Cirino gritted his teeth. His grip on the pipe tightened, the rustic metal biting against the leather of his gloves. His blue eyes locked onto the swirling green of his foe. He took in a few deep breaths to steady himself.
"If you're still in there," Cirino began, his voice low, trembling with restraint, "give up."
He raised the makeshift spear, the jagged end glinting faintly beneath the moonlight—pointed straight at the creature. In answer, the monster howled into the frozen air, its cry splitting through the night.
"Then let me kill you."
No more words followed. One had nothing left to say, and the other could no longer speak.
The corrupted thing lunged forward with a roar, claws raised to cleave Cirino in two. The soldier bent his knees and rolled beneath its swing, sliding between its legs. He came up behind it, planting his feet and driving the pipe straight into its back.
The jagged edge tore through Malethic flesh, and the creature shrieked, a wet, inhuman sound that rattled the rooftop. Cirino didn't hesitate. Using the embedded pipe as leverage, he hauled himself up onto the monster's back. With one hand, he reached for its face and drove his fingers deep into the creature's eyes.
It howled again, staggering and thrashing, trying to throw him off. Cirino gritted his teeth and held on, feeling the hot ichor spill over his hands. The fragile orbs burst under his thumbs, slick and soft like overripe fruit.
The monster reeled backward, its shriek echoing across the rooftops as Cirino clung on, every muscle burning, refusing to let go.
It thrashed against Cirino's hold. Stumbling back and beating its malformed wings—taking flight for just a few beats. Cirino wouldn't allow it; he grit his teeth and shifted his weight. Pulling at the creature's head, using the now-empty eye sockets as leverage, then kicked at its wings to make it lose balance.
The effect was immediate. With a roar, the creature fell on the ground with a thud. Bone broke, flesh tore, and blood splattered the ground.
But it got back up—of course it did.
Mortal wounds were nothing to creatures influenced by the demon realms.
The creature regenerated its injuries, all but its eyes. Cirino wouldn't let it. He squeezed harder into the sockets, popping the new eyes forming like grapes. But Cirino could feel it, the burning flesh reknitting under his hold. Attempting to reconstruct its burst eyes only to be blocked by his fingers.
Dammit! The soldier internally cursed.
There was no way to really kill this thing, not without severing its connection to Chthonis. He didn't have the proper arms to do so.
While he had the upper hand now, it won't be long until he'd be at a disadvantage. He could tear the creature's limbs, rip out its wings, bash its skull against the stone again and again.
But unless he had the means to pierce through its higher-dimensional existence, he was screwed.
The creature had had enough. With a guttural roar, it lunged toward the wall—twisting at the last instant so Cirino would take the impact. He didn't have time to loosen his grip.
The collision came like a cannon blast. Stone shattered, ribs splintered. His body crumpled against the wall before being thrown through it, dragged across the floor in a trail of blood and dust. When he finally stopped—teetering at the rooftop's edge—his breath came out in wet gasps.
He tasted iron. Blood streamed from his mouth, bubbling from punctured lungs. Every inhale stabbed like a blade twisting between his ribs. His vision blurred red from the gash on his forehead.
He should've stayed down.
But he didn't.
I won't… die… not like this!
Through broken bone and split flesh, Cirino forced himself up. His body screamed, but his will screamed louder. Pain had followed him through trenches and battlefields—it wasn't going to bury him now. If death wanted him, it would have to take him standing.
He had no weapon left. Only a mangled body and a stubborn heartbeat.
The creature didn't care for his defiance. It didn't understand pain, or pride, or resolve. It only hungered. Its malformed frame twitched and straightened, driven by the simple, singular need to kill—to feed the malignant whisper that had devoured what once was human.
It roared—its scream tore through the night like shrapnel. With a final, furious charge, the creature lunged. Claws outstretched, jaws split wide, it meant to end Cirino once and for all—to rip him apart until nothing remained but a ruin of blood and bone.
Cirino stood his ground. Fist curled. Teeth grit.
Then—
Bang!
The world cracked. The creature's body didn't just burst—it unraveled. Flesh disintegrated, bone and flesh shredded into mist. A hole the size of a cannonball tore through its arm, splitting shoulder from chest. It wasn't a mere shot. It was annihilation.
Cirino knew that sound. That kind of wound. That kind of death.
A V-Type round.
The Choir had arrived.
Elsewhere, across the rooftops, a lone figure steadied his rifle under the moonlight. White hair caught the glow, green eyes fixed and unblinking. The simple coat he'd worn before was gone—replaced by the gray uniform of the Inquisition, the winged eye of the Choir faintly visible on his sleeve. His sharp ears twitched against the cold, he ignored the chill bite.
Sio Ha'thran exhaled. The bolt clicked, the chamber hummed. He slid another round into place—the V-Type bullet sang with energy, faint glyphs burning along the casing.
He pulled the trigger.
The rifle flared with living light. The runes along the barrel ignited as the round left the chamber—not flying, but deciding. The bullet didn't travel; it rewrote. Space, time, and causality folded around its path as it declared the creature already struck.
The corrupted link to Chthonis broke further under the continued assault.
The creature roared—its shriek splitting the air—but its gaze found no trace of the hidden elf among the rooftops.
Another blast rang out. A cannonball-sized hole tore through its leg, sending it crashing onto the stone below. It writhed, tried to heal, tried to reshape the missing flesh—yet it could not recreate what no longer was. The V-Type round had rewritten reality itself, deciding this absence had always been true.
It snarled, a flicker of dying awareness sparking behind its blackened eyes. It understood—if only dimly—that death was certain.
With a guttural cry, it beat its ruined wings. Bone splintered, muscle strained, but it lifted itself upward—desperate to flee, to vanish into the rooftops and the cold night beyond.
High above, Sio already had the creature in his sights. His finger brushed the trigger, ready to end it—
"Calm, Sio."
The voice was female, soft yet commanding. He hesitated.
From the neighboring roof, a woman stepped forward. Her golden eyes glinted under the moonlight, matching the polished guard of her saber. She tilted her head toward the writhing creature and smiled faintly.
"Take a breather," she said, drawing her blade with a metallic whisper. "I need some stress relief, too."
She sprinted across the rooftops, leaping from one ledge to another with practiced grace. Golden hair streamed behind her as she drew a revolver in her free hand—a sleek weapon engraved with runes that shimmered faintly blue.
One breath. One shot. Then another.
The smaller V-Type rounds tore through the creature's wings.
It shrieked, its flight faltering. Blood and black ichor rained as it plummeted toward the ground below, screaming all the while.
The blonde didn't hesitate. With a final burst of speed, she vaulted off the ledge—saber drawn and gleaming in the moonlight.
Steel met flesh. The blade carved clean through, severing the creature's head in a single, fluid motion. She landed gracefully amid the spray, pivoting on her heel as the body slumped behind her.
In one smooth motion, she leveled her revolver at the severed head.
"Sweet dreams," she murmured, giving it a playful wink—
Bang!
The head detonated in a burst of impossible light, disintegrating into nothingness. Reality buckled for a moment as the paradox rippled outward, erasing what was left of the creature. Its body withered into ash, its form unmade and scattered to the wind.
Only the gem remained.
It struck the stone with a soft clink, rolled once, and came to rest—unbroken, untouched. Clear and lustrous, it shone as if all the destruction around it had been a dream.
The blonde regarded the crystal with a quiet hum. She didn't touch it—didn't even lean too close. Instead, she crouched beside it, eyes narrowing as she examined the gem's perfect surface. With the creature dead, the investigation could finally begin.
"That was a bit of a letdown," she sighed. "I wonder if I looked good doing that… maybe it would've been cooler if I shot it mid-air."
She paused, then nodded to herself, committing the idea for next time. A faint grin tugged at her lips before she exhaled through her nose—a quiet, almost sheepish sigh.
"Though…" she murmured, glancing over her shoulder toward the collapsed rooftop edge. "Perhaps I should check on that poor man first."
She straightened, brushing dust from her uniform.
"Almost forgot," she added with a soft chuckle. "Silly me."
[…]
The rest of the night passed in a blur. Cirino's thoughts felt hazy—memories flickered in fragments, fading as the adrenaline drained from his veins. He sat slumped against the garrison wall, William huddled beside him, a blanket wrapped tight around the boy's trembling shoulders.
The Choir had arrived in full force—healers, investigators, and soldiers sweeping the scene with grim efficiency. One of the healers knelt beside him, applying a pungent disinfectant that burned like acid.
Cirino hissed through his teeth.
"Sorry!" a voice blurted.
He turned his head, meeting a pair of bright violet eyes. The young woman couldn't have been much older than he was. Same gray Choir uniform, same insignia on her shoulder—though she wore a silver necklace marked with a sigil of some holy order.
"Did that hurt?" she asked sheepishly.
Cirino blinked.
"No—" he started, then grimaced. "Actually, yeah. But it's fine."
She nodded quickly, bowing her head. "Forgive me. I'm still a little new at this…"
Cirino stared at her for a moment, deadpan.
They sent a trainee medic to patch me up?
He sighed inwardly. Still, for a novice, she wasn't half bad. At least she didn't curse at him while sewing the wound shut. His old army medic had less bedside manner and worse stitching skills.
Where's the accountability… and why am I always the test subject for rookie healers?
He shook his head. No point in complaining. Rookie or not, she'd patched him up well enough that he wasn't dying anymore. The punctured lungs were still a problem, but she was skilled enough in Biothurgy, or healing magic, to isolate the damaged organs and conjure pseudo-organs in their place. Crude, but effective.
It would buy him time until he could reach a proper healer. Still, the fact he was even being treated meant the Choir wanted answers. Which also meant he was probably going to be arrested for failing to report a suspected Malethic-Corrupted Artifact. The evidence, after all, was splattered across what was left of Wycliffe and Sons.
Not the best day I've had…
He'd come to Dunsleight broke, freezing, and starving. Now he was about to be detained by an organization infamous for its extrajudicial authority. If luck favored him, he'd walk away with only a few new scars—mental or otherwise.
He turned to William. The boy was shivering—afraid—and kept glancing at him through tear-swollen eyes. Two adults stood nearby, questioning him even as it was clear he couldn't speak. They waved papers and spoke of orphanages as if they were logistics to be sorted.
Cirino clicked his tongue. He was never good with children, but watching them treat William like cargo didn't sit right with him.
It reminded him too much of his own childhood—being dumped in a countryside orphanage and forgotten.
At the very least, he's safe.
That alone made it worth it. Even if he ended up executed after this, William would live. That was reward enough. He only hoped the boy could forgive him for dragging his family into this hell in the first place.
Just as Cirino turned back to the healer, two figures approached.
The first was the blonde woman—poised, confident, and wearing her authority like a tailored coat. Her saber hung casually at her hip, glinting under the lanternlight as she looked down at him with a faint, amused smile.
The second, he recognized immediately: the white-haired elf from just earlier—Sio, that was his name. Rifle slung across his back, expression as cold as ever.
The elf frowned when their eyes met.
Nice to see you too, jackass…
Cirino thought, a faint grin tugging at his lips.
"Stop grinning at me. That's creepy," Sio snapped.
"Sorry," Cirino said, covering his mouth with his free hand.
The blonde laughed—a light, melodic sound that carried easily through the cold night. The exchange clearly amused her, and she made no effort to hide it.
"Quite the grin you have there, Sir Soldier," she said, eyes gleaming with mirth.
Cirino only blinked and looked away.
Clearing her throat, the blonde turned to the healer. "You can go now, Rita. We'll take things from here."
Rita nodded and stood, bowing politely. "Many thanks, Lady Alyssa." She started to leave, but suddenly paused mid-step and turned back.
"Oh! And, um—Mr. Soldier, sir—once you're done with interrogation, please come over to the medical wing! I still need to treat your punctured lung!"
…
Was she supposed to tell me that detail?
Sio facepalmed. Alyssa let out a long, resigned sigh.
Realizing her blunder, Rita froze, slapped a hand over her mouth, and bowed again, her face now the color of a sunset. "I-I'm terribly sorry, Lady Alyssa!"
She scurried off before Alyssa could respond. The blonde shook her head, crossing her arms. The playfulness in her expression didn't fade, but her posture straightened—commanding, authoritative.
"Well," she said dryly, "I suppose I can't keep quiet about this now, can I?"
Her golden eyes turned back to Cirino. "We have questions about that little Malethic gem we recovered from the corpse. If you wouldn't mind, we'd like you to come with us for questioning."
Cirino blinked. "Does that mean I can say no?"
Sio didn't miss a beat. "No."
Well, it was worth a shot…
[…]
Cirino wondered if it would've been better had he simply overslept and missed his stop back on the train. At least then, he wouldn't be here.
He stood in a dimly lit room, the air thick with the faint smell of ink and ozone. The only other occupants were the blonde woman—Alyssa—the bespectacled man beside a clattering typewriter, and a short, white-haired girl with striking violet eyes who looked far too young to be here.
He blinked.
What's she supposed to be?
As if sensing his confusion, Alyssa cleared her throat and began with practiced poise.
"Since we're all gathered, it's customary to introduce ourselves." She placed a hand over her chest. "Alyssa Baudouin, Vice-Captain of the Dunsleight Branch of the Choir's Inquisition."
The man next to the typewriter adjusted his spectacles and gave a curt nod. "Rollo Anselle. Recorder."
Before Cirino could glance at the smaller girl, she had already leapt to her feet—voice bright, posture ramrod straight.
"Agnes Rommel Kleist! Scion of the Shardbearer of Justice, Serathiel! Proudly serving under the Justiciar's Venerable Shardhost!"
She threw up a salute and flicked her cape dramatically. It fluttered for half a heartbeat before settling back around her shoulders.
Cirino stared blankly. His brain quietly shut down somewhere around "Venerable Shardhost."
Alyssa cleared her throat again. "Scion-in-training," she corrected patiently. "She's here to determine if you're lying."
Agnes jabbed a finger toward Cirino, her eyes gleaming with self-importance. "That's right, criminal! I, Justiciar Progeny of Serathiel, shall ensure that any and all transgressions are brought to—"
"Alright, enough." Rollo sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Just do your damned job."
The girl grumbled something under her breath before slumping back into her seat. Still—a Scion-in-training? Her? She looked like she hadn't even graduated primary.
The disbelief on Cirino's face was apparently plain enough to make Alyssa chuckle.
Leaning in, she whispered with a hint of amusement, "I'm sure you're aware that each Shardbearer has their own methods of choosing a Scion. Serathiel's selection comes through a rigorous academic program in law. Only the best of the best make it through."
The venerable Scions—chosen by the Shardbearers themselves. When a mortal earned the notice of one of those divine beings, the Shardbearer could grant them a fragment of its power, elevating them to something more than human. A demigod in service to their respective Shardbearer, and of course, to the Holy High-Crown. To become a Scion was an honor few could even dream of.
They were faster, stronger, and more capable than any mortal within the Empire's population.
Cirino's feelings toward them were… complicated. A mix of awe and envy.
Within Dunsleight's walls, countless scholars and aspirants pursued that same dream—hoping to be deemed worthy of Serathiel's gaze, to bear a fragment of Justice itself. Agnes was one of them. Just one among thousands marked as a potential Scion. But she clearly held some pride in her candidacy.
The room went quiet. All eyes turned to Cirino, waiting. He blinked, realizing too late that it was his turn.
"Uh… Cirino," he started, awkwardly straightening his back. "Private, Infantry Division, Unit 2980."
He caught himself before saluting. These weren't his commanding officers—at least, he hoped they weren't.
The group turned to Agnes. Her sharp violet eyes locked onto Cirino, narrowing for a moment before she leaned forward, scrutinizing him. Then, with an emphatic nod—
"Truth!" she declared, voice brimming with self-satisfaction.
Alyssa and Rollo exchanged brief glances. The latter adjusted his spectacles and resumed typing on the typewriter, each clack punctuating the silence.
"Alright, everything seems in order," Alyssa said at last, cracking her knuckles and stretching her arms with a weary sigh.
She crossed the room to a nearby cabinet, opened a drawer, and withdrew a rune-etched containment box, a stack of files, and a few handwritten transcripts from earlier interrogations. She laid them neatly on the table before Cirino—just out of reach.
His blue eyes flicked to the items, curiosity tempered by caution.
Alyssa began with the box.
"Inside this is the Malethis-corrupted gem recovered from the Chthonis spawn you fought." Her tone was level but carried the weight of command. She unclasped the lid, and the emerald gleamed under the lamplight—radiant, whole, and utterly unchanged, as if untouched by the carnage it had wrought.
Cirino's brows furrowed. It shouldn't have looked that pristine.
"Now then, Mr. Cirino," Alyssa continued, stepping closer. Her golden eyes fixed on his, sharp and unyielding. "Tell me—how did Mr. Walter Wycliffe come into contact with such a heavily corrupted artifact?"