The road to the central structure had no gates. No walls.
Just silence.
The building loomed—not tall, but heavy, as though its weight bore down on the city itself. Unlike the rest of Chernobog, it hadn't collapsed. Its frame was intact. Its roof unmarred. Even the windows, thick with grime, remained untouched. It shouldn't have survived the chaos.
And yet, here it stood.
A shrine to something long buried.
Fang stood still, barely a step from the cracked threshold. His foot hovered over the first stair. He hadn't moved since they'd arrived.
"Why have you stopped?" Kal'tsit's voice buzzed through the drone above, calm but clipped. "The Doctor's signature is within."
Fang didn't answer.
Kharon's pole-spears clinked softly as he slung them across his back.
"…We aren't alone," he murmured.
Then—
Clap. Clap. Clap.
The sound echoed across the broken stones.
A slow, deliberate applause—mocking and theatrical—rang out as a man emerged from the shadows beyond the building.
He was dressed well. Too well. Tailored coat, polished boots, gloves that had never seen blood. A gleaming badge—the thorned sigil of Black Roots—gleamed on his collar. His steps were precise. His smile, shallow.
"Well played," the man drawled. "That last exchange… beautiful, really. The choreography, the restraint… and those things—" he wrinkled his nose, "—even my men had trouble with them."
He said things like a slur. Like the word itself tasted rotten.
Kharon said nothing.
Burngear's eye twitched.
Fang, unbothered, bowed his head slightly.
"…Thank you. What brings the Black Roots to this place?"
The executive placed a hand to his chest, mockingly humble. "Oh, nothing so sinister, I assure you. We came to retrieve someone. One of ours. A wayward asset."
He gestured casually toward the corpses littering the temple's front.
"But as you can see… well. I am quite alone now."
Fang nodded once.
"I see. Then I will pray—for those who've passed, and for your continued safety."
The executive chuckled, sauntering forward a few steps. The way he moved lacked tension. Like someone who knew he was too valuable to die.
Burngear watched him without blinking, his fists slowly tightening.
Then—without warning—
The executive lunged.
A silver blade, thin and gleaming, arced toward Fang's throat.
It stopped.
Not by force. Not by speed.
But because Fang caught it—two fingers pinching the steel just inches from his neck. He hadn't even looked up.
"…Is there a problem?" he asked, voice as calm as the sea before a storm.
The executive smiled. A real one this time. Small. Chilling.
"Not at all. I simply had to try," he said smoothly, "and remove one of the great leader's most troublesome variables. You understand, don't you?"
He withdrew the blade with a flick and stepped back as if nothing had happened. A polite wave followed.
"I'll be taking my leave. Please take care of our dear friend, we'll come to retrieve him once we can~"
And with that, he turned and walked away—unbothered, his footsteps echoing long after his figure disappeared behind a veil of dust.
Fang remained still.
The dust hadn't even settled before Burngear's voice cut through it.
"You're seriously just gonna let that pompous bastard walk away after trying to stab you?" he snapped, his shoulders rising as faint pressure valves hissed along his spine. His dual-colored eyes burned red now, matching the coals behind his teeth. "That guy could've taken your head off, old man!"
Fang didn't turn.
He simply laughed—soft, mirthless.
"We must not fault those," he said as he stepped toward the door, "who try to fulfill a wish for someone they believe in."
Burngear blinked, momentarily stalled by the weight of those words, his rage cracking beneath the quiet as his eyes shifted back to blue.
"…I still think it's stupid," he muttered, following after him.
Kharon said nothing as the doors opened.
Inside, the stench of iron and soot lingered like something burned long ago and was never properly buried. The temple's interior was wide—high ceilings, jagged arches, but no windows. Symbols of Father Ruin had been painted on the walls in a sickly mix of ash and dark crimson. The lines were uneven, as if scrawled in haste, desperation, or worship.
Dozens of bodies lay still across the floor. Some were armored. Others wore robes. A few still held their weapons—but none moved.
"...None of these were shot," Kharon murmured. "Look at the burns."
Fang stepped lightly over the remains, his gaze flicking to the scorch marks that marred the stone, spiraling outward like ritual flame patterns. They weren't chaotic.
They were intentional.
His expression darkened, but he said nothing.
Further inside, they reached a chamber lined with old Rhodes Island medical gear—repurposed, rewired, half-melted in places. And at the far end of the room—
A cryo-pod, old and locked behind a thick reinforced barrier, sat bathed in sterile blue light.
"Figures," Burngear grunted. "We come all this way and the bastard's sealed behind a glorified fridge."
He slammed his hand onto the console, sparks flaring as his fingers slid into the interface. The machine groaned under the force of his override, the lock lights cycling—red, orange—
"Come on…"
Click.
The panel hissed open.
Kal'tsit's drone hovered into the room, casting long shadows as it scanned the cryo-unit from above.
"There," she whispered through the feed, her voice barely audible. "He's there."
Fang stepped forward, incense rods clasped tightly in both hands. He began to whisper softly—not a spell, not an order—a prayer, murmured in his native tongue.
Kharon moved beside him, placing both hands on the cryo-latch.
He looked to Fang once.
Fang nodded, without opening his eyes.
The chamber creaked as the pod opened with a long, aching hiss. Cold mist billowed out like breath held too long.
Inside—curled beneath tubes and frost—was the Doctor.
Still. Pale. Asleep.
The faint flicker of vitals blinked across the internal monitor.
Kal'tsit's drone slowly floated lower, casting light on his face.
Fang opened one eye, gaze unreadable.
Kharon exhaled. Burngear scowled—but stayed silent.
Fang reached forward, pressing a hand over his own heart as he finished his prayer. The incense rods tapped lightly together once more.
"Fate never forgets," he murmured.
"Even when the world tries to."