Chapter 131: A Mission of Shadows
The sun hadn't risen yet, but Redhold was already awake.
The steel corridors echoed with heavy boots, low voices, and the distant rumble of engines being prepped. Axel stood by the armory entrance, silent as ever, strapping on his gear. His katana hung on his back, its handle worn with age and blood. A fresh pack of cigarettes sat in his jacket pocket, untouched—for now.
He was ready to go. Alone, like always.
But just as he stepped toward the exit, Michael blocked his path.
"No."
Axel raised an eyebrow but didn't say a word.
Michael folded his arms, voice sharp and cold. "The Ashen Circle aren't just ghosts in the dark, boy. They're organized, surgical. They know who you are—and they want you. You're not walking into this one solo."
Axel's jaw clenched. His knuckles flexed.
"They want you alive, Axel," Michael continued. "And if they can't have that… they'll kill you and burn the body so we never find it. I won't risk that. Not again."
Axel stared at his father for a long, tense moment.
Then—he nodded. Just once. Sharp. Wordless.
Michael didn't smile, but there was a flicker of relief in his eyes.
Within an hour, Redhold's war room came alive. Names were called. Files pulled. Weapons loaded.
Michael personally selected the best men in the facility—twenty soldiers, handpicked for brutality, skill, and loyalty. Not civilians. Not grunts. These were wolves.
They called them Unit Black-21.
And Axel was number twenty-one.
The man in charge.
Each soldier was armed to the teeth, dressed in matte-black combat gear, faces half-hidden behind visors and grim resolve. Some had fought side by side with Michael during the Fall. Others had seen monsters crawl out of fire and survive bullets to the brain.
But none of them had followed someone like Axel before.
He didn't speak much. Just gave short commands, clear signals, and moved like a ghost with blood in his eyes.
By nightfall, the convoy was ready—three armored trucks, one recon unit, and a lead vehicle for Axel.
The mission wasn't direct confrontation.
Not yet.
Michael had called it "a probe"—a recon and gather. Find traces of The Ashen Circle. Track their movements. Identify their supply routes. A ghost hunt, nothing more.
But as the engines roared to life and the convoy began its slow crawl into the deadlands beyond the Redhold walls, no one felt at ease.
Because the wind doesn't move with the will of man.
And the Ashen Circle didn't play by rules.
They rewrote them.
---
The roads had long disappeared.
What remained now was cracked earth, half-sunken bones, and the distant silhouettes of cities that had died long ago—only their rusted skeletons still standing. This was the edge of the known world. The Deadlands.
The convoy rolled slow, methodical. Dust curled into the sky like ghosts whispering curses. Silence wasn't a suggestion out here—it was survival.
Inside the lead vehicle, Axel sat beside the driver, his katana leaning against the seat, one hand resting on the hilt. His other held a cigarette that burned low and steady, the smoke curling upward as he stared out the windshield.
Twenty men followed him.
But Axel felt alone.
He always did.
---
"Movement up ahead," the voice crackled through the radio from the recon vehicle.
Axel tapped the radio once. "Eyes only. Do not engage."
The voice confirmed, and they slowed to a crawl.
In the distance, a building stood. What used to be a church—its cross long shattered, replaced by something… grotesque. Twisted steel, burned symbols, and what looked like a ribcage made of bones nailed to the doors.
"Stop," Axel said.
The convoy came to a halt.
He stepped out. The wind slapped his coat back as he looked around. No birds. No insects. Just stillness and the eerie creak of that bone-laced door swaying slightly in the breeze.
The rest of Unit Black-21 moved out, forming a perimeter. Guns drawn. Eyes sharp.
"Check the area. I want a clean sweep. No errors," Axel ordered, his voice low but iron.
They fanned out—pairs of two, silent as ghosts.
Axel approached the church alone.
The closer he got, the worse it felt. There was something wrong with this place. Not just death—ritual. The kind that left behind stains not even fire could cleanse.
He kicked the door in.
It groaned open with a long, angry moan.
The smell hit first.
Rot. Burnt hair. Copper. And something else—something sour and ancient.
Inside were the bodies of the original recon team Michael had sent days ago. Hanging upside down from hooks on the ceiling. Their mouths sewn shut with barbed wire. Their eyes removed. Symbols carved into their flesh, deep and precise.
Axel didn't flinch. He walked among them slowly, reading every cut, every angle.
They were sending a message.
He heard footsteps behind him.
It was Sergeant Vance—one of Michael's most trusted men. Hard. Loyal. Ruthless.
"They did this to soldiers," Vance muttered, barely hiding his disgust.
"They did it to Michael's soldiers," Axel corrected. "This is a challenge."
Vance nodded. "We found a tunnel beneath the back of the church. Leads underground."
"Of course it does"
Axel moved to the back and saw it—a steel hatch, halfway open, stairs leading down into darkness.
He drew his katana.
"You stay here," he told Vance. "Cover the outside. If anything comes out after me—kill it."
"You sure you wanna go alone?"
"I'm not asking permission."
And he descended.
---
The air below was colder. Thick. Not the cold of winter, but the kind of chill that crept into your bones and whispered that something old was watching.
The tunnel stretched on, lined with dead candles and blood smears. Writing covered the walls—mad, repetitive. The same word over and over in black:
"OFFERING."
He walked for what felt like forever.
Then the tunnel widened into a chamber.
And inside were them.
Not people.
Not walkers.
Something in between.
Figures in red robes, their faces hidden by masks made of animal skulls and stitched leather. Silent. Standing around a giant stone slab with chains and blood pooled beneath it. Atop it lay a body—fresh, still twitching.
They didn't speak.
They turned—all at once.
Axel lifted his katana.
No words.
No threats.
Just steel.
The first figure moved fast, faster than a normal man. A dagger came slicing toward his throat—but Axel twisted, caught the wrist, and snapped it like a twig before driving his blade through the robed figure's gut.
Chaos erupted.
They attacked as one. Like a swarm. Knives, chains, claws.
Axel didn't retreat.
He became death.
His katana sang through the air, cutting limbs and splitting bone. Blood painted the walls. Masked cultists screamed and fell. One leapt onto his back—he reached back, grabbed its mask, and slammed its head into the wall until it cracked like an egg.
They kept coming.
He didn't stop.
Minutes felt like hours.
When it was over, he stood among a pile of corpses. Breathing hard. Blood dripping from his chin. His coat shredded. His body bruised.
The body on the altar was dead now.
He approached it, staring down. A message was carved into its chest:
"You should not have come, Son of death."
His eyes narrowed.
Then he saw it—something glinting near the corpse's hand.
A small black cube. Tech. Old-world.
He grabbed it.
---
He emerged from the tunnel caked in blood.
The sun was setting—painting the Deadlands in hues of crimson and gold.
Vance saw him first. "Jesus Christ…"
"Everyone back in the trucks," Axel barked. "We're done here."
"But we didn't gather intel—"
"I found it," he growled, holding up the black cube.
Vance didn't argue.
---
The convoy turned back.
The wind howled louder now.
As if warning them: You've been seen.
As they drove, Axel lit a cigarette with shaking fingers. Not from fear.
From fury.
The Ashen Circle hadn't just made a move.
They'd declared war.
And Axel?
He was done playing defense.
---
.
.
.
You can contact me through my official page on the following Accounts:
telegram:
miraclenarrator
tiktok:
miracle_narrator
instagram:
miracle_narrator