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Chapter 12: A Long Long Way
24 scenes, 2,627 lines
1. After the Flood
128 linesEveryone imagines their future.
In most, they grow up, they make friends, get married, and hope to make their fathers and grandfathers proud.
We entered this new era full of those same hopes for our future. We had no idea what lay in wait for us.
We called it the triumphant opening to the "greatest era in history," a rite of passage for every man-to-be.
"Join us in an adventure side by side, bound by courage and loyalty! Return home victorious, and let your legend be told for generations to come!"
That was the future we imagined.
Now those sweet and fitting lies have melted away.
Barely more than children, we find ourselves bound, not for adventure, but for an open grave of mud and ruin.
Those of us who were lucky—or unlucky—to survive this battlefield were forged into something new.
Numb.
Cruel.
Corrupted.
The earth became fire and mud, and all of us devils.
What was it that we wanted from this war?
To be remembered, celebrated as heroes, or to forget and be forgotten?
The answer may seem obvious, but the question itself lies at fault. Because death, meaningless death, came for thousands of us every day, and we knew ...
We soldiers never had a choice.
What do you see?
Ice.
An iceberg.
A huge iceberg.
Anything else?
Water.
A flood.
A flood that drowns the entire era.
Is the era gone?
No ...
No.
No!
Well then, what year is it now?
1920 ...
1920.
1920!
...
Subconscious stable. No sign of invasive illusions. Cognition-reality match rate normal ...
Our test subject awakens.
Last question. What's this?
An animal.
A monster.
The shadow of death.
An elephant.
Her questioner realizes she should have expected nothing less than a blunt answer.
Correct. A plain and simple answer like that is an excellent sign.
This test isn't like the others from the Artificial Somnambulism we used to go through.
It's a special examination we've prepared for all personnel involved in the Antarctic operation. It wasn't my idea, by the way.
She powers down her equipment, the whirs and hums of its electric current fading with a soft drone.
I would say, based on your recovery so far, you could have been discharged a week ago, but we had strict orders to complete our entire course of treatment outlined in the Medical Manual.
Whatever it is that hides under the Antarctic, it didn't do any additional harm to your mental health.
You're lucky, you know. Many others have suffered irreversible damage that will limit their day-to-day lives.
What about Nautika and Ms. Stranger?
I have no access to Ms. Stranger's information. All I know is she's been sent to another department for treatment.
As for Nautika ... she's doing great.
Mesmer Jr. offers her judgment in plain terms.
Where is she now? Does she have enough space to stretch?
Mr. Hoffman cleared out a lecture hall for her. I wouldn't call it a palace, but it's spacious enough to meet her needs.
Too bad, though; now she's being cornered in there by every arcane biologist, ancient myth enthusiast, and crazy ritualist we have on staff.
I guess they've decided she's an invaluable opportunity to learn more.
You do have access to that hall if you really want to know how she's doing. Just go knock on her door. She's also been asking about you.
The therapist averts her gaze and shifts away to end the conversation as she begins to tidy the ward.
A soft knock at the door breaks the awkward tension.
Timekeeper?
...
Come on in, Sonetto.
The splash of orange from her hair is a welcome break from the dull gray and white. Sonetto casts a polite glance toward her old classmate.
Hi, Mesmer. How's the Timekeeper doing?
She's good to go.
Thank you. Just a minute.
Sonetto recalls today's agenda.
Timekeeper, Madam Z said the "Storm" investigation team is back. She's waiting for you in Madam Vice President's office.
Let's head that way, then.
You two have fun. Take care.
Mesmer Jr. sees the guests out, staying behind to wrap up her final tasks.
The aftershocks of the tenth "Storm" still ripple through the Foundation.
Though they've long grown used to changing times, the staff move through the geometric corridors less like a well-oiled machine and more like a clogging artery.
There's so much tension in the air now.
I suppose because this "Storm" was different from the ones we've seen before.
I look forward to hearing what Madam Z has to say about it.
I don't intend to waste my time on this anymore.
...?
A Committee member strides out of the office, his face completely distorted, in contrast to his neat uniform.
Another man rushes behind him, doing his best to keep his pace in check.
Please, I thought we reached an agreement, Irinei.
However, the one he's chasing has already reached the fork at the far end of the hall.
Naturally, I accept the Committee's decision.
If you really think we don't have to prioritize the Manus, then be my guest.
Our top priority is to restore peace and order to this era. You should know that ...
We're at war, Mr. Pacifist, one far more dangerous than you could possibly conceive.
Pacifist ... What do you mean "Pacifist"?
Irinei doesn't respond. He turns down the left path and disappears from view.
...!
The "pacifist" Committee member gives up his chase and takes the other path.
Umm. The room they just came out of, is that ...?
It does appear so: the Vice President's office.
Let's go.
After you.
The expected occupant is nowhere to be seen. Only her chief of staff waits inside.
Very nearly perfect timing, Vertin, Sonetto. I had heard that the Rehab Center cleared you for release, but it's all the more reassuring to see it for myself.
The signs of the fierce argument that took place linger in the mess of documents strewn over the table.
Madam Z, we saw Irinei and Pedra at the door.
Let's not talk about them for now.
Understood. So, the "Storm" investigation team has returned?
Correct. Thanks to the Field Agent Squad and our investigators, we've collected enough proof to verify your hypothesis. History has changed.
The tenth "Storm" has brought us to an entirely different 1920 than we knew, one with a war still raging that should have long been over.
Do we understand why history has changed?
Laplace has two hypotheses.
The first centers on the ritual held in the Antarctic—despite being interrupted—its "Flood" might have changed the "Storm's" nature ...
Which has resulted in an even greater deviation from history as we knew it. Don't look so discouraged; that would be much better than the other theory—
After her "revival," Arcana may have obtained the power to use the "Storm" to alter the course of history.
If that is the case, in all likelihood, that means this war ...
—Is likely a result of intentional manipulation by Arcana. Manus Vindictae is trying to bring more chaos to the world.
The solemn room welcomes its master.
It's been a long time since we last met in this room, Timekeeper.
It seems like nothing has changed.
Heh heh. But there's no time to dwell on that. I have some critical updates for you.
This war may be close to its end. Though the fighting continues, we've begun engaging each side's leaders, and we believe a truce is possible.
There will be a peace talk, and the Committee has decided to act as its mediator. Peace is always the Foundation's top priority.
After this situation is stabilized, we'll pool our resources and focus on the Manus.
I see. How's the progress so far?
The chief of staff answers on her behalf for this minor detail.
Our branch leaders have built lines of communication, and we have reached an agreement on some of the terms with their respective governments.
Pedra will go to meet the commanders on behalf of the Foundation, with the aim to reach a lasting truce by the end of the month.
If everything goes well, we may be able to restore peace before the new year.
Now is the time to ask the question that's been lingering in her mind.
As we arrived, I heard Irinei call Pedra a "Pacifist." Does Irinei disagree with the Foundation's policy regarding the war?
It isn't a matter of the policy, but the means by which we achieve it, to be precise.
How do you mean?
He and a few others believe all attempts to restore peace are bound to fail unless we destroy the Manus first.
In short, he wants to do things the tough way.
2. Old Boots
116 linesSoldiers lay a corpse on a dry wooden plank, making an effort to place their fallen comrade in something resembling a peaceful pose.
The plank, formed from dismantled ammo crates, has been formed into a makeshift sledge complete with a small set of wheels.
...
The handler stands resolutely by the body at the edge of the trench, his tattered cloak making him look the part of a grim reaper.
He kneels, prying off the soldier's dog tag, and pockets the bottom half.
Franz Schreyer.
This is all we could find. Can you take care of him, Charon?
Naturally. He will be given a proper burial.
I thought they said this war would end before the winter came.
A now familiar gloom seeps out from behind Rudolph's thick glasses, like tears.
Franz lies still, indifferent to the scene.
Heh ...
Another soldier shoves his way through their small crowd, puffing with frustration, places another leg on the board, completing the set.
Then without a word, he removes the boot from the corpse's other leg—matching it with another.
Now he'll be ready for the march home.
You sure that was Franz's leg?
The kind-hearted Captain Wilhelm looks at his soldier in horror.
Better be. I risked my life up there grabbing it. He promised I could have his boots if he got scraped off.
My God. I remember when he said that.
He starts to say something but swallows it back.
The soldiers huddle together in the narrow bend of the trench.
But ...
Charon's words come out in a slow drip, seemingly unaware of the conversation around him.
Andreas went missing in the last attack. The body will be impossible to move off the frontlines without him.
Eh, your pony? Good bet it's worm food.
Shut up, Erich!
Please, don't worry. There will be somewhere quiet nearby, but it may take a while to find it.
Take your time, Charon. The weather's cool these days.
Wilhelm attempts a pat on Charon's shoulder.
Not far away, Major Eberhard Braun, the company commander, sits on an empty water drum. His eyes fixed coldly on the trench wall ahead.
He drops a cigarette butt and stands.
Charon, come here.
Yes, sir.
He responds to his superior.
You remember Montpaix? The town near our rear?
Certainly. We fought there in the warmth of summer. Our Lieutenant Colonel died in that battle.
You were in charge of a company, until you were injured and sent to recover. There were many graves to be dug, but the days were warm and dry.
It was a hard fight to drive our enemy from that town, a damn good one. Even if our lines have only moved a short distance past it since.
But why this talk of Montpaix all of a sudden?
Army Command has decided to attend a parley held by the Foundation in Montpaix. Colonel Hirschfelder will be present on behalf of our nation.
We've handed it over to the Foundation. Pfft, they're calling it a "safe zone."
Many hope that peace will come before the winter.
The major's response is blunt.
The only end to this war I can accept is victory—total victory over our enemies.
They say we've broken through on the eastern front; we only need to push our advantage, and they'll collapse. Once we've freed up all that manpower and material, we'll be able to crush our enemies here too.
We may run ourselves dry of ammo and blood before then, sir. No cries of victory are loud enough to wake the dead.
Winning here is a part of something far bigger than you could understand.
Is it? When you returned to the front after your injury, you came with eyes red as a furnace. You wore an old face, a mask of war.
You haven't worn that mask in many years, since before our first taste of battle and blood.
A whole class volunteered. Nothing more than schoolboys, we marched obliviously into the killing field. You should rest.
The major's already-thin lips press together into a sharp, blade-like line.
Enough with the poems, soldier. I called you with an order. You must go to Montpaix.
Mr. Mühlenberge sent us a package, and I need someone to fetch it for me.
I know you'll do your duty for the fatherland, my friend. Take as many bodies with you as you can; we can't leave them rotting in the trenches.
Dismissed.
The major gets up and moves down the trench.
"Montpaix looks like it had been a nice little town before the war. Now, its old streets and laneways are pocked with craters and crumbling buildings—cruel reminders of the brutal battles that raged through it."
"Silent screams still echo to me from its laneways, a reminder that a man who has seen war will only find peace when he is dead and buried."
...
The town has seen the worst of the war, but with the sudden influx of traffic and activity, it seems to breathe new life.
The streets, barely cleared, are swarming with uniforms, some military, and others checkered gray-and-white.
Are you looking for help, sir?
...?
His head creaks in the direction of the voice, finding a young woman, likely a medic.
Her golden badge marks her as the Foundation's employee, but even more striking is the armor layered over her coat.
Hold on, soldier. I'm Nurse Marsha. Please show your face so I can verify your identity.
Good day, sister. What lies beneath this mask will not give you the answer you seek. Here, let this serve for identification.
He rummages out a notebook from his coat, retrieving a folded ID card from within.
Major Eberhard Braun is waiting on a package from Montpaix. He sends his NCO to collect it. He did not say from whom.
She receives it, studying the card.
I see. Your name is Paul ...
Charon. That is the name the soldiers use, and the one you should use as well. The name you see there doesn't belong to this war any longer.
I've heard your name before.
She returns the document, then scans around as she wrings her hands.
You'll find plenty of packages here. Go ahead and look for whichever one belongs to your Major Braun, but there'll be more paperwork to sign before you can leave with it.
If you're willing to wait, things will get moving again once the parley has finished.
Time is a resource the dead have in abundance.
He looks back at her, his body seeming almost rooted to the spot.
Are you certain you're alright, soldier?
The war has taken its toll, but there is nothing you can do to fix these old wounds.
You said that you are a medic, Sister Marsha. Is that why you ask?
Yes, of course. Ordinarily I would be at the clinic, but I was asked to lend a hand here.
Where are the dead from your clinic laid to rest?
She reflects on his words.
We don't have any yet, by the grace of God. Though, I don't expect that to remain the case.
There is a bare slope just outside of town; I noticed it when we first arrived here. It could serve that purpose were someone to die ...
That is good to hear.
That someone might die?
The delayed reply leads to misunderstanding.
Ah, no. The slope.
A quiet place is needed. Many of us from the frontlines could find rest there.
You mean your brothers in arms?
All who need burial are my brothers in arms. Though they may have once fought on different sides.
Should there be any in your clinic that need it, they will find rest there too. In a coffin under a marker to remember their place, as is fitting. If you will allow it.
So be it. You're offering them more decency than most others would. I'll show you the spot.
The outskirts of Montpaix.
Dense woods conceal most obvious traces, yet small sounds are amplified.
Who's there?
You've run late.
I barely made it. This whole area is under heavy guard.
The soldier squints, eyes narrowing at the gray-blue uniformed figure ahead.
Where's Hector? He never mentioned you. Give me the countersign.
He raises his weapon, framing the stranger in his sights.
You hear me? Who the hell are you?
Yet his target is unfazed.
Two paths lie ahead for you.
W-What are you talking about?
In one, you lead me to your commander. In the other ...
She lowers her rifle and bows her head in a motion almost like prayer. It stuns the soldier for a moment.
You are led into perdition.
The final gunshot rings through the thick forest, then fades away.
She crouches, retrieving a pouch from the fallen enemy.
In the mess of documents and maps, she finds the note she needs.
Foundation, parley, Hirschfelder ...
After reading it, she looks northeast. Beyond the treeline lie the ruins of Montpaix.
Today.
3. Battle of the Birds
132 lines
Are you sure you won't come with me, Captain?
After a long rest, Lilya readies up for her next mission.
Admiral Somme assigned this mission to you personally, not the whole team. Besides, Madam Z asked me to stay in the headquarters.
*sigh* Isn't it going to be boring waiting around here? The Storm Reformation directives said Team Timekeeper isn't subject to the Foundation's orders. We can go wherever we want.
Yet it also says the Timekeeper is still bound by Madam Z's orders, Lilya.
Ugh, soooo frustrating.
Reality slams up against her freedom-loving impulses.
I thought I'd finally be able to show you what things are really like out on the steppe. It's going to be a view to remember.
We'll have other chances.
Yeah. I suppose a view like that doesn't change much no matter what era it is. Anyway, any idea when they're going to set you loose again?
I think it will have to wait until after the tension clears.
What are you talking about?
Haven't you heard about the Doves and the Hawks?
We got birds now? Nah. I just got back from vacation.
Let me guess, same thing as ever: politics. Go on, just tell me enough so I know who to blast if someone kidnaps Vertin again.
Simply put, the Committee has split into two factions on the Foundation's course of action: the Doves and the Hawks.
The Doves insist on seeking peace through diplomacy, hoping to secure advantages in the post-war political landscape.
Uh-huh, and the Hawks?
They believe that the governments we're dealing with have been infiltrated too deeply by Manus Vindictae, so diplomacy is off the table.
They want to take more direct action, by arresting any high-ranking military and political figures suspected of collaborating with the Manus.
Really? I would have never thought we'd do something like that. Efficient, the kind of plan I like, but also like it could be the mother of all messes.
Precisely. That's why the Doves prevailed, at least for now.
Lilya shakes her head. She's had enough of politics for one day.
Complicated. So, what side you on, Captain?
I'm not on any side.
Departure time. She mounts her Su-01ве.
With a sharp roar, the flying broom shoots out a blast of air, and soon enough the seasoned pilot vanishes into the clouds.
...
People are dying out there. We have to reduce the number of decision-makers. We can't afford any delays.
I need all the faction leaders to reach an agreement before the Committee meeting starts.
That's why Pedra and Irinei were here.
Yes. It was not an easy task to persuade Irinei, but we did it.
Good. But I'm not on either side. It seems like there's no need for me to stay. Why are you keeping me around?
I have my reasons, as I'm sure you expect.
The Storm Reformation Act won't keep you and your team secure forever, Vertin. The final result of this meeting, whatever it is, will change many things.
That may mean more latitude and resources for your team. Then again, it could mean the exact opposite.
Anyway, if you intend to seize anything from this opportunity, you'll need to stay until the meeting's over.
Time to go, Sonetto.
Quite the take-off. That must've been Lieutenant Lilya, wasn't it?
...?
She turns, and a red-haired man enters the frame.
Have I got it right, Timekeeper?
You have.
You must be Mr. Creius, the captain of the "XII."
Seems you're already acquainted then.
I've read the report on the Antarctic operation; your name was mentioned.
Creius nods to Sonetto in thanks before adopting a more guarded expression.
I've been reading up on you. Just a few choice selections from your after-action reports before our Antarctic expedition.
Seems we have you and your team to thank for thwarting many a wicked scheme hatched by Manus Vindictae in previous "Storms."
Shame we couldn't put a stop to Arcana's revival too. Now look at the dog's breakfast of an era we stepped into ...
"beep—beep—"
A communication request comes through at that exact moment.
Creius is about to speak again but lets it go.
I do hope we'll have the chance to cooperate more closely in the future. Feel free to call on me if you find yourself in need, Timekeeper.
Thank you, Mr. Creius. I'm afraid further introductions will have to wait; we're called elsewhere.
The brief encounter ends.
Creius remains where he is, pressing his communicator.
...
Speak.
I passed along our intel about Manus Vindictae's possible infiltration of the safe zone; anyone's guess if they're gonna do a damned thing about it.
And Marsha was seen leaving the safe zone with an odd-looking German soldier.
Any idea where she's heading?
I kept my distance. Didn't wanna risk exposure.
Should I have any concerns about it?
Whatever he is, I don't get the impression he's with the Manus.
He came up from the lines, started a conversation, and just like that, they started walking away.
You're jumping at shadows, Creius. Ever since Antarctica, it seems like you've been imagining phantom oil stains on everyone we meet.
He leaves the remarks unanswered. On the other end is a clear directive.
All the same, keep an eye on her.
And take my eyes off the town? What about searching for those infiltrators?
The Foundation has enough security on-site to keep things in check.
Yeah, right, let's just hope those hay-for-brains can do their job. Haven't Merel and Paravyan been transferred to HQ?
I hope you weren't expecting a hand. I need them for my field mission as soon as our application is approved.
Hah, still waiting for that—they haven't learned to trust you yet?
Focus on your mission, Yermolai.
"Not many of us have any real idea what it's like to view the trenches from above. But in my haunted dreams and flashes of imagination, I picture them as claw marks."
"I keep returning to that thought over and over again: the image of some terrible monster ripping the earth apart with its claws, then we hide, trembling like maggots in the wounds it leaves behind."
Here.
Charon stops, staring out over the woods, only just beginning to advance on a slope that bears the scars of trench work and artillery.
It is quiet enough, but the dead may come to outnumber the empty lodgings below.
I wouldn't have thought the dead mind having neighbors. The real trouble is how far it is from the clinic.
He lets his gaze drift from the hills to Marsha, settling on her armor.
There is something about you—a contradiction lying under cloth and steel.
I know what you want to ask. Yes, I was a knight once.
She preempts the question, one she's learned to expect.
...
Like other arcanists, I was enlisted in a special unit and sent to the front as soon as the war started.
This armor is only a habit. I'm a medic now.
It's not much for protection; modern bullets go through steel this thin like paper. But I want to remember.
Only in death does duty end. Yet, you live again with the Foundation.
He stumbles at her retort, like a clumsy soldier stuck in mud.
There was no ill intent. The ways of this war do not fall upon your shoulders.
Our path is not chosen, nor can it be escaped. The end to our war is found in the grave.
Marsha glances back. The view of Montpaix is blocked by a dense forest.
I'm needed back at the clinic.
Inside the safe zone, the first round of talks has concluded.
Colonel Hirschfelder exits the building draped in Foundation banners. Adjutant officers flank him tightly, like remoras swimming beside a shark.
This meeting is over.
His aide drapes a coat over his shoulders. The colonel's mood is sour. His eagerness to end the talks is obvious.
Commissioner Pedra follows at a respectful distance, maintaining proper decorum.
Our proposal really is in everyone's best interest. Please give it a bit more thought, Colonel.
Our best interest, yes? You have failed to convince me. All I see is the insistence that we pretend this war is not going in our favor.
And I will have no more of these ridiculous conspiracies concerning Manus Vindictae.
Our war and our victory have nothing to do with this terrorist organization—or cult, as it may be. The decisions of His Imperial Majesty's government will only align with a rational assessment of the facts at hand.
We fully understand your concerns.
Words without action.
Would you at least consider a temporary truce? Keep your forces at the front, but halt all active military operations?
The military delegates enter the car idling roadside.
There are two sides to every truce, Mr. Negotiator. Our enemy has yet to show any hint of sincerity.
You're referring to the assassinations?
Do these bastards have any honor? Sending their snipers after our high-ranking ...
Time freezes.
A bloom of crimson explodes out from the colonel's neck. Staccato heartbeats thump in a rising crescendo to meet the distant booming crack of a rifle.
...!
What the ...
Time melts back into motion. Shouts erupt, feet thunder, weapons fire off at shadows ...
Pedra feels someone yanking at his collar, the pull growing stronger.
Take cover, Mr. Pedra!
Ugh ...
Soldiers dive toward their fallen officer.
Sniper!
Chaos drowns out all else.
Medic! The colonel has been hit! We need a medic!
Move! Get the colonel to the clinic!
4. Grayish Blue
99 linesHaving parted ways with the curious gravedigger, the knight continues back to the Foundation's safe zone.
Tangled branches rustle, sharpening her mind into alarm. But as her hand twitches to her sidearm, a small and timid creature hops out.
It feels in some way hopeful. If the hares can return, perhaps too people, flowers, life.
*bang*
The sound is unmistakable, and yet she questions herself.
Was that a gunshot?
She drops low, seeking its source—scanning—placing the sound.
From the safe zone.
Battle-honed senses strain to pick out the smallest detail.
*beep—beep—*
...!
The abrupt alert tone startles her upright and out of cover.
No ID, but it has to have come from someone in the Foundation.
She hits the connect button.
Marsha, right?
Who are you?
No time to explain. Just listen.
Colonel Hirschfelder was just assassinated getting into his car right after the parley. The shot went clean through his neck, severed the carotid artery.
The colonel's dead?
Yeah, but the important thing is that the shot came from the forest, somewhere near your location.
How do you know where I am?
Just take cover. I'll call again when it's safe.
Who on earth are ...
The call is cut. Marsha switches the device to silent and tucks it away, stunned.
With the colonel dead, there isn't much hope for the peace talks.
She repeats the message under her breath, her mouth dry.
Can't worry about that now. The sniper may still be here.
She siphons the shock into willpower. The Order's training has taught her how to manipulate her emotions, controlling them right down to the flow of hormones.
They've also taught her not to sit and wait for death.
All I have is this pistol. Still, a bullet is a bullet. I'll just need to get close.
Retrieving her weapon, she weaves tactically between thick tree trunks and dense shrubs that offer concealment, inching her way back to Montpaix.
Between the brambles and foliage, she spies armed figures in the distance.
Over there.
Who's there?
Evidently, she has been spotted too.
...!
On instinct, she slumps downward, and a bullet scrapes a long gash across her metal armor.
Come out!
A flurry of follow-up shots shreds bark and skin, painting her armor with splashes of blood.
...!
But she leans on her training, slowing her heartbeat to limit her bleeding and maintain focus.
Need to leave one alive. Now, to get a little closer ...
Her ambushers fall one by one. Marsha peeks out from cover, unable to identify their uniforms.
Black uniforms ... Can't tell who they might be. Perhaps the Manus?
Never mind. Who is it that helped me? Could you—
While Marsha is pondering this, a few dry leaves land on top of her head.
Cast your eyes up.
Huh?
She looks up to behold a cloaked figure hidden among the branches.
...!
Her rescuer bears a rifle, heavy caliber, scoped, with distinct markings—the weapon of a sniper.
A dangerous inference is drawn in her mind. Yet Marsha begins tentatively.
Was it you who shot these men? Do you know who they are?
She feels as if the questions are only pebbles lobbed too lightly to reach the perched stranger.
You must have something more to say. Why bother showing yourself otherwise?
Tell me, what is it that the Foundation concerns itself with here?
That's no secret. We're working on a parley to end this war, but one of the representatives has just been assassinated.
These soldiers dressed in black could be our culprits.
No. They were sent forth to protect Hirschfelder. Though they tarried too late.
Wait, you know Hirschfelder? Do you have any idea who shot him?
I did.
You! *cough* You ...
Acrid smoke stings her eyes, blinding her vision.
Manus Vindictae? No. The Field Marshal will not entertain such a thing.
You've simply conjured up some invisible enemy to achieve your goals.
We can conclude only this: that our enemy agreeing to this parley was only a ruse and that the assassination of our colonel was meant to sow fear in our ranks.
We will not yield to such a contemptible tactic. They have chosen war, and we will answer in kind.
The line is cut abruptly, leaving no room for negotiation.
Confusion and tension ripple through the office, simmering like a pot ready to boil.
...
The assassination in Montpaix has been a serious blow to our global efforts. Many nations have withdrawn from our peace talks in response.
Did we lose anyone?
No. Our investigators on the scene confirmed they heard just a single gunshot at the time.
We do have a confirmed sighting of the shooter.
Yes. I heard. Yet they didn't fire on her, which means our shooter isn't likely to be with the Manus.
The chief of staff nods in agreement, then lays out the situation at hand.
The Hawks have reacted strongly to this incident; they're calling for the Foundation to enter a state of war readiness again.
Irinei gave quite the speech at our last meeting. It's clear the moderates are wavering over to his side.
...
The Vice President sets a chess piece on the desk and flicks it. It rolls in a slow arc.
True, but there are still things we can do to maintain the balance. We must consider violence our last resort.
Send a special unit to Montpaix. I need to figure out what really happened.
"Razor" is on a mission at the eastern front; they won't be back in contact for several days.
There are three squads presently available for deployment: codenames "Metaphor," "Omen," and "Minerva." But I don't believe any of them are suitable for this mission.
We're left with only one option: the newly founded "XII."
That's Creius's team. I'm sure he'd be eager to buff up his resume with this mission; he's eager to prove himself.
All the members of the "XII" used to work for Creius at the Vigiles Bureau. Their experience could be useful for this mission.
Many of the arcane crime cases they cracked involved the Manus.
I understand he's been seen in the company of several prominent Hawks. He even spoke with Irinei several times.
Are you suggesting his policy leanings could pose a problem?
On the contrary, he'll make a fine choice precisely because his appearance at the front line will calm the Hawks' nerves.
Understood.
Tell Creius he and his team will set off in two hours.
5. Chrysanthemum
100 lines"Since the first grenade exploded in our trench, we've been dreaming of the moment when the guns fall silent and our commander calls out 'The war is over.'"
"The marshals will attend the victory banquet in His Majesty's palace, the officers will pin shiny medals on their chests, and we will get to go home."
Out of my way, soldiers! I said make way!
His call to arms is passed through the winding trenches, passing over veterans slumped against the walls with indifference.
What's wrong?
Major Braun, the battalion commander, storms around a corner, followed by a long line of recruits with heads bowed.
Wilhelm, 2nd Company.
Yes, Major.
Wilhelm straightens up, meeting the eyes of his commander.
Major Braun points to the line of recruits behind him, their faces blank and strangely foreign.
You'll be in charge of these runts from now on, and I'll need you to choose the pick of this litter to join the stormtroopers.
Yes, Major.
The major claps Wilhelm on his shoulder and boldly steps up to a firing position.
He clears his throat.
Soldiers, I have some bad news.
Half an hour ago in Montpaix, at the site of this so-called parley, our representative, Colonel Hirschfelder, was assassinated by a French sniper.
Wh-What?
Helmets swivel, voices turn from sharp whispers to despair.
Nonsense! What the devil is he talking about?! How could a sniper have made it so far behind our lines!
Shh!
The major stands above the murmurs.
Soldiers! We can't let our enemies sow fear within our ranks!
Let their desperate attack bring us together and give us the strength to destroy them once and for all! They will pay in blood for what they've done!
The mingling of voices churns into an ominous hum within the trench.
What the hell! I thought this was finally going to end.
I can't. I can't even force myself to care.
With hate and rage, they scheme to destroy our fatherland! But we march against them with the strength and cunning of wolves! Will you stand with me, soldiers? Will you stand for the Kaiser and for victory?!
Yes, Major!
Very good!
You've shown me your steel, soldiers! You are the pride of the fatherland!
Victory lies ahead, ready for the taking! Now, take up your rifle and get back to your positions!
With his impromptu speech over, he drops down from the firing platform and leads a further cadre down the line.
Second Company's new recruits tote bags so heavy they look liable to sink into the mud.
The company's vets close in to offer relief.
Hey, boy, what's that you're holding? You got a fresh tin? Verbena? Sausages?
Their questions slide off the recruits, slipping down through the cracks of the boards at their feet.
Some glance up from under oversized helmets, wide eyes locking with the tattered vets.
God! Did you see the way they looked at us? It was like there was nothing behind their eyes.
Erich, did you notice ... I don't think they understood a word you said.
Shameful.
Erich throws a hand in the air, shaking his head as he walks off.
But Wilhelm musters up his sense of obligation as company commander, patting a recruit's helmet enthusiastically.
Come on, boys, follow me. I'll show you to your dugout.
Mind the gaps on the duckboards.
Wil—er, Mr. Hauptmann, perhaps first we should drill them on keeping their heads down and avoiding artillery. Remember how many comrades we lost in our first days?
Not now. First we need to ...
...!
Take cover!
Get in there! Move!
Another body slumps to the ground. A shovel bites into the earth beside it.
The sound of artillery rumbles through the woods like a distant storm.
It seems peace lies beyond our grasp.
He crouches and brushes aside some caked mud from a half-rotten arm.
He doesn't notice, or pays no heed to, the soft scrape of metal ascending up the hill.
Charon?
His hands go still. Then he rises.
...
He lingers wordlessly on the face that greets him.
You don't remember who I am?
Your presence is familiar, but faces and names come slowly. There are so many memories here. It can be difficult to tell what is ... from what was.
I'll wait a little longer next time.
Marsha turns her eyes to a stone monument placed at the base of the hill.
A slanted slab, laid flat on the ground, etched with elegant carvings.
The Patriots? Did you make this cenotaph?
A stranger brought it here. A gift for the dead.
She hands the figure a thin envelope—along with it, a handwritten note.
A message came for you, I think. From the front. It seems your major needs you to report back immediately.
Charon unfolds the note.
Yes. Soldiers must go where they are ordered.
Another thing. They're sending a new head of security to oversee the safe zone.
His name is Creius, a tall man with red hair. He'll be responsible for investigating the assassination. You can contact him if you need anything.
The Foundation has already tightened security on every road to the town. I don't think you'll run into ...
...
She appears once again on a weed-choked dirt path.
... any danger on your way back.
Raincloak, rifle, that distinctive headpiece—Marsha could never mistake her.
You're ...
Marsha steps forward, only to be blocked by the gravekeeper.
The dead rest here. They have seen enough violence.
You don't know what she did. She ...
A burst of breathy air rushes out behind clenched teeth. Though she tries to restrain herself, her hand climbs up to the sidearm at her waist.
Do you know her?
She brought the cenotaph to honor the dead.
...
The stranger walks to the monument, standing perfectly still before it and paying no heed to either of them.
She pulls a single white wild chrysanthemum from her cloak.
Her stone-like skin stands out against the soft petals.
Her skin ... It looks as if it were made of stone. And that headwear, I feel I've seen it elsewhere.
Could you possibly be ...
Then a soft rumble, grumbling chanting. Even without hearing the words, she understands what it is: prayer.
The broken shell is abandoned, granting an end to endless penance.
May thy souls travel through the arches from darkness to peace.
May thy path be unfettered by eyes of red as you reach for paradise.
The white flower is left at the foot of the stone.
...
She pauses in thought, then traces a strange shape in the air.
The ritual is over. The mourner turns and meets Marsha's guarded eyes.
We meet again, young knight.
6. A Push for Peace
103 linesThe stranger studies Marsha again.
He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty, and he that ruleth his spirit than he that taketh a city.
Pardon?
You possess remarkable self-control. A trait seldom seen.
A hint of approval, odd and unspoken, leaves Marsha unsure how to react.
My thanks. But I have a question.
As I have one for you.
Why did you kill the colonel?
Answer me likewise: why did you protect him?
Marsha gestures toward the slope to the row of crude headstones filling the ridge.
We're trying to end the war.
And I, as well.
You seem to mourn the dead, but you don't realize how far you've set us back? We were nearing a ceasefire.
Petals from pale flowers tumble by in the dry wind.
Sentinel leans forward, gently shielding the flowers from the wind with her cloak.
Six years, and the war rages still. Do you think ending bloodshed is as simple as to say: 'tis done? Have you any mind of the mission the Foundation pursues here?
Heh.
The chuckle is wry and dark.
You placed false hope on Hirschfelder. You invited a wolf into a bed of lambs.
You think his death to be the spark of a reignited war, but, even if I had stayed my hand from him, your plans would have been for naught.
The Manus scheme and the wicked prosper.
...!
Manus Vindictae. You know of their plans? Then, you're claiming that Hirschfelder was a Manus?
She lets the question linger long enough to feel unanswered, then the sniper begins.
He is not one of those devils. He is only one tool of many.
The Manus offer the gifts of Mammon and Asmodeus: greed and destruction. Hirschfelder was tempted by their technologies and became a willing servant in their schemes.
A groan rises up from the horizon, the sound of distant artillery drumming, throbbing like the heartbeat of a wounded beast.
She raises a second finger.
But others serve them unknowing, affected by an arcane skill which clouds their eyes in red mists, driven to blood and glory as a starving dog is to the hunt.
Her eyes shift to the stiff outline of a soldier she knows as Charon.
Your commander, Eberhard Braun, bears that mist.
...
It takes a moment for the words to find some impact. When he speaks again, there seems to be a change in his voice.
Then will you see that death comes to him, as you did Hirschfelder?
That is not yet certain. I do not kill without purpose.
Charon does not seem to find a reply, his mask concealing any trace of emotion.
What you just said about the Manus ... Can you confirm any of it?
The Foundation could make use of any intelligence you have. We may be able to save these peace talks.
But we will need proof.
All is vain. There is nothing new under the sun.
When I told my commander about the Manus, all I received for my effort was scorn. Their eyes were not satisfied with seeing, nor their ears with hearing. Kings and generals yet still turn a blind eye to the suffering.
If they had a shred of the light of God within them, they would never have pursued this war.
As for the Foundation ... That which is crooked cannot be made straight, and what is wanting cannot be numbered. I have no faith in them.
She looks away, pulling her cloak tighter.
That is all I have to say.
Spare him.
Charon speaks, the change in his voice now more acute, more vivid, and more personal.
Eberhard Braun. I need you to spare his life.
Neither mercy nor vengeance is mine to give.
"It is officially 1920. I wonder at other people's impressions of this war; from what I've seen, there are two contrasting views—though in various forms—one of heroism and the other, sadness."
"There is one truth which I have found bridges both of these visions, despite how cruel it may sound—'This war is the prelude of a new era.'"
"I have to believe that ... Because if this death and destruction so unparalleled in history does not herald change, then there is no hope for humanity."
How bleak.
The leader of the "XII" stands on the streets of Montpaix, looking over where Colonel Hirschfelder was killed.
By the time he arrives, all other military forces have withdrawn. Only the Foundation remains on site to guard the ruins of the town.
Blackbird, give me a hand.
As soon as I finish my bread, Beagle.
His team has already begun shoring up the town's defenses. Their line pulled back to just a corner of the street.
There are 122 armed personnel available at your disposal, sir. 23 of them are arcanists.
I've brought you their profiles.
He takes the personnel file from the security staff member, eyes shifting toward the makeshift HQ flying the Foundation flag.
Right then. I'll read through these. Now get back to your position. I need eyes on our command post.
Yes, sir.
The staff member walks away. And in the same moment, a curiously armored field medic approaches.
Marsha, is it?
You recognize me, Mr. Creius?
I read your report on my way here. You're the one that encountered our sniper. Twice now, I hear.
Correct. I have some additional details about my encounters. The first is that I appear to have been followed out into the forest the first time. I was warned on my device just after the shooting.
Never mind that. What about the other thing?
That doesn't concern you? Fine. The other thing is that I have reason to believe our sniper is a Gargoyle.
A Gargoyle?
There are records of Gargoyles participating in this war as part of arcane skill response units.
They're able to petrify their bodies at will, making them immune to small-caliber arms, and I believe they're able to render themselves undetectable.
Sounds as if you've fought them before.
The assumption pierces her more cleanly than any bullet, but she forces the emotion down, giving an answer as truthful as she can bear.
You could say that.
It would go far to explain how she managed to enter Montpaix without being noticed. I'll have to ask HQ to send us a counter-arcanum device.
She shot the colonel, but then slipped out, leaving our own agents unharmed. We can't be sure of anything, but we can't rule out that she may possess reliable intel about the Manus.
Rushed footsteps interrupt Creius's thoughts.
Mr. Creius?
The newcomer is obviously out of place—the sort of well-dressed that usually comes with fanfare.
I am Georg Kramer from the Inter-Factional Committee. I've come on behalf of the parliament to start another round of negotiation with the Foundation.
Didn't you get the message? The parley has been canceled, Mr. Kramer. Seems there's no more room for negotiations.
My job now is to investigate the possible involvement of Manus Vindictae.
The visitor steps forward. Though he lowers his voice, a trace of urgency and excitement leaks through.
Precisely what I'm here for, sir.
We received a warning from the Foundation that Manus Vindictae has infiltrated our armed forces and is attempting to usurp our rightful authority. I am worried this may be true.
I do not intend to lie, sir; Germany lies on the verge of total collapse. Both politically and rationally speaking, we have no reason to continue this war.
Yet it seems our army command is out of control; they are determined to drive this war to its bitter end regardless of the misery and death they're causing. And I have reason to believe the Manus are behind it.
I take it Army Command is not aware of your visit then, Mr. Kramer.
The observation is sharp, to the point, and, quite obviously, correct.
Perhaps to reassert some authority, the man arches his shoulders back, adopting an almost regal pose.
I represent the majority of the parliament, sir, as well as the office of the Imperial Chancellor.
We are united now. All we need is some hard evidence.
If it can be proven to His Imperial Majesty and to the chancellor that Army Command has been infiltrated by this Manus cult, I am certain we will have the authority to end this.
So, you're asking me to share the result of my investigation to root out the rotten apples in your army.
I am, sir. We'll do everything we can to restart the parley once we take control.
His head bows deep and serious, though the sudden winter wind tosses his hair and collar out of place.
He pulls in a deep breath.
And we're willing to reach a ceasefire on certain conditions. I assure you I'm not just saying this because of my stance ...
For the sake of my country and its people, this war must be stopped.
7. Under the Veil
139 lines"In the first three months, I had no idea who I was fighting or what lay on the other side of the trenches. It was as if there were a black wall standing between us and our enemy."
"They could attack at any time. I can't sleep. I don't want to die. I don't want to see their faces. I don't want to know what our enemy looks like. And worst of all, I don't know why."
By the time Charon returns to the trenches, the most recent bombardment has already ended. A trench can never really be called calm, but the rattle of machine guns and the crack of rifles slow and fade into the background.
The shelling hasn't changed much—a few new craters to replace the old ones.
Ah so, you're back, mailman. Tell us, where did you take little Franz?
He lies beneath stone in a silent wood and marches no more.
Erich grunts out a reply. He's standing in Franz's boots—freshly shined.
Hmph. I bet Mr. Willi you'd take the opportunity to keep walking and never come back. Lucky me.
Where is he?
He's dead. I guess you'll call me "Mr. Captain" now.
Erich casts his eyes to a new crater decorating their trench.
He caught a shell. Just like that.
Erich's face pales and then runs flush red, throbbing veins straining out along his forehead.
Lucky me. Unlucky him. That bastard!
He rushes to Charon, grabbing him by the collar.
He died, and now who do I pay up to? Why'd you even bother coming back? We have enough ghosts in this goddamn trench!
Erich pulls Charon up and tosses him against the trench wall.
You waltz through here whenever you like just to take away our brothers. You bury them. Why? Why do you get to return and they stay dead? Are you mocking us?
Charon slumps but does not fall, making no effort to fight against Erich's strength.
Death does not mock. Nor can it stop its return. It is as helpless as any other soldier to do his duty.
What fate lies ahead of us is unknown; its winding path cannot be seen until we step through it. None choose the hour when death finds us.
S**t!
A curse, flat and empty, and just like that, the fire and fury are gone from him.
Soldiers walk by, look away, and continue their work. A hundred pairs of eyes, and each of them numb to the chaotic scene.
I just want to keep myself in one piece when my time comes. Better make sure I look good for my funeral, alright? Now, off you go.
Sir, there's movement coming from no man's land.
The spotter interrupts their standoff, handing Erich a trench periscope.
What?
Erich grabs the scope and crouches up to a nearby parapet.
Hmm, that's just two soldiers. Could it be a trench raid?
I don't think so, Mr. Captain. Why would they go over the top in broad daylight? Look, they're waving their arms.
Huh? What are they doing? Wait, their hands are wrapped in bandages.
Is that a problem?
Erich returns the periscope to the spotter.
Keep your eye on them, soldier. I think I know what's going on.
The living walk over dead men's ground.
Deserters, I'll bet. I heard some soldiers used to shoot their own palms so they could be sent back to the rear. But they reward that kind of cowardice with bullets nowadays.
Do they come seeking death or life?
With all the officers keeping their heads low, maybe they decided they don't want to do the punishing themselves? Just kick these poor bastards out of the trench and tell them to walk till they drop.
...
Old and new memories intertwine in Charon's mind, forming an incomplete but certain thought.
They do not march to us as warriors but as broken men.
You're right. Pass it down the line. Does anyone here speak French?
Yes. A little. I took some French back in school.
Hurry, hurry! Say something!
Yes, Mr. Captain.
The spotter presses his head against the sandbags, trying to project his voice through the firing slit.
Hey, you, over there!
…?!
Let go of your—er—weapons and ... ah—just come here!
We ...
What the ...!
Goddamn! Who the hell shot him?
Voices carry from around the trench line.
What are you waiting for, soldier?
The major's face is ashen and stiff.
I killed him.
Rudolph stammers out the words, lying propped up against a sandbag, wisps of gray smoke lingering out from his shaking rifle.
His glasses are thick as a church window, and still he's the best marksman in the company.
And the other bastard's still standing! Are you blind?
But Mr. Major, he's surrendered. He ... dropped his weapon.
It's a trap, you idiot! They have a bomb or some kind of infectious disease!
Do you want to keep him, soldier? You going to share your rations with him?
Mr. Major, we're supposed to accept all prisoners. There are camps to send them to ... or even the safe zone.
...!
He pulls his pistol and points it at the marksman's chest.
That was an order, soldier. You are to shoot that foreign devil, or I'll send you out to test if their snipers are as spineless as you are.
I-I ...
Major.
Rasping voices ripple down the trench as bodies make way for a figure moving like a charge in slow motion.
Major Braun turns toward the sound.
Charon? What took you so long? Don't you know I could have you shot for dereliction of duty?
Punish the guilty then, but the man that stands alone is innocent. Spare him.
The statement is stunning in its sharpness. Defiance is not a trait Major Braun has come to expect from him.
You are not entitled to challenge my authority, sergeant.
His war is over. His blood should not water these fields.
Cowards!
Major Braun strides forward in a single step, boots thudding against the trench's wooden planks.
Bastard!
You're just like those foreigners, poisoning the hearts of our youth with feckless sentimentality—your weakness, this fatalism—is a plague spreading through our ranks!
That man over there is a threat to our fatherland, yet you plead for his life!
A single unblinking stare sweeps over the gathered soldiers, cowing each man into silence.
I won't let this cowardice ruin our nation! We will keep fighting until no man alive stands against us! Only through their blood and our tireless sacrifice will we grow fearless and retrieve the glory of our birthright!
There is no glory for the dead, Eberhard. Only suffering, guilt, and regret for those that remain.
No courage is found in the blood of the innocent, only stains that can never be washed out.
Nonsense!
I remember, you, Major Braun, my old friend, would never say these things.
What lies were whispered in your ears by Manus Vindictae?
Shut up! That's slander! Who told you that?
I ... do not slander you, Mr. Major.
Explain yourself. Explain all of this!
The man roars, and for a second time, Charon is slammed against the trench wall.
Lies—Manus Vindictae—what do you mean?
These are not your eyes.
Answer me!
But this man's fire does not temper. It bursts.
Charon reacts too slowly to evade the pistol as it is smashed across his head.
...!
Major Braun's eyes are fixed on the pistol in his hand, anger replaced with shock.
Charon, now wounded, raises his hand to meet his bowed head. Beneath the "curtain," something seems to crack.
...
Raise your head, sergeant.
Eberhard ...
Do not call me that! I am your superior officer. Damn! Obey my orders!
It should not have been this way.
He raises his head. The movement is heavy and labored.
A hollow and foreboding presence seems to fill the trench around them.
Good heavens ...
No! Your face. Cover it now!
Do you remember the fear as bombs exploded by our sides, the pain when our brothers moaned out their last breaths? Have you forgotten, or have you only hardened your heart?
This war is ... *cough* sacrifice is necessary for a nation to make progress.
Every soldier who has died for the fatherland should feel honored for their sacrifice! You should have been honored, Paul—
We do not speak of sacrifice now.
...!
Death is not honored—death knows no ceremony, it holds no virtues, it is emptiness and void.
You have become so numb to death that you laugh as it walks among us. It is so close to you that you have mistaken it for life, Eberhard.
There is nothing to be gained from this war that will pay for what we have already lost.
You ... want me dead ... then kill me ... do it.
I ... Ugh ...
The other soldiers huddle to the side.
Major Braun collapses to the ground. His eyes swirl and then go blank, looking up and nowhere at the same time. His face is bone white and stiff as a corpse.
Charon kneels over him and closes his eyes. A motion all too familiar to those watching.
S**t! What the hell just happened?
Rudolph peeks out from the crowd, managing a question both timid and brave.
Is Major Braun dead? Charon, you didn't ...
Did you?
Charon stands, deliberately facing away from the crowd, replacing his mask and hood with careful precision.
He will live. We will leave here together.
You have command, Erich. Make the right choices.
I don't want you to see what lies beneath. Please, look away.
Words bulge at the edge of Erich's lips, but he swallows them back.
All others stand stunned and silent as Charon departs with Major Braun in tow.
*tut*
Alright. Someone grab that deserter. I'll search him.
Show's over. Move it, soldiers! That poor sap is still waiting. Get moving!
8. Death of the Young
116 linesHeh. Don't worry so much, Paul! We'll find glory on the battlefield! No man can stop us as long as we stick together!
Come on, let's join the war and prove ourselves to Mr. Mühlenberge. Think how proud your parents will be—their son, a war hero!
Eberhard!
Goddamn! Where's Dieterich?
He and Baethke are dead! Grab that gun. We need to go! Move!
Do you think we'll win, Paul?
I don't know, my friend. I think I just want to go home.
Dieterich, Baethke, and Elvin ... What did they die for if we just give up?
Hang in there, Paul! The only way to make their sacrifice count is to win!
We promised we'd go home together! Paul ... Paul!
Major, the past is in the past. You can't change anything by letting yourself be overcome by sorrow.
Don't forget that victory is the only thing that matters, and we can give it to you.
Give it to me? How?
I'll make you a true hero, one without fear or hesitation.
Smoke and blood fade into the distance.
Eberhard lies on a wooden board dragged by some unseen force.
*cough*
He swallows air like a drowning man, and immediately the foul stench of decay fills his lungs.
The dragging stops.
You're awake.
Paul?
But the man behind the mask says nothing. He only offers a hand.
Ah. My head ... It hurts.
Eberhard struggles to adjust to his surroundings, taking a long time to find focus.
Where are you taking me?
Montpaix. The Foundation may have some cure for the spell you have fallen under.
No ... No ...
Still dazed after the ordeal, he can only mutter in denial.
He looks around, searching for something to brace against, eventually finding the ground. He takes off his hat and scratches at his straw-like golden hair.
I ... Good heavens. What did I do?
He still can't find his breath, each gasp of air only making the choking sensation worse.
That deserter ... I ordered Rudolph to pull the trigger. But I was the one who killed him.
The other lives. Erich saw to that.
He wasn't the only one. So many have died, and I was the one that sent them to their deaths.
Eberhard lowers his head, holding his gaze at a small patch of soil beneath him.
Charon watches him, adjusting his dark cloak.
Do you remember, Paul? There was a poem by Goethe, no, Schiller maybe? Ah, those days at school feel like a fairy tale now.
Mr. Mühlenberge asked you and Dieterich to write it out on the blackboard. You two didn't even know where to start. I remember I thought he was going to snap you both in two.
Just a few months later, we were here. Dieterich died that very first day.
...
Do you remember how we cried that night? We thought it would be the saddest day of our lives.
...
We ran out of tears before anything else.
...
I'm cold, Paul.
A fear long absent is growing inside you again. Hold on to it. You'll warm up.
...
Eberhard clenches his teeth and braces himself.
This is the place you found, isn't it? Where Franz was buried.
He lies below us.
There are so many graves, but I'm still alive. Why, Paul, why am I not lying among them?
The living speak of luck. The rest are silent.
The answer doesn't satisfy, but the lone survivor cannot find a new question. After a long silence, he speaks again.
I wish I could forget it all now. If I didn't know what happened, I wouldn't—No, no, it's, it's not right for me to ask that ...
But I am still alive. Is there anything I can do for them?
That isn't a question for the dead. I can't tell you what to do, Eberhard.
Eberhard reaches into his coat pocket but finds it empty. He stifles a helpless grunt.
You mentioned Manus Vindictae.
You remember.
...
What about the Foundation? You talked to them too, right? Do you really think they can stop this war?
They pursue peace, but it cannot be found by their efforts alone.
He turns from the hill to the woods. Through the thicket and further lies the town of Montpaix.
Eberhard closes his eyes and waits for his thoughts to settle.
Come on. Let's go see Montpaix again.
I was about to pay a visit to Mr. Mühlenberge when someone from Army Command said the colonel wanted to see me.
I was taken to a meeting room with many other officers. I recognized them. I knew many had just been promoted like me.
Colonel Hirschfelder showed up to give us a speech—yes, yes, the same colonel who was assassinated after the parley.
"The time has come when our nation calls for heroes," he said, "with our foremost goal to create a prosperous new world for our children."
"We have fought valiantly, and now the war turns in our favor. We stand but one step away from total victory, yet it is at this very moment that our soldiers have lost their courage."
"They waste their time looting every barn, cellar, and shed in search of treasure and drink to numb their fears, delaying our operations."
"Their greed and cowardice have spread through our army like a malignant tumor. Fortunately, we have found a cure."
"An organization that believes in the promise of our victory has provided us with an extraordinary development ..."
That's all I remember. I don't have a mind for technology, but it just washed the fear off me.
Thinking about it now, we must have been like lab rats to them. As soon as they finished their ritual, we became so sure of our victory that we began yelling and singing as one. We were just fresh-faced boys again, thirsty for a war we'd forgotten.
The hiss of static echoes through the spacious room, then fades.
I think that's enough for now. That was a recording from a German major we encountered in Montpaix.
I intend to submit a report with full details, including his entire statement and an explanation for our inquiries.
The head of the frontline investigation quiets, awaiting further instructions from the decision makers at the rear.
Manus Vindictae is moving quicker than any of us could've imagined.
But none of these makes sense.
Pedra has returned from the front, still shaken from the assassination attempt.
If they came to this era at the same time as we did, how could they have already infiltrated the military higher-ups in such a short time?
We've already theorized that Arcana may now possess the power to rewrite history.
Which means going forward. Any records from history as we once knew it will be unreliable for estimating their strength.
...
Pedra falls into heavy silence.
Pedra, what were the other representatives' opinions concerning Manus Vindictae?
They all denied its existence.
I see. It seems as though we're left with no other option but to change policies.
No. We can't resort to such radical measures.
The Doves' representative states his position in advance.
The Foundation risks alienating any potential allies if we act too aggressively now. This war will not be the end of our fight. We will need to rely on their cooperation in the future.
And that requires trust and a sense of security.
On the subject of governments, I have some news to report.
Creius's voice resurfaces in the conference hall.
A man of the Inter-Factional Committee paid a secret visit to Montpaix, hoping to obtain intel about the Manus.
A secret visit?
As a fellow politician, Pedra immediately grasps the true intent behind their visit.
What did they say? Do they intend to use our intel against the heads of their Army Command?
You've guessed it. If their government manages to rein in the army, it'll be much easier to reach a ceasefire.
But if anyone were to find out, we might be accused of interfering in their internal affairs. Have you considered that, Creius?
Officially, the Foundation never made any contact with their government. All I did was have a candid conversation with a man about my concerns for his people.
He stresses one key detail.
At any rate, they haven't any reason to expose their cooperation with us.
There are simply too many uncertainties to consider.
The politician, accustomed to checks and balances, catches the implication of a factional dispute.
History will only be restored to its rightful track if the peaceful factions on each side can rise to power and stop this war. This has been our goal from the beginning.
It doesn't matter which era we end up in. We always benefit from a political climate that is friendly to the Foundation. That's undeniable.
What do you think, Pedra?
...
He removes his glasses and rubs his eyes.
I might be able to persuade some of the other Committee members to support this proposal. If we're certain of this course of action, then we'll have to provide intel to those seeking peace in all governments involved.
Good. No faction should put their own goals above those of the Foundation's.
We'll need more to verify that major's statement. Send investigators to search other regions and report everything they see. Creius, continue your investigation. Follow every possible lead.
Understood. We'll dig up whatever they have buried.
9. Paths Crossed
92 linesNight falls, and creatures stir.
...
Not far away, there is another shadow hiding in the forest. Under the cover of night, perhaps he would be taken for a withered tree trunk.
But Gargoyles belong to the night. They recognize one another with ease in the dimness.
A man is proclaimed guilty, and for this he is condemned to death, denied even the justice of a trial. His execution came as a wind, silencing him ere he might utter a word of repentance.
And this thou wouldst call righteousness?
Leave me be, Ladislas.
She shrugs the heavy question off.
Hast thou reflected on thine actions? Meeting eye for eye and tooth for tooth. Is it justice or vengeance still?
Do you think so little of me? That I would call it "justice" even were it not so? Blame me then, cousin. Damn and condemn me. I care not.
Never would I damn thee, cousin. For it is thy soul for which I am most concerned. I fear it doth wither with every act of malice.
Hark and listen well. Dost thou forget the nature of our unholy ancestry? We art the kin of demons. A thousand years hence, and their malevolence yet floweth thickened in our veins, and their whispers pricketh still our ears in the silence.
Then answer me this question, dear cousin. You stand before the scales of a balance. On one pan, the lives of ten men, and on the other, a hundred. If you had the power to shift its weight to save the many, would you?
A question that is heavy-laced with blasphemies. Hast thou already bent thine ear to the devils' lies?
Answer me, cousin. Elsewise, there is nothing more that needs be said.
Ladislas furrows his brow and lowers his head, lips motioning the words of a prayer.
Silence? Are you truly so naive? The scales are lain far heavier for those in the throes of war, yet you have not even the courage to answer a simple question. I'm afraid you have mistaken your weakness for virtue.
Go back to the monastery, Ladislas. This is war, red in tooth and claw, and your heart proves too quick to kindle.
Ladislas vanishes into the dark with a sigh, his form melting into the night.
The Gargoyle soldier leans against a tree for a brief rest. In the crook of its branches, she begins to slowly turn to stone.
You are again at odds, it seems.
A voice rings in her ears. It speaks without a source, coming from neither place nor person.
'Twas not a battle I sought.
Our cousin is more learned than either of we two, but he lacks in courage compared to thee—most daring of us all.
I do not deny his learnedness. But there are neither letters nor prose that might aid my mission.
Thou burnest too short a wick, and the flames of perdition rise to meet thee. I fear for thee, Marie. That thou go forth to a battle that will consume thee, whether in defeat or in triumph.
Massel, Anthoine, and Yvonne ... They once promised to return as thou didst. Yet they fell all the same, each after the last. Yvonne was taken before she had even tasted battle.
Let remorse consume me if it must. But God willing, I will see the end of this war first. Ere then, the fear of regret will not stay me.
Not now.
And perhaps, on that day when peace finally comes, you will return to us?
The voice vanishes in the night's breeze. She would not hear it again this night.
...
She shakes off the scales of stone and resumes the march toward her next lead.
Paravyan lays out a local strategic map over the table.
Creius picks up a handful of bullets, placing the first on Montpaix.
Major Braun was able to recall some of the locations that may have been used by the Manus. His coordinates aren't what anyone would call precise, so we'd best start searching ASAP.
Chester, you'll take the forest. Caspa will be expecting you on the edge.
One bullet stands upright on a spot marked as forest.
On it.
Camila, Lee, you'll search from here and move along the river.
Will get it done, sir.
Each new order is marked by another round placed upright on the table.
Charles, Amanda, you're on Hill 299. You'll need to cross no man's land to get there. Make sure you establish your identity with both sides in advance to avoid friendly fire.
Understood.
...
The crowded room empties order by order, bullet by bullet, until only the last round remains.
Paravyan.
Yes, sir.
I want you on this village. Take Marsha with you. She's a skilled combatant as well as a medic. You can count on each other.
Yes, sir.
Paravyan exits, leaving one person remaining without orders.
The young soldier locks eyes with her superior, an unspoken relief written on her face.
So, does that mean I'll remain on standby in Montpaix?
Yes. I need someone coordinating the defense of this town should the Manus attack.
Oh. Uhm ...
Relief turns into dread.
Is this it?
I believe so. Let's get on with it.
The village around them still carries the signs of lush wilderness and gentle fields. A place of abundance and safety, once.
Watch my six.
The two draw weapons and enter from the side.
The investigators are not stopped in any way, and if they hadn't been instructed to do so, they would have just treated this place as another forgotten remnant of better days.
This place is empty. It's heartbreaking to see it so quiet.
We're ahead of schedule. Let's start by checking the houses one by one.
Only some letters I can't read. I guess they didn't have time to post them before they left.
There were some small arms in the basement, all of them older models and rusty. The ammo was damp.
Marsha holds her gaze on an empty warehouse.
This place had to have been looted more than a few times. The only valuables left are the ones too heavy to move.
So, basically, there's nothing here. What do the Manus want it for?
She shakes her head in frustration.
I was rushed through the investigator training before being sent to Montpaix.
It's possible I missed something.
The young man tries to console her, but his smile is stiff.
Don't worry. You're doing fine. Mr. Creius always says training is no match for experience.
Blackbird is a prime example, I mean Merel. You met her back in Montpaix.
She's been through all the training the Foundation could throw at her, but she still isn't ready for the battlefield. I probably shouldn't say, but she nearly went mental during the Antarctic operation.
The battlefield is crueler than ordinary people can imagine. A few weeks of military training just isn't enough.
Paravyan follows the topic and broaches a question he's long been holding back.
So, what's your deal? I know you came from some Order with special arcane training.
You can "freeze" your fear and pain—emotional stuff—during battle until you feel safe?
I only skimmed through the briefing. Is that right?
It's more complicated than that. But I'm not sure I'd like to get into it now.
Yeah, sure. Sorry.
No need to apologize. Just ... do you think we missed anything?
Well, let's take a minute.
What could they even possibly hide here? Arms, chemical weapons, secret files, or gear smuggled back from the future?
I don't know much about Manus Vindictae or the future.
There's a sudden ear-splitting pop, followed by a thundering explosion as rocks spatter across her armor.
Incoming!
Armored vehicle, 200 meters northwest of the village! Take cover!
10. Devil's Work
109 linesThick, acrid smoke billows from the wreckage of the armored vehicle.
*cough*
Marsha braces herself on a pile of debris, all at once letting herself feel the sharp tearing pain in her shoulder.
She looks across the road. Just ahead, the young man is pinned under a heavy beam.
Stay put, Marsha. You're bleeding.
I can ... I can get myself out.
Paravyan strains with all his strength but can't move the timber an inch.
We're all clear. Let me help you.
Don't fuss over me. It's just a bit of wood. You need to stay put. Your head and shoulder are bleeding!
What? Am I hurt?
Marsha staggers to her feet.
Ugh, I'm feeling faint.
She reaches for the top of her head.
It seems you're right. I'm bleeding profusely from several wounds. That's what I get for suppressing all my pain.
Ah so, just a little shrapnel. Nothing too serious.
Treat your wounds first, Marsha.
Understood.
She leans back on a pile of fallen bricks, her head swaying until it slumps.
I'll be alright. I just need a little rest.
...
...?
Her gaze lifts up to a pair of boots.
Then, the sizeable barrel of an anti-tank rifle.
Who ...
She looks up.
...
You again ...
She struggles to her feet.
Sit.
Um ...
Her legs buckle, leaving her braced up against the debris.
You saved us. Thank you.
What brought you here?
Collecting intel on Manus Vindictae.
Have you no reckoning on the danger in this place?
...
Marsha shakes her head.
Idiot. You might well have breathed your last in that battle.
Let go!
...?
Who's out there?
Sentinel turns, spotting a figure emerging from the armored vehicle's smoking shell.
Let me go! You're gonna get me killed!
At his feet lies a wounded soldier in the same black uniform.
No! Sterling ... Please ...
...!
The wounded man's cries are cut short. Sterling turns two manic bloodshot eyes toward the advancing sniper.
F**k!
...
A bullet strikes the Gargoyle clean through her abdomen, but it draws no blood. Instead, chips of stony debris fall out from the wound.
What the hell? You goddamn monster!
The man's eyes go wider still as he turns to flee.
Heh.
She does not give chase. She walks to Paravyan and lifts the beam from his body.
*cough*
Thanks. Who are you? Are you with the Foundation?
The young man finds his answer in her grim and stony face.
*panting*
Are we the only ones left? Where's Kolten?
Dead! Now get the lead out and run!
She's coming at us! She's coming! Shoot her, Eugen, shoot her!
I ... I can't see her. Where are we running?
Look, there's an old mill ahead! We'll regroup there to intercept her—keep running, you idiot!
I see her now. She's there.
Die!
Ugh!
You idiot!
Ugh. Ahhhh! My hand!
An old windmill lies just ahead—refuge, in his panicked mind.
Urgh ... Huff ...
For the wicked flee, and I pursueth.
...!
Another bullet strikes her shoulder and glances off in another spray of stone.
Why won't you die? You devil!
What hast thou done? The voice of thy brother's blood crieth unto me from the ground.
You who discord between nations and plot schemes for the undoing of man. Who then is your master?
She steps closer.
For if you do the devil's work, are you not a devil like me? I pity you. Repent and you may yet find mercy in the judgment of the Lord.
And now art thou cursed from the earth,
What the hell do you want? Back off!
Sterling, isn't it? You need not fear me. You still have time.
Ahhhhh!
Which hath opened her mouth to receive thy brother's blood from thy hand.
Repent, and you may yet be saved. Speak.
What are you talking about? What do you want from me?
When thou tillest the ground, it shall not henceforth yield unto thee her strength.
*coughing*
...
The soldier tumbles to the ground; as he scrambles, he launches into a desperate prayer.
Answer me. For what purpose does Manus Vindictae drive the world to war and ruin?
Mother of Resurrection, the Guiding One ...
...?
The prayer follows a pattern she knows by heart, yet the name he speaks is strange.
Please have mercy on your humble servant. I pray for a miracle—a ladder into your eternal kingdom.
I hereby offer my life to you. Please save me from desperation and take me to the golden era.
A fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be in the earth.
He saves the last bullet for himself.
...!
...
11. Wounds and Scars
105 linesFix bayonets!
For Victory!
Charge!
Damn! Their cavalry's returned!
Hold the line! I'll shoot any coward that runs!
You, you're from the Arcane Support Company? Go get that monster!
...
She can't remember how she did it—perhaps her enemies were as exhausted as she was, or perhaps it was just the devil's luck.
Ugh!
Struggling, fighting purely by instinct, she holds her heavily armored foe at bay.
*cough*
Time crawls to a standstill; her bayonet is stopped mere centimeters from her foe's throat by two armored fists.
Dost thou recall when once, in our youth, we fought over an apple tree?
Let go of me!
No, damn it!
Thou wished to cut its wood and make us a fire to roast a chicken.
Umm ...
But I rebuked thee. For I believed the tree would bear fruit, and it would be the sweeter bounty of the two.
*panting*
Thou didst find a bush with over-ripened berries and hurled them at me, crying that they should serve as my supper, while the chicken would be for thee alone. And I retaliated in kind.
But ...!
Ere long, we were painted red with juice.
Ah!
"What a bloody melee we fight!" We laughed as we laid down our arms. What fun we had that day.
No. I don't want to ...
But the battle thou fightest now shall not end in the gentle smears of red berries. What drives humanity to war? Could it be so different from what drove us to it beneath that apple tree?
...
I dare not imagine how a slaughter that has claimed the lives of millions could be waged for so small a cause.
That we should be brought to bloodshed, driven only by the fear of those whom we were taught to despise.
What immortal hand or eye could frame the cause behind these deadly ends?
Thou art more courageous than I, Marie. Never hast thou doubted thy conviction. So tell me, I pray ...
Is there some purpose in the war they now fight?
For I see no divine meaning to be found in this killing and dying.
...
Small-caliber rounds pose no real threat to her rocky exterior, but that does little to reduce the pain.
And healing comes slowly.
Agnès?
No response. That was expected. But what she had not expected was the next voice.
Who's Agnès?
She ... Matters not. But what brings you here?
I'm taking you somewhere safe. Paravyan—that young man who came with me—is back at the village. He'll continue with our search.
Before you ask, I'm doing fine. Like you, I'm made of sterner stuff.
She rotates her arm, looking as if her wounds had all but disappeared.
I checked over your wounds, but I have no earthly idea what to do with this gravel. I know how to treat flesh, not stone.
But that wound won't be a problem for you, will it?
No. Ugh ...
Her physical pain is bearable. But the lingering echoes of her nightmare cause her to grit her teeth.
Were you dreaming? It seemed like a nightmare.
...
She locks her stare forward and away. There's field dressing for the wounds that truly pain her.
I don't know if this will help.
She removes her gloves. It's a brisk and almost tender motion,
revealing deep slashing cuts across her palms.
I am. But that battle is long over. You and I are no longer enemies.
The howls of their deadly melee still ring in her ears.
It was a senseless fight. I hurt you.
It wasn't your fault.
In fact, I thank you for it. They thought I died fighting you—I used that as my opportunity to leave.
For some time after that, I was with an international rescue team. We came under attack by the Manus for our efforts, but the Foundation intervened.
Wait, then you remember me?
Marsha nods, a gentle, graceful motion, carrying the reassurance of a doctor at her patient's bedside.
And you didn't. I was wearing a helmet. But you don't have a face one forgets.
She repeats it, stressing the syllables as if to remember it.
Tell me, then, what do you know about Manus Vindictae?
They are a secret organization open to only pure-blooded arcanists. Simply put, their goal is to cause as much chaos as possible and eventually destroy all of human society.
And this "Mother of Resurrection" is like a god to them?
Something like that, yes. She died once, but they managed to resurrect her through some awful ritual.
A resurrected madwoman?
Her disdain curdles into hatred. Fingers clench, like she's trying to crush something in midair.
Then she is a false prophet, an imposter of the true resurrection.
Marsha seizes the opportunity to move to her side.
The war between the Foundation and Manus Vindictae has lasted ages—longer, even, than this war.
You and the Foundation share the same goals, and the intelligence you gathered may prove crucial for us.
If you would be willing to share it, we may be able to reach a truce sooner. So, please mull it over.
Sentinel bows her head, giving her rifle a rough once-over.
She wipes away some of the blood and dirt that cakes the receiver, then one by one slots new rounds into its magazine.
My search into Manus Vindictae began at the turn of 1918. Their documents, personal belongings, letters ... I sought and scrounged for every clue that might be found.
From these, I learned of their mission to prolong this bloodshed, supplying both sides with arms of dreadful artifice. Then as now, I still do not understand why.
I brought my evidence before the powers of my nation, but they cared not. So, I spoke out against them, still hoping they might awaken to this madness.
But my words went unheeded. Worse, they turned against me, hiding even the very name of Manus Vindicate from all their publications and letters.
There is no longer any truth in the words they print; only lies meant to stir the pride of youth to deadly, pointless slaughter ... youths who were but children when the war began.
That is why I have turned to this—to killing the ones who incited this war. It was the only choice I had left.
Perhaps it has all been for naught, but at least I have put deeds to words. What has the Foundation done?
The accusation forces her into a stammering defense.
We have done more than you know. But I'm not authorized to tell you.
You expect me to offer all I know to you, yet still withhold your trust.
I'm sorry. No, I suppose that isn't fair of us. If there is anything we can offer in exchange to make a deal, I'll ...
But her efforts lose steam.
I'll try my best to honor it. But I can't guarantee anything.
A cold breeze cuts the stillness between them.
Sentinel lets out a slow and labored breath.
I will give nothing to the Foundation, neither freely nor for any bargain.
...
But you, Marsha—you have my trust.
...!
Marsha lights up at her patient's declaration.
Follow me.
Oh. Of course!
12. A Fractured Sanctuary
142 linesAn armored vehicle?
The driver was a Manus. They're not just supplying the war anymore.
There's a pause before the Hawks' leader speaks through the receiver.
What do you think that means, Creius?
Both sides are gathered in the same room, listening to the reports from the front lines.
Creius lets out a soft, rueful chuckle, though he does not let it betray the seriousness of his words.
That the Manus have decided to build themselves an army.
That seems likely.
In that case, we must prepare immediately for a response. Zeno's main force is still at the eastern front. They won't be able to reinforce us if anything happens here.
The Foundation will need an army of its own.
That's completely irresponsible.
A calm voice cuts through the speculation.
It will only increase the tension on this front, and it directly violates our peace policy.
Manus Vindictae takes in only pure-blooded arcanists. That doesn't make for a large recruitment pool. It won't be much of an army, really.
To say nothing of the fact that they lack the organization or discipline that is needed for a true large-scale military operation. Armies need human leadership.
You forgot to take Arcana into consideration, Pedra. You don't know what she can do to her followers with her new power.
Whatever the case, we cannot take anything for granted. The Foundation will need the strength to defend itself from future attacks by the Manus. If we act quickly, we may even get ahead of things.
I'd like to see what the Committee will think of this plan. I hope they'll have a better grasp of the consequences.
You're not seeing the board, Pedra.
The communicator struggles to transmit the two leaders' heated exchange.
Creius, on the other end, stays quiet, professional, obedient.
Before long, the mediator takes over the line.
We can't rule out the possibility of a large-scale conflict. However, the Committee will maintain its peace policy until we have reliable evidence.
And if the worst happens?
Then we'll do what we must to survive, even if that means igniting a worldwide war.
We have arrived.
I see ...
The glow of arcane skills fades as they approach, revealing their hidden sanctuary.
It is or was an abbey, appropriately gothic, with ornate stone walls rising up to meet the air—its dome long collapsed.
This monastery ... It's not an arcane creation, is it?
No. It has only been enchanted with our arcane skill "Carthusians."
Beneath its protection, those that dwell here will go unnoticed by any who pass near.
...
A Gargoyle dressed in friar's robes walks barefoot on the grass. He looks up from his book to meet the new arrivals.
Greetings. I'm Marsha, Investigator of the St. Pavlov Foundation.
The friar nods, offering a smile soft and friendly, then extends a finger and presses it to his lips.
Oh, I see. Have you made a vow of silence?
"Kra-ka—"
The sound of breaking rock draws her eyes away.
...?
Beneath a broken narrow window, a stone statue of a woman begins to stir, its surface softening into flesh.
Her face is marked by twisted sorrow as she walks toward Sentinel with an exaggerated gait.
Marie, my sweetie, thou hast returned to us again! But oh! Child, thou needest rest.
She just pulls Marianne into a tight embrace and plants a series of deep kisses on her cheeks.
...
Sentinel endures the affection with as much grit as she did the bullets.
And this is a friend?
The woman turns to Marsha, her eyes now pooling with greater sadness.
Oh, poor child.
The hug comes too quick to dodge and too sturdy to resist, pulling Marsha into a breathtaking embrace.
Ugh ...
One second. Two seconds. Three seconds—
The smothering hospitality at last abates, and Marsha takes a deep breath of fresh air, taking in the pleasant scent of grass and wildflowers.
*panting*
Our Marie hast ever been tireless in her toils. 'Tis a shame that she never permits us to aid her. Am I truly too aged to be of service?
Oh, but perhaps my age hath eclipsed my wisdom. For I have thus far been an unwelcoming host. Allow me to brew you some tea.
She leaves with singular purpose and surprising speed.
My aunt is a gentle soul. She came by here one year ago, not fearing the danger, saying she must take care of everyone left in the family.
That old lump of stone that greeted us came here to take refuge with his brother after they were injured last year.
She hangs her head with resignation.
Only a small number of my kind dwell here. Many of us remain divided by the war.
Enjoy my aunt's hospitality. I shall go now to collect what you seek.
She lets herself relax only a moment before noticing the stone-faced Gargoyles that look down at her from a dozen perches.
A thought crawls under her skin.
Hello?
She spins around in place, meeting the unblinking eyes of each statue, stopping on the figure of a young girl.
The girl's hands cover her face in a mournful pose—the silent tragedy of an endless moment of loss.
This is ...
Why hath my cousin brought you here?
A voice calls out behind her, rigid and almost rude.
Huh?
A tall, gaunt monk stands in the courtyard.
You are not one of us. You are a bringer of war in our house of peace. What dost your Foundation seek from our quiet halls?
There's accusation in the gravelly tone of his voice.
You misunderstand. The Foundation isn't bringing war. We're trying to end it.
This war is neither yours nor ours to end.
What are you saying?
...
The monk falls silent, as if debating whether his next words are worth the effort.
His face contorts, becoming an exaggeration of self-righteousness.
It has come as a divine punishment for the faithless who have turned from God. Its end will come only with the extinction of civilization.
Sounds like you want everyone—humans and arcanists alike—to suffer and die.
You twist my words, knight. I do not seek this end—this path of suffering—out of hatred for humanity. No, I do so because I pray fervently for their deliverance.
But deliverance waits for the last edifices of this sinful world to crumble. When the faithless nations, as a fire consuming its last embers, burn themselves to ash.
Soon the artifices of modernity, their factories of war and death, will crumble, as Babel before them had; their lies of "advancement" and "revolution" dying with them.
We must return to the innocence of the past, as Nineveh did, heeding the word of God.
Enough, cousin.
...!
The rebuke breaks his rhythm.
Sentinel steps between Marsha and Ladislas, forcing her cousin to take a step away.
Your prophecies have kept our guest from her tea.
...
Sentinel turns and hands Marsha a heavy canvas military bag.
Um!
Are you able to lift it?
No problem. I can handle it.
Ladislas watches the exchange with abject curiosity.
Marianne, is she not of the very Foundation thou sayest lacketh the will to end this war? What fruitless endeavor dost thou now pursue?
She's my friend, Ladislas. I shall grant her the freedom to come and go from here as she wills.
But she is not a ...
It is my right to do this, is it not?
Yes.
He lowers his head without protest.
Sentinel turns from her kin back to Marsha, who has by now taken several steps away.
You will find here all that I've collected since 1918; most useful to you may be a list of those in each military who have made contact with the Manus.
Take them from here to your Foundation and make of them what you will. I hope they will serve you better than they did me.
I will. Thank you.
Marsha seems more than eager to retreat.
Aunt Madeleine stands at the foot of a stone pillar, tea in her hand, and nods in self-reproach.
...
The courtyard falls still.
Ladislas breaks his silence with a withering glare.
Cousin, why hast thou concerned thyself with the affairs of this sinful world? We are involved now at our peril.
Even if this war was, as you believe, a divine punishment, the people have suffered enough.
Have they? I see no sackcloth, only ashes!
He motions to the weeping girl tucked in the sanctuary niche.
Hast thou learned nothing from our dear Agnès?
Leave her out of this.
It was she who prophesied this war ...
He drags up the memory with sharp intention.
And whose body turned to stone as it came to pass.
Was she not the closest of us all to the ear of our Lord? Then I can see only one reason for her sacrifice. It is a warning to us.
Tell me, if that is so, why God would choose such a warning?
Revelation and prophecy oft appear inscrutable to those that disbelieve them, until their truth is made manifest.
Ladislas's voice trembles, a practiced tension of humility and pride.
But I do believe, and I see clearly what thou hast not—that our Lord bids us to neither fight nor end this war.
Because it hath come as the next great deluge to sweep this sinful world away. Agnès will return to us again as our past innocence is found and rebuilt from their ruins.
But the faith must be preserved if it is to be rebuilt, and these labors will be the task of the faithful—of we, the Gargoyles.
I pray thee heed my words, cousin: Lay down thy sword of vengeance. Do not answer to the whispering demon in thy blood, nor stain thy soul already so burdened with sin!
He lets his words cling to his lips with solemn weight.
...
His cousin, however, has never been easy to preach to. She stiffens, sorrow and purpose welling in her eyes.
Guns, cannons, tanks, bombs ...
You do remember how these devices have destroyed our lives, do you not? Then surely you already know ...
That the innocence of the past does not simply lie buried for us to rebuild. It is dead and gone.
If a stain on my soul is what it takes to end this war, then I shall not hesitate to stain it so.
Ladislas is stunned. He fights back tears and turns to face the altar. The light from the stained glass windows wreathes him like a mourner's cloak.
Hast thou forgotten our ancestral peril? Or the manifold names we have stricken from our line when they turned from the righteous path? The demon blood hath overtaken our kin before, as I fear it soon will overtake thee.
I do not wish to blot out thy name as well ... Marianne.
13. Concessions for Peace
95 lines*sigh*
The bored and idle remnant of Squad "XII" carries out her as yet tedious orders.
She stops by a window, squinting inside.
...
Broken furniture and cobwebs woven between cracked and forgotten china.
A uniquely shaped counter-arcanum monitoring device disrupts the decaying scene.
Clearly no one's bothered to do any cleanup, then.
She opens the window and leans in, her mask blocking out the sudden puff of dust.
Following her officer's instructions, she pulls out a transparent strip of cloth and places it by the device.
The cloth changes color rapidly, and a line of neat letters appears on its surface.
"Counter-arcanum device operating normally." Looks like I'm not needed here either.
She climbs back out the window.
Hmph. Hmm? Aren't you ...?
Merel.
Marsha?
The young soldier springs up to greet her, visibly relieved.
It really is you! You're back finally!
Is Paravyan alright?
Oh, poor guy's had a hard time of it, but at least he's still in one piece. He's lying in a sickbed as we speak. He should recover soon.
It's too bad he didn't find anything too useful in the village, well, aside from that armored vehicle.
Fortunately, Sentinel happened to be there at the same time.
So it really was her, the one who assassinated Colonel Hirschfelder?
Yes. She'd collected a wealth of evidence concerning Manus Vindictae. I've already delivered it to Commander Creius.
As for the assassination, it turns out her actions weren't entirely unjustifiable. Let's just consider it a misunderstanding.
Misunderstanding? She literally killed a guy.
She's not the only one.
Marsha unconsciously rubs the old scars on her palms, feeling them itch like never before.
...
Merel presses her lips together, creating a twisted crease in her mask.
Well, I ... Anyway, I was just worried that something bad might've happened to you, like what happened to ...
To whom?
Charles and Amanda. We haven't heard from them in over four hours now.
They were dispatched to investigate Hill 299, correct? Has any help been sent their way?
Commander Creius sent some men to look for them. Hopefully, we'll hear some good news soon.
Most of the other teams have finished their investigations. A few of them are already in the safe zone, actually. Apparently, they've found a lot of useful info.
So, we won't have to head back out again, right?
Merel watches Marsha carefully, as if waiting for her to confirm something.
The front's getting shelled to hell and back. I mean, chances are we'll ...
Marsha pats her on the shoulder.
The evidence Sentinel provided is quite damning. Our job here will be over just as soon as we can get ahold of the team at Hill 299.
Don't worry.
Copies of the evidence Marsha submitted have been spread across the table.
Personal letters, marked military maps, battle plans, engineering blueprints, defaced and altered documents ...
...
Along with them on the table are exhibits recovered by other investigators from across the front line, arranged in rough chronological order starting from 1918.
This is unbelievable!
He stares at the pile, the sheer flood of information overwhelming him.
These documents ... The evidence is undeniable. Every one of those absurd conspiracy theories was true. The 1918 peace negotiations really were sabotaged by Manus Vindictae!
The nations on both sides of this war have been under the deception of an invisible enemy. It is no wonder that even the victors of the 1919 offensive gained no real advantage.
My God. To think Manus Vindictae has been sharing war secrets with both sides to ensure neither can win this war.
That they have used our commanders as tools for their massacre. It is nigh on unimaginable!
He looks up with sudden realization.
This does not simply concern one nation. These documents could topple nearly all of Europe's military leaders.
With this list of Manus defectors in our hands, and if we act with haste, we may finally put every one of them behind bars.
Waiting for Georg's mood to stabilize, Creius adds a word of advice.
Let me remind you that Laplace may be able to heal these so-called "defectors." Eberhard's case proved that the Manus's mental influence can be purged.
Yes, yes, of course. Whatever the case, we must act as soon as possible. The chancellor and the parliament are prepared to strike.
Finding light in a once grim future, he starts to shake, sending ripples through the papers in his hands.
Agreed. The evidence is sufficient. There is no need to delay.
Wonderful! Just think of the soldiers finally making their way home.
This is the day we secure a century of peace for Europe!
Hmph. Sounds like a line for the history books.
He has no mind to react to Creius's parting jab. Stuffing all the documents into his briefcase, he rushes out.
Straightening the remaining mess on his desk, Creius retrieves a hidden communicator.
It's been connected the entire time.
Everything's going according to plan.
Good. The other teams have shared the same intelligence with the pacifist political leaders in their respective regions.
All the Foundation has to do now is watch for any interference from Manus Vindictae.
But, won't this approach cause even more turbulence?
Timekeeper?
He had been expecting the faction leaders, making this an unexpected relief.
Oh, yes, Creius. I was just listening in.
I see. In any case, the outcome can't be worse than the war we're living through, Timekeeper.
As I'm sure you learned in your history studies, this war claimed tens of millions of soldiers' lives.
Not to mention the equally massive number of civilian casualties, whether direct or otherwise.
We are now two years on from what should've been the end of this war. The death toll has already climbed much higher, and it will only continue to rise if we don't put an end to it soon.
At least our efforts have won us a marginally better outcome.
I see.
In short, the war is already over.
Once the pacifist political parties take power, an armistice will surely be signed in Montpaix.
This may not be the time, but I have a question to ask.
Does the Foundation Committee have any contingency plans should things take a turn for the worse?
The silence in the room confirms the suspicions of the voice on the other end.
Did you notice something suspicious?
The former vigil officer fishes out as many suspicious details from his memories as he can.
It's about Hirschfelder's assassination ...
Do you remember a certain detail from Marsha's report?
You think his death to be the spark of a reignited war, but, even if I had stayed my hand from him, your plans would have been for naught.
If that were so, why would the Manus risk exposing Hirschfelder? Why would they allow him to meet with the Foundation in Montpaix?
If Hirschfelder hadn't been killed, would the negotiations have become a fruitless tug-of-war?
Manus Vindictae would only cooperate with the Foundation on something that was sure to fail.
An intuitive guess is assembled, drawing on the experience of prior contact with Manus Vindictae.
Could it be that they're purposely diverting our attention?
My thoughts exactly, Timekeeper.
That said, securing peace is our top priority at the moment.
14. Two Pounds of Sugar
147 linesSix years of war have deeply shaken the resolve and faith of our nation. It is clear to all that this war cannot continue any longer.
Afraid of the loss of power that peace may bring to them, leaders across Europe elected to collaborate with the evil cult, Manus Vindictae, sacrificing countless young lives in meaningless carnage.
But carnage is precisely what Manus Vindictae desires. Unseen by all, their wicked influence has long wormed its way into the leadership of every warring nation.
But worry not. Their conspiracy has been thwarted. Every treasonous general has been arrested and will soon face a fair court-martial.
The heroes who bled for the fatherland are finally returning home, where we will welcome them with smiles on our faces and gratitude in our hearts.
On the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month of the year 1920, this war will come to an end.
Weeks have passed since the assassination, and the desolate streets of Montpaix have sprung to life again.
Delegates from the belligerent nations gather on opposite sides of the road. Soft bowler hats and ties decorate the event, mixed with occasional peaked caps and military epaulettes, though now precious few.
...
More dignitaries demand tighter security.
Each nation came with their own detail, but the operations commander insists on further reinforcements from the Foundation.
Third routine patrol complete. No anomalies detected, sir.
No further warnings from the arcanum detection group. Should we lower the alert level?
Maintain the current level. I need at least two squads on standby at the command post at all times.
Yes, sir.
Clad in white, Foundation security diligently carry out their orders.
On the busy town road, the commander suddenly stops. Eyes shut, he focuses, trying to sift through the din of stuffy conversation.
...
He activates his communicator. The line sparks to life instantly.
Any response from Charles and Amanda?
Negative. They've been silent since they reached Hill 299. It's like we're calling into the abyss.
Chances are, they got snuffed out by the Manus. Luck can't be on everyone's side.
Even so, we need to recover the bodies.
What, so they can be buried with shiny medals? Tch.
The voice on the other end bites back with a sneer.
A couple minutes' walk on the battlefield, and I'll find you a whole pile of that scrap metal.
Any other signs of enemy activity?
Nope, not a single trace of the Manus scum. Maybe all this military and political turmoil messed up their plans after all.
Let's hope so.
Whatever the case, we need to get to the bottom of what happened at Hill 299. We can't afford to let any potential threats slip past us.
Already on my way there.
How about seeing a psychologist when all this is all over, Creius? Maybe they'll finally cure your Manus Vindictae paranoia.
Keep your eyes and ears open.
He ends the call.
In an unnoticed corner of the street, a grim figure walks alone.
...
Charon's work in Montpaix is over, and even now, on the eve of a ceasefire, there are many corpses on the front line waiting for him.
His disjointed thoughts dwell on the horse that once accompanied him.
Will Andreas ever return?
But loss has ever been his first companion. Resigned, he shuffles down the road away from Montpaix.
Hey, sir! Mr. Charon!
...?
Merel runs up to him, arriving out of breath.
*pant* You leaving already? Marsha told me you're heading back to the front.
She speaks the truth. And you are ...?
Oh right, you don't know me. But Marsha told me loads about you. You know Marsha, don't you?
Charon struggles to remember, piecing together Marsha's appearance from his shattered memories.
Yes. The knight. I ... remember.
Great. I'm heading to the front as well. Do you want to, or, er, I mean, could you please join our convoy?
You wish for me to join you?
You know the front better than anyone.
Merel digs into her pocket, fishing out half a bar of chocolate that has been carefully resealed and wrapped, and slips it into Charon's hand.
Please, Mr. Charon. Come with us. We could really use your help.
The front is still as death.
...
This quiet feels strange.
Shut up, Rudolph! Why, damn it.
Soldiers in the trenches gaze up at the empty sky.
The ceasefire has not yet been signed, but all military activity on the front line has been suspended. Yet the soldiers still man their trenches, hoping desperately to go home.
Ugh, why did Willi and Franz have to ...
Erich rubs his face, his calloused fingers twisting his features with stress.
Six hours have now passed since the last time a shell exploded or a machine gun rattled.
Yet the quiet has a strangeness of its own. The faint cold wind shivers the lines of barbed wire with audible tensile contractions.
So, who won in the end?
Does it matter?
Rudolph's head sways between a nod and a shake.
Then, uh, sh-should we start packing up?
Sure. You can finally take all those notebooks of yours back home. Weren't you planning to turn them into a book?
Yeah, but I don't know. Maybe once I stop being a soldier, my motivation to write will stop too. What about you, Erich? What will you do?
Make bread, I think. My family runs a bakery. I can already see it: my old man cracking open his finest bottle of Pinot Noir when I arrive.
An idea crosses Erich's mind.
Speaking of which, I bet we can go and ask the boys on the other side for some food and drinks. They've got wine and soft white bread. At least, that's what POW said.
I wouldn't mind some canned peaches.
Fine, I'll get you your peaches. Hmph. I guess I really am your captain, huh?
He scrounges around for a bit of scrap cloth, then ties it to his rifle, intending it to be a peace flag.
Erich, do not hurry to leave the trenches. Have patience.
Charon slinks back into the trench without a word.
Erich drops his rifle for now and steps toward Charon.
Oh, Charon, you're back. Any news?
The delegations from various nations have arrived in Montpaix. The armistice will be signed in 48 hours. It is best to avoid any unnecessary danger until then.
But I'm starving, Charon. You didn't bring any food, did you?
I did!
The new voice catches Erich off guard.
Who are you?
The Foundation has issued food and drinks to be brought to the soldiers on the front. She is responsible for distributing them.
Yeah, more or less what he said.
Right, I need a hand unloading these crates of beer. Any volunteers?
There's beer?!
The troops all rise at once, climbing over themselves to get out from the dugouts below.
In an instant, the trench is packed wall to wall.
Hey, easy there! There's plenty to go around.
Boys, boys! You're humiliating yourselves! Get in line, and I'll choose a few of you to help out.
Erich calls out a few names, then turns to Charon.
Where's Major Braun?
He is needed in Montpaix.
Ah, that's a shame.
Yeah, he's got a slap-worthy face, but, ugh, who cares? The war's over. Forget it.
You, you, and you, come here and unload the crates for the nice Foundation girl.
The food is passed from hand to hand until it reaches every soldier.
Rot and despair still hang over the trenches, but they do nothing to dampen their appetites.
...
Rudolph cups a butter cake in his hands, desperately afraid of crumbling it. He hasn't seen such soft and bright food in a long time.
Then all at once, he stuffs it into his mouth.
Erich hurries to his side, shoving a mug of golden lager into his hands.
Come on, cheers.
Fine.
Count me in! Cheers!
Cheers!
The metal cups tap rhythmically, shaping into a joyful and bright tune.
From far across the field, their clinking percussion is met with raucous singing voices.
What's that? Do you boys hear singing?
I hear it, too, from the other side. Why are they singing?
Oh right, these are humanitarian rations. They've been given to the other side too.
They're probably celebrating.
Erich jumps over the top, waving his whitish flag toward the other side.
Hell yeah! Come on, boys, let's make some noise ourselves!
Cheers to you bastards over there! You understand what I'm saying? Cheers!
Cheers!
To peace!
To life!
The ceasefire celebration stretches late into the night.
Charon watches the festivities crouched in a dim corner of the trench.
Hey, what are you doing holed up here alone?
Despite his best efforts, he is noticed.
Charon lifts his head.
The presence of the dead is not fitting among such joy.
What are you talking about? You fit in perfectly.
She waves a can of sausages and a paper-wrapped candy.
I mean, I know you don't exactly eat much, but you can still enjoy the taste of the stuff, right?
I even know a guy with a fish tank for a head who eats every once in a while.
That said, I've never actually seen him do it. Hmm, does he just pour the coffee straight into his fish tank, or what?
The offer is heard but refused. Such things have better use to you.
Seriously? Aren't you ever hungry?
There is always hunger within me.
But food should be saved for the living. Eat well while you can. Stay alive.
Well, you're not wrong, but I wouldn't exactly put it like that.
Come on, take it. Hound's always poking fun at me for eating too much anyway.
"Hound"?
Oh, never mind. Just take it, alright? It's not like it's easy to get a decent meal out here on the front.
No longer insisting on soliciting Charon's opinion, Merel slips the cans into his coat pocket while touching the cold plastic wrapping of the chocolates.
Oh! At least try the chocolate in your pocket! It'll melt if you leave it in there much longer anyway.
Charon doesn't resist. He nods and slowly rises to his feet.
It is time I left.
Alright, I still have some finishing up to do here.
Won't be long. Just have to make sure everyone's got their supplies. Where are you heading anyway? If you wait a moment, I can come with you.
15. Send-off
72 linesHere you are, Eberhard.
Paul, it's good to see you, my friend. How's everyone holding up on the front?
They are celebrating this war's end, singing songs and drinking beer. It's peaceful.
Hm. Peaceful.
He repeats the words with satisfaction. Eberhard's spirit has changed significantly from the last time they met.
It's unexpected that the Foundation would allow you to move so freely.
Heh. No, my duty is done. I have no place in Montpaix—no place among suits and politics.
He exhales, stretching in the crisp morning air.
That red-haired official agreed to let me go for a walk every once in a while. He said, "Someone will keep an eye on you." Hah, whatever.
It's getting cold, but I enjoy a crisp winter morning like this. It reminds me of our days as students.
Remember? We had to get up before dawn. I was lazier than you. I wouldn't wake up until you rode your bicycle to my window and shouted my name.
Then, the two of us would miss Latin class. Just as Walter did.
Hahaha, I don't blame him. Latin class was hell.
Walter. He was a good lad.
Paul removes a crumpled envelope from inside his jacket.
This parcel is to be delivered to you. There's a letter within it from Mr. Mühlenberge, addressed to those of us in Class 3.
Mr. Mühlenberge ... I was planning to visit him during my home leave, but, well, you know what happened back home.
But he doesn't have a clue about what happened out here. What use is this letter? You and I are the only two class members left since the fall of Montpaix.
*sigh* Alright, let's hear it, Paul.
Steadying his breath, Paul tears it open.
He unfolds the letter.
"My dear students and honorable soldiers! The war has reached a critical point, and, as your teacher, it is my duty to boost your morale."
"I am aware that the vision of the war from the front lines may be more limited than for those of us in the fatherland. So, allow me to make things clear: victory is within our grasp."
"Though I'm certain life on the front is tough, remember, this is a sacrifice for a greater cause. Therefore, let your suffering be sweet!"
...
"... This will be the most glorious moment of your lives. And, as I have taught you, perhaps it will please us one day to remember these things."
"Please us"? Ha. Listen to him. He's even quoted Lucan's poem, or was it Virgil?
It is most likely Virgil. He has quoted him below, "Fortune favors the bold."
The quote about remembering things, how do you say it in Latin again? Forsan ... haec ... and then what? Hmm ...
The "et" is missing, Eberhard.
"And perhaps it will please us one day to remember these things."
Yes, that's it! Hah. That old fart ... He cheated. These aren't even his words.
What a fool. He doesn't know what he's talking about.
Heh ...
After a bitter laugh, both are silent for a moment.
Paul, I'll never be "pleased" looking back on any of this.
If I have children one day, how will I tell them about all this?
I sent our fellow countrymen directly into the line of fire—a death trap—knowing full well that the enemy would retake the ground in mere hours.
Young lives, lost one after another, and for what? Some senseless orders?
I've heard enough. Put the letter away.
Paul slowly folds up the letter. Eberhard, however, snatches up the letterhead, crumples it into a ball, and throws it into the weeds beside the monument.
There is no more fighting, and for the first time in a long time, the day passes without the thunder of artillery.
The sunlight falls on blades of grass, tombstones, and birds in the air. Their songs finally can be heard once more.
This feeling ... I've never felt it before. It's as though, for this one moment, I can—no, I have already taken control of my future.
Haheh. I'd forgotten how good it feels to be alive. Heh. For the first time in a very long while, my heart feels light, my friend.
The choices I've made may be irreversible, but I've made up my mind. There is only one path for me now.
He looks to the top of the hill and starts climbing.
Do you not wish to continue your studies? Your writings are surely safely stored in the school's archives.
Would you return to school, Paul?
It is unlikely, but you still may.
For what? For knowledge? A diploma? That might've mattered to the old me.
But I'm no longer that boy.
Eberhard—
It's too late, my friend. Far too late.
I need some time alone. Please write the reply to Mr. Mühlenberge for both of us.
The weather is unseasonably mild, and Eberhard begins to climb the hill like a student on a field trip.
The sunshine and brisk air make the world feel new.
The war is over, Paul. The sky is so blue.
Just as it always was.
Just as it always was, hmm. Well said. Farewell, my friend!
He waves, turns, and walks away.
Paul stands and opens his notebook.
"Dear Mr. Mühlenberge, your letter has been well received by your students."
"They have endured the darkest and hardest of times together. But now, the sorrow and pain have reached their end."
"They showed courage and loyalty, yet these virtues became a burden—one far too heavy for their young shoulders to bear."
"Therefore, I will not pile any more empty words upon them."
"War has shaped these young men into something else entirely. The knowledge you imparted is of no use to them now, nor will they ever again hear your teachings."
"At this time, I must inform you with the heaviest of hearts that ..."
...
"All of your students from Class 3 have fallen."
"With best regards. A dead man."
This concludes the records of the soldier Paul Haumann.
16. An Unfulfilled Prophecy
102 linesLadislas hasn't spoken a word since news of the ceasefire reached their sanctuary.
...
He's been kneeling at the altar for days, having eaten next to nothing. Always thin, he now looks more like a jagged stone obelisk than a man.
What am I to do, my sweetie? He will not so much as touch the biscuits I baked for him. Never have I seen him in such a state.
The woman clasps her hands to her chest, worried but helpless.
Ladislas.
She gently calls out to him.
...
The war has ended not as he foretold.
It may take some time ere he is able to free himself of his guilt.
Dear Ladislas, *sigh* keep thy heart in the Lord, for He shall forgive us, no matter how great our missteps.
The good and pious woman stops herself from saying more. There's no line of reasoning sufficient to break him from his watch.
Marie, I beg thee do something. One way or another, we all must return to Rouen in the coming days.
She leaves without another word.
Sentinel comes to Ladislas's side but has no desire to interrupt his silent prayers. Her focus instead is on the statue of the crying girl.
Ladislas, you foretold that Agnès would return to herself come the end of the war.
She pulls out a handkerchief to softly clean the stone's unmoving face.
Yet she remains unchanged. Is there truly no way to revive our dear friend? Our family?
...
Once again, she receives only a humbling, guilt-ridden silence.
Marie?
She turns to the voice, finding it belongs to the woman that has become a regular visitor to their sanctuary. As usual, she brought food—this time some salami and dried cheese.
After handing off the supplies, Marsha marches straight toward her.
What news from the front?
Some troops have already withdrawn. The rest will follow suit once the armistice is officially signed.
Ladislas ... He still won't eat?
Just leave him be.
She doesn't let Marsha dwell on the matter, returning to her work dusting the statue.
If you don't mind me asking, is this statue real?
What do you mean?
I-I'm not sure how to put this into words properly. It's just that I've never seen her move.
Ah, now your words are clear.
She gathers her handkerchief and takes a deep breath, the cold, wet morning mist filling her lungs.
This is Agnès, a distant cousin of mine. We share a great-grandmother.
She places her hand on Agnès's stone knee.
We took residence together until 1914—both at our clan estate in the suburbs of Rouen and in my rented apartment in Paris.
When the war broke out, I departed to join the army. Upon returning during my first leave, I found her in the cellar—it came to pass that, in my absence, she had turned herself to stone.
She can stay in this form as she pleases?
Only so long as her heart yet beats. Were she to turn to stone from within, she would be unable to restore her body to flesh.
But Ladislas informed me of another possibility.
He said Agnès's petrification was an extraordinary act of self-sacrifice.
And that this sacrifice was also a prophecy: Gargoyles were not to coexist with this war.
He said that a miracle would occur—that Agnès would be freed from her petrification. I thought it might have been true.
She glances toward Ladislas, still kneeling.
But I suppose it was not. Agnès has shown no signs of recovery.
There must be another way.
The Gargoyle shakes her head, disheartened.
If only there were—if only I knew of one. But there is very little I know of our bloodline.
While the young of my kin generally receive a traditional education from within the clan, my grandmother supported my decision to attend a secular school in my youth.
I resided in a small rented apartment in Paris for some time, hoping to enroll at l'ENSAD—that was, until the war broke out.
Sentinel forces herself to look into Marsha's eyes.
This war ... Well, you've seen the face of it. It takes but one shot to end a life, and this war has hurt millions. Friends, family, loved ones ... I have lost far too many.
Marie ...
Forget it. Tell me, have you yet time today?
What do you want to do?
Take a stroll. I have spent far too much time in the monastery.
After a long journey, they return to the field once soaked in blood.
A pilot?
Their earlier conversation still lingers.
Yes, that's what I wanted to be.
Why?
Many knights joined the air force at the time. They believed the sky to be the only battlefield that still maintained at least some semblance of knightly chivalry.
It had more than the ground, at least, crawling through mud and digging trenches.
I loathe airplanes. They're exceedingly difficult to withstand from the ground, and the engine noise.
She swallows the complaints, not wanting to sound bitter.
Marsha extends her arm over to her friend's back.
Relax, you don't need to fight them anymore. In fact, I'd wager you'll come to like traveling by plane in time.
...
She turns to the sea of grass rippling in the wind.
The corpses that lay yonder—did you see them earlier?
No. Perhaps Charon had already buried them.
Hah, most likely. He is an interesting fellow, if not strange.
And kind, too. Without him, you and I would certainly have fought again at the graveyard.
...
Oh, that reminds me!
Suddenly, she bends down, rummaging in the roadside dirt.
What?
You threw a smoke grenade at me!
Hey!
Hahaha!
They laugh as they race down the dirt road, feeling more like children than soldiers for the moment, however brief.
They come to a halt before the windmill, its colossal gears interlocking and turning, like the breath of a slumbering ancient giant.
The slow creaking of the windmill becomes the only sound.
Marsha.
Hm?
Are you leaving?
No. I have plenty of free time today.
Not now, after the armistice. I know well that the Foundation has tasked you with keeping a watchful eye on me.
It's not exactly like that.
All is well. You may stay, so long as you do not lie.
I shall even aid you should you require it. But do not attempt to persuade me to join the Foundation. I cannot abandon my family.
I know that. I'll be leaving after the armistice is officially signed.
Sounds like a horse to me.
A horse?
They cautiously approach the windmill's entrance.
Sentinel moves ahead of Marsha, turning her body sideways, and hardens into stone to give a weighty push on the door.
Neigh!
Wow, what a beauty!
A horse indeed. What brings it here?
17. Serenity on the Wind
50 linesNeigh.
Here, come on out. That's a good boy.
The horse seems to naturally gravitate to the knight, drooping its head to brush up against her.
Neigh ...
Haha.
Oh my, Marie, look at his beautiful coat! Not even the colonels have such handsome companions.
He seems to have taken a liking to you. Can you ride?
What sort of question is that, Marianne? You're talking to a knight.
Even without a saddle, she mounts the horse with ease.
Come on, take my hand. I'll give you a ride.
...
After a moment's hesitation, Sentinel takes the offered hand and finds herself on the horse's back as well.
This field is perfect for a gallop, but I'm worried you might fall.
Let me off, then. Enjoy it yourself.
Hey!
Hahahaha!
I can't believe you don't know how to ride a horse. But I can teach you. Just think of them as oversized hunting dogs.
I'll come find you after you move. How does that sound? Where will you be if you're not staying with your family?
Perhaps Paris? My mind is yet made. But, wherever I am, I should like to open a clothing store.
Then you'd better choose a store name I'll recognize right away. No, you'll become so famous that it'll take no work to find you.
Could you make a parade dress for me?
I have never before made such a dress, but, I shall learn for you.
Wow, a parade dress tailor-made for me by a famous French fashion designer. It's like a dream come true.
Heh ...
This might be the first moment of true peace they've felt since the war began.
The horse grows tired. They dismount to let it roam and feed on the tall meadow grass.
What of you? How may I come into your contact? The Lord only knows where the Foundation will send you once this is ended.
You may be right. The fight against Manus Vindictae isn't over. But don't worry. I'll always find a way to get in touch with you.
I do not wish to judge your decision, but do all you can to stay alive, Marsha. Do not make a martyr of yourself.
Why the sudden sentimentality, Marie?
Me too.
I will pray for you, though I am uncertain if my voice will be heard.
I am nothing like Agnès. She is an angel descended from heaven. And I am ...
The Gargoyle keeps her eyes hidden in the shadow.
Never mind.
...
*beep-beep*
Neigh!
Hmm?
The communicator's noise startles the nibbling horse. It lifts its head and bolts into the distance.
Ah, there he goes.
She picks up the device. Again, it's an anonymous caller.
Marsha, we need you on the front immediately. I've already sent you the coordinates.
Bring the Gargoyle if she's willing.
Who are you?
We'll meet soon enough.
18. The Armistice
134 linesHalf an hour earlier.
Yes, Mr. Chancellor. The delegations have arrived in Montpaix. The armistice will be signed before dinnertime.
Understood. We will be sure to serve a simple but delicious dinner. And of course, all journalists granted entry will be carefully selected.
Mr. Georg hangs up the phone dryly and with full confidence before checking the ceasefire memorandum once again.
Phew. No problems so far.
He picks up a fountain pen and sketches out his signature over and over again.
Each loop of the pen is taken with utmost seriousness—aware of the gravity it will soon hold.
Another impatient ring, and the tip of his pen slips, leaving the letter "o" in a rather unsightly shape.
*tut*
But the call isn't on his phone. It's the one on his assistant's desk.
Which, thankfully, means it isn't his concern.
What are you waiting for, Friedrich? Pick up the phone already.
...
The assistant, buried in paperwork, fails to react to the ring.
Pick up the phone, you hear?
Damn it. I still fail to understand why they would assign me a deaf sloth as an assistant. I'll have you fired the moment I set foot on the fatherland!
Georg storms over to the assistant's desk to scold him.
Jolting alert, the assistant grabs the receiver.
That's more like it.
...?
To Georg's surprise, his assistant then immediately puts the receiver down.
That was an awful racket, sir.
H-How dare you?!
The man checks his watch, paying no mind to his superior.
I have more pressing matters to attend to. Yes, it's about time.
He stands up, picks up the receiver again, and hangs it up once more without a word.
Wh-What? Explain yourself this instant!
...?
Oh, I owe you no explanation, sir.
Who could that be?
Come in.
You—?!
All attempts to reach the investigators sent to Hill 299 have failed.
...
Creius puts his communicator down, pauses, then tries again—this time calling Hound.
But only static replies.
No response, either.
Creius watches the passing politicians with growing unease.
...
They don't flinch under Creius's gaze. In fact, they don't seem to pay him any mind at all. Their limited time is devoted to the pressing matters of peace.
Paravyan exits a nearby building and makes his way to Creius.
Sir, a new batch of counter-arcanum devices has been deployed as instructed.
Good. Any contact from Merel in the past three hours?
No. She's probably still on the front. There's a lot of celebrating going on out there.
Creius tries the communicator once more, this time calling a different squad member.
*beep—buzz*
Static.
Something's not right.
A shot rings out like a thunderbolt on a cloudless day.
...!
We're under attack!
Security forces rush into the streets, drawing any wandering delegates inside to safety.
Steel-eyed veterans fan out, searching for the gunfire's source.
What's their location?
I saw them! In that house! They're wearing black—
Ugrrrgh!
I have to—
The young man begins a charge, only to be held back.
Get back here, Paravyan! We need to get to the command post and inform all security staff to resume combat positions.
Yes, sir!
Foundation security regroups around the most heavily guarded buildings.
Across the street, a man in a jet-black uniform exits Georg's makeshift office.
Heh ...
As he walks into the open, he is flanked by soldiers covered in pitch black.
Finally! No more hiding. The moment of truth has arrived.
He raises a hand, and the soldiers around him stand at attention.
Leave a few of the Foundation lapdogs alive. I have something to say to those sanctimonious hypocrites.
As for the rest, kill them all.
The ceasefire's signing descends into a bloody firefight.
Search every room! Leave no stone unturned!
Every few seconds, a heavy, soft thud echoes as something limp crashes to the ground from above.
Foundation security offer what resistance they can, the counter-arcanum devices they've deployed providing them with a moment's respite.
Oh, but keep that signing desk and the documents on it intact.
It'll make for a great headline shot—perfect for the front page of the papers.
Now, bring her out.
...
The soldiers of Manus Vindictae carry out their orders in wordless lockstep. Soon bodies in white and black riddle the streets.
Moments later, two soldiers march a hostage into the center of the empty street.
Ah ...
Quiet.
Once again, the assassin-turned-officer raises his hand and checks his watch.
Better late than never.
He strides forward as if he were participating in a triumphal parade.
Stopping only a few short paces from the Foundation command post—so near that he can hear the flag fluttering in the wind.
All that endless searching. Heh. Well, here we are—you've finally "caught" us.
He spreads his arm wide like a showman.
You might ask, why must things end like this? Why must we kill one another?
Do you want to know why? Because our pleas, our pain, our suffering, were all ignored by you!
Humans started this war, all these wars, and yet you hurled us—arcanists—onto the front lines like cheap cannon fodder.
You have created a world that despises us for our bloodlines and mocks us for our arcane skills, yet you force us to use those very skills to fight the war machines you built.
You humans have sown untold horrors in the name of conflicts created by your own hand, and still, you refuse us even a single scrap of bread in reward.
These are the lessons history has taught us—a history of arcanist suffering that must end.
He draws a pistol from his waist and toys with it.
So when I heard that arcanists were uniting—marching under the banner of a formidable army—
I caught a glimpse of hope. In fact, it shone like never before.
Foundation lapdogs, human scum, mark my words!
This war has only just begun. From this era onward, the unjust reign of humanity shall be overturned.
All arcanists from every era shall march under the banner of Manus Vindictae.
Until the ultimate, most glorious era arriv—
A bullet rips through his temple.
...!
The remaining soldiers drop where they stand.
Who did that?
...
"Lapdogs," eh? Couldn't come up with anything more original?
The stray Hound at last returns.
He marches straight through to the command post, kicking the fallen Manus Vindictae officer's corpse for good measure.
Command post's clear now.
The door swings open, security staff cautiously scanning for trouble. Creius stands inside, waiting.
You're late, Yermolai.
At least you're not dead.
Yermolai balks. His voice, like his face, carries a permanent smirk.
You won't always have someone around to cover your ass, Creius.
As always, Creius finds it easier to simply sidestep his insubordination.
What have you found?
Long story short, we're a step behind the Manus. They've got an army, launching an assault on the front lines as we speak.
We're talking about a force the size of a traditional brigade—possibly even two. They're hiding out beneath Hill 299, and every one of their soldiers is an arcanist.
Hill 299. Any news on Charles and Amanda?
He lets the swagger drop from his voice.
Yeah. They're both dead.
But they did leave behind some critical info.
Turns out Manus Vindictae's built a colossal, full-fledged underground fortress inside Hill 299.
That's where all these Manus troops have been coming from—the ones here in the safe zone and the ones sent to eliminate the human soldiers at the front.
Did you carry out the other order?
Yeah. I've sent the request for reinforcements and your "frontline contingency plan" to headquarters. All available Foundation personnel in the region are moving towards the designated locations on the front.
All except Merel. I haven't been able to make contact with her.
...
Creius nods—an understated gesture of approval.
He says nothing about Merel's radio silence, as if he had anticipated it all along.
You're really gonna do this, huh? This so-called "frontline contingency plan"?
I don't think we have much choice.
How're we gonna deal with Hill 299? It came out of nowhere.
Every plan has its surprises. We'll deal with it.
Follow me. We're going to the front lines. You can fill me in on the details on the way.
19. A False Dawn
100 linesWhat's that sound?
Rudolph has set about packing his things. Like many in the trenches, he doesn't have much, but his greatest treasure is a pile of manuscripts and notes.
He lifts his head. A pale look glints behind his glasses.
What are you standing there for?
They're firing again.
So? Surely you're used to it by now.
The rumble of artillery had become so familiar to them that its return is barely noticed.
But, isn't there supposed to be a ceasefire? I know it isn't official yet, but there's no point in firing now, is there?
Ah!
Erich draws in a sharp breath.
A low, ominous whistle follows.
S**t! Take cover!
All at once, the quiet of the front erupts into fire and fury.
Ugh ... *cough*
The impact of the explosions shakes the trench lines in unyielding waves, the blasts spraying mud and earth in every direction.
Damn it! Has everyone gone mad?! Those old farts! I thought they were supposed to be negotiating peace?
Why? Why are we fighting again?
Rudolph sprawls out on the ground, trying to find his baggage, which has been scattered in the blast.
Clothes, notes, and cans are buried in loose dirt or carried off in the air.
No!
Forget that rubbish! Get inside!
Erich forces the bespectacled soldier into a dugout, then forces himself up to the parapet, peering over with his periscope.
S**t! S**t! Who in the hell is attacking us?
I-I don't know. They're not even wearing blue. They're in all black.
Right. Are they wearing masks? Can they even see through them?
*pant* The flank! *pant*
Scouts and messengers dash in every direction, alerting everyone they can reach of the attack.
I don't know who or what they are, *pant* but they're coming from our flank! *pant*
Damn it all to hell!
A stray bullet shatters his periscope. He tosses the device down with a stream of curses.
He grabs a messenger by the collar.
All men from the 2nd Company, assemble! Focus fire on enemies in black uniforms!
Their first assault breaks against the renewed defenses.
But the black-clad soldiers seem numb to their losses; they advance in rigid order, stepping over the dead and dying.
Have they lost their minds? They just keep charging right into our gunfire.
Erich steps down from the parapet to relay orders; in every direction he sees his comrades lying wounded.
Only yesterday they had begun to believe their fight was over, but the rattling barrage has shattered their dreams—a new war has begun.
Damn it. What the hell is going on?
Rudolph hasn't reported back. Concerned, Erich begins to search the dim trenches for his friend, only to bump into a striking figure in a white uniform.
Are you the captain of the 2nd Company?
The man speaks with a gravity of command that Erich still has yet to find.
I am. You're ... with the Foundation?
Creius nods, articulating the battle at hand in an organized manner.
I am Creius, the commander of the Foundation personnel stationed in Montpaix. This is an emergency situation.
Manus Vindictae invaded the safe zone. We neutralized the threat there, but now they're on a mission to kill every human soldier on the front lines.
Every human soldier? You-You mean, including those on the other side?
He struggles to find sense in the words.
Creius pats the soldier-turned-captain with a firm and steady grip.
If you're willing to give up this position, follow me.
I couldn't give less of a damn about positions, but where are we going?
In a nearby section of trench.
Anyone still standing? Help me clear this bunker!
The field medic arrives in sync with the rest of the Foundation's team.
Doctor! Doctor! My brother—he's wounded! Please!
Bring him to me!
The soldier hauls his wounded comrade to the makeshift aid station. The man's leg hangs limp, soaked in dark red blood.
Urgh ...
Easy. Put him down here. I'll patch him up. Have you seen any other Foundation personnel?
I-I think I saw one—a redhead.
Good. Go tell him we need medical supplies. They should've brought plenty from Montpaix.
R-Right away!
Next to them, another soldier clutches his thigh, gasping for breath.
Only a moment passes before yet another man is carried in. Marsha makes a brief inspection and returns to the soldier with the injured thigh.
I'll stop the bleeding first.
W-What about him?
He's dead. Now relax, and try to stay with me.
He's dead? No!
Ahhhhh!
Good heavens! It's over. I'm dead. I'm dead.
Urgh ...
No, you're not. Not today, anyway.
Huff ...
His vision blurs—for a moment he thinks he sees a soldier in a gray and blue uniform.
Is-Is that ...?
Then he blacks out.
Update? Have you located Creius?
He's somewhere in the trench. A soldier spotted him.
The man soon appears before them.
With solemn deference, he nods to the sniper he once pursued.
I didn't expect to run into—
Save the pleasantries.
The response is blunt.
Marsha made known to me the situation. The Foundation ought to have a sure plan, having requested me to join her.
Speak then, what would you have me do?
Creius adjusts his tone to match.
The frontline soldiers have little experience fighting enemies with arcane skills.
If they stay here, it's only a matter of time until they fall to the Manus. I'm going to move them to a safer strategic position.
However, enemy forces on Hill 299 have us pinned down in the trenches. Manus Vindictae has turned it into an underground fortress, housing an estimated ten thousand troops. They've even—
They've even positioned artillery on the hillside. Retreating under that kind of fire would be a death sentence.
Eliminate the threat from Hill 299, then withdraw the troops from the front—this is the Foundation's plan?
Not the Foundation's plan. Not yet, at least.
An icy restraint condenses in the man's eager eyes.
This is my course of action.
How do you intend to do this? Even with an army of a hundred thousand at your command, to take a fortified high ground under artillery fire is no surety.
I know. That's why I need your help.
Creius stands solemn and sure, though he knows how absurd his request sounds.
Such an act is to walk into the valley of the shadow of death. What difference would be made if I lent my aid or withheld it?
If I recall correctly, Gargoyles are insusceptible to poison gas.
That's correct. So?
So, we may be able to take a subtler approach. Please, come with me; my subordinate will give you the details.
20. Gates of Hell
75 linesThey race through the mud and debris.
How much longer?
About ten more minutes at this pace.
Maybe less if there are no interruptions.
Hmph. What an optimist.
...
There isn't anything more to say. They just keep moving.
Until they leave the trench behind.
...
Take cover.
They dive into a shell crater. A bullet skips off the lip of earth in front of them, kicking up wet clods of dirt.
Pin them down.
*clang*
A searing-hot shell casing ejects from the chamber.
Threat neutralized.
Nice shot. Right, we've arrived.
Yermolai veers off to the side and drops into a stretch of abandoned trench.
Sentinel follows close behind.
They stand before a sealed underground bunker.
Yermolai stops a short distance from the entrance, pulling from his coat a bundle of explosives and a hastily drawn map.
Take these.
...
Without a word, she takes the key items for this suicide mission.
I'm surprised you'd agree to this.
I have my reasons.
Sure. Let's go over the plan one more time.
Two of our investigators discovered a number of tunnels running under Hill 299. The one we've just arrived at leads directly to the Manus's ammunition depot.
After the war broke out, the Manus sealed all accessible tunnels with poison gas. Judging by the bodies I found earlier, this gas can penetrate all existing gas masks.
On the bright side, that means there aren't many guards in the tunnels—at least, that's what we think.
Your goal is simple: reach the ammunition depot, detonate the explosives, and destroy the fortress. After that, the Foundation will evacuate with the soldiers.
Good to know the Foundation's investigation bore some fruit.
Hill 299 is so conspicuous that everyone just unconsciously overlooked it.
I'm prepared. You may leave now.
Alright. Good luck.
The man offers a wave.
Only once Yermolai's footsteps have faded into the distance does Sentinel open the bunker door.
Violet-red mist billows out.
...
She furrows her brow and takes a cautious sniff.
Thankfully, as before, it has no effect on her.
Yet from within, she can hear something dragging. Sentinel holds position at the door, waiting as a shadow shuffles into view.
...
A grim figure emerges from the toxic mist.
What are you doing here?
Charon drags a corpse out of the shelter and halts outside.
One war ends, and another begins. More lives will be claimed by their own kind.
I am simply doing what I always do.
You knew of this tunnel?
Tunnel? I know nothing of it. The cloud of death hanging above this place—that is what led me here.
She knows better than to suspect him.
Cloud of death?
An ambiguous omen.
An omen, hmm. Tell me then, who will this cloud of death fall upon?
Death is impartial. It doesn't decide who will live and who will die.
But I can.
She breathes in the toxic air without concern.
I suggest you leave. Should this cloud not fall upon me, an explosion will soon obliterate Hill 299.
Do you intend to claim the lives of all the Manus Vindictae troops here?
Do you intend to stop me?
...
He broods for a moment, as a silent war is waged behind his mask.
I should leave. Time is pressing.
But as she turns, Charon's voice breaks through with sudden clarity.
I do not wish for such carnage to occur, yet I am powerless to prevent it.
But before you go, a word of warning ...
The war you've been fighting is, in fact, over. What lies before you is a conflict all its own—a much harsher path.
You still have a chance to turn away from this and relieve yourself of the burdens placed upon you.
In view of the sufferers of this war, my burden is light.
Harsh or not, I shall not waver from the path I have chosen.
You first set foot on the battlefield five years ago. What makes today different from that day?
I now know the true cause of the conflict, and I have seen the face of the true enemy.
If I must sin to fulfill my sacrifice, then so be it.
Your willingness to suffer, your passion for sacrifice ... it is beyond me. Perhaps you possess a wisdom beyond my comprehension.
Yet, still, I feel a deep sadness for you.
I am in no position to stop you from walking through the gates of hell.
21. 1-Hour Politics
104 linesDeep underground, darkness reigns.
At first, she travels through cramped, unlit dirt tunnels until she reaches a poured concrete doorframe.
Its cold echo tells her she's entered a wider space.
The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light: they that dwell in the land of the shadow of death, upon them hath the light shined.
She taps into the power of her ancient bloodline, her eyes adjusting rapidly to the pitch black. Yet she finds no comfort in seeing what surrounds her.
...
Dark and viscous substances flow through the walls of the tunnel, like an endless mass of writhing insects.
In their trance, they form some kind of unrecognizable symbols, shifting back and forth into chaotic shapes.
Blasphemy.
But she has seen far more sinister abysses in her time.
The fortress's center ought to be closer to the peak, but this path appears to be extending downward.
She unrolls the map and reads the included intel.
The Foundation's map says this is the route.
Plumes of gas tumble with the intruder's movements, stinging her nostrils.
Not the stench of rotting hay, not garlic or onion, either. This is a new kind of poison gas.
Still, it has no effect on me.
Where art thou?
An ethereal voice drifts down.
Agnès.
Dost thou hear me, Marie? I heareth naught from thee.
You hear me not?
She looks up, seeing nothing but the vaulted ceiling.
Agnès's voice is like a biting acid in her ears.
Where hast thou gone, Marie? I sense thou art somewhere deep below the earth, surrounded by that which I cannot clearly see.
...
Bodies lay scattered around me, Agnès. Many of them.
They're Manus soldiers. It appears they attempted to flee through this tunnel but an hour ago.
She steps over debris.
Their superior blocked their way and loosed upon them this poison gas, killing his own men.
Bodies stare up at her from unblinking eyes.
What kind of enemy am I soon to face, Agnès?
Art thou afraid?
...
Thou must have spoken much, Marie. I shall not leave thee. I am listening.
Only I yet hear not thy voice.
...
Dost thou recall the day we hid together in the catacombs of the manor? Thou said unto me thou feared not the ghostly tales thy grandmother once spake.
Thou saidst thou bore a devil more terrifying than any tale. But on that night, thy breath did tremble—thou wert afraid.
She halts at the descending stairway.
That was not the thing of which I was afraid, Agnès.
Once again, she realizes her words cannot reach beyond the heavy rock above.
From the depths of that pitch-black void, something waits, stretching out sharp, black claws.
I worry for thee, Marie. The path that thou dost walk holdeth no light. I can feel thee growing ever more distant from me.
Whatsoever it is—whatever thou dost wish to do, I know thou art determined to see it to its end. But I pray thee, make haste and come unto us soon, wilt thou?
Until that time, I shall pray for thy soul.
Waves of cold stone scrape over her skin as she readies herself for battle.
Then begins her journey down.
In a brief lull between volleys, Yermolai returns to the trenches.
It's little trouble to find his commander in the sea of gray uniforms.
To summarize, your troops must stay in place for the time being. We've made contact with the other side. They'll cooperate with you to create a fire network against the enemy.
Let's hope they do cooperate.
Manus Vindictae has waged war against all humankind. We must work together if we're to get through this.
Erich knocks his helmet with frustration as he leaves, chafing against his orders, burdened by the lives placed in his care. Wishing now, more than ever, that he was just a soldier again.
Yermolai steps forward.
So you're their commander too now, huh?
All I did was convince them to work with the Foundation.
But you don't represent the Foundation—not without proper authorization for your plan.
The soldiers are desperate. I won't hesitate to do what I must to restore their hope. What's the status on your mission?
The Gargoyle's en route to the target location as we speak. Conservative estimate says she'll take another hour to get there.
Hound's voice comes out low and hoarse.
But who knows what she'll come up against? She might not make it.
Unusual for you to show compassion in such a moment.
It just brings back unpleasant memories. You know what I'm talking about, Creius.
That wolfish grin returns to Hound's face, and Creius ignores it once more.
Then we'll wait one more hour.
The Foundation's reinforcements will likely have arrived by then. Should it come to it, we will regroup and consider our next steps with them.
Heh, if there really are reinforcements, that is.
They're launching a second offensive! Hold your ground!
Charred earth splinters in the air, falling like black snow over the battlefield.
The soldiers reel from another shockwave. Scattered across the trenches, they grip their weapons tight, certain only of the coming battle.
...
His index finger taps his rifle's receiver with anticipation.
He pulls out his communicator again and waits.
*beep-beep*
Finally ...
The name Irinei appears on screen.
Creius, are you still on the front?
Yes, Mr. Irinei, but I don't think we can hold out much longer.
Has the Committee reached a decision?
Not yet; the debate is still ongoing. The Doves find your "frontline contingency plan" absurd. They disapprove of the political risks involved in taking control of various nations' armies.
But I personally find it feasible. Just to be sure, do you have a clear understanding of your ultimate goal?
He takes a deep, silent breath.
This war between Manus Vindictae and the Foundation will only end once one of the two parties is completely destroyed.
And I refuse to let it be the Foundation.
If we're to prevail, the Foundation cannot rely on Zeno alone. We need more capable soldiers—soldiers like these on the front lines.
With the proper arrangements, we may be able to recruit them to our cause. We'd have a whole new army to fight Manus Vindictae.
But even if you manage to bring them all—say, one hundred thousand soldiers—on board, it still won't be enough to sustain modern warfare.
This is about the bigger strategic picture, not just a single recruitment effort. I'm suggesting that the Foundation start canvassing all human armies, especially those under attack by the Manus.
Bigger strategic picture. What about the governments behind these armies? Have you considered how they might react?
It's about time they realized that the Foundation is their only hope—the last bastion for humanity to unite against their shared enemy.
The Foundation cannot take responsibility for all the lives in this era or in any other. The "Storm" is a near inevitability, and so too is the loss of many.
Once it does come, the Manus won't hesitate to drag war into that new era—into any new era. It's time the Foundation took action and built an army capable of crossing the "Storm."
...
The politician on the other end falls into a long silence.
Enact your plan, Creius.
As long as you're successful on your end ...
I will deal with the political obstacles in your way.
The call is cut.
Creius exhales.
What next, sir?
The young soldier watches Creius, waiting for orders with a dutiful stare.
...
He casts a look toward Hill 299. The Manus Vindictae stronghold bristles with flashes of gunfire, yet to him it looks as if it were a slumbering beast.
We stand our ground for an hour.
22. Brimstone and Fire
153 linesThough Agnès's voice has vanished, the sharp ringing in her ears remains.
What's that sound?
She casts more attention in the direction of the source of the sound, and the darkness is sliced like a curtain—a shadow that shouldn't be there is lurking behind a piece of wreckage.
*cough* Ugh ...
He lies prone, using bloodied fingers to scrawl erratic symbols across the ground.
...
As the intruder draws near, he slowly raises his head.
Oh. It's you.
You! You murderer! You murdered me. You murdered Kolten. *cough* You murdered Eugen too!
You devil! You murderous demon—
Aaagghh!
I have no qualms in doing so again.
Thick, congealed black blood spreads across the ground.
...!
Petrified claws clamp down on his soft neck with precision, pulling him up into mid-air, his hands clawing against the chokehold.
Ghk ... Let me go, please.
She eases her grip if only for the length of a breath, yet the soldier seizes the moment for all he's worth, drawing a blade from his belt.
Urgh!
She arrives at the land where the flower of death blooms.
...
Corpses are strewn across the ground.
A figure waits at the far end.
How many have you killed? Do you even keep count? Remember, they were all arcanists like you.
Race is of no matter.
Hm. So the killer does the killing, and the dead have no say at all. I like it.
A bullet rips through the officer's heart. A simple, blunt retort.
She steps forward, only to find the figure standing before her once again.
Haven't had enough?
Oh. It sounds like you know who I am.
Do not think me deceived by your disguise. I am well aware that your taint has long been tangled in the blood of my family.
Demon.
Ladislas?
Her devout cousin appears in the midst of this strange hell.
Dear cousin, I bring thee a final warning. Thou art but a step away from utter corruption. Thou hast killed many in the years past, and now thou dost stand at the edge of the abyss.
Hast thou not understood the suffering endured by our fallen ancestors? Their conscience crumbled, their faith shattered, leaving naught but an insatiable thirst for blood.
It paineth me to see thee walk that same wretched path.
The demon stands to the side with unhinged politesse, waiting until Ladislas has finished speaking before speaking again.
Well, don't blame me. I did nothing to entice her.
Its voice no longer seems to come from the body before her but from some faraway place in the darkened sky.
Marianne made this choice herself. Her hands have long been soaked in blood.
And yet, she has never been troubled by that so-called "guilt" of yours. I've come to adore her for that.
Perhaps it is true that this path of carnage shall save many lives, but why, I pray, must it be thee who walkest it?
Our blood beareth an impurity like no other. To kill so many is to will thyself to the bottom of the abyss, never to return.
The ten thousand thou art soon to kill—consider, I pray—how many among them are innocent victims of deception and coercion?
The weight of so many lives shall weigh upon thee in far greater measure than any sin thou hast yet borne. What good shall it profit thee to gain the whole world, yet forfeit thy soul?
Did I hear that right? Are you also calculating the lives, Ladislas?
...!
Speak no more of thy filthy words!
Oh, you silly, stubborn child.
The demon approaches Ladislas with sharp, graceful steps.
What art thou ... O wicked dem—Rrghk!
His throat is seized in both hands.
Urggh ... Thou ... Marie ...
...
The demon releases its grip. Ladislas's body collapses among the other corpses.
Sentinel watches the scene with a probing gaze.
There, I silenced the noisy fool for you, Marianne.
Such pantomime shall not move me.
This "Ladislas" was naught but an echo lingering in my mind. An illusion.
Oh, but I'm not. I am your very nature. The core of your being.
The ground shakes, and their bloody silence is shattered.
The demon makes way for her, casting a grim smile at the Gargoyle before turning its head to look around.
As an army rumbles into view.
The strange sound of engines grows clearer as the armored vanguard grinds over mangled corpses.
Oh, Manus Vindictae. They've finally noticed you.
The demon turns its back to Sentinel.
What a shame. They don't stand a chance against our ferocity, do they, Marianne?
She grips her gun, neither joining the demon, nor turning away.
She presses a kiss to the cold receiver.
I have seen sinners forsake themselves in service of the devil. The land they trod upon yielded only bitter, cursed fruit.
Come!
But the hour for repentance has long since passed.
Come with me!
Then the Lord rained upon them brimstone and fire!
Let's kill them all—together!
...
Marsha?
Marsha stands beneath a windmill. Her black warhorse pacing idly in the grass.
I don't think I'll ever forget this windmill—the calm of this field.
I can't believe I didn't appreciate how peaceful this place was the first time I came here.
She closes her eyes and breathes in the sweet scent of the meadow.
Perhaps it's because the land was quiet, just like our lives once were. And back then, we thought everything would be peaceful again once the war was over.
I'm sorry.
Why? There's no need to apologize.
I was nigh on killing you. No, in a way, I did kill you, just as I have killed so many others.
It's not our fault. None of this is …
You may have granted me your forgiveness, but those who have forever lost their lives due to my actions—I shall never have the chance, nor the right, to earn theirs.
We didn't start this war. Yet, we have had to bear the brunt of the pain it has caused.
If all the sins of war are laid at our feet, where's the fairness in that?
No. I refuse to accept it.
Marsha seethes at injustice.
Marie, perhaps when peace finally comes ...
A gust carries her voice away.
...?
The wind howls, and in it she hears the creaking of the old windmill.
...
Sentinel walks along the path, wanting to stand closer to her.
—until the scene is torn apart by gunfire.
Marsha!
Die!
Arrgh ...
Wreckage is strewn over no man's land. The last of the assembled force falls with a gurgling scream that ushers in the silence of death.
...
The demon and the Gargoyle stand side by side, looking over the destruction.
Take it all in, Marianne—the pools of blood, the piled corpses, the lingering echoes of the dead, their whimpering, desperate cries.
Aahh. How long has it been since I last witnessed such a beautifully gruesome massacre? The ancient bloodlust within you truly has awakened.
You slaughtered every last one of them. Well done. Now, hand me the explosives. It's time to end them all.
The demon holds out his hands, asking for the weapon that will take the lives of 10,000 men.
Get thee behind me, Demon.
I won't force you. The choice is still yours. So, which will it be? The weight of ten thousand lives, or one that is ten times harder to bear?
Well? Their blood will be on your hands, that's for certain, but the responsibility won't rest on you alone. Your soon-to-be-blood-soaked hands have been forced.
These are the only choices you have left.
...
The Gargoyle removes the bundle of heavy explosives and grasps them as tightly as if they were prayer beads.
I am powerless to cleanse the filth that muddies my blood, just as I am powerless to erase the sins I have already borne.
I have descended into the depths of hell—I know that. And this ancient darkness has already taken root in my soul.
But if sacrificing one can save ten, if sacrificing ten thousand can save a hundred thousand, if someone must make that impossible choice ...
Then I am willing to bear that sin.
She hands the explosives over to the demon.
That's the spirit. From now on, we will walk together, side by side, a greater power as one—
Before he can say anything, the bayonet stabs through his body.
…?!
Sentinel pulls out her bayonet and pushes the demon away, who staggers further back.
...
You are fascinating, Marianne. You know this won't harm me. So, why did you do it?
She lets out a heavy labored breath.
Look upon me, Demon. I am not like my ancestors, to be led astray by their thirst for blood and your honeyed words.
Whatever choice I make, I make of my own free will.
I will not let your taint spread within my soul, yet still, your power shall be mine to command.
Heh-heh ...
Haha ... Hahahahaha!
The figure vanishes, yet she can still feel the demon cackle madly from the depths of hell.
You truly are a genius, Marianne. A ruthless killer, a greedy devil ...
And my most worthy child!
Join me! Let us reign together in hell!
Agnès, when I was young, I never truly understood the words you spake. Why would one man willingly bear the sins of all the world for the sake of others?
I lingered on the thought of it—if all guilt and suffering were placed upon me, how cruel and unjust that would be.
But now I think, perhaps it is best that they are mine alone to bear.
...
I'm sorry, Agnès.
...
Attention all Foundation Operators: the Manus fortress at Hill 299 has been destroyed!
Execute retreat as planned!
The Manus fortress has been destroyed, and the soldiers have been led in retreat to the rear.
I understand. Thank you for your support in this critical time, Mr. Irinei.
23. The Pardon
81 linesAfter yet another night passes, the hidden chapel once again welcomes the light of day.
Time passes, reaching near to midday, and the grassy courtyard holds its quiet with a patience born of humility.
...
The awaited figure finally appears at the forest's edge. She's spent the night tending to her wounds.
My, Marie, thou hast returned!
She holds back the urge to embrace her family—her arms are filled with a silver tray of coffee and pastries.
Coffee?
Yes, just to thy liking—no milk, no sugar. There are also vanilla macarons and Mont Blanc besides.
The bright colors of the pastries feel all the more surreal for the darkness she has gone through.
Sentinel takes the warm coffee from her aunt's hands and takes a small sip in disbelief. Of course, it's far from the quality of a Parisian café, but at this moment, it is more than enough.
Where did you get these desserts?
The woman clasps her hands together, wearing a faint, bittersweet smile.
Look, who is here, my sweetie.
Sentinel takes notice of the tall figure stepping into view—a face she has not seen for a long time.
Marianne.
A pardon hath been issued by the president. Thou art free.
As for Ladislas, he is gravely ill. His stubbornness was ever bound to lead to trouble.
He ends the topic with mild discontent.
Hmph. To answer thy question: I am here to gather ye. We are to depart.
So, you are now the leader of the clan?
Verily. After all we have suffered under this war, someone must lead the Ténébrun family's reconstruction. I seek to re-establish contact with those of our kin with whom we have lost fellowship.
The hand of Manus Vindictae has not yet fallen upon Paris. I have purchased a number of dwellings in Montmartre. They are to be our temporary homes until the conflict between the Manus and the Foundation reaches its end.
The Ténébrun patriarch makes an imperturbable gesture as he turns to face Agnès.
Agnès shall be sent to our cemetery in Rouen.
Cemetery?
She cannot—or will not—accept the words.
But Agnès is not dead; she's simply ... Ladislas said there was a reason behind her—
Marianne raises her eyes and meets her father's mournful gaze.
This is what comes of disrespecting tradition, Marianne. Thou wert too easily swayed by Ladislas's maddened words.
He lied to us?
Nay. I believe not that such was his intent. He was simply too fervent in his pursuit of Gnosis.
There is no record in the family archives that suggests any sort of prophecy should befall our kin in so strange a form.
Agnès's condition is the result of a tragic accident, nothing more. There is no divine meaning behind it whatsoever.
Her fear of the war was too great. She simply faltered in the casting of her arcane skill and petrified her body to the core.
That is all.
...
I know well that Agnès meant a great deal to both Ladislas and thee, but she was only an ordinary child. She was not an angel descended from heaven.
Though it doth bring sorrow for me to say, we must all come to accept that no miracle shall ever come to Agnès—she will forever remain a statue.
He reaches out to take his daughter's shoulder, already bearing too many burdens.
Their conversation falls away into a pensive silence before the "statue" of Agnès.
He is the first to leave, attending to more pressing matters—several moving trucks are already parked outside the church.
Trembling chains pierce the air.
...?
Marianne, thou hast returned. How ...?
He staggers forward, as if pushed by some invisible force, drawing closer to Sentinel.
In his palm lies a chain that glints coldly in the sunlight.
S**t, I thought Father was only ... Have you truly fallen ill?
That I have. But what of thee, Marianne? Art thou not in a condition far graver than my own? Or art thou simply too blind to see it?
He babbles on. With every word, his madness grows. There seems to be no trace of his old humility left.
Thy soul is stained with the wickedness of sin! Thou art as miserable as I ... O Lord, I-I can smell the stench of hell upon thee ...
Thou hast passed through the gates of hell and returned, Marianne ... How wretched ...
You are ill, Ladislas. Gravely so.
Take a moment's rest in the quiet of a sanatorium upon reaching Paris, won't you? It ought to do you good.
Ladislas squints like a child sharing a secret.
Perhaps I shall. But thou wilt not return with us, wilt thou?
I am yet undecided. Perhaps I will ...
Nay. Nay. Thou must not! Thou must never return!
Why?
I see that which others cannot, and I see it in thee. Thou art not who thou once wast! Inside thee, there is ...
A demon, the demon which doth linger in our veins. It hath opened its eyes, its wretched eyes!
Aaagghh!
Ladislas howls in pain, his body shaking violently. The chain in his hand clatters and rings.
Thou cannot return—cannot turn back! For there is no path left for thee ...
But ... but I desire naught more than to aid thee, my dear cousin. Yea, I shall help us all, but most especially thee—to atone for my transgressions ...
The shaking stops, and all at once, he bows with a gesture of utter submission, presenting the chain before her.
Ladislas?
These shackles are a soul-binding chain—a cage, yea, but I beg thee accept them.
And I shall devote my life to prayer over thee—both night and day—that thy soul shall not be shaded in eternal darkness.
...
May thy blood be washed clean one day. May it nourish the soil when thou art laid to rest. May thy journey to hell yet be graced by God's mercy.
Another not-so-light burden to serve as a constant reminder of the limits of evil.
And if I refuse these shackles?
It mattereth not. I shall pray for thee still, as I have ever done.
A sudden impulse moves her to look at the statue of Agnès.
...
At last, she takes the chain.
The metal hangs in her hand; its weight feels far greater than its size would merit.
24. The Hill
133 linesA completed mountain. Though only a mere fraction of what death truly claims.
...
It left everything behind: a coat, a helmet, a pair of boots ... a butterfly-covered notebook.
—Everything that once belonged to a young man named Paul.
Your war is over, Paul.
His belongings are fittingly buried at the last grave, beside the major who died atop the hill.
A clatter of hooves approaches from the road.
Andreas?
The name is whispered softly, as if not to disturb those resting here.
The sound stops where gravel meets the mush of mud and snowmelt.
Neigh—
A black horse breaks the veil of mist and approaches.
The horse exhales a comforting snort—leaning in—yearning for his hand.
Good boy.
You have been gone for a long time. Off to dangerous places again to search for your lost friends?
...
It seems luck has been on your side. You have dodged danger time and again amidst this slaughter.
But I cannot help but worry that, one day, a stray bullet will pierce you, or a poison gas will choke you.
Neigh!
The horse lowers its head.
Harshness is not my intention, Andreas. But I am grateful that you have returned to my side hale and whole.
They look eastward. Toward the rising sun, where ominous clouds gather.
It's time. The next destination is a distant one. Your help will be appreciated.
...
Andreas tilts its head to one side, signaling its master's attention to the youth who has arrived behind them.
Mr. Charon, is this your horse?
The grim figure turns his face toward the source of the question.
In a sense, young man.
Oh, then it's nothing. He showed up near Montpaix all by himself, so I followed him here to see if he might be connected to Manus Vindictae.
The Foundation is still in Montpaix?
We'll head off soon along with the soldiers to a safer position.
By the way, do you know where Blackbird is?
Blackbird?
Oh, I mean Merel—the girl who went to the front with you. I haven't been able to get in touch with her since the Manus attacked.
Where could she be? I just hope she hasn't gotten herself into any serious trouble.
She is alive and well.
A surprise. The young man's eyes alight with joy.
She is? Where did you see her?
That, I cannot tell.
His gleam dims as Paravyan adjusts to the unexpected refusal.
Why?
She does not wish to be found.
Wh-What? She doesn't wanna come back with us?
Correct. She is afraid of the war that lies ahead.
Bloodshed, carnage ... She was unprepared to witness such harrowing scenes.
She requested I not reveal her whereabouts to the Foundation—in fact, she demanded a promise.
I don't understand. How could you just let her go like that?
Isn't she more likely to run into danger if she's on her own? And leaving like this, she'll be marked as a deserter. Oh, no.
I know little of your rules.
But a promise was made, and her reasoning is understandable. It is her right to turn away from her fear, just as it is anyone else's.
The young man never thought about how to cope with such a situation.
He scratches his head, at last arriving at a simple conclusion.
Fine. At least she's still alive.
But I can't leave her alone out there. I'll find a way to track her down.
The voice is clear and certain. He is willing and able, no matter how daunting the task ahead.
Thank you for the information, Mr. Charon. Goodbye.
He sets off on the road back to Montpaix.
They watch him together, horse and rider, as he disappears into the woods.
"Hiss—"
...?
Has he gone?
Yes.
Neigh ...
The girl leaps out from the grass.
Why did you tell him that I'm still alive?
You did not request that to be kept a secret.
...
Fine.
He nods his assent and begins to shuffle away.
Andreas snorts as it circles between them.
...
Merel pats the horse's cheek.
Umm, Charon?
Huh?
Actually, I wasn't serious, you know, when I said I wanted to become a gravekeeper here.
The dead need no company, and every tombstone will one day fall to decay. In the end, time will pull us all into the sea of oblivion.
Nothing in this world is immortal.
The young girl scratches at the fabric covering her face. The tension of being a "deserter" seems to make her skin itch.
Right. Well, anyway, the gravekeeper joke was a bad one, I admit it. But what I'm trying to say is, I'm not sure where to go next. I mean, who else can I depend on besides the Foundation?
I definitely don't want to get caught by Manus Vindictae, that's for sure. Trust me, you don't want to know what they were doing in Antarctica.
Oh, not the Antarctica in this era—the one from before. Anyway, my point is, I can't deal with them on my own.
...
But I can still do something, like dealing with troublemaking critters.
So, um, if you need that kind of help, maybe we can travel together? I trust you.
My path will have little safety.
That's alright. I'll just run off when danger comes.
In that case, follow me.
We will take a detour to avoid entering territories under the Foundation's surveillance.
He retrieves the familiar chocolates from his coat; they're unmelted and cool to the touch, despite having been kept so close to his body.
If you're hungry, these can be returned to you. Andreas will carry you should you grow tired.
The soldier who has at last escaped war nods with joy.
Got it!
The revision to the Storm Reformation Act has been added to the agenda, and the Committee will soon begin the next round of discussion. You'll need to attend the meetings as well.
Recent events have given the Hawks a stronger voice, and they are in favor of expanding the authority and budget of Team Timekeeper.
Stay ready, Vertin.
Understood.
Foundation staff and Committee members hurry through the hallway.
Just as they exit Ms. Z's office, they're met with a familiar voice.
Timekeeper?
Were you waiting for me?
No, just a happy coincidence. I'm glad to know that you remember me.
Of course. Your decisiveness saved the lives of many soldiers on the battlefield.
I also heard that the Doves agreed to further implement your "frontline contingency plan" after the Montpaix crisis was resolved.
Heh. I'm surprised to see you're interested in politics.
I'm not interested, just informed.
Creius brushes aside the topic without comment.
I've been wanting to speak with you since our last meeting was cut short, but this certainly isn't the place for a proper conversation either.
Contact me if you're interested. I have some very valuable information for you, I'm sure. Both about the Foundation and about ...
Urd.
...!
Seeing the expected reaction, he smiles and hands over an envelope.
I look forward to hearing from you. I'm sure we will make excellent collaborators.
Excuse me, Timekeeper.
Sonetto rushes over, looking at the red-haired man with a mix of suspicion and confusion.
Oh, Mr. Creius, do you have an urgent matter you'd like to discuss with the Timekeeper? I can arrange a meeting for you if necessary.
No need for that. I was just saying hello.
Until next time—Timekeeper, Ms. Sonetto.
He gives a nod, slight but confident, then takes his leave.
...
Timekeeper, is there something wrong?
It's nothing. You seem a little anxious, Sonetto. What's the matter?
Sonetto takes out her communicator.
Timekeeper, you need to look at this. It's an important message.
Sent from ... Lilya?
I've been on a mission on the eastern front, under the direct orders of Admiral Somme.
Guess what I found, Captain? An *static noise* Zeno outpost without *static noise*.
From the looks of it, I think it's the *static noise* rebels.
I can tell *static noise* in more detail. Call me back as soon as you can.
The message ends in a burst of static.
I tried to contact Ms. Lilya after receiving the message, but I couldn't get through.
She mentioned Zeno rebels. This is worrying.
Could it be ... Igor? Lilya might be in trouble.
Sonetto, I think we'd better pay another visit to Madam Z.