⚠️ Warning: The following chapter may contain highly graphic descriptions and depictions that could verge on gore. Please remember that everything narrated in this chapter, as well as the upcoming ones, is pure fiction. Sensitive topics—such as religion or branches of existentialism—are treated solely as narrative elements within this work. Reader discretion is advised.
🫠 Author's Note: I have to admit, I laughed a lot while writing this chapter. I had so much fun you wouldn't believe it; honestly, there were moments when I had to stop because I just couldn't stop laughing. Oh my God, how I love Adelaida's character.
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We are thousands of miles away from our protagonists; Nuriel and Adelaida are already aboard the fishing boat, yet something doesn't seem to add up. While they cling to the routine of the voyage, in a remote and frozen land an unfolding scene defies all logic.
From a distance, its shape could be clearly distinguished, and only from that vantage point could one grasp the true nature of the elevation: what at first seemed like a simple hill was, in truth, a peculiar mountain.
Rocky and crowned with snow, its summit revealed an opening that was no ordinary cave.
The entrance seemed to draw you in with an unsettling sensation; you couldn't tell whether you were stepping into a cave or descending into Hades itself.
The walls, perfectly straight, gave the impression that someone had scorched the stone from within.
No one could explain it any other way.
As we stepped deeper into this structure, there was nothing but darkness reflected back, accompanied by the sounds of people crying out for help—pleading to God, Allah, Buddha, Brahma, Anu, and other gods in long-dead tongues, begging for release from their torment.
Twelve Chinese soldiers hung there, suspended by chains. Their hands trembled, and their breathing came in ragged threads; their shoulders were slowly beginning to dislocate.
Some had been there for weeks, no longer aware of what they felt; others, who had only arrived days ago, screamed for someone to find them. Yet the man who walked among them warned them in their own tongue:
"I'm tired of listening to you. I like to do my work in silence and the ones in the cells don't help. If you keep screaming," he said calmly, "I'll use you as a remnant. I don't know which is worse."
"I could use you as a remnant; even if you're nothing more than treated blood, you'd still be alive… or I could leave you there, suffering the pain of those chains. If you're smart, stop screaming."
The soldier did not stop screaming; his movements were wild, a futile attempt to break free. The man pushed him along the channel that guided the chains into an open chamber, devoid of a door. In its half-light, an abomination awaited him, motionless and patient.
The creature was formed from an amalgam of souls and fused bodies, as if someone had forcibly stitched together the flesh and bones of countless condemned. From its depths oozed a dark liquid—the remnant of an immortal's blood—seeping through the cracks of that living mass.
The soldier screamed at the sight of it. It had four mouths gaping in different directions, eyes scattered without any order, and five main limbs that could hardly be called arms: exposed bones and rotting flesh intertwined in a grotesque shape.
Its movements were violent, and even along its skin, teeth protruded, as if the beast needed to bite beyond the confines of its mouth.
The experience was identical to being eaten alive. The chain lowered slowly until only his head remained.
"There's an echo in this place; if you keep screaming, I'll send you to Khalzum. I don't want to fetch more soldiers these days; eleven is enough for me."
The soldier's blood ran into Khalzum's orifices, down a metal channel, and was collected in a container.
But there was something strange: the man seemed to be dead, yet the container moved; the blood shifted and whispered screams, though the digested being could not utter anything coherent.
The man himself was peculiar; he recorded the blood type and the abilities of each soldier.
He bore a tattoo on his forehead—an oval marked with strange symbols; his long hair was tied back, his beard thick, and his appearance that of a man from centuries past.
He wore ancient garments and had tattoos on the palms of his hands. His name had been lost to time, but the demons called him Frollam.
He stood at the center of the cave. His staff moved with a life of its own, reflecting every calculation that crossed his mind. It was strange: this thing shifted its shape; it was a three-headed serpent slithering across the man's worktable.
From the shadows rose the demonic voices of the cave, filled with echo and menace:
"Frollam… are you sure? Aren't you rushing into this?"
"Rushing?" he replied coldly. "Didn't you once defy God? All it takes is gathering armies; even the divine thrones can fall."
The Chinese soldier could barely breathe. Every word from Frollam cut into him like an invisible blade. He looked around: deformed silhouettes trapped in cages. They did not move, but their eyes reflected absolute horror.
He suddenly understood that every shadow, every muffled groan, was a testament to Frollam's indifference.
"We did not find Xiaoxui," the demons whispered. "If you don't locate her, everything you've done in these two thousand years will have been in vain; we will delay the plan… perhaps for centuries."
"If you understand the threads that compose a spirit," Frollam said calmly, "every thought, every impulse… all of it can be manipulated. After a thousand years of observation, I know the exact structure of many spirits; with that knowledge, we can challenge the angels."
"If this goes well, it will be the first step toward war: the second cosmic war. Also, we've already captured a cherub and a low-ranking seraph."
"You know that, if we lose, we'll receive a punishment worse than the abyss, right?" the demons whispered. "The first rebellion had a cause; this could push your race to the brink of extermination."
"If God hasn't responded yet about the two captured angels, maybe it's because He doesn't control everything," Frollam replied. "If that's true, we'll see what happens."
The Chinese soldier shuddered at the sight of the three-headed serpent Frollam had turned into a four-pronged staff. The creature seemed to mirror his mind: ruthless, calculating, superior.
Every movement Frollam made was precise; every word, a cold command. To him, human lives held no value.
"Listen closely," Frollam said, fixing the soldier with a look that could chill the blood. "You will be the first. If you survive, I may set you apart from the others."
From the shadows, the demons murmured, questioned, suggested, but Frollam ignored them with the same indifference he showed toward the soldier.
For an instant, the soldier saw flickering lights: twisted figures. He realized they might have once been people. But these people were not whole. Because this is what happens when the spirit is altered. When the spirit is altered, the flesh suffers as well.
As a consequence of the countless blood exchanges carried out through prisoners, one could see how these spawn—these abominations—rubbed themselves against each other.
Some with entrails, others with excrement, others with blood, but none remained untouched. It was like cramming a hundred people into a windowless room, forced to breathe the same rotten air of their own damnation.
The moans blended with a constant murmur, a broken language that belonged to no human being. Each creature begged for death, but none could reach it. The immortality forced upon them was worse than any divine punishment.
Frollam watched in silence, his eyes half-closed, as if all of it were nothing more than a well-executed calculation. He showed no disgust, no compassion, not even pride—only a glacial calm, the kind born of someone who had perfected his craft over centuries.
"If I succeed," Frollam concluded, "you will not end up with the monstrosities."
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In another part of the world, far from the stench of the cave and the echo of those abominations, time moved forward under the same date. It was June 12, 1946.
In the ship's infirmary, Dr. Steven MacAllister observed Adelaida with a grave expression. While all that was happening elsewhere, she struggled not to scream, biting down on a handkerchief between her teeth. After twenty days of travel, they had finally managed to reach the ship.
In the infirmary, the doctor thought:
I cannot fully explain it. With the resources they had, the logical outcome would have been unchecked gangrene spreading from March until today. And yet, the infection remained contained, as if someone had known exactly what to clean and how to do it. It is a miracle the leg is still there.
The radius fracture has consolidated acceptably, though clumsily. And those eight bite wounds… in any other case, it would have ended in amputation—or a funeral. This girl has resilience beyond the ordinary.
She will not lose the leg, though she will limp for the rest of her life.
Frankly, I cannot decide whether I should congratulate the young man who cared for her… or ask him where he learned those field maneuvers.
Adelaida bit down on the handkerchief until she felt her teeth shift. Her gums burned, as if they might bleed from clenching so hard. The rocking of the ship made her dizzy, her head spun, but the pain in her leg was so sharp she could not forget it for even a second.
Before… before, I always cried. When Nuriel opened my leg, I cried like a child. I moved, I made him make mistakes, I made him nervous. I couldn't endure it. I couldn't. My teeth loosened from biting down so much… I always thought I was going to lose them.
The cold metal of the stretcher dug into her fingers. She trembled, but she didn't want to let go.
Not now. I won't move now. Even if it burns inside me, even if my leg throbs as if it's about to burst, even if I bite myself from within. I won't cry. I won't give them the satisfaction. The pain is mine. It belongs to me. Let it tear me apart if it wants… I'm still here.
The anesthesia clouded her thoughts, but not enough. Between one wave of dizziness and the next, she repeated those phrases to herself like a twisted prayer, an anchor to keep from screaming.
After four hours of cleaning, removing dead tissue, and suturing, the doctor stepped out with an exhausted but steady expression. Standing before Kamei-san at the door of the medical cabin, he said:
"We're heading to Newfoundland. Listen, Kamei-san… I'm surprised this girl survived a bear attack. And what impresses me the most: she might walk again. She'll have a limp for almost the rest of her life, but she won't lose the leg."
"I don't understand how they managed to treat her with so little at hand. My assistants and I have been working for hours without rest; the ship's movement doesn't make it easier… but Adelaida is going to be fine. She's stronger than she looks."
Kamei-san clasped his hand in silent gratitude, like someone recognizing a miracle without daring to name it.
Meanwhile, Nuriel slipped toward the ship's infirmary. The smell of improvised disinfectant and iron in the air hit him as soon as he entered. He approached quietly, until the voice of an assistant stopped him in his tracks:
"Don't interrupt her," she warned in a low voice. "She's under the effects of the anesthesia, half-asleep. Believe it or not, the pain was unbearable… we saw her bite down on the cloth so hard I thought she would tear it apart."
"But don't worry: her leg is better than expected. It's incredible she survived a polar bear."
"I'm not leaving," Nuriel replied softly. "I have to be here when she wakes up."
The assistant sighed.
"Alright. But don't make a sound."
Nuriel sat quietly beside her, his eyes fixed on her sleeping face.
When Kamei-san saw that Nuriel had gone into Adelaida's cabin, he chose to respect the moment and stepped away to speak with the captain. Lieutenant Luis remarked:
"I can't believe it. How did those two children survive in northern Greenland, right in the middle of winter?"
"They're strong," Kamei-san replied. "In fact, 'strong' doesn't even begin to describe it. They're exceptional survivors."
Luis nodded wearily.
"We'll reach Newfoundland by the end of July if the tide favors us. Otherwise, maybe in August. I've seen Adelaida's leg. The right one looks flayed down to the bone. I thought it would be easier…"
Kamei-san thought to himself: Even I don't know how to regenerate it. Saints can heal muscles, but it might take decades—or centuries—for it to return to normal. He forced himself to stay calm.
Luis broke the silence.
"What do we do with the man in the back?"
Galton was tied up, his body marked with scars that looked like burns. The doctor insisted he was healthy.
"Right now, I don't care," Kamei-san replied. "My priority is those children."
While Kamei-san continued talking with the captain about routes and supplies, Nuriel never left Adelaida's side. He spent the afternoon watching over her, attentive to every movement, and at night he fell asleep in a chair, his head resting on the bed.
At dawn, Adelaida opened her eyes with difficulty. Her gaze was glassy, her body still heavy from the anesthesia.
"Where am I?… The ceiling… the ceiling looks like a weird soup… and your face, Nuriel… your face is a giant lemon."
Nuriel raised his eyebrows and couldn't help but laugh quietly.
"Shhh… easy. You're still under the effects of the anesthesia."
She barely turned her head and murmured:
"I don't want to be alone… I don't want you to leave me. I want to eat meat… lots of meat… are you meat?"
Nuriel pressed his lips together to keep from bursting into laughter.
"You're delirious."
At that moment, Kamei-san entered.
"Well, it looks like she's finally awake. Nuriel, don't bother her."
Adelaida stared at him with half-closed eyes.
"Ohhh… there you are… the man with the braids… You know what, Kamei-san? You're like… like… a very handsome tree… or a god with boots."
Kamei-san blinked, bewildered.
"What are you saying?"
"I was by the campfire… you were there… were you holding my hand? Or was it your lips? Mmm… very pretty lips… you're prettier than a lemon…"
The saint sighed, shaking his head.
"You're dizzy. Better get some rest. Stay with her, Nuriel."
As he left, Adelaida murmured toward the door:
"Goodbye, beautiful tree…"
Nuriel put his hand over his face and ended up laughing to himself, muttering:
When I met Élodie, I was in love… and she was twenty-five. That already felt insane. But you, Adelaida… an immortal eighteen hundred years old? That's another level. Not even asleep do you lose your sense of drama.
Adelaida made a strange noise, something between a groan and a snore. Nuriel smiled.
"Oh, Adelaida… if you were conscious, you'd be embarrassed by everything you're saying."
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Far from the mountains and the rocking of the ship, another scene unfolded in silence, as if the world were telling different stories at the same time.
Hundreds of kilometers away, on the Black River in Hanoi Province, China, a woman with Asian features ran. She was not fleeing humans, but something worse: a walking stone spirit, half guardian, half demon, which seemed to protect her and pursue her at the same time.
Her name was Xiaoxui. No one knew it, but she was an ancestor of Nuriel, ancestor of the Lightning. Yet there was something that had never been told. She climbed a tree to lose sight of the monster. Then she leapt into the void.
Her face transformed into the beak of a bird of prey, her arms into wings. She glided over the cliff, fleeing the stone-man.
One thought echoed in her mind:
They must not find me. I have to free Zaziel. If we don't stop him… he will endanger all of humanity.
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At that moment, Kamei-san was standing at the edge of the ship, gazing at the horizon. Nuriel appeared behind him.
"I want to go back to civilization," Nuriel said.
Kamei-san chuckled softly.
"Interesting… so you like civilization, huh."
He looked at him curiously and asked,
"By the way… can I ask you something? How did you manage to go to the bathroom in those places? Is it all ice? I imagine Adelaida, with her leg… must have suffered."
"I'd rather not talk about that," Nuriel replied, shrugging.
"When we get to… where did you say we were going?"
"Canada," Kamei-san answered.
Nuriel sighed.
"When we arrive, the first thing I'll do is find somewhere to take a proper shower, wash all this off, and for a moment forget that the wind was blowing while I was… well, surviving."
Kamei-san burst out laughing.
"Well, kid… I guess deep down not everyone… I don't even know what to say, honestly. Your situation makes me laugh, but at the same time it makes me feel sorry for you."
They both laughed together. Nuriel asked,
"What will happen when we get to Vermont?"
"There's a secret forest in Vermont," Kamei-san said. "That's where I need to take you."
Nuriel frowned, thoughtful.
"And if we go there… will we finally be able to escape all of this? The wars, everything…"
Kamei-san smiled, a little mischievously.
"Something like that… a forced retreat. One you didn't ask for and won't be able to cancel."
Nuriel lowered his gaze for a moment.
"The angel said Galton wouldn't wake up until we reached Vermont."
Kamei-san looked at him firmly.
"Don't worry about that. I'll take care of Galton. You take care of Adelaida, alright?"
Silence stretched between them. The sea continued to crash against the hull, and the air smelled of salt and iron. It was a silence that didn't feel uncomfortable: it was the silence before the next chapter of their lives.
In the distance, the horizon seemed to trace an uncertain fate, but with the promise of Vermont waiting for them, everything took on a different meaning.