Bullets hammered Shrikecoil, but every round bounced off harmlessly with metallic clinks. He let out a weary sigh.
"Why are humans always so stupid?" he muttered to himself. "Those four soldiers were the same."
With a sharp tug, he yanked back his other chain, its length tearing through walls and floor alike as he continued, voice dripping with disdain:
"In the end, they died trying to protect that thing's family."
Mordane's team dodged the whipping chain, still firing desperately, but their weapons did nothing. Shrikecoil now held both chains in his hands, their broken lengths dragging along the ground behind him as he began to advance with slow, deliberate steps.
"And now," he added coldly, "you four will meet the same fate."
"Fall back!" Mordane barked. "Bullets aren't doing a damn thing to it!"
They ceased fire instantly and sprinted down the corridor. Shrikecoil didn't chase. He strolled after them, chains scraping against the floor with a grinding echo, as if the hunt were nothing more than leisure.
His followers caught up, rushing past him, their hollow eyes locked on Mordane's team. Around the corner, the possessed soldiers opened fire. But their aim was sloppy, their hands unsteady—too long under Shrikecoil's control. Bullets tore into walls and ceilings but missed their fleeing targets.
Mordane's squad rounded another corner, pausing just long enough to catch their breath—only to see a grenade clatter to the floor at their feet.
"Fuck!" Voss yelled.
Mordane and Morren dropped flat, arms over their heads. Stroud lunged forward, snatched the grenade mid-bounce, and hurled it back around the corner before diving for cover. The blast came an instant later—shrapnel and smoke ripping through the passage.
The nearest thralls were shredded where they stood, bodies collapsing in twitching heaps. The others had ducked in time, spared but disoriented.
"On your feet!" Mordane ordered. His squad rose and returned fire from the corner. The followers fired back, muzzle flashes cutting through the haze.
In the chaos, Voss shouted over the gunfire:
"You're fucking crazy, Stroud! You know that?"
Stroud gave a tight grin. "I know."
Mordane smirked. "Your craziness saved us all today, Sergeant."
"Thank you, General," Stroud replied, eyes sharp as he reloaded.
They fought in rotation, firing and reloading in turn. Several thralls went down, riddled with bullets—but impossibly, they kept moving. Blood poured from their wounds, yet their faces twisted into grins as they advanced.
"What the hell?" Morren spat. "They're hit, but they don't even react!"
Shrikecoil emerged through the smoke, stepping past the corpses of his thralls. Some still staggered forward despite bleeding out, while the dead lay broken in his wake.
"General," Morren said, voice tight, "that thing and his soldiers are closing in fast."
Mordane's face hardened. "We can't kill it with small arms. Fall back again."
Before they could retreat, Stroud yanked a grenade from his vest, pulled the pin, and hurled it straight at Shrikecoil. It bounced twice before rolling to a stop at his feet.
One of the bleeding thralls suddenly leapt forward, throwing himself on the grenade. The explosion shredded him instantly, painting the walls in gore, smoke flooding the hallway.
"That was a clean hit," Morren said.
"Did it do the job?" Voss asked, peering through the haze.
The smoke parted. Shrikecoil strode out unscathed, crimson body gleaming, his followers behind him soaked in blood—both their own and their comrade's. Their lips curled into grotesque smiles as they advanced once more.
"Run! Now!" Mordane commanded.
"How tough is that thing?" Morren gasped.
"That didn't even slow it down," Voss growled.
And once again, they ran.
Shrikecoil turned the corner and swung his chains. They extended like living whips, crashing through walls, ceiling, and floor. Mordane's team ran with everything they had, narrowly avoiding the destructive sweep. Shrikecoil pulled the chains back into his hands, molten links screeching as they retracted.
The squad rounded another corner. Stroud yanked another grenade from his vest and hurled it. It cut through the air toward Shrikecoil, but he lashed out with his chains, striking the grenade mid-flight. The impact crushed it—yet the grenade detonated instantly, faster than expected. Shrapnel burst outward, peppering Shrikecoil. The shards clanged harmlessly off his body, just like the bullets before.
Smoke billowed through the corridor as Shrikecoil stepped forward. His followers halted behind him. He let out a long, disappointed sigh.
"This is getting boring."
The chains in his hands began to liquefy, dripping into pools of crimson metal. He pressed the blobs together, and they fused, reshaping. The mass stretched, hardened, and twisted until a spear gleamed in his grip. Shrikecoil lowered into a stance, wings folding tightly around his body. Black and red sparks rippled across his frame as the air around him began to hum.
Then he launched.
The spear thrust him forward at Mach 3. A thunderous boom split the base. Walls cracked, the ground shuddered, lightbulbs shattered in a storm of sparks, and darkness swallowed the corridors.
Mordane's team barely had time to register the sound before the Executioner struck. Shrikecoil's spear slashed through Voss's right arm, ripping it clean from the shoulder. A geyser of blood erupted, painting the hall red. The shockwave blasted everyone off their feet, smashing them against the walls.
Shrikecoil's own followers were hurled like ragdolls behind him.
Mordane's team crashed hard, rolling across the floor. Pain tore through their bodies—ribs cracked, lungs burned, blood filled their mouths. Voss screamed, his severed shoulder gushing crimson until he lay in a growing pool of it, chest heaving unevenly.
Shrikecoil walked toward him, wings unfolding. The corridor was bathed in the blood-red light radiating from them.
"You," Shrikecoil muttered, pressing his foot onto Voss's head, "are too loud."
The crunch was wet, final.
Stroud roared in fury and fired, emptying his rifle, but the rounds pinged uselessly off Shrikecoil's body.
"Fall back!" Mordane ordered hoarsely. He dragged Stroud and Morren, but Morren stopped fighting, slumping against the wall. Tears mixed with blood on his face as he whispered, "I'm sorry, Veera. I think this is the end for me. I love you."
Shrikecoil advanced with slow, deliberate steps.
"I gave you a chance," he said coldly. "You refused. Now I'll take the answers directly from your minds."
Stroud's rifle clicked empty. Mordane kept dragging his men, desperation in his eyes. Shrikecoil loomed closer—
And suddenly, the world shifted.
The ruined corridor dissolved. In the blink of an eye, they were outside. Mordane, Stroud, Morren, Shrikecoil, and Voss's lifeless body all lay in the open field under the blazing sun.
Everyone froze, disoriented, stunned.
A searing beam of light lanced from the sky and struck Shrikecoil's arm. His left arm melted instantly, dripping to the grass like wax. He leapt back in shock and rage.
Hovering high above was a radiant figure.
An angel.
Her wings spread wide, pure and white like a dove's. Five blazing orbs of golden light circled her, each one burning like a miniature sun. They pulsed with unstable energy, fragments of brilliance breaking off and searing the air.
Shrikecoil snarled as his arm regenerated. "What is an Angelo doing here?"
Her voice carried like music, gentle yet commanding, every word laced with power.
"I am Seraphine—The Light of Judgment. And I am here to find the Void."