Location: A Decommissioned Church Beneath Digbeth | Time: Just Before Dawn
The fog hadn't lifted from Birmingham that morning. It pressed low against the streets like a second skin, muffling sound, swallowing breath. It wasn't natural. Nothing today would be.
Tommy Shelby stood on the roof of a derelict train station, hands in his coat pockets, cigarette between his lips. Beside him: Arthur, Finn, Curly, and three of the Blinders' most trusted men, all dressed for war.
Below them, across the street, stood their target.
An old Anglican church, condemned after the war. Rumors said the floor had collapsed into a labyrinth of cellars, tunnels, even plague pits. Lately, it had been swarming with police—but not the regular sort. These men didn't drink in the pubs. They didn't talk to locals. And they never left together.
Inside that church: Chester Campbell, fortified like a general.
And Thaddeus Vale, the hunter beneath the skin of a priest.
Tommy exhaled smoke and glanced at the man beside him.
James stood in silence, clad in black. A Kevlar-lined coat, boots with blades hidden in the soles, the spirit-forged knifesheathed in a holster over his heart. His eyes weren't glowing—but they weren't just human anymore, either.
"You sure you want to go in alone?" Tommy asked.
James didn't look at him. "You handle Campbell. Keep your men out of the basement. What's down there... isn't for them."
Arthur snorted. "What's down there, then? Devils?"
James turned. Just smiled—small, sad.
"No. One devil."
—
At 5:03 a.m., the Peaky Blinders moved.
Explosives rigged the side entrance.
The east wall of the church blew inward, sending stone and stained glass flying into the morning air. Tommy led the charge, shotgun in hand. Arthur followed, roaring like a mad dog. Police scrambled from pews and back rooms—caught halfway through prayer and patrol.
Within sixty seconds, the sanctuary became a battlefield.
Tommy and his men moved like clockwork. Silent kills. Precision. Retribution.
They weren't saints. They weren't heroes.
But today, they were justice.
—
While the war raged above, James moved below.
He stepped into the sacristy and pulled open a trapdoor that hadn't been touched since the 17th century. Rotting stairs led into the earth, each step colder than the last.
As he descended, the air changed.
It didn't smell like dust or blood.
It smelled like memory.
At the bottom, torches lined a long hallway of stone—walls carved with spiraling symbols that pulsed faintly. Latin. Hebrew. Romani. Things older than language.
James walked calmly.
And at the end of the tunnel, in a chamber lit by candlelight and soul fire, stood Thaddeus Vale.
He wore ceremonial robes now—white on black. His arms bore burning runes, his face painted with ash.
Behind him, bound in rings of glowing iron, hovered a circle of seven souls—suspended mid-scream.
Vanya was among them
.
"Welcome," Vale said. "I was beginning to think you'd run."
James stepped into the circle. His voice was calm. "I don't run. I hunt."
He drew the blade.
Vale smiled and raised his hands.
And the veil tore open.
—
What followed was not a duel. It was a rupture.
Time folded.
The walls of the chamber bent outward, becoming sky, becoming fire, becoming a realm between.
The two men fought as shadows and flames, as thought and memory, as willpower given form.
Vale summoned chains of sin—binding spells drawn from stolen scripture. James cut through them with focus, the spirit-forged blade humming with a rhythm only he could hear.
The air screamed. Spirits wailed.
Vale struck with lightning pulled from cursed graves. James answered with conviction, his mark glowing like a second sun on his chest.
At one point, Vale forced James to his knees.
"You're still human," he hissed. "Still fragile."
James looked up.
And smiled.
"I brought friends."
—
Above, in the burning sanctuary, Tommy found Campbell trying to flee through the bell tower.
No speeches.
No drama.
Tommy shot him through the leg.
Then Arthur dragged him down the stairs—to James.
They threw him into the sanctum mid-duel, just as Vale summoned a second wave of flame.
Campbell landed at James's feet, coughing blood.
He looked up, dazed.
"What—what are you—?"
James didn't answer.
He sliced Vale across the chest with a downward arc that cracked the air.
The runes on Vale's body flared—and shattered.
The spirits behind him screamed once—then vanished in a breath of ash.
Vale staggered.
"No—no, you don't understand—if they go, so do I—"
James leaned in, blade hovering at Vale's heart.
"I know."
He drove it home.
Light exploded.
The spirit realm imploded.
Vale's body crumpled—aging a hundred years in a heartbeat, until he was dust.
James stood over him, breathing heavy, hands shaking.
Polly was right.
This power came with a cost.
But vengeance had been paid.
—
He turned to Campbell, who was trying to crawl away, gasping like a wounded rat.
"Please…" he rasped. "I did what I thought was right—"
James knelt beside him.
"You set fire to peace and called it order."
He took Vanya's ashes from his coat. Poured them over Campbell's chest.
Then stood.
Tommy was watching from the doorway. Arthur beside him, bleeding but smiling.
"You done?" Tommy asked.
James nodded.
"Then let's get out of this hole."
—
As the sun rose over Birmingham, the church burned behind them.
James didn't look back.
Because some things were better left in the fire.