The wind rushes past my ears, a constant, roaring companion as I tear across Verion.
I am moving fast. Faster than a normal human would even be able to track with their eyes. Sola's wind support faded miles ago, dropping off as I surged ahead of the main column, but I don't need it. I have unlocked the potential of my Fearmonger mark my physical augmentation is greatly increased then those who have not had the pleasure of accessing their soul sea and understanding their mark of power. My boots strike the hard-packed earth with a cadence that vibrates up through my shins, a physical reminder that I am alive, moving, and lethal.
The landscape is a blur of greyscale.
I have been running with the Fearmonger active for a good two hours now. The world has been stripped of its vibrancy, reduced to a high-contrast etching of charcoal shadows and slate-grey horizons. It is efficient. It highlights movement. It highlights threats. But it also makes the world feel cold, distant, like I am running through a memory of a place rather than the place itself.
I check my internal clock. I am about twenty-five miles ahead of the rest of Helix.
To my left, the terrain begins to shift. The flat scrubland gives way to rolling hillocks and the suggestion of a small valley. My mental map, memorized from Caldera's briefing table, tells me there is a collection of smaller towns in this direction.
But there is also something else.
Nimorael.
It's a city, smaller in scale than Grevona or the target towns that make up the collective around Oakhaven, and this city is slightly out of the way. It sits near a tributary river, tucked into a fold of the landscape that would make it a perfect staging ground for a flanking maneuver.
I slow my pace slightly, skidding to a halt atop a rocky rise. My chest heaves. I scan the horizon.
Nimorael isn't on the direct path to Oakhaven. To check it means adding miles to my journey which will be a pain to make up.
But if they are there... I think, narrowing my eyes at the dark smudge of the city walls in the distance. If they are hiding a reserve force there, they could hit Helix from behind while we are engaged in Oakhaven. And If I can prevent reinforcements while we still have the element of surprise I will do so.
Paranoia is a survival trait after all.
I reach into my pocket and pull out my Amulet. It feels heavy and blocky in my hand, the smooth casing cold against my skin.
I pull the small blue mana crystal from my pouch. It glows with a faint, steady light, even in the greyscale world a testament to the density of the mana within it. I press the crystal into the hole at the top of the device.
Click.
The Amulet hums to life. The dark glass screen flickers, runes swirling into existence.
"Helix Actual, this is Helix One," I say, keeping my voice low despite the emptiness of the plains.
There is a moment of silence, then the gravelly voice of Lieutenant Colonel Caldera cuts through.
"Go for Actual."
"I'm detouring," I say. "There's a city, Nimorael. It's off the main path, but it could end up being a pain if they have soldiers there and If I can stop potential reinforcement I want to. So I want to check it for enemy presence. If they have a garrison there, they could flank us."
Silence on the line. I can picture Caldera running at the head of the collum.
"Copy that, One," Caldera finally grunts. "Good initiative. But don't get bogged down. We need you to continue scouting the path to Oakhaven and the rain will start soon so be quick."
"Roger. Helix One out."
I store the device keeping the crystal in just in case Caldera needs to reach me.
I take a deep breath, centering myself and using all of my physical augmentation I explode forward.
I use all of my Awakened power. I feel the power in my muscles, the reinforcements of my tendons, hardening my bones. I become a blur. The ground eats up beneath me. I cover the extra forty miles out of the way with a speed that would kill a horse. The wind tears at my clothes, whipping my hair back, stinging my eyes.
As I approach the outskirts of Nimorael, the terrain changes. The dry scrub gives way to vegetation that looks lush, even in the monochrome vision.
I come upon a small river.
It winds its way out of the city, cutting through the fields like a dark artery.
I skid to a stop at the bank, my boots sinking slightly into the mud. I need to cross here. The bridge is further down, but I don't want to funnel myself into a chokepoint without scouting it first.
I step into the water.
It is shallow, maybe knee-deep.
I look down.
I frown.
The water seems... odd.
In the Fearmonger's vision, water usually looks like liquid glass - clear, with grey distortions where the current moves. Or, if it's deep, it looks like black ink.
This looks... thick.
It is a dark, opaque shade that possesses a texture I can't quite place. It swirls around my boots with a sluggish, heavy viscosity. It doesn't splash; it slaps against my shins.
Typically, colors are muted in this vision while details pop out in extreme clarity. I can see the individual pebbles on the riverbed where the water breaks. I can see the fibers of the reeds on the bank.
But I cannot determine the color of the water.
I reach down.
I cup my hand and dip it into the flow. The liquid is warm. Warmer than the air. Warmer than a river should be in the spring evening.
I bring my hand up to my face.
The smell hits me before my eyes can process the viscosity.
Copper. Salt. Rot. Iron.
My eyes widen. My stomach lurches violently.
I jerk my hand back in horror, slinging the liquid away from me. Droplets hit my face, warm and sticky.
It isn't water.
I am standing in a river of blood.
The realization crashes into me like a physical blow. The scale of it is impossible. A river? A flowing river turned entirely to blood? How many bodies? How much death does it take to dye a moving current this dark?
Something bumps against my leg. Soft. Heavy.
I look down.
A body floats past me. Then another. Then a cluster of them, tangled together in a macabre raft of limbs and clothing.
I yell—an involuntary, guttural sound of shock and scramble backward. I trip over my own feet, splashing into the shallow, sanguine mire. I scramble up the bank on my hands and knees, my heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird.
I stand there, heaving, my hand gripping the hilt of my sword so hard my knuckles pop.
Panic seizes me.
It is a brief, paralyzing moment of irrational fear.
They are the enemy, my mind screams. They are going to stand up. They are going to rise out of the water and drag me down and drawn me.
I watch them.
They bob listlessly in the current. They do not rise. They do not attack. They just rotate slowly, face down, face up, staring at the sky with eyes that have been pecked out or clouded over by death.
I force myself to breathe.
Calm down, I hiss to myself. They are dead. The dead do not fight.
I brush my clothes off, though the stains remain—dark splotches that I know are red, even if I can't see the color. I steady myself, pushing the panic down into the box allowing my emotions to become grounded.
I turn back to the river.
I continue along the bank, moving slowly now. My hand never leaves my sword. I strain my senses, pushing the Fearmonger to its limit. I listen for the snap of a twig, the breathing of an ambush squad a house snorting. Anything at all.
But there is only the sound of the sluggish river and the wind.
The closer I get to the city, the more bodies I see.
They are everywhere.
Washed up on the sides, caught in the reeds, piled against rocks where the current slows.
I stop to examine a cluster caught in a bend of the river.
It is a cross-section of humanity.
Soldiers in the Empires uniform and armor. Civilians in tunics while others are bare. Men. Women. Children.
They are uniformly bloated, their skin tight and shiny with the gases of decomposition. They are discolored mottled with patches of black and grey in my vision.
Some of their faces are disfigured, slashed apart by blades, leaving gaping maws of bone and gristle. Others are simply blank, resigned, bobbing listlessly in the crimson water as if they had never been living, breathing bodies at all.
I step closer to the water's edge.
I reach out, my movements mechanical, detached. I touch the face of a young girl. She couldn't be more than twelve. Her hair floats around her head like a dark halo.
I examine her lips. They are dark—blue, in reality, though grey to me.
My own mouth is pursed dispassionately. I force myself to look at her not as a tragedy, but as data.
"These bodies have been in the river for days," I mutter, my voice sounding hollow.
I stand up, wiping my hand on my pants.
"What the fuck," I whisper.
I look toward the city walls, still a few miles away.
How did they even get here? I wonder. Did they throw them over the walls? Did they march them to the river and execute them?
And the animals.
How haven't the animals eaten them yet?
Usually, a feast like this would draw every wolf, bear, and scavenger within a hundred miles. But the bodies remain largely intact, save for the bloating. It is as if even the beasts are repulsed by the nature of this slaughter.
I shake my head, trying to clear the image of the girl's face.
I grab my Amulet again.
"Helix Actual," I say, my voice tight.
"Go for Actual."
"It's... bad," I say. "The river is full of bodies. Hundreds of them. Civilians and soldiers. I think the city has fallen. Or it was purged."
A pause. Then Caldera curses, a harsh sound anger.
"Federation?" he asks.
"I don't know," I say. "It looks old. Days old. I haven't seen any enemies so far"
"Investigate," Caldera instructs. "But be careful. If it's a purge, the cleaners might still be there. Get in, confirm the status, and get out."
"Copy."
I stow the Amulet.
I gather myself. I tighten the straps of my armor. I check my sword.
I start sprinting again.
The road to Nimorael is paved with silence.
It is empty of life, yet the evidence of the Federation presence is obvious everywhere I look.
I see trampled grass where battalions marched. I see the blackened circles of abandoned campfires. I see the rectangular patches in the dirt where heavy canvas tents had been erected and then struck.
The tracks are deep. Heavy wagons. Mechanized transport.
My skin crawls.
I feel sure absolutely certain that Federation soldiers are lying in wait for me. Every cluster of trees looks like a perfect place for archest to sit and wait. Every dip in the road looks like a kill zone. I am setting myself up for an ambush.
I keep waiting for the crack of a crossbow. I keep waiting for a shout.
But as I draw closer to the city, the logic of the ambush falls apart.
This makes no sense, I realize, slowing to a trot.
The Federation wouldn't have known I was coming. We are a ghost unit. And even if they suspected a scout, they wouldn't have set such an elaborate trap abandoning an entire siege camp for a single Task Force much less just me a single Awakened.
I stop fifty yards from the main gate.
The silence is absolute.
I would have preferred an ambush.
An ambush I can understand. An ambush means an enemy who is afraid, an enemy who plans, an enemy who is alive. An enemy whom I can fight.
The silence is worse. It is heavy. It presses against my body like a physical weight.
If the city was still under siege, the Federation would be on guard. They would be prepared for skirmishes. They would have posted guards to make sure no reinforcements could reach the resistance inside.
There would have been a resistance, at least.
But the Federation seemed to have simply packed up and walked away. They hadn't even bothered to leave behind a skeleton patrol.
Which means that the Federation didn't care who came into Nimorael.
Which means that whatever lay behind those city walls, it wasn't worth guarding. I walk to the gate.
It is massive, reinforced wood bound in iron. It is slightly ajar.
I grip the heavy iron ring. I pull.
The hinges scream—a high, piercing shriek of rusted metal that echoes like sinisterly in the quiet valley.
I drag the heavy gate open and an appalling stink assaults me like a slap to the face.
It is physical. It is a wall of miasma. It is the smell of meat left in the sun, of bowels released, of old blood and gangrene.
I know the smell. I had experienced it before after all. I was a master of death myself. I know the scent of death.
But this...
This was a genocide an a level I can't fathom.
I knew what to expect now. It had been a fool's hope to expect anything different, but still, I could not fully register the sight that awaited me when I passed through the barrier into the city proper.
For a long time, I could not even think as I stared upon the city.
Nimorael is a city of corpses.
But it isn't just a massacre. It isn't a battlefield where men fell where they stood.
The bodies have been arranged.
Deliberately.
It looks as if the Federation had wanted to leave a greeting message for the next people to walk into the city. A message written in flesh and bone.
The destruction possesses a strange artfulness, a sadistic symmetry that chills my blood far more than the chaos of battle ever could.
I step forward, my boots sticking to the cobblestones which are coated in a layer of dried, tacky fluid.
To my left and right, corpses are piled in neat, even rows.
They form pyramids.
The base is ten bodies wide. Then nine on top of them. Then eight.
They are stacked with the precision of a bricklayer. Heads facing out. Limbs tucked in.
I walk past them.
Corpses are stacked against the wall, standing shoulder to shoulder, held up by spikes driven into the stone. They line the street like a grotesque honor guard.
Corpses are placed across the street in tidy lines, forming speed bumps of human remains.
Corpses are arranged as far as the eye can see.
Nothing human moves.
The only sounds in the city are the wind rustling through the debris, the buzzing of a million flies that hang in the air like black clouds, and the squawking of carrion birds that perch on the rooftops, too full to fly.
My eyes water. The stench is overwhelming, burning the back of my throat. I pull my cloak up over my nose, but it does little to filter the taste of death.
I march stoically down the main street into the city center.
I don't look away. I force myself to witness it. I am the witness. If I don't see this, who will?
The Federation handiwork becomes more elaborate the deeper I travel into the city.
As I approach the city square, the sadism escalates. The efficiency of the outer walls gives way to something more personal.
The Federation had arrayed the corpses in states of incredible desecration, grotesque positions that defied human imagination.
I see corpses nailed to boards, displayed like butterflies in a collector's case, their chest cavities pulled open to expose the ribs.
I see corpses hung by their tongues from hooks driven into the wooden beams of shop signs. The weight of the bodies has stretched the muscle to impossible lengths.
I see corpses dismembered in every possible way.
Headless bodies sitting at tables outside a café. Limbless torsos stacked like firewood.
They display mutilations that must have been performed while the victim was still alive. I can tell by the way the muscles contracted, the way the faces are frozen in rictus screams.
I stop by a low wall.
There is a collection of fingers. Thousands of them. Removed at the knuckle, then stacked in a small pile beside a pile of stubby, handless arms.
Next to it is a line of men.
They have been castrated.
Their severed penises are placed delicately, almost gently, on their slack-jawed mouths.
I stare at it.
Why?
The question loops in my mind. This isn't war. This isn't strategy. This takes time. This takes effort. Soldiers had to stop, cut, stack, and arrange.
One sees great joy in decapitating enemies, the voice whisper
There were so many beheadings.
Heads are stacked up in neat little piles on the steps of the town hall. They are not yet so rotted that they have become skulls, but they no longer resemble human faces. They are swollen, purple and black masks.
Whatever heads retained enough flesh to form expressions wore identical looks of terrible dullness. Not fear. Not anger. Just a profound emptiness, as if they had never been alive. As if they were just meat waiting to be processed.
I walk past a side street and stop.
Perhaps due to some initial desire for sanitation, or mere curiosity, the Federation had tried to ignite several corpse pyramids.
But they had given up before the job was finished.
Perhaps they did not want to waste the oil. Perhaps the stink became unbearable even for them.
The bodies are grotesque, half-charred spectacles. Hair has turned to ash. The top layers of skin have turned a crinkling black, peeling away to reveal the cooked red meat underneath.
But the worst part is that there is something beneath the ashes that looks identifiably human. A hand reaching out. A patch of unburned skin on a cheek. A uniform button that survived the heat.
My legs give out.
I drop to my knees in the middle of the street.
My sword clatters to the stones.
I cover my face with my hands.
Tears stream down my face, hot and stinging against my cold skin. I sob, a dry, hitching sound.
I wonder what type of creatures could enact such violence upon civilians and children.
I have killed. I have slaughtered soldiers. I have felt the joy of the Fearmongers rage.
But this?
This is devoid of passion. This is industrial. This is a machine made of hate.
Get up, I tell myself.
I stay there for a minute, letting the horror wash over me, letting it carve out a piece of my already damaged soul.
Then, I stand.
I regain my footing. I pick up my sword. I wipe the tears from my face, smearing grime across my cheeks.
I continue my search.
I keep a mental track of the time I am burning. Every minute here is a minute I am not at Oakhaven. But I need to know. I need to see if anyone survived.
I enter the main square.
Here, the scene changes again.
In the center of the square, surrounding the fountain, I find skeletons.
Bizarrely short skeletons.
They are gleaming pristine white, stripped of all flesh. They stand out starkly against the dark blood-stained stones.
They look at first like children's bones.
But upon closer examination, I identify them as adult torsos.
I walk over to one.
It is fixed to the ground upright.
I bend down and touch the dirt around the spine.
The top half of the body had been stripped clean. The ribs are white and polished. The skull is gone.
But the lower half...
The pelvis and the legs remain intact, buried deep in the dirt.
"They were buried," I say out loud, my voice shaking with disgust.
"They were buried up to the waist."
I look around the square. There are dozens of them.
"And set upon by dogs."
The Federation soldiers buried them alive, waist-deep, defenseless. And then they released the hounds. The dogs ate the upper halves. They stripped the meat from the bones while the victims screamed, unable to run, unable to fight.
I swallow the bile rising in my throat.
I could not understand how the Federation had found so many different ways to inflict suffering. It was a catalogue of cruelty. A museum of pain.
But each corner I turned revealed another instance in the string of horrors. Barbarian savagery matched only by a twisted, dark inventiveness.
I find a family in an alleyway.
A father, a mother, and two children.
They are impaled upon the same spear. Driven through the chest, one after another, like beads on a string. Their arms are still around each other, locked in a final, desperate embrace that even death couldn't break.
I find the vats behind a tannery.
Large, industrial cauldrons used for soaking leather.
I look inside.
Babies.
They are lying at the bottoms of the vats. Their skin is a horrible shade of crimson, peeling away from the bone. They are floating in the water in which they'd boiled to death.
I turn away, my hand over my mouth.
In just the twenty minutes that had passed since I entered the gate, I felt like I had grown into a colder person.
Whatever is left of me is something harder. Something darker.
I walk toward the exit on the far side of the city.
The only living creatures I encounter are dogs.
They are unnaturally fattened. Their coats are sleek and shiny. They trot through the streets with swollen bellies, feeding on the bounty their masters left behind.
They look at me with dull, sated eyes. They do not bark. They do not growl. They are too full of human meat to care.
And above them, the vultures circle, waiting for their turn at the table.
I grip my sword.
I do not kill the dogs. They are just animals they know no better.
I walk out of the city of Nimorael.
I leave the silence behind.
I break into a run, heading once against East, toward Oakhaven. Toward the enemy.
The voices in my head are silent. Even they have nothing to say.
There is no fear in me anymore. There is no hesitation.
There is only the cold, hard certainty that I am going to kill every Federation soldier I find.