Author; This chapter is a short one because I know I haven't uploaded anything in a while and I felt bad for the delay. In my defense, I can say I've been busy with work and all... but honestly, with Battlefield, Dispath, and now Arc Raiders, it's been a tough month for writing.
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Just a few seconds later, the train devoured the last few meters of track inside the forest while Oier and Cael shouted words of encouragement.
"Hold on a little longer!"
"Keep firing!"
Thanks to the young ranger's sacrifice, they had managed to break free from the Alpha... But without the presence that had kept the Betas at bay, they soon resumed the chase.
Weapons spat metal and fire at the shadows that leaped among the branches, pursuing them until the locomotive—with its fifty-six and a half wagons—finally emerged from the forest.
But no one cheered. Instead, Oier cursed under his breath as he shot a look of reproach at Cael.
Instead of light, they only found more shadows.
The sun, just as it was in the forest, had almost set over the small valley that stretched before them and their destination.
This allowed the dozen Drexers to surge from the forest's gloom and slither through the tall grass, beneath the violet twilight of the sky that announced the night.
Even the wounded miners—with a shoulder pierced or a face gashed—kept firing as best they could.
Every monster that emerged from the thicket was met by a barrage of bullets, which arrested their leap mid-air, causing them to crash violently to the ground due to their speed.
Only for their wounds to seal shut seconds later, allowing them to resume the chase, hungrier than before.
Having covered half the distance, they were now barely four hundred meters from the station, which was carved into the cliff face that loomed over the sea.
The miners' minds were completely consumed, every inch of their focus trapped in the tall grass that swayed around them.
No one noticed—nor cheered for—the faint glow that was beginning to glimmer at the end of the tracks.
Especially not when half of the twelve Drexers, coordinating by instinct or coincidence, hit the convoy in a single, devastating charge.
Overwhelming the miners' weak firepower, which, with so many targets, barely managed to stop two of the beasts before the rest landed hard on the wagons, tearing the metal with the mere brush of their claws.
The impact shook the entire convoy, which fought to either derail or stay on the tracks.
As the two foremen watched the beasts rise over their men, ready to rend their flesh, bone, and life, thouging: "This is it." Convinced that the deaths were inevitable...
They saw something small and brilliant flash overhead, carried by the sea breeze.
Raising their heads, they both saw a tiny dot of light, a simple ember dancing in air, like those escaping from a torch.
But this one did not fade.
It remained vivid, taut, and blinding as it ripped through the nascent purple night and flew over the desperate miners, only to extinguish itself upon impacting the bony, pale torso of one of the Drexers.
The beast had its claws raised, ready to decapitate two miners huddled in the corner of the wagon. But it was interrupted by its own strangled roar of agony.
Where the small ember made contact, its chest began to bubble and smoke, as if the sun itself had touched its flesh. The Drexer let out a howl of pain, seeking refuge in the shadows like a startled animal, and without hesitation, leaped from the moving train.
And then...
An instant before the thunderous blast reverberated from the station, the 13.2x92mm hypersonic projectile detonated the skull of another Drexer, bathing its intended victims, moments from execution, in a shower of dark purple blood.
Immediately afterward, as if the very divine torch from which the first ember had escaped had been smashed onto the ground, thousands of small, burning coals surged from the light at the end of the tracks.
The barrage slammed against the locomotive, the metal plates of the wagons... and then against their occupants without distinction.
For the miners, it was no different than a common spark, barely an itch on their clothes.
But for the Drexers... the sheer heat emanating from them was an unbearable torture.
A single ember made them roar in pain and flee in panic; but the thousands carried by the wind... reduced them to ash instantly, ironically suffocating and choking those it had intended to devour.
The few Drexers that hadn't leaped away, or were not as exposed, howled in agony and fled back, panic-stricken, to the somber shelter of the forest.
The foremen were the first to react. Their hearts still pounding in their chests, they began to slow the train.
The screech of the brakes filled the air, and the train slowly lost momentum, as if it were just as exhausted as its occupants.
Following the miracle that had saved them, their strength finally gave out. They slumped down like sacks of sand onto the wagon's filthy floor. Their backs hunched, their necks dropped to their chests, and the air escaped their lungs in a rough, collective gasp.
There was no joy, only the sight of trembling limbs after surviving yet another hard day of work.
The train drifted slowly toward the tunnel mouth opened in the rocky cliff. Past a slight incline, a modest station had been carved directly into the stone.
It was a functional place, swarming with activity, where the tracks and locomotives of the various collecting groups converged for the unloading of raw materials.
The sound of the lumberjacks leaping from their wagons mingled with the faint echo of the tide that crept in through horizontal openings, similar to bunker loopholes, that faced the sea.
Without yielding a second of unnecessary delay, the specialized log wagons immediately anchored to the station's automated tracks.
The machinery instantly spun them around, dumping their contents onto the ramp system designed to lower the raw materials to sea level.
Cael and Oier, before crossing the main opening, yielded control of the locomotive and descended. Not to secure the cargo, but to give thanks to the group of clerics waiting for them at the station entrance...
On both sides of the tracks, groups of four devotees, dressed in simple, worn white robes, stood guard. They secured with fervor two long, three-meter metal torches, shaped like Christian crosses, which were thrust into the ground.
Their hands and arms were covered by a mass of bandages, an indication that they were forbidden from directly touching the sacred symbol they secured, whether out of respect or for their own safety.
The metallic surface of the torches was masterfully carved, narrating scenes of martyrdom and miracles from the Bible.
However, that faith was fueled by necessity.
Breaking the liturgical aesthetic, two riveted steel drums—similar to those used in military vehicles—were welded to the base.
Cylinders and valves connected these drums to the system that channeled the mysterious fuel to the various arms and tip, which burned with dense, oily flames that were not normal...
They were able to react with the small particles that lay dormant in the twilight gloom.
Creating with their light a safe haven, or with their embers, the divine breath that had just saved them.
As they approached, Olier and Cael observed the pale, sweating faces of thirty friars—or students of the faith—kneeling on the ground.
They were breathing heavily following the exertion that had drained their energy. Not physical, but mental and spiritual, after assisting the high priest of the Village in that miraculous; divine breath.
Both miners stopped dead in their tracks. Though they didn't know it, they had gotten too close.
The two figures in armor, motionless until that instant and posted at the high priest's sides, reacted with a minimal and yet spine-chilling movement.
Without a discernible flicker of emotion, their gazes—hidden behind the Christian cross-shaped visors embedded in their heavy helmets—focused on the foremen.
They were not mere village guards. They were Vatican Knights— instruments of the Church's will, blades of faith forged in flesh.
Their armors were composed of heavy, riveted steel plates that had lost all their luster. From between the metal joints, thick, worn fabrics fell, similar to the devotees' robes, creating an anachronistic blend of religious toga and knight's armor.
Over the armor, intricate tactical harnesses of hardened leather secured thick-caliber ammunition clips and pouches.
Assault rifles, carved with Christian symbols, peeked out from behind their backs. The ceremonial sword at their hips and the heavy iron riot shields they carried served as a mute and absolute warning.
They were also a clear clue: the Priest they guarded held considerable rank within the Church.
Cael and Oier, playing their parts because they knew the priest's vanity, dropped to their knees with exaggerated humility. They bowed their heads, not daring to look at him directly.
"Thank you, Lord! For we are not worthy..." Cael began, his voice trembling with calculated devotion. "Thank you, Father. Thanks to you and the Church, our faith has been renewed."
Turning to his con-man companion, Cael completed the pantomime without raising his head: "Isn't that right, Oier?"
Oier nodded quickly, adding: "Yes, Father. We are but mere miners, but today we have seen the hand of God work through your grace."
The high priest puffed out his chest and stroked his beard with poorly concealed satisfaction. He was a man of advanced age, but his back was notably straight and erect.
Upon his head rose a Mitre of fine silks and inlaid gems, which caught the divine flame of the torches. He wore a complex, multi-layered tunic, where brocade fabrics of jet-black were interwoven with intricate pure gold thread embroidery. A Stole fell from his neck, so richly ornamented it resembled a crimson cascade.
His brown eyes gleamed with vain pride, and an almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. "My children," he said, his voice grave and paternal, "it is my duty as a good shepherd to watch over my flock."
A little further back, the old ranger—the architect of the shot that preceded the breath—leaned against his B/B rifle, identical to his disciple's. He said nothing. He only managed a faint, almost mocking smile, fully aware of the attempted manipulation by... those two idiots.
The miners' tone changed abruptly.
"Father..." Cael whispered, glancing sideways with guilt at the old hermit before bowing his head until it was stained with mud. "We beg your assistance!"
The priest frowned, intrigued, but maintained his composure. "What has happened?"
Oier swallowed hard, visibly nervous. "It's... the boy. Ashe, the ranger who came to our aid." He feared the priest's refusal, but even more, thel, the reaction of the boy's Old Master.
Irritated by the trite abbreviation of the name he himself had chosen, the hermit inquired with sharp eyes fixed on the two foremen: "What has happened to Ashliath?"
Cael completed the plea slowly, as if his own words carried weight: "He stayed behind... fighting an... Alpha."
The friars and devotees holding the torches held their breath; those with more experience exchanged glances charged with unease before scrutinizing the surrounding darkness with renewed concern.
Everyone knew what it meant: when a creature of the night ascended to Alpha grade, it was not only stronger, faster, and more intelligent, but also incredibly resilient. Even the Divine Breath, one of the few sure ways to kill them, was not enough on its own.
The old ranger, for his part, tightened the grip on his rifle until his knuckles turned white, but his face remained expressionless.
If it had been another moment in the boy's training, he would already be on his way... but at this point, he had to wait and, ironically... have faith.
"He needs help," Oier insisted. "Only a couple of minutes have passed. He might still be alive!"
The priest did not respond immediately. He remained with a serene, almost impassive expression, and looked at his guards. The two knights, almost in unison, shook their heads. There was no need to deliberate: one man against an Alpha. The chances of survival were too low.
The priest sighed, clearly uncomfortable with the master and ranger standing so close. Choosing his words with care, he said: "I fear that risking more lives at this point would be senseless. What this young man has done is an act of devotion and sacrifice. His bravery will be remembered in the coming Masses in the Village. I will send a recommendation to the Cardinal... so that his name may be honored. Perhaps he can even be recognized as a minor martyr, associated with the saint of the workers."
His words sounded hollow, even to himself.
Pero Cael y Oier no se dieron por vencidos. "Padre, por favor..." suplicó Cael, la voz quebrada. "No podemos dejar morir a un oficial tan valioso. Si no llega a ser por él, todos nosotros hubiéramos muerto."
Antes de que Oier interviniera, el sacerdote los respondió con una mezcla de lástima e indiferencia velada. "Hijos míos, comprendo vuestro dolor. Pero, como Cristo nos enseñó, a veces el sacrificio es necesario... tanto en nuestra vida diaria..." Borró su expresión suave y concluyó con frialdad: "Como en el trabajo."
Sus palabras resonaron como un golpe seco, demostrando lo insignificante que era una vida ante la doctrina de la Iglesia.
Aun así, los capataces no levantaron la cabeza del barro. Y no fueron los únicos.
Con sus vidas habiendo sido salvadas también por el joven, el resto de los mineros salieron de la estación, y se arrodillaron en el barro junto a sus capataces.
No lo hacían por devoción.
No lo hacían por fe.
Lo hacían por una deuda implícita tras haber sido incontables veces salvados por el joven guardabosques. Lo mínimo que podían hacer era rogar por una oportunidad de devolverle el favor.
"¡Por favor, padre!" exclamó uno de los mineros, postrándose en el barro.
"¡Suplicamos la ayuda y el poder de la iglesia!" gritó otro.
"¡Fue nuestra culpa apurar hasta las últimas luces!" añadió un tercero, su voz quebrada por la culpa.
El sacerdote observó la escena con una mezcla de incomodidad y fastidio.
Pero lo que más llamó su atención fue el viejo ermitaño al lado suyo, que negó con la cabeza y murmuró: "Qué tontería..."
Casi pareciendo que se riera de las suplicas de los mineros por su propio discípulo, o al menos eso le pareció al Sacerdote a su lado.
Cuando en realidad... solo tenía una buena vista... mejor que la mayoria, a pesar de los años.
But Cael and Oier did not give up. "Father, please..." Cael pleaded, his voice cracking. "We cannot let such a valuable officer die. If it weren't for him, all of us would be dead."
Before Oier could intervene, the priest answered them with a blend of pity and veiled indifference. "My children, I understand your pain. But, as Christ taught us, sometimes sacrifice is necessary... both in our daily lives..." He wiped away his soft expression and concluded coldly: "And in our work."
His words resounded like a blunt strike, demonstrating how insignificant one life was before the doctrine of the Church.
Yet, the foremen did not lift their heads from the mud. And they were not the only ones.
With their lives also saved by the young man, the rest of the miners poured out of the station and knelt in the mud alongside their foremen.
They did not do it out of devotion.
They did not do it out of faith.
They did it because of an implicit debt after having been saved countless times by the young ranger. The least they could do was beg for a chance to return the favor.
"Please, Father!" one of the miners exclaimed, prostrating himself in the mud.
"We beg the Church's aid and power!" shouted another.
"It was our fault for pushing until the last light!" added a third, his voice broken by guilt.
The priest observed the scene with a mix of discomfort and annoyance.
But what drew his attention the most was the old hermit beside him, who shook his head and murmured: "Nonsense..."
He almost seemed to be laughing at the miners' pleas for his own disciple, or at least that's what it looked like to the Priest at his side.
When in reality... he simply had a good view... better than most, despite his age.