It was massive.
A grotesque mound of flesh and bone — an obscene monument to suffering. Bodies had been sewn together in maddening patterns, their torsos fused, limbs stretched and reattached where they did not belong. The stench of rot burned Cirino's nose. The thing moved, shuddering as though every corpse still remembered pain.
He could see faces twisted in agony — eyes that blinked but did not see, mouths that opened only to scream soundlessly. Torn flesh looped back into itself, stitched by blackened sinew. Bile and entrails slicked the creature's surface, glistening under the dim lantern light. Exposed ribs jutted like spines from its back, and at its center, a dozen hearts throbbed in uneven rhythm, pumping a foul parody of life.
Yet Cirino could not call any of it living.
The abomination writhed as if in recognition of them, its grotesque body convulsing at the sight of fresh prey. A deep, gurgling moan escaped from what might have been a mouth — an amalgam of shredded flesh and teeth. Blood ran down its twisted lips like saliva, pooling into the cracks of the stone beneath it.
The sound that followed wasn't quite a roar.
It was too human for that.
The panicked commander roared. "Shoot it! Unleash hell on that damned thing! Send it back to the Chthonis hell where it belongs!"
The auxiliaries moved onto position. Some behind debris, in-between Castrato knights. The barrage came soon after, flashes of broken realities soon followed.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
The creature groaned, cried, shrieked in pain. Bullets tore through it, flesh tearint and ripping apart — declared non-existent by the bullets. The thing's body exploded at various points, cannon-ball sized wounds spilt flesh and bone onto the ground.
But not every bullet struck.
The Creature let out a mighty scream, one of agony and pain. It cast a field, one that seemed to thrum with life. A purple filtering void seeped from its engorged pustule-filled pores, contending the bullets' declarations that the creature itself was ever struck.
With every bullet fired, less and less struck the target. Soon enough, no V-Types would be able to pierce through it. Such was the nature of most Chthonis creatures, battles with them often devoled into a brutal melee slug.
A disadvantaged position for any fragile human soldier.
The captain grit his teeth, barking orders to the Castrato. All, except for Cas, stepped forward. They unsheathed their void blades, each bit of steel colored black. The creature regenerated, the destroyed flesh replaced and reknit itself.
'This thing's too strong, the hell is it?' Cirino thought in terror.
Yet the soldiers wouldn't be able to act. In a split-second, it slammed its would-be pseudo arm down. The floor cracked, and Cirino pushed himself aside — Cas followed suit. But not everyone was lucky. A poor soul was caught in its palm, crushed like a bug under its sudden attack.
Another soul charged in with a bayonet, only for the flesh arm to sprout smaller limbs, catching the man in a vice grip. The soldier screamed, cried, and tried to tear its arm away from the soldiers.
The soldier began to melt, flesh slipping off bone and merging with the creature's own flesh in a horrific. Manner.
"Help! Please! Kill me! Kill me!"
Bang!
The soldier's head split open — gray matter spraying across the writhing thing's arm. Cirino kept his carbine up, barrel smoking in a runic hiss. He chambered another round, ready to fire again.
"Don't!" The Commander hissed. "You won't kill it like that!"
To Cirino's horror, the bullet-cracked skull reknitted itself.
Bone fused with flesh, merging with the rest of the malformed creature. The man continuing his horrific screams, crying for death, yet that mercy was now out of reach. Like a forceful tug, his bone split from his body, his flesh tore, and he turned into another soul joined within a cacophany of pained screams.
Cirino grit his teeth, this thing had to die. It stepped back a few paces, pseudo-limbs clutching where its face should be. With a mighty roar, it opened its maw vomiting lesser merged men. The smaller malformed things convulsed, spines cracking, flesh tearing, sharp-knife edged teeth splitting its jaws as if they were too small to contain it.
"Castrato Units! Focus on the mutated creature! Soldiers, the lesser spawn are yours!" the commander roared.
The Castrato moved as one — a silent, metallic tide surging toward the abomination. Their swords flashed, carving through writhing limbs and shrieking half-born things, every motion sharp and inhumanly precise. Yet their true target loomed beyond: the colossal mass of flesh and bone that refused to die.
The auxiliaries fanned out, rifles raised. Cirino stood among them, pulse hammering in his ears.
The lesser spawn screeched, then rushed. They came on all fours, bounding faster than the eye could track — a blur of teeth, nails, and broken human shapes.
"In line, soldiers! Hold the line!" The commander barked.
Boots thundered against stone as the men snapped into formation. The corridor was narrow, a single funnel of death — perfect for containment, if they could time it right. Type-V rounds didn't obey normal ballistics; they warped the air, bent cause and effect itself. But without a direct line of sight, even their runes would fail.
So they waited.
Sweat rolled down Cirino's temple. The creatures' screeches grew louder. Closer. The air trembled with their charge.
Then—
"Open fire!"
The tunnel exploded in light and sound. Muzzle flashes strobed against the slick stone, echoing like thunder trapped in a cage. Type-V rounds tore through flesh and bone alike — one creature's head simply ceased to exist, another was cleaved in half, and a third imploded where its chest had been.
Still, the rest surged on, leaping over the bodies of their kin.
Cirino cursed under his breath. He slung his rifle down, fixing a void-tipped bayonet with a metallic click. Others followed his lead, the commander gritting his teeth but saying nothing.
The first line of riflemen leveled their blades forward, the second line aimed high — a living wall of steel and rune-fire, bracing against the storm that charged ever closer.
The first wave hit like a crashing tide.
The line of riflemen braced—then thrust. Void-tipped bayonets punched through corrupted flesh, burning holes where reality itself seemed to recoil. Shoulders split open, torsos tore apart, and the frontmost creatures reeled back with hissing, guttural shrieks.
Those that survived the first impact lashed out, claws raking through the air, catching sleeves, flesh, and steel alike. The soldiers stepped back in practiced motion, boots scraping against wet stone as they reformed the line.
Cirino exhaled sharply, angling his rifle downward before driving his blade through the nearest creature's throat. The steel met little resistance — like stabbing through soaked parchment. Hot blood sprayed across his coat, and the beast spasmed, clawing desperately at the barrel of his carbine.
All around him, the men repeated the rhythm of survival — stab, pull back, reload, thrust — a brutal, mechanical dance.
Then, a scream.
One rifle was yanked from trembling hands, its owner pulled forward before anyone could react. The man's cry turned into a wet, choking gurgle as a creature's maw clamped down on his shoulder, dragging him into the darkened corner.
"Hold the line!" someone shouted — but it was drowned by chaos.
Cirino's jaw clenched, his teeth grinding as he forced himself to keep fighting. He had heard screams like that before — too many times to count.
All around him, the corridor became a symphony of slaughter: steel clashing, claws rending, and the mingling of monstrous shrieks with human agony.
As the slaughter dragged on, Cirino could see their line breaking — men falling to claws, screams swallowed by the chaos. The push of bodies and blood grew heavier. He grit his teeth, shoved one abomination back, and leveled his carbine.
Bang!
The creature's chest burst open, a plume of gore painting the wall. It fell, twitching, then went still. Cirino's gaze swept over the horde — vast, snarling, but finite. He thought of how the Castrato carved through their foes like executioners, without hesitation or mercy. A plan sparked in his mind.
"Cas!" he shouted. "Can you get behind them!?"
The iron knight turned slightly, helm glinting under the flickering lanterns. No words—only a curt nod.
"Then go! Cut them down from behind. Not one lives, got it!?"
The only answer was steel leaving its sheath. Cas moved — a blur of precision and intent — vaulting off the ground, boots striking stone and running along the wall as if gravity itself bent to his command. His form darted around the curve of the tunnel before dropping behind the swarm in a sliding crouch.
He rose in a single, fluid motion. Steel flashed. One abomination's head left its shoulders; another's chest split apart, organs spilling in a grotesque bloom. Every swing was efficient, every movement clean — a metronome of death.
The abominations faltered. Their shrieks turned uncertain, heads snapping toward the sound of their kin being butchered. That single moment of hesitation was all Cirino needed.
He charged.
The redhead lunged forward, his bayonet glinting as he drove it into an abomination's skull. He twisted, felt the resistance give, and ripped the weapon free—using the corpse as a shield before slamming its skull into another screeching demon.
"Forward!"
As one, the auxiliaries surged. Gunfire cracked through the air; bayonets thrust and tore into unholy flesh. Claws lashed back, rending cloth and skin, but the men pressed on—pushed by desperation and fury.
From behind, Cas carved through the horde like a scythe through rot, his blade a dark streak amidst the carnage. The abominations were trapped—steel before them, death behind.
They clumped together, driven by terror or instinct, only to be cut down in kind. One after another, they fell—screams fading beneath the clash of steel and gunfire.
And when silence finally settled, it came with a wet sound: Cas' blade tearing through the last creature's jaw. Blood slid down the blackened steel, dripping onto the stone floor in rhythmic beats.
The tunnel stilled. Only the sound of ragged breathing and the faint hiss of spent rifles remained.
Cirino let out a deep exhale, steadying himself. He couldn't rest just yet, but he needed some breathing room. As he did so, however, a figure paced over his way. Filtered rage evident on their face, Cirino could feel the steam coming out of his ears. It was the commander, the one whose name he didn't know.
Cirino's lips thinned, he knew exactly why this man was rushing to him.
"Explain yourself." The commander snapped. "Explain why you fixed bayonets without my command."
Cirino opened his mouth, familiarity in his mind. But he caught himself before he spoke.
'Wait a minute, he's not my superior officer. I'm not under him, why should I comply?' A dangerous glint formed in his eyes. He'd never dare to do this to a superior. As the Empire's perfect little soldier, doing so would be unthinkable.
But he wasn't a soldier right now, he was a prisoner. And it was the prisoner's job to piss off his jailors.
"With all due respect, sir. Maybe you should learn to say thank you because my little bayonet gamble saved our lives." He said, tone far too casual for someone speaking to a commanding officer.
"Because, to be perfectly honest, you're pretty shit at your job if a simple soldier could tell what we had to do, and you couldn't."
A sense of catharsis rushed through him. For some reason, that felt really good to say. He'd do it more often if he could, but his will to live outweighed his desire to be an asshole.
The man's face turned red, and he pulled his revolver out. He pointed the barrel to Cirino's temple and spat out his words.
"You little shit, who do you think you are? You're a prisoner, not a soldier. Lady Baudouin wouldn't care if you died right here so you best follow my orders or—"
His previous provocations seemed antithetical to what Cirino desired, but that was untrue. Because the man couldn't kill him, none of the soldiers could. He overheard it, one of the orders Alyssa intoned into Cas.
"Keep Cirino Alive."
Steel flashed, and a blade founds its way to the commander's throat. The man's face froze, his eyes turning to the Castrato knight pressing the blade to his neck.
"W-What are you doing? Stand down?"
But the knight didn't listen.
"Lower your blade, Cas." Cirino said, and the knight followed.
The man's hands shook around his revolver, and Cirino turned to look him in the eye. His face far too calm, too amused for someone at gunpoint.
"Lady Baudouin wants me alive. If you kill me, what do you think would happen to you?" Cirino said, his hand moving to the revolver and pushing it down.
"I don't work for you, I'm working with you. I want the same thing you do, so cooperate with me. If you get in the way, I'll treat you as fodder for the succubi."
He looked to the hall, the abomination was nowhere to be found. There were corpses on the ground, knights crushed like tin cans, gore splattering the ground. One was split in half, his legs missing leaving a bloody torn stump.
Blood both monstrous and from men stained the ground.
A roar echoed, the ground shook, and both Cirino hardened his gaze.
"Let's go, Cas."
He ran deeper into the hall, Cas followed suit. The rest stood stumped, glancing at one another. Flushed and ashamed, the commander barked out.
"Follow them."
The unit followed.