"What? It's sealed off?" The boy sat up abruptly. The sudden movement tugged at the scrapes on his back, making him wince in pain. But he quickly noticed that his wounds had been treated and bandaged, and the scent of antiseptics typical of hospitals filled the air around him. He relaxed a little, reminded of the antibacterial gel Solomon had once given him—the kind that sent an icy chill through one's ribs with just one whiff. The scent here was exactly the same.
"Yes. We've already entered open war with the angels," Constantine said, helping him sit up.
"You really..." The boy sighed. "What's the current situation?"
"If you mean you personally, your condition wasn't great when we found you, but fortunately, your injuries were minor. If you're asking about the Lord's forces—our anti-air batteries have taken down many angels, and we've sustained minimal casualties so far," said the Royal Guard. "That's the situation for now. No one can easily break through the frontline where we're facing off against the angels. If you insist on doing it, you'll be putting yourself at great risk. But if you're determined, we can pay the price to get you to the summit of Mount Finbowent, boy."
He stepped back, gesturing to the advanced medical equipment in the infirmary and the long halberd in his hand. "Right now, we are the only ones on Earth capable of piercing through the angelic blockade to deliver you to Mount Finbowent. So I hope you'll tell me something I want to know—like the Monarch's whereabouts. According to the Sisterhood's testimony, you fell from the Bridge of Heaven along with him. So where is our Lord, boy?"
"You really want to know?" The boy sighed again. "Honestly, I don't even know which time period he's in." Constantine's silent, unblinking stare weighed heavily on him. The boy suddenly blurted, "I swear I don't know! The Eye of the World didn't send him anywhere I could track! All I know is, if we want to fix everything, I have to get to the top of Mount Finbowent—maybe then your Monarch will return."
"That's one way to resolve things," Constantine nodded, not pressing the matter further. The boy didn't know of the bond between the Royal Guard and Solomon, and so didn't give it much thought. But if anyone from the Eternal City had been present, they would've found Constantine's attitude oddly uncharacteristic. "Wait here. When the operation begins, I'll take you to the summit of Mount Finbowent myself."
"Hey—one more question. Where am I right now?"
"You're on the airborne carrier Judgment. Someone will bring you a nutrition pack soon. Just wait here." Constantine shut the infirmary door and locked it. As soon as he left, the boy jumped off the bed and tiptoed to the door to try the handle. His expression soured immediately—but it also confirmed his suspicion: the Royal Guard was Solomon's subordinate. Their styles were almost identical.
"He was telling the truth," Constantine said to Baron Mordo, who stood in the hallway.
"Then maybe the right solution really is to get him to the summit," Mordo replied. "But I've got a question too—why would the Sorcerer Supreme say there's no need to worry about the Monarch's whereabouts?"
"You got me there. I have no idea. No one ever knows what the Sorcerer is thinking." Mordo shrugged and smiled. "But don't worry too much. The Sorcerer has always kept an eye on Solomon. He'll be fine. Who knows? Maybe he'll pop out of a box in five minutes like one of his childhood pranks."
"I'll go prepare the assault team." Constantine didn't argue—he left the infirmary guarded by Arcanists.
If Mordo was right, great. But if the Monarch failed to appear, the Royal Guard would carry out their duty. They would not entrust the Monarch's safety to anyone else—especially not to Kamar-Taj, who wouldn't prioritize it the way the Guard would.
As it stood, Constantine held the highest authority in the Eternal City. Even the internal administration had to obey his orders. Tita received the Royal Guard's command, and within minutes, the Sisterhood's strongest warriors were pulled back from the frontlines and recalled to Judgment. Victoria Hand and Sophia's elite troops were also assembled, standing by. Constantine planned to personally lead this combined force of Sisterhood and mortals to escort the boy to the summit. As for how many would die in the process—he didn't care. If sacrificing the entire Eternal City meant saving the Monarch, the Royal Guard would do it without hesitation.
But even that wouldn't be enough.
"Grand Sage," he said to the Fifth Demon Pillar on Mars, "I need your assistance."
A cold, synthetic voice responded. "Authorization accepted... NERV Legion experimental unit preparing to launch. Estimated arrival: 21,600 seconds. For the destiny of human dominion over the galaxy."
A man raised his pitchfork high and shouted in front of the massive bonfire. The surrounding young men from his village cheered as well, but he considered himself the most honored—because impaled on his pitchfork was his trophy: a severed head. The head of a heretic, a woman who practiced witchcraft, a banshee's head. It was an offering to the god he worshipped. After the priest had silenced her "sorcery" with a holy command, he had been the first to rush forward. Her cold, sticky blood had dripped onto his eyelids, but he felt no revulsion. Others had grabbed an arm or a leg at most. The rest of her body had been thrown into the fire, lest her magic harm them even in death. The priest had ordered it, and no one dared disobey him. The priest was their guide, identifying the root of blighted crops, miscarriages, wayward youths, cats in heat, stolen milk, missing sheep's wool, and lost woodcutters.
They were righteous. They were protecting the common folk.
Having secured their trophies, the villagers lit the bonfire. They celebrated as if it were a festival—a day of holy victory, a testament to their pious faith. The witch's head stared wide-eyed, her face torn and bloodied. Firelight reflected off her lifeless gaze, and her blood-caked, elegant earrings jingled as the pitchfork swayed—providing a melodic accompaniment to the cheering crowd.
Even decapitated, she's beautiful! the man thought, then spat at the head.
The warmth of the fire on his back and the heady intoxication of bloodlust and holy fervor thrilled him. He even smelled something like roasted meat—mouthwateringly delicious.
Looking around, he bent down while no one was watching and picked up a golden trinket from her black dress. He thought about giving it to his wife as a gift—Why come back empty-handed? But the thought scared him. What if it's cursed? What if her dying spell crippled my kid or made him a halfwit?
He quickly decided to donate it to the church for the priest's blessing—a show of faith.
"Shameless harlot!" a woman in rough linen cried, holding a book the priest had given her and pointing at the head. "Go to hell! You seductress of men! Look here! Your soul is cursed by God!" Even a small child clutching his mother's apron shouted along.
"They steal children too! These old hags!" someone yelled. At that, the women clutched their children tightly, fearing a surviving witch might still snatch them away.
But the panic didn't last long—because all around the bonfire, they began to feel a deep, inexplicable fear. Out of the corners of their eyes, they glimpsed a tall figure in golden armor walking slowly through the crowd. A man radiating light and incense, holy and unmistakable.
"This must be a messenger of God!" someone shouted. "Our devotion has been recognized!"
The villagers rushed to show the glowing figure their trophies. Though nothing more than bloodied limbs, they offered them up with reverence, proof of their piety.
And then—the messenger of God began the slaughter.
(End of Chapter)
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