Under the waning moonlight, which cast a pale glow over the settlement, Torres and López silently shared the weight of loss—that mute pain that speaks of those who will never walk these lands again.
"It seems fate compels us to relive the tragedy of Fort Drust," murmured López, letting his frustration escape in a sigh that vanished like the lives of their fallen comrades.
"The scars still burn on the skin of those who survived that massacre," replied Torres, feeding more wood into the fire. The flames crackled, as if sharing their restrained fury. "Since that day, treason against the king has only grown, dragging us deeper into this abyss."
López, eyes fixed on the dancing flames, allowed himself a moment of doubt.
"Do you think they are behind this disease?"
Torres, his gaze hardened by hatred, left little room for uncertainty.
"Who else would be capable of such atrocities? Do you remember the bio-weapons they used? The horror of seeing over half our soldiers die in ways even hell itself could not conceive?" His voice, heavy with fury, seemed to echo beyond the fire's crackle.
López nodded slowly, his shoulders weighed down by the memories.
"Yes… seeing so many die, in such monstrous ways, has left an indelible mark on my memory. It's a torment that robs me of sleep, night after night."
The fire continued to burn, but it couldn't dispel the cold that settled between them—a cold not born of night, but of the darkest corners of despair.
The night felt frozen in time, broken only by the crackle of flames and the disheartened murmurs of two men scarred by a hell that, to their misfortune, had returned. Bound by shared wounds, Torres and López turned their conversation toward the king, a figure that towered in their lives like a beacon.
To Torres, the king was more than a leader; he was greatness incarnate. A colossal man, over two meters tall, descended from a lineage of conquerors whose origins remained shrouded in mystery. The first of the Desmonds had come from foreign lands, uniting, through cunning and military might, the scattered tribes of the continent he would later name Daemos.
"From the day I saw the king gallop through the ravine, I knew he would become the most important pillar of my life. My mother used to tell me stories about him—one spoke of how he saved our city from a fire set by Drustian spies," Torres recounted, his words filled with reverence.
López shared his own, more personal, bond with the monarch.
"The king saved my family from slavery. By his orders, a squad of soldiers came to free us. That day, I met the man I'd be willing to follow into hell itself… because he rescued me from the hell I was burning in."
Torres turned to his friend, each word weighted with solemnity.
"López, if I fall before we complete our mission, I beg you to lead these men to the end. Protect those who still have a chance to save this cursed land."
López responded firmly, his voice filled with unshakable loyalty.
"I won't allow my captain to fall. And if necessary, I'll trade my life for yours."
Torres shook his head, wearing a bitter smile—the reflection of an inner struggle.
"Don't be naive, López. I am no longer the man I once was. I'm just a shadow clinging to past glories, a champion whose finest days are behind him. This new generation—with its technology and vigor—has outgrown my usefulness to the king's cause."
"What are you saying, Captain?!"
"I'm talking about men whose abilities border on the inhuman… men forged for new wars. Wars in which I'll be nothing more than a burden," he replied with terrifying calm.
"What are you, Larel?"
The question echoed vertiginously through my mind as I searched my memories.
"Shut up!" I screamed inwardly, feeling my mind fracture under the pressure. "Get out… get out of my head."
"What are you afraid to show me, Larel?" the voice insisted, its tone nearly mocking.
I knew it would soon get what it wanted… to open me up, expose my mind, my knowledge… and with it, unravel the truth surrounding the disease.
I awoke in the midst of tangible chaos—a hive of movement and preparation unleashed while unconsciousness held me captive. Duarte and Taveras had granted me a few more hours of rest, but now the entire camp pulsed with tense determination.
The crates, once sealed like untouchable relics, were now being pried open with palpable urgency. Inside lay the resources we'd heard so much about: the "anti-decay" suits, promising a shield against what had broken so many, and the weapons—cold extensions of metal alongside their magazines, our tools to claw survival from this cursed land. Each item was handled with the solemn precision of someone who knows a single error, a single hesitation, could mean the difference between life and death.
"What the hell is all this?!" Vidal's voice rang out, a mix of disbelief and anguish as he stared at the weaponry laid across a dusty tarp.
"Did you truly expect to wield only the filigree of knowledge against this rot?" Binet replied with a calm that, in this urgent context, felt even more unsettling.
"Binet, this has gone too far!" protested Vidal, his face shadowed by terror. "We are men sworn to preserve life, not extinguish it."
Binet let the accusation hang in the heavy air before responding with chilling certainty: "That same unease gripped me when I was asked to adapt my designs to include combat systems. But tell me, Vidal, can we truly offer hope in these lands if we face savagery with empty hands?"
"I'm sorry I don't share your vision of a more merciful world, Vidal," Torres interrupted, his words carrying the weight of iron. "Here, law has vanished—and humanity, it seems, has followed. That's why, from now on, Binet will lead the medical team."
"Why him?" Duarte interjected, stepping forward, doubt etched on his brow.
"Because he not only conceived these suits as a second skin against death, but he also possesses the cold mind of a strategist. Like González, he is one of the few who can stare this reality in the face, without the adornment of false hope," declared Torres, his gaze firm as freshly forged steel.
"Fine," Duarte relented, though the tension lingered.
"But all this show of power is meaningless if we don't even know how to wield these weapons." Taveras's voice reflected the uncertainty felt by many.
Torres let out a bitter laugh at Taveras's confession—a dry sound that did little to lift the oppressive mood. Yet the tension broke with López's arrival, stepping from the shadows encircling the settlement perimeter.
"Captain, everything is ready," announced López, his voice brimming with determination, forged in every fiber of his being.
"Good, López," Torres replied, adopting a more martial tone as he outlined the new plan. "We've had no news from the garrison posted at María Wall, and this uncertainty is paralyzing us. Communications with the round table are but a faint echo; the telegraph breathed its last along the way."
"But there's still a pulse of hope," Regino interjected, his voice firm yet cautious. "According to our reports, there should be several telegraphs stored in the ranger's cabin, deep in the Dark Cayó."
"Thank you, Regino. For that reason, we'll split into two groups. The investigation team will head toward Matías Gate, to uncover the fate of the garrison. Meanwhile, the recovery team will enter the forest, seeking a working telegraph and, if luck favors us, samples and data that might illuminate this plague."
López took the floor, his newly vested authority settling into his every movement.
"Listen closely! The captain has entrusted me with leading this incursion. While the doctors uncover the secrets hidden in the barracks, we will face the malevolence of the forest. Our task, as guardians of this settlement, will be to protect the doctors, restore our lines of communication, and eliminate any threat that dares stand in our way."
López's words resounded with a mix of pragmatism and gravity, marking the beginning of a trial that would demand both physical strength and unyielding resolve.
Binet began his explanation with near-clinical precision, unraveling the origin and transformations of the suits he and R.O. had designed. Originally forged for the great battles against the Drust Empire—where shrapnel and poison heralded death—the suits had been rapidly adapted to face an invisible but equally lethal foe. The current design was a fusion of modern medicine and cutting-edge materials: graphene, promising resilience and lightness, and larimar, whose still-mysterious properties were believed to offer a subtle barrier against impurities. The result was 95% isolation—a breath of life in air thick with death. Yet time, that relentless enemy, had prevented thorough testing and key improvements.
With near-ritual meticulousness, Binet and his team helped us into the anti-decay suits. Each of us was absorbed through the dorsal opening of the suit, our bodies becoming the skeleton that stretched the dark, slightly rigid fabric. As I slid inside, the metallic cold of the joints pressed against my skin. Binet's fingers moved with almost surgical precision, securing each valve with a crisp click that echoed through the tense silence. Then the decontamination tubes hissed as they connected, releasing a cold, acrid mist that enveloped us, purging any particle clinging to our skin. Soon after, the herbs and drugs embedded in the suit's filters began releasing their fumes, dulling my senses with a narcotic blend that kept me functional—though with a strange sense of detachment from reality.
Binet detailed the intricate workings of the filter chambers—the technological heart of our improvised armor:
Primary Filtration Chamber: The first line of defense, woven with ultra-fine graphene mesh, designed to intercept particles and toxins attempting to penetrate the suit's outer layer.
Secondary Filtration Chamber: A clever system using our own sweat as a natural ventilator, pushing air through beds of purifying herbs and pharmaceuticals, cooling the body and neutralizing internal threats.
Analgesic Egg Distribution Chamber: Tiny sacs releasing a myriad of microscopic "eggs" acting as analgesics, dispersing evenly throughout the body, mitigating the constant pain threatening our will.
Controlled Narcotic Chamber: A reservoir of potent narcotics, administered in precise doses to counter extreme pain or induce altered states of consciousness when needed—enhancing the immunosuppressant's effect.
Final Purification Chamber: The last barrier—an intricate labyrinth of filters regulating the immunosuppressant's effects, ensuring we didn't suppress our natural defenses excessively.
Each chamber worked in silent, perfect synchrony—a self-contained system housed in a cylinder about eighty-five centimeters long, firmly anchored at the base of our spine.
"However…" Binet warned, his tone as grave as a prophecy, "these suits were born for war. Thus, the immunosuppressants, narcotics, and drugs within are of extreme potency. So intense that after use, both mind and body will demand at least twelve hours of rest—possibly more—depending on individual endurance. Every hour of protection will exact its price in vulnerability."