Author; "Sorry for the delay, but with the whole blackout situation across the peninsula, I've had a few issues.
For now, here's the first half of the chapter. I'll finish it and upload the full version tomorrow or the day after as a new chapter, so it shows up in your notifications.
As always, I hope you enjoy it—and feel free to leave a comment if you're liking the story; it really helps when it comes to writing more."
-
few moments earlier...
When the Alpha staggered out of the extraction room toward the catacombs...
After having been cut, sliced, and torn apart again and again.
"Ashe" did not move to stop him. He remained still, one arm raised toward the void, as if grasping the air.
But what his left eye perceived was different: his hand was passing through a tangle of ethereal tendrils falling from an astral shape that, despite its immaterial nature, was unable to escape his grasp.
"I thought your kind... and your patron... had lost their access to Earth," Ashe said in a dry voice. "Where is your true body?"
He asked the projection of the C'thuloid that had emerged from the Alpha's body after exhausting its energy.
Lacking vocal cords or a mouth to laugh with, the tendrils intertwined in the air, releasing a series of rhythmic clicking sounds that evoked a laugh:
"Hsksks... Baer'—" Before it could finish its... insult, the grip around its neck tightened, dangerously close to tearing its fragile, yet intangible, astral form.
Its reaction only delighted the C'thuloid further, who intertwined its tendrils even more, laughing again before continuing.
"Hsksks, do you think I would endanger my true self by revealing it to you?"
"..."
Faced with Ashe's silence, it continued.
"Since you like humans so much, that you dress as one. Do you really have time to waste on me? Who knows how many the distant son of Val'tha's blood will kill? Now that I think about it, humans do look quite a bit like the Serk—"
Before it could complete that name, the grip around its neck tightened again.
"No," Ashe replied, pulling the projection's pulpy face closer to sharply whisper, "But at least you... won't get to tell yourself who killed you tonight."
Alarmed, the C'thuloid's "smile" dissolved, and its five eyes opened wide.
"Wait—!"
It never finished.
With a sudden motion, Ashe closed his fist, tearing the astral strands as if they were rotted roots.
The C'thuloid's invisible form shuddered, breaking apart into pale ectoplasmic shreds that fell like a sickly rain.
The remnants, still faintly twitching, fell into the piranha solution pit at the center of the room.
As soon as they touched the surface, the solution bubbled violently, devouring the ectoplasm in a frenzied reaction of snapping, hissing vapors and an unbearable stench of burned meat and ozone.
Within seconds, not a trace remained.
Only the poisonous hiss of dissolution, and the echo of what once was.
Even Ashe had vanished...
Following the last desperate growls of the Alpha.
-
In the present... . After the Alpha's 'split'
Priest Salazar, accompanied by Red, who was helping Marcelus, the remaining knights, Crowley with his soldiers, and the villagers led by Cael and Oier, advanced toward the extraction chamber.
As soon as they crossed the threshold, a stifled murmur swept through the group.
"My God..."
They were unable to say anything more upon seeing the horror surrounding them: fresh blood and purplish chunks of flesh covered the walls and ceiling, dripping down like a macabre drizzle.
On the floor, among viscous puddles, claws and phalanges the size of human forearms were scattered, alongside severed fragments of the Alpha's limbs—some grotesquely repeated, as if they had been hacked off again and again after regenerating.
Parts of the once-elegant stained glass windows were shattered; the machinery lining the walls had been dented and twisted. Hundreds of ripped pipes spewed pressurized steam, which gathered under the vaulted ceiling before slowly descending and escaping through the catacombs.
"Are-are... those Carlos and Miguel?" a villager asked, pointing to the separated sections of two bodies, wrapped in tattered fragments of the Guard's uniform, causing the more sensitive ones to lose what was left of their dinner.
Without saying a word, Salazar stepped deeper into the room until he found what he was looking for: his knights, still alive, unconscious, and slumped against one of the walls.
As if someone had deliberately taken the time to place them there.
Salazar looked up, perplexed to see them intact despite the traces of the brutal battle. But when he noticed they weren't wearing their helmets, his face tensed.
Trying to cover up one of the Church's secrets, he hurried toward them as fast as he could before the others noticed.
As he got closer, Salazar's gaze hardened: next to the unconscious knights lay their helmets—shattered.
As if the same 'someone' had deliberately made sure they couldn't fulfill their true purpose: hiding their unsettling, childlike faces.
Just a few meters away, Salazar tore strips of fabric from his own robe and, with quick, tense movements, covered his knights' faces as best he could.
However, that sudden action drew the attention of most of those present.
Oier leaned toward Cael, whispering, his voice cracked with disbelief:
"Cael... the Church's knights look like ch-"
"Shut up!" Cael cut him off immediately, his voice barely a sharp whisper.
"But Cael—" Oier insisted, too stunned to think about anything else.
"I know..." He muttered, turning to him before adding in a low voice, "But look at Salazar."
Oier turned—and found the priest staring straight to them. Like a silent threat, ready to send them on a pilgrimage worse than Santiago's — one they wouldn't return from.
To the southern front.
One by one, Oier and the rest of the villagers who had seen the knights' faces lowered their eyes, swallowing their unease and pretending they had seen nothing.
While even the soldiers avoided his gaze, Crowley, Red, and Marcelus crossed the room.
Salazar assessed his knights and knelt beside the one who seemed least injured.
He leaned toward his ear and whispered something—a key buried deep in the young man's indoctrination. It forced him to awaken... or at least enough to let out a hoarse whisper:
"Scenario... six..."
His head slumped immediately, falling back into unconsciousness.
Crowley was the one who broke the silence. "What does that mean?"
Salazar straightened up sharply and, taking a few steps back, replied:
"It means we need to seal off this room until the Inquisitor arrives..."
Drawing a breath, urgency barely contained, he concluded:
"Immediately!"
His gaze swept over the walls covered in flesh and mist, dreading the being behind the Monoliths — the one necessary for Scenario Six.
-
The Following Morning
Hours after the first light of day had forced the corrupted creatures to flee back to their dark nests, the Inquisitor returned to examine the quarantined chamber.
Now, as the sun was about to reach its highest point...
"So, to recap: while everything was happening, my second-in-command, my representative in my absence—was... asleep?" asked the Inquisitor, not bothering to hide the sharp astonishment in his tone.
As if savoring the stunned silence of his professional aide, while he and his small group walked through the long tunnel leading out of the mountain's interior.
"I'm not sure how it happened," Lena replied with embarrassed honesty, walking at his side. "I didn't hear anything all night that would've woken me up."
"Well, now we know who shouldn't be doing night watches at the cam...ps," Red struggled to finish the sentence under Lena's withering glare.
"At least, do you know what happened, sir?" inquired Maester Marcelus, his knees still weak from bearing the weight of the Alpha.
The Inquisitor... having examined every dent in the machinery, every groove in the stone floor, every section of the Alpha... and having personally questioned all the survivors and witnesses.
After a long silence, considering what to say, he finally answered:
"I have a vague idea." As if there was nothing more to say on the matter, he placed a hand on the chin of his mask, before adding without changing his tone:
"You didn't hear anything either, Miss Mary?"
The sudden question caught the young woman off guard, and she mumbled, "No... same as Lena, I didn't hear a thing."
"And yet, after sleeping so deeply..." he replied, not shifting his gaze or changing the subject—like a hound on a scent. "...you don't seem well-rested."
"Huh?" She reached for the dark circles under her eyes. "Looks like it..." Mary tried to smile, but the expression faltered halfway.
"Hm... that's troubling," the Inquisitor concluded slowly, as if chewing over each word.
"There was no sign of the new recruit either... I imagine he was too busy saying goodbye to the busty barmaid," Red remarked, making no effort to hide the envy in his voice.
The heavy silence that followed, coupled with the Inquisitor's steady gaze—who was not known to appreciate vulgarity—forced him to mutter, "Sorry."
"Speaking of the scout... where is he and his master?" asked Maester Marcelus, trying to keep his bitterness... contained.
The Inquisitor drew a long breath before replying, his voice rough but steady.
"I've already heard what happened yesterday. I hope you're not thinking of starting another incident."
"No, my lord. But my orders are to follow and protect you—"
The Inquisitor cut him off, correcting him sharply.
"No, Maester. Your orders are what I give you. If I told you to return, then that is what you should have done—without question."
Marcelus stopped in his tracks and, wearing a grave expression, struck his chest firmly.
"I swear it won't happen again."
The Inquisitor gave a faint nod, without breaking stride. "I hope not. As for the scout—he was the one who, at Salazar's request, returned to his master's shelter and informed me of the situation. He stayed behind to prepare for travel."
As soon as he finished speaking, the group emerged from the tunnel, crossing the bright exit bathed in sunlight.
On the other side, a dozen Jeeps and military trucks bearing the insignias of the Brittano Kingdom flanked the entrance to Urdyales. Among them, an elegant APC stood out as particularly intimidating, marked with an inquisitorial cross engraved into its crimson armor.
Crowley barked orders with the roughness of someone who had slept little—and badly. He was coordinating the new soldiers sent from the coastal camp to pick them up.
The newcomers, as if unloading crates from the ship hadn't been enough, now grumbled and cursed while loading the supplies that Urdyales had "donated" to the Inquisitor's forces, who were preparing to depart.
But before they could leave—just like the nervous group of villagers who hadn't been granted pardon and were now gathered to one side of the entrance, surrounded by armed guards—they too had to wait for the arrival of the pilgrim convoy that traveled the peninsula every three months on its way to Santiago.
As agreed, it would bring with it the last reinforcements the Hispanic Crown could afford to spare: half a company of Penitent Knights.
All of them were veterans from the southern front, where corruption was devouring Andalusia and spreading across the rest of the peninsula.
"Commander... Any news of the procession?"
"Inquisitor," Crowley replied, standing at attention with a slight nod. "According to what I was told in the village, it usually arrives around noon."
Glancing up at the sky, where the sun was already nearing its highest point, the commander added:
"There's still about half an hour left, but I sent a couple of my men ahead on motorcycles to scout the pilgrimage route. They should be—"
The growing roar of engines, echoing off the forest's natural walls, cut him off. With a half-smile, Crowley corrected himself.
"Ah! There they are."
Taking a few steps away from the Inquisitor, he shouted toward the newcomers:
"Well then, you illiterate yokels—any sign of the convoy?"
The two soldiers, one riding in the motorcycle's sidecar, still pale, removed their helmets. The driver spoke first, without raising his voice much.
"Yes, boss... Hard to miss. It's a huge procession, about twelve kilometers east."
Crowley narrowed his eyes, noticing the tremble in the man's hands.
"And those faces? What's wrong with you two?"
Before either of the two soldiers could answer...
"You'll understand when you see it," said an aged voice emerging from the underbrush, accompanied by a sharp mechanical whistle... speaking for them.
Crowley, aware that if his disciple was a level-4 officer, then that voice could only belong to someone of equal or higher rank.
He straightened up as old Bennet appeared, landing in sync with Ashe beside him.
Braided cables snaked through the branches of the last row of trees, hissing as they quickly retracted into compact coils hanging from the back of their hips.
Each held one end of a rectangular metal chest, which they had carried swinging from tree to tree with the same coordination they showed as they landed.
"What do you mean, sir?" asked Crowley respectfully, though with a slight furrow in his brow.
Bennet didn't respond right away. He lifted the front guard of his helmet, revealing a face lined with wrinkles and scars. With an expression that blended disgust and sarcasm, he made a grimace—as if repeating his previous answer.
"Load your gear onto a truck, Ashliath."
With that curt order, old Bennet headed straight toward the Inquisitor and his group. The air grew tense the moment he offered his barbed greeting with the ease of someone who felt no shame.
"Good to see you, Maester. A shame you couldn't join us yesterday—though I heard my disciple took good care of you!"
The silence that followed was... heavy, to say the least.
Only broken by the grinding of Marcelus' teeth as he fought to stay in control, recalling his freshly made promise not to provoke another... incident.
The Inquisitor slowly lowered his head and brought a hand to the face of his mask, letting out a heavy sigh. Even the newly arrived soldiers, already filled in by their comrades, averted their eyes.
Ashe, adjusting the small pack he carried, simply shook his head—used to his master's shameless personality—while dragging the heavy chest of belongings behind him.
-
A few minutes later, a column of black smoke and dry dust began to rise on the horizon, tracing the winding path that snaked through the mountain valleys.
As it drew closer, the ground began to tremble—not violently, but with a steady, muffled vibration.
Before they saw them... they smelled a strong scent of blood creeping into their nostrils. Then they heard them.
First came the tide of footsteps and the roar of engines that made the earth shudder.
Then the crack of leather slicing through the air, followed by a wet, unsettling sound. And with it, cries of pain—echoed and multiplied by the thousands of pilgrims whipping themselves.
Until, through the column of smoke and dust... the procession emerged, slowly, along the path that led to Urdyales.
At the front marched hooded monks, cloaked in heavy robes with wide sleeves that concealed both their hands and faces. They moved in complete silence, swinging thuribles that swayed rhythmically with every step.
The incense was not just ritual—it was a mix of analgesics and sedatives, dispersed into the air as a small mercy for the pilgrims behind them.
The narcotic smoke curled into pale spirals, blending with the dust kicked up by their steps and the black soot spewing from the torches carried by the Church's acolytes.
Behind them came the faithful: men, women, and even children, their faces hidden beneath solemn white hoods—volunteers, all of them, who had joined the procession out of faith and their own free will.
They murmured prayers like mantras, helping themselves endure the pain of each self-inflicted lash across their backs.
Using leather whips reinforced with metal spurs—carefully forged. Each strike produced that wet, sickening sound of flesh tearing, as the metal gradually soaked in blood.
Every hundred or hundred and fifty pilgrims, a tanker truck crept forward, spraying a fine mist of antibiotics over the pilgrims' bloodied backs.
It wasn't an act of mercy—just a calculated measure by the Church to increase how many actually reached Santiago alive.
Behind the volunteers—under heavier guard—came the true bulk of the procession:
Those who had failed to earn forgiveness, and were "invited" to join by force.