The enemy's body hit the ground with a dry thud, and for a moment, the forest seemed to hold its breath. Duarte, blood still smearing his hands and his heavy breathing thunderous inside his helmet, appeared oblivious to the gravity of his actions. Vidal and I remained frozen, trapped between horror and disbelief, unable to speak a single word.
"Duarte…" I murmured with difficulty, my voice muffled by the helmet's filter. "What… what was that?"
Duarte turned away, letting the rock drop with a bitter thud that echoed through the trees. The tension etched on his face was unmistakable: a mixture of anguish and a simmering rage.
"There was no other choice," he finally said, voice fractured, as if delivering a verdict he refused to accept. "Them or us."
Vidal struggled to sit up, the weight of the bear trap still clamped to his leg. I knelt beside him, noticing the shallow cuts the graphene suit had contained—yet each movement drew a stifled gasp from him.
"We have to keep going," he muttered through clenched teeth, forcing himself to suppress the pain. "If there are more of those… things, we won't survive here."
Duarte nodded, his gaze fixed on his trembling, blood-stained hands. The question gnawing inside me was inescapable: is any of this real?
The snap of a branch shattered the tense silence, and we all turned toward the sound. A figure emerged from the shadows. For a moment, fear froze me—until I recognized López's voice.
"Finally—I've found you! This is chaos, guys. We need to get back to the settlement and call in reinforcements to search for the others."
Vidal shifted uneasily, shaking his head. "We can't go back."
"You're not in a position to decide, Vidal," Duarte interjected. "It's impossible to face more than one of those… whatever they are. We need to regroup."
I nodded, trying to calm Vidal—or maybe convince myself. "Duarte's right. At the settlement we can get help. And…I'm sure some of them made it there."
But then that voice returned, like a stabbing needle in my skull.
"Why are you lying to yourself, Larel? Are you afraid of the truth?" it taunted cruelly. "You're not a good person. You can't change the past or pretend you cared."
I shook my head, trying to drown out the echo. "I'm sorry," I muttered, feeling Duarte's gaze locking onto me. "I was… thinking."
"You think too much," Vidal scoffed, his tone loaded with exhaustion and reproach.
Suddenly, López let out a strangled cry. "Shit!"
Vidal went pale instantly, and Duarte stepped back as though the earth beneath him had become a deathtrap.
"This mustn't be known," López said gravely, his face twisted in suppressed horror. "If this gets out… everything will change."
Vidal, always blunt, replied sharply, "The truth must come out, even if it hurts."
"There are truths that only bring destruction," Duarte said, darkly.
I joined the argument, my voice weighted with emotional exhaustion. "There are truths that fracture what's barely starting to heal. Maybe not everything should be revealed."
We all understood that the secret we'd uncovered at the forest's end threatened to shatter the group's fragile unity. Despite our disagreements, we agreed—for now—that this knowledge must remain buried.
When we finally reached the settlement, the weight of the recent battle still hung over us. Medics worked tirelessly, treating the wounded with precision and urgency. Muñoz was attending to Vidal, while Regino stood by the telegraph, his frustration painted across his face after failing to fetch reinforcements.
News of new disappearances struck like a cruel blow. Taveras, along with four guards and Binet, had been reported missing. Uncertainty seeped into every corner of the camp. Without delay, we reported the events: the scientist's brutal death in the forest moments ago.
Chaos reigned at the settlement—but we were not alone. Torres and his squad were battling their own silent killer.
<
We headed toward the Matías Gate with a blend of hope and growing uncertainty. The idea of finding answers—or someone who could dispel our doubts—was the only thing driving us forward.
The road stretched before us like a dark whisper, swallowed by the heavy shadows of night. The María Wall towered to our right—imposing and cold, like an eternal sentinel of the past. Stuck close to its base, we moved in measured steps, the scrape of our boots barely audible above the horses' steady gait.
The darkness felt almost tangible, infiltrating the gaps in our suits, weighing on our shoulders. Though reinforced, our suits felt inadequate against the unnatural stillness. Every shadow seemed like a demon waiting to devour us, and even the slightest noise made hands tighten around weapons.
Heads bowed, hoods pulled low to blend into the night, we hugged the wall, strategic yet suffocatingly claustrophobic. It felt alive—like the wall itself breathed in sync with us.
Outside the wall, the world seemed extinct—devoured by endless blackness. There were no signs of life, no infected, no human enemies—but that emptiness only intensified the terror of the unknown. We pressed on, guided solely by the horses' rhythmic steps.
Before the imposing gate, Matías, the mystery of the Catha garrison's disappearance finally revealed itself. The scene was a scene of merciless carnage: bodies mutilated with chilling precision, strewn across the ground.
I moved ahead to inspect the remains while my companions searched the perimeter for clues. I was certain we'd find a trace of what caused such atrocity. To our horror, Almánzar discovered two bodies had been thrown into the gate's mechanism, jamming it shut. Their position explained why the gates couldn't be opened from the other side.
We counted nineteen bodies—the entire garrison. Each had been dissected with near-surgical skill, as though a deranged physician had performed grotesque anatomy on living flesh. I studied the wounds and the arrangement: nineteen men, aged 25 to 40, muscles cut with such precision that bones remained nearly intact—preserved in a macabre anatomical display.
"I suppose those damned revolutionaries are responsible," Torres said, breaking the silence.
"Likely…" I replied, uncertainly, documenting my findings. "Bodies ranged from 165 to 183 cm tall. Although dismembered, I measured them all—even those in the mechanism. Five near the gate, two in the mechanism, ten in the rear, and two atop the wall—all fragmented with impeccably exact proportions."
Torres frowned, haunted by the sense that something was off—and his instincts were right. We scanned the perimeter thoroughly until he and two guards ventured into the ominous tower atop the wall.
I, meanwhile, measured footprints and compared footwear. Most matched average adult sizes—except for one significantly smaller boot, sized for a five-inch foot. It was disturbing—there were no women in the garrison… or were there?
"Yeah… I remember what happened that night," he sneered, showing me González's memoirs. "Maybe this'll jog your memory… Héctor Larel."
Inside the tower, a voice echoed unexpectedly—it was a recording. Torres raised his hand in caution and moved forward with the guards, weapons ready, to find the source of the sound.
<>
At dawn, the Catha garrison squad waited with palpable tension for the king's envoy. But the morning brought a strange, instinctive fear.
"Captain!" shouted a guard from atop the wall. "The inhabitants of Pontos are abandoning the city!"
The captain raced to verify the alarm. His face a blend of incredulity and dread.
At the top, with binoculars in hand, he saw Pontos' citizens evacuating. Dawn shadows stretched across the rooftops—a chilling contrast to the chaos below. Families fled quietly, carrying what they could, heading out of the city, guided by a soft, eerie melody.
"Why are they leaving?" the captain asked in puzzlement, turning to the guard who had alerted him.
"I don't know, sir… but this is not normal."
Meanwhile, Torres pressed on inside the tower with his guards. The recorded voice had stirred a primal fear they couldn't shake. The sound carried an electric buzz, lending it a spectral tone.
"Do you recognize the voice?" one guard asked, jaw tense, weapon raised toward the darkness.
Torres shook his head, advancing warily. The recording continued—now fragmented, laden with sinister urgency:
"…no time remains… they are coming… it's… the plague, he is here…"
A sudden crack shattered the silence. Something fell from the tower ceiling, striking the floor with a sharp thud. All weapons swung upward.
I continued examining footprints and other clues near the massacre. My obsession remained the smaller boot—it didn't fit the Catha guards. I held it, examining it closely, noticing wear patterns from long treks—and damp mud stuck to the sole that didn't match the local terrain.
Suddenly, an explosion roared from the tower. The unyielding stonework burned like hell itself—and atop the blazing tower stood a figure, observing the destruction with an unnerving calm amid the surrounding violence.
Majestic and terrifying, like a twisted prophet or cosmic ruler devoid of mercy. Its oval lenses reflected not only the outer tumult but a fractured, grotesque reality—each spark, each cry of pain trapped in its gaze. From the sky, fragments of humanity rained down in a grotesque dance of entrails and shattered bodies—a macabre symphony echoing in the living's hearts. Clad in a crimson red suit, the entity stood as the final harbinger—the inevitable announcement of death in its purest, most devastating form.