-armor.
"He chose to stay behind to repair the damage to his gear."
"Understandable," Lena nodded. "And preferable. Until the Inquisitor returns and deals with him, I want to avoid any more conflict."
Red watched her for a moment, recalling the earlier grenade incident. He thought of Ranger, who would soon be joining them, and couldn't help but ask:
"Do you think the Inquisitor will punish him once he finds out?"
"Why? He didn't do anything, did he?" Mary interrupted, surprised by the suggestion.
Red frowned slightly. He didn't like how quickly she jumped to Ranger's defense.
"Do you think it's acceptable to threaten a superior and fellow teammates with a grenade… even if it's fake?"
Lena held back a sigh, weighing her words. How much to reveal? At last, she spoke carefully:
"Given the Inquisitor's familiarity with his master, his rank, and the state of the Eastern Front... I don't think so."
Red responded with an awkward silence. He was one of those answering the desperate call for help from Constantinople, which was pleading for reinforcements from every kingdom in the Regnum.
Still, he asked, with a mix of skepticism and curiosity, "Even so, to be a level 4 officer so younh... what exactly has his master taught him?"
Lena, knowing only a small part of Bennet's long classified history, gave a faint smile and replied casually, "He was one of the creators of the Guardians."
"I see… so it makes sense that his student would have such a high rank," said Red—just another victim of Lena's light tone—until it sank in. "Wait—what?!"
Mary, walking a few steps ahead, suddenly stopped in her tracks. She had to ask Lena to believe it. "Are you serious?"
Lena didn't slow down.
"I'm not joking."
When they reached the corner, she turned back toward them. They were still stunned, caught in the thought of those famous constructs every child grew up admiring—machines that had, quite literally, saved humanity.
At least, until you grew older... and learned about the hundreds of disasters that had led to their production being shut down Becoming a contradictory figure in collective memory.
As revered as they were feared.
Having gone through the same realization when the Inquisitor told her about old Bennet, Lena said, "Let's go find Crowley and his men. With how loud they are, I doubt it'll be hard."
She hadn't even finished speaking when someone went flying out the door of a tavern, followed by a burst of cheering.
-
When they walked in, a second silence fell over the room. Especially among Crowley's soldiers, who took a moment to react when they saw Lena.
And when they finally did…
"Ow!"
"Hey!"
"You idiot!"
They jumped to their feet, shoving aside the women who had been sitting on their laps without a second thought. Some fell to the floor with a yelp; others were pushed away abruptly and without warning.
One after another, all the soldiers — including their commander, Crowley — snapped to attention and brought a hand to their chests, clumsily performing the Regnum cross salute.
"Ma'am!" they exclaimed, louder than usual, trying to hide the drunken slur in their voices.
The music stopped immediately. Miners, loggers, and waitresses fell silent, confused by the soldiers' reaction to the arrival of a woman with such a commanding presence.
She wore a dark blue uniform: a skirt tightly fitted around her trained thighs, black stockings, and a tailored jacket buttoned up to the collar. Several military insignias stood out on it — decorations, campaign ribbons, and golden aiguillettes on her right shoulder.
She acknowledged the salute with a slight nod before turning her gaze toward the young man eating alone in a corner of the bar. Just like Red.
Lena held her stare a few seconds longer than necessary, studying his face for any sign, anything that might reveal his opinion — or at least a reaction — to the earlier incident.
'Was he proud? Ashamed? Or maybe afraid of possible consequences?' Lena wondered.
But the face she saw as he brought a small wooden spoon to his mouth held no defiance, no mockery… only indifference.
As if he were looking at strangers for the first time.
And that was exactly what threw her off.
She wasn't sure if it was a subtle provocation… or just the way he was.
With a heavy sigh, Lena looked away and took a seat on one of the empty stools at the bar.
As she sat down, Tessa approached them with noticeable stiffness.
"W-what can I get you?" she asked nervously.
Red shook his head. "No alcohol," he replied, then glanced at the bowl in front of Ashe, which looked hot and appetizing. "But… I'll have whatever he's eating."
The person in question stared at him in silence for a moment. Then, without saying a word, he slowly moved his plate aside… and placed his arm in front of it, like a child guarding it.
"I don't want your damn food!" Red snapped, offended.
Tessa, clearly uncomfortable and visibly afraid of how they might react, stepped in with a quiet voice:
"I-I'm really sorry… but I'm afraid that's not possible."
"You don't have any more?" Red asked, frowning.
"Yes… but the dish Ashe is eating was made using his officer's ration, granted by the Church. It's prepared with quality ingredients. You'd get the same at the tavern in the noble district, but here, I'm afraid not."
Her explanation made several soldiers glance down at their own bowls with fresh eyes. The watery stew, barely containing any ingredients, was a stark contrast to the thick, fragrant one Ashe had been silently devouring.
Red looked at the bowl enviously again, almost justifying the ranger's childish reaction.
"And there's really none left of that stew he's eating?" he asked, not hiding the hope in his voice.
The question seemed to irritate Ashe, taking it for granted that he was going to share something made from his personal ration
But Tessa's response both relaxed and saddened him… though it did manage to draw a slight smile when he saw Red's annoyed reaction.
"I'm afraid not. The bowl he's eating now is the last one… He'd been refilling his bowl… until the pot was empty" said Tessa, lifting a large, empty clay pot from behind the bar. "Not a single drop left."
Hungry and out of patience, Lena used her rank, pointing at one of the nearby soldiers.
"Me?" the soldier asked, surprised.
"Yes. I want you to go to the noble district, speak to the innkeeper, and bring back our rations. Give them to the young barmaid."
The soldier blinked, confused, until Lena added firmly:
"What are you waiting for? Move!"
He reacted instantly and ran out the door.
Before turning back to the bar, Lena noticed Crowley watching her with one eyebrow raised. Meeting his gaze, she asked:
"Something to say?"
Crowley raised his mug with a lazy smile.
"Nope. As long as I'm not the one running."
Turning to Tessa, Lena added:
"You'll have more ingredients in a few minutes. That won't be a problem, will it?"
"N-no, Ma'am!" the young woman replied, almost snapping to attention like a soldier herself, clearly nervous under Lena's authority.
While they waited and the tavern slowly began to regain its usual rhythm, Mary leaned over the bar toward Ashe, wearing her sweetest smile.
"Can I have a little?" she asked sweetly, widening her large crystal-blue eyes and blinking with innocent theatrics, like a small animal begging for food.
The response was immediate.
"No," he replied, without even looking at her, turning slightly—along with his bowl—in the opposite direction.
Tessa couldn't help but smile, relieved—and even a little satisfied—seeing Ashe reject someone like Mary… whose slimmer, more refined figure often made her feel like a "rough barmaid" by comparison.
-
Cael, who had remained standing by the door behind the bar, was still stunned by everything that had happened: the near-attack on his daughter, the well-deserved retaliation against her assailant, his expulsion by the soldiers... and now, the unexpected arrival of high-ranking figures like Lena, Mary, and Red.
He let out a heavy sigh before stepping out from behind the bar and sitting down next to someone he considered a brother, even if they didn't share blood.
At a glance, the difference between them was clear: where one was slim, the other was burly; where one had sharp features, the other had a rounder face—the same roundness his daughter had inherited.
A few seconds after he sat down...
"What did the folks from Lasedo say?" Oier murmured under his breath, just loud enough not to be drowned out by the music and the rising murmur of conversation. As he pushed the mug he'd been holding for him toward Cael.
Cael frowned. Not liking what he'd heard, he took a bitter sip from it.
Even though any communication not controlled by the Church was forbidden, human need and ingenuity always found "alternative" paths.
The method varied from shelter to shelter, and from Kingdom to Kingdom. In Urdyales' case, after generations of failed attempts and quiet advances, they had managed to dig an underground channel just a few centimeters wide.
Through it, they laid a rudimentary but functional telegraph line that connected—via Morse code—with the nearest village: Lasedo, located more than eighty kilometers away.
With his father being the one who had finally finished the channel, and his family having used it in secret ever since, Cael shared what he had just received.
"Same as us… their extraction teams worked until the last light trying to meet the quota. Out of the 140 men and women who made up the lumber and mining crews, fewer than 80 came back."
"SH-it!" Oier burst out, having to hold himself back from raising his voice. "Where the hell were their rangers?"
"The master passed away... Apparently, he said it was inevitable. The number of corrupted creatures in the area was increasing."
"Shit..." Oier muttered again, stunned, then asked—prompted by his recent experience—"Did they get hit by multiple alphas?"
Cael shook his head heavily. "It didn't go that far…"
Without pausing, he added, "And the casualties they'd been accumulating since the start of the season slowly dragged down the refuge's economy. Took the artisans and other trades with them. Apparently, nearly half the settlement will have to do the pilgrimage to Santiago."
"That's going to kill the refuge…" Oier said grimly.
"It already is. Things are so bad that many enlisted at the southern front just to earn pardons for their parents. Elders who wouldn't survive thepilgrimage."
In the silence they shared, both couldn't help but think about the small gear that had tilted the fate of each refuge in different directions.
Oier, not looking at anyone in particular, murmured, "Makes you appreciate what you've got... doesn't it?"
Cael nodded slowly. They both raised their mugs and clinked them together softly—a quiet thank-you to the disciple sitting in a corner of the bar, and to the master who wasn't there.
Oier looked down at his drink. "I get that you're against it... and, she's like a daughter to me," he said cautiously, staring into the clear liquid that could just as well be used to clean machinery. "But maybe you should think about securing their connection to the town. After all, they don't even live in it…"
The two of them watched the young man, who, without showing any emotion, leaned down to help Tessa clean. He moved with that usual quiet of his—unsettling, yet he seemed... to enjoy it. The corners of his mouth were slightly raised.
"Yeah…" Cael conceded after a pause, watching his daughter, her full cheeks flushed as she joked with the ranger. "I might need to talk to her."
He took a dry sip. His voice, lower this time: "Even if I don't like the idea… she's old enough to marry. To start her own family."
The silence that followed was uncomfortable. Not because of what was said… but because, in a way, they were treating someone they loved like a bargaining chip.
Still, all those thoughts and hopes for the future vanished in an instant when one of the soldiers—the drunkest of the lot—stumbled his way to the corner of the bar.
With a forced familiarity that wasn't his to claim, he leaned on Ashe's shoulder, and with a sloppy grin, said:
"Kid—hic—come have a drink with us. To celebrate you joining us on our trip to Constantinople!" he blurted, turning to his companions for support. "Right, boys?"
The other soldiers, more sober and far more aware of how quickly the mood in the room had turned cold, responded with vague gestures and murmured replies… cautious.
It was Cael who stood up sharply, his calloused hands slamming the bar hard enough to make the wood groan with a crack.
He gave voice to what every member of the extraction crew—miners and loggers alike—feared most.
"Ashe… is that true?"
Brushing off the drunk soldier's hand, Ashe—who until then had kept quiet so as not to interrupt their celebration—slowly nodded and said:
"Yes."
"…"
"…"
"…"
An uncomfortable silence took hold of the room as everyone began to imagine what Ashe's absence would mean. It was broken when the soldier Lena had sent burst in with a triumphant air.
"I'm here!" he announced, carrying three cloth sacks that he dropped onto the bar with a dull thud.
Tessa, who had frozen after what she'd just heard, seized the moment to escape.
"I'm going to start cooking!" she said quickly, grabbing the sacks of ingredients and disappearing behind the kitchen door.
She did so trying to hide how her large, usually bright and expressive eyes were now visibly red.
A few seconds later, her father Cael followed her.
From her seat, Lena—who had remained silent, watching—didn't miss the tears welling in those eyes, nor the likely turmoil the young cook might be feeling.
Which prompted her to turn to Ashe and... warn him:
"Kid… if the food tastes bad, I'm holding you responsible."
Her expression was even more unsettling than when she had a weapon pointed at him.
It made Ashe swallow hard, visibly uncomfortable.
-
A few hours later...
After everyone had gradually left the tavern to rest...
In the quiet room, lit only by the faint golden glow of the flame burning atop the tower and filtering through the window, sleep came quickly for Lena. Her breathing was deep and calm, but in the bed on the other side of the room, Mary shifted restlessly under the blankets.
The same nightmare again, chasing her.
The images were always blurry, but the sounds were unmistakable: twisting metal, shattering glass, and screams—one of them her own—falling through the air before hitting the sea and beginning to drown.
Reliving the accident that had taken her memories. And now it made her clutch the sheets, soaking them with sweat.
Then, something changed.
Her entire body, tense and trembling, suddenly relaxed. And from her mouth, invisible to human or mortal eyes, something began to emerge—a liquid shadow.
Dark and thick, like ink suspended in water, it slowly flowed out of her mouth, forming at the side of her bed a nightmare silhouette:
A slender, serpentine figure with impossible limbs. Tentacles unfurled from what emerged as its face—a hollow void, featureless, save for a crown of eyes that slowly opened, each one pulsing like a sick heart.
It was neither flesh nor spirit… It was a fragment of something that shouldn't exist in this world.
Before vanishing completely from the room, the shadow paused for a moment, staring at the golden flame filtering through the window. Then, with a voice soft and wavering like firelight, it murmured:
"Hmm... even just one night away from that tiresome inquisitor… I wonder how much fun I can have before 'we' leave."
The words, spoken in perfect Regnum Latin, didn't wake anyone.
On the contrary, they seemed to slow the breathing of the two sleeping women, as if the dream had grown too deep… to wake from.
-
At the same time...
Someone who appeared to be sound asleep began to slowly sniff the air, until—like a predator catching the scent of its favorite prey—his eyes snapped open.
His pupils, dull and green just a second ago, began to change… mutate. They sharpened and contracted, then split and merged again.
The tattoo running across his right eye reacted, glowing with a subtle, almost unnatural light.
It responded to the mutation occurring in his eyes, though only his left eye completed the... process.
One remained human. The other, no longer.
But that was enough.
With precise movements, he sat up carefully, making sure not to wake the young woman sleeping naked beside him. The sheet barely covered her, revealing more than a glimpse of her generous chest, rising and falling with her calm breath.
The man silently pulled on his pants and opened the window.
"Ashe...? Is something wrong? Can't sleep?" Tessa murmured sleepily.
'Ashe' showed her only the right side of his face—the one with the green eye and the tattoo, which revealed nothing unusual.
Except for a faint glow... that made him, ironically, look more human.
"Yeah… I'm going to swing by Gethren's forge, see if my sword's ready,"he said calmly. Then added, with a hint of pleasure as he sniffed the night air again, "I think I'm going to need it."
Too drowsy to think much of it, Tessa wrapped the sheet tighter around her body to shield herself from the sudden draft and mumbled from beneath the covers:
"Alright… But don't be long. You need to rest for tomorrow and…" she added with playful intent, "I'd like to make the most of the time we've got."
"I will..." 'Ashe' smiled, as if her sweet words stirred old memories. Whispering softly, with a hint of sorrow, before vanishing from the room, "Askari…"
A few seconds later...
Still wrapped in the sheets, Tessa sat up suddenly, startled by the absurd thought that she'd just seen Ashe leap from the window of their hanging room to the roof of the hollow mountain—more than a hundred meters high.
She shook her head, her bare chest gently swaying with the motion. Figuring she must have dreamt it, Tessa let herself fall back into bed.