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.
Thousands of people, as far as the eye could see, moved forward with sluggish steps, dragging their feet, consumed by exhaustion and hopelessness.
Unlike the devout, there was no purpose in their eyes. Only fear, rage... or resignation. The whips were the same, but the rhythm was different. There were no prayers, no visible faith.
Only the constant sound of leather tearing flesh—and above the cries that followed, the amplified "liturgies" of the Vox Dei—the Kingdom's Spokesmen—who walked among the penitents, reminding them again and again of their duty to the Regnum.
They wore a mix of worn religious garb, frayed from continuous pilgrimage, and thick plates of dark iron, decorated with harsh crosses and the Kingdom's emblems.
Around their necks, they bore rings of integrated speakers, wired to their vocal cords and to the power source they carried on their backs, vibrating with every fervent and distorted word they broadcast over the dust, smoke, wailing, and despair around them:
["Verse 36, from the New Testament of the Regnum..."]
["Only those who can endure pain will survive the Monoliths. For with their arrival, life is pain—and pain is survival!"]
["Sing, brothers! Make the whips you carry sing! Free your souls from the shame of living in the peace others have paid for with their blood—repay it with your pain!"]
["Sing, brothers, sing!"]
Hearing those words—twisted and fanatical—Bennet let out a sharp "Tch" of disgust and stepped away from the group, stopping his disciple with an irritated gesture when he tried to follow.
Meanwhile, Crowley's forces, stationed at the entrance, watched in uncomfortable silence as the procession passed before them like a living wound in motion.
There were also mandatory pilgrimages in Britannia... but none as unsettling as the one unfolding before them.
When the ecclesiastical delegation in charge of the journey to Santiago broke off from the formation, the Inquisitor began walking toward them without a word.
Bennet, on the other hand, moved away from the entrance and most prying eyes. He approached one of the guards who, under the pretext of taking a break, had stepped away from the convoy and was smoking in the shade.
The old man, seeing the guard's lighter fail, pulled out his own and lit the cigarette paper—still stained with ink, as if torn from an old book—in a gesture that was almost kind.
"This time, I want to buy more than usual," Bennet said when he finished.
The guard eyed him warily at first, but then his expression shifted, forming a slow smile.
"Hoh? That's good news. But I have to warn you—the price's gone up. Demand on the southern front's made it harder to smuggle them out of Santiago."
Unbothered by either the explanation or the price hike, the old ranger replied, "I don't care."
"Heh, that's why I like doing business with you, old man. You always seem to have Sacros on hand… So, how many do you want?"
Bennet didn't answer with words. Without taking his hands out from under his cloak, he tossed something to the ground in front of the soldier.
The object hit with a dry, metallic thud that made the soldier choke on his own smoke and cough as he realized what he was looking at: three years' worth of wages—thrown down like it was nothing.
In the form of a compact ingot of pure sacred metal.
Without even looking at it, Bennet murmured:
"I want every bullet you have."
The smuggler didn't take his eyes off the ingot, his grin widening as he replied.
Signaling to another nearby guard who was covering the deal, the smuggler said without ever looking away from the ingot:
"Wait here. One of my boys will bring the box."
-
At the same time...
A torch being waved beside the column of smoke from the convoy prompted the head of Urdiales' guard to give the order:
"Let's go! It's time."
The half a hundred villagers who had not received pardon stirred uneasily. Some exchanged brief glances; others lowered their heads. No one moved right away.
"Already...? So soon?" one of them murmured, trying to delay the inevitable.
"Come on, hurry up," the guard insisted with a forced grimace. "It's better not to miss your turn. You don't want to end up in the last section of the procession... Trust me."
Swallowing hard, knowing exactly what kind of people marched in that last section, the group began walking—nervous, unsteady steps. The only comfort some repeated under their breath was that, at least, they were relatively close to Santiago.
The Urdiales Guard escorted them in silence until a patrol from the procession took over.
Upon reaching the procession, an acolyte handed them simple robes—nearly identical to each other—without saying a word. Then... he gave them their assigned whips, each one fitted with metal spurs embedded in every leather strand.
These weren't like the ones they'd seen with other groups. They were worse—more strands, and more spurs, each embedded with amber-glinting tips.
Diego, the 27-year-old with a battered face and a broken nose, was the first to break the tense silence.
"There must be some mistake!" He exclaimed with a pale face, imagining the pain he'd endure striking himself with the whip now resting in his hands. "This… this has more spikes than the others."
The acolyte didn't even look at him as he replied with indifference:
"There's no mistake. It's proportional. Everyone must suffer equally, no matter at what point they join."
The group fell silent. Diego didn't speak again; he just looked at the trees around them, deliberating... wondering if he could reach them before the guards shot him.
Not believing himself fast enough... he undressed like the others and put on the clothes they had given him, clenching his teeth to try stop its trembling.
-
No sooner had he reappeared than Bennet spoke bluntly:
"Ashliath. With me."
The two walked in silence to a secluded spot behind the jeeps and trucks, taking advantage of the fact that everyone's attention was fixed on the slow-moving procession.
There, out of sight, Bennet dropped a metal ammunition box he'd kept hidden beneath his cloak. It hit the ground with a dull thud, followed by a sharp clink—the unmistakable sound of metal striking metal.
"Take them," he ordered.
Ashe, not even knowing what it was, obeyed. He knelt beside the box and opened it without hesitation.
Even he—a veteran of the southern front—froze for a second. The box was nearly full: dozens of high-caliber bullets, each tipped with the rarest and most resilient of sacred metals—
Crimson.
Though he had never seen so many gathered in one place, he didn't let the shock hold him for long. Taking a breath, he asked in a neutral tone:
"How many?"
Bennet didn't hesitate.
"All of them."
This time, Ashe looked up. His usually dull green eyes widened with a mix of disbelief and doubt. For a moment, it seemed like he was going to say something... but he didn't.
Instead—knowing what those bullets meant—Ashe, as he slipped one into a pocket of the leather harness strapped across his chestplate while standing, without meeting Bennet's eyes, whispered, "Thanks."
The old man, needing nothing more, just nodded. As if the conversation had ended before it even began.
But Bennet wasn't finished.
"Give me your sword."
Ashe blinked, and his eyes narrowed slightly. There was a moment—brief, almost imperceptible—when something inside him hesitated. But the order came from his master, so without protest, he reached behind his back and drew the blade.
Bennet took it with a firm hand and pulled the steel out just a few centimeters to inspect it. Upon seeing it, his already hardened face grew even more severe.
Two possible explanations came to mind for the state of that blade.
Either Gerthel—the village's finest blacksmith—had suddenly lost his hands and tried to repair it with his stumps…
Or the recently repaired Toledan sword before him had been used to cut something so absurdly hard, so many times… that even sacred metal had begun to give in.
Both ideas chilled his chest. And when he linked them to the events of the previous night, he felt a sharp pain pierce his heart. As if something had crossed a threshold he had hoped would never be breached.
Ashe had also noticed the condition of his weapon. He didn't say it, but he knew. Just as he had started to suspect what had happened the night before.
He didn't remember going out. Didn't remember getting dressed. Hadn't heard a thing. He only remembered waking up in Tessa's arms, who claimed he had fainted the moment he returned to his room—after saying he was going to retrieve his sword.
But Ashe didn't remember leaving. Didn't even remember waking up.
And it wasn't the first time…
Taking advantage of Bennet's silence, he muttered, barely looking at him:
"Old man… it happened ag—"
"Don't say a word."
Bennet didn't raise his voice, but his tone was so sharp that Ashe froze. He looked at him, startled. But the old man was staring back, unwavering.
"Never. Do you hear me?"
The young man nodded, still confused.
"Whatever happens… never tell anyone. That's an order."
Ashe swallowed before speaking, his voice low, almost afraid of the answer.
"But master... what if... something happens while I'm on the eastern front?"
Bennet didn't take long to respond. He didn't raise his voice, didn't change his tone. It was just the truth—delivered cold, without warning:
"The same thing that happened in the South... Everyone around you will already be dead."
Taking advantage of his disciple's stunned silence, Bennet slung Ashe's worn-out sword across his back and, in its place, handed him his own.
"Take better care of it."
With those few words, the old master said goodbye to the only family he had left.
And just like that, he vanished into the forest, accompanied by the mechanical whir of his harness cables shooting forward.
Ashe didn't move... staring at his master's sword in his hands. Not knowing if he'd ever see him again made it impossible not to think about all the things he wished he had said.
Although for Bennet, that simple "thank you" was all he needed—or expected—from him.
That moment of silence was broken when a voice suddenly interrupted.
"Hey, tree-hugger! The Inquisitor wants to talk to you."
Red appeared from behind the jeeps and trucks, irritated, as if he'd been looking for him for a while.
It was enough to finally make Ashe take his eyes off the sword.
Red, seeing his expression even more distant, more vacant—if that was even possible—asked, more seriously, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," Ashe said calmly as he walked past him, strapping Bennet's sword to his back with one hand. With the other... he kept the valuable box of ammo hidden beneath his green cloak.
When the two of them reached the small group of officers—halfway between the troops stationed at the entrance and the procession. Where was the....
"Inquisitor…" Ashe said firmly.
The crimson figure at the front of the group turned his head slightly. Upon seeing Bennet's sword on the young man's back, he couldn't help but smile beneath his mask.
"I see you've already said your goodbyes to your master."
"Yes…" Ashe replied, not breaking eye contact.
The Inquisitor turned back to face forward, his voice as rough as the metal he wore:
"I've already been informed about last night's events."
"..."
Faced with the young man's silence, the Inquisitor clarified, raising a hand and gesturing elegantly toward the person beside him.
"I've spoken with the Maester to make sure there are no more incidents. I'm telling you the same thing. In Bennet's absence, I expect you to follow my orders with the same diligence. Understood?"
Almost as if exhaling a weight he didn't know he was carrying, Ashe replied:
"Yes."
"Good. According to the pilgrimage wardens, the Penitent Order joining us is at the rear of the convoy. As a veteran of the Southern Front, I want you to come with me to receive them."
"Alright."
A few seconds later, with the distorted echoes of the Vox Dei loudspeakers fading into the distance, the common section of the pilgrimage came to an end.
The final section of the procession arrived: those who had committed crimes not quite severe enough to be sent to the front—where death was certain as they were used as cannon fodder—but close.
Prisoners with shackles on their feet, hands, and necks, chained together like cattle on the way to slaughter.
They walked as best they could, dragging their chains while bracing however they could for the lashes from the guards walking beside them. No provocation was needed—it was part of the job—but some prisoners gave it anyway.
"Son of a bitch... I've told you a thousand times already..." spat one of the condemned, grinning through a broken mouth. "Just because I whipped your mother last night doesn't mean you gotta do the same."
"I'll tell you the same thing I said the first time you spewed that crap…" snapped the young guard, losing his temper. "SHUT UP!"
The lash cracked like a gunshot. It struck his back with such force that the leather split the flesh nearly to the bone. The prisoner doubled over, spat blood, but didn't fall. The chains linking him to the others kept him on his feet.
"What a temper…" he chuckled through gritted teeth, then added, "Just like your mother."
"YOU LITTLE—!"
"Easy, rookie," his older companion stopped him without breaking stride. "Don't let their provocations get to you. Keep that up, and the funny guy won't make it to the next stop…"
The young guard swallowed hard, trying to calm down, and followed his superior's gaze.
Both of them watched the bodies being dragged along the ground by the prisoners still chained to them. Some were still alive, but too injured or exhausted to keep "pilgriming."
The guard smiled cruelly—a grimace that fit his words perfectly:
"This way, if you keep them alive… you can make them pay for every joke a little longer."
No sooner had he finished speaking than a ragged scream tore through the air:
"No, no! Wait! I can still keep going!"
The plea died the moment he did. The gunshot that ended it sent the carrion birds circling above the rear section into gleeful squawks, already anticipating the feast.
Every time a chain line of prisoners fell out of rhythm—whether from exhaustion or because the number of corpses outweighed the living, increasing the burden and accelerating their collapse—a final row of armed guards awaited them. Always ready to ensure no one was left behind.
Witnessing it all, the Inquisitor spoke with a casual tone, as if merely asking for the opinion of the newest member of his small group:
"What do you think?"
It took Ashe a second to understand what he was referring to. His reply was brief, expressionless:
"I have no opinion."
The Inquisitor smiled beneath his mask.
"No? I believe we all have one... even if we don't always dare to voice it."
Ashe lowered his gaze for a moment. The clinking of his chains echoed as he thought. In the end, he replied:
"I'd rather earn my pardon fighting at the front... than have to pilgrimage like this."
"Hm..." the Inquisitor murmured, watching the thousands of figures stretch out like ants on the horizon. "Not a popular choice, wouldn't you say?"
Ashe barely nodded. The Inquisitor continued, his tone softer now, almost intimate:
"Doesn't it strike you as brutal what we, as members of the same species, are capable of doing to one another?"
The question caught him off guard. Ashe raised his eyes slightly, trying to read something behind the mask.
'A trap? Or a sincere reflection?' he wondered. 'Hard to tell, coming from someone so high up in the Church.'
The Inquisitor went on, as if his faith wavered under the weight of the cruel image unfolding before him:
"If we—'God's creation'—are capable of doing this to one another... what do we expect from the beings beyond the Monolith?"
The silence that followed carried no answer. Or if it did, Ashe didn't want to hear it.
One of the carrion birds dove, drawn to a corpse abandoned near the edge of the road. But just as it began to claw at the still-warm flesh, a deep drumbeat followed by the blare of trumpets made it take flight in an instant.
Those notes announced the arrival of the Penitent procession, emerging from the bend in the road. Closing the pilgrimage like a seal of iron.
The entire procession belonged to the Order of Andalusian Knights: those who beat the drums, those who bore the banners, the costaleros who carried the sacred float/paso, and those who marched at the flanks with rifles and spears.
They were all knights. They were all penitents.
Their armor was a fusion of iron and religious symbols, decorated only by the familiar red sash each wore around the waist. Their faces were hidden behind conical helms adorned with nails and thorns. Despite the weight, they did not stagger. They did not breathe heavily. They seemed one with their armor.
At the center, heavily guarded, moved the most sacred treasure of the Order: the paso bearing the image of their patroness, Virriel, the Virgin of Sorrow and Penitence, worshipped not as a mother, but as an eternal bride.
Carved from black wood, she wore a crimson robe—the same color as her tears. Her face, sculpted in a state of perpetual weeping, matched the engraving on the visors of their conical helmets.
The massive structure of the float, requiring sixty costaleros to lift it, was a blend of mobile altar and fortress. Built from blessed steel and clad in forged iron plates, it was adorned with religious reliefs—scenes of martyrdom, sacrifice, and redemption.
The entire formation moved as one: a sacred, military procession trained as both a combat unit and a vessel of faith.
As they reached the fork in the road toward Urdyales, the drums on the left flank beat louder and with urgency. That was the signal. The costaleros carrying the image of Virriel responded instantly, turning the structure in perfect time with the rhythm.
Once aligned with the new direction, the tempo shifted, and the rest of the instruments resumed the march. They advanced with solemnity until they came to a halt in front of the Inquisitor's group.
"Great... now we've got a soundtrack," Red muttered sarcastically, already imagining the rest of the journey shadowed by drums and trumpets.
The ground shook as the costaleros dropped the float in unison. The metallic crash echoed like an artillery shot. From beneath the structure, one of the costaleros slowly emerged, adjusting his conical helm. One by one, the other sixty followed.
Musicians, escorts, and standard-bearers lined up beside them. In perfect synchronization, they all drew their swords, drove them into the earth, and knelt.
That first costalero, representing the rest of his brothers as their leader, stepped forward... and asked:
"Inquisitor Bartolomé?"
The crimson mask nodded silently.
"By order of the Crown," proclaimed the knight as he knelt and drove his sword into the ground like the others, "I present the Order of the Penitent Knights of Our Lady Virriel, in service to Constantinople. And our lives, at the disposal of the Regnum."
Nodding calmly, Inquisitor Bartolomeo declared:
"And the Regnum accepts your vow. Rise, knights of Virriel!"
As the knights stood, he added:
"With your arrival, we may begin our journey."
Wasting no time, he turned and commanded in a firm voice:
"Crowley, Marcelus, ready your men."
Both nodded in silence and withdrew to carry out their orders.
Turning back to the penitent knight, Bartolomeo asked:
"How should I address you?"
"My name is..."