The Blood Coven.
A slum-based religious organization that worshiped blood itself as their spiritual totem, elevating the crimson fluid to sacred status.
According to fragmented accounts, the group had originated as a small, unknown church organization. Nothing special, easily overlooked among hundreds of similar fringe groups operating in poverty-stricken areas.
Now it had transformed completely, grown into a massive sect claiming tens of thousands of devoted believers throughout the region.
According to the Mediterranean leader's hazy, incomplete memories, pieced together from decades of living in these slums, no one could explain with certainty exactly how the Blood Coven had been born. The origins remained shrouded in deliberate mystery and half-forgotten history.
The sect seemed to have simply existed for as long as he could remember, a permanent fixture of the slum landscape. When he tried to recall his earliest childhood memories, the Blood Coven was already there, already established, already feared.
The Mediterranean leader had just celebrated his forty-fifth birthday several months ago, marking the passage of years with quiet desperation.
In other words, the Blood Coven represented an ancient organization that had existed for at least half a century, possibly longer. Roots ran deep.
The slums located near Mexico City had been deliberately forgotten by official Mexican government departments for many years. Corruption, apathy, and the simple difficulty of administering such areas meant authorities simply looked away, pretending the problems didn't exist.
Therefore, grassroots management of the Chimahuacán slum throughout past decades had operated entirely through territorial division and gang-based autonomy. Warlords in miniature, each controlling their blocks through violence and intimidation.
However, one particular night more than twenty years ago, everything changed permanently.
The Blood Coven, which had grown to become the second-largest faith organization within the slums, unleashed a horrific bloodbath. The violence left thousands dead or maimed, bodies piled in streets, blood running in literal rivers through gutters.
The massacre completely established their status as the undisputed rulers of the slums. No gang, no matter how well-armed or numerous, could challenge them afterward.
In the beginning, surprisingly, they had worked diligently to construct schools and small hospitals. They improved living conditions and helped impoverished civilians free themselves from the numbing grip of drug addiction that claimed so many.
Genuine good works, or at least the appearance of such.
But as time passed and power consolidated, the upper echelons of the Blood Coven no longer seemed satisfied with mere influence and gratitude.
They began forcibly converting people, applying pressure through control of essential services. Civilians had to offer worship of blood, participating in rituals and ceremonies, in order to enjoy access to medical care and educational opportunities for their children.
This was understandable to a degree. After all, the civilians trapped in the slums possessed few choices and fewer resources. Take what's offered or watch your children suffer.
But when people who had chosen to believe in the Blood Coven began turning up completely drained of blood, their bodies pale and cold, the situation revealed its true horror.
Even the corpses were abandoned casually afterward, dumped in alleyways or vacant lots like refuse. No dignity, no burial, no acknowledgment of their humanity.
Even the most naive, trusting civilians in the slums began noticing something fundamentally wrong with the situation. Denial could only last so long when bodies accumulated.
Deep fear gradually took root in people's hearts, spreading like infection through whispered conversations and fearful glances.
Some gangs, driven by desperation or perhaps genuine outrage at the predation, decided to join forces. They planned coordinated strikes to clear the Blood Cult from the slums entirely, reclaim their territory.
But within mere days of launching their offensive, the attempted rebellion collapsed catastrophically.
The bloody corpses of countless gang members, their skin completely stripped away to reveal glistening muscle and bone beneath, were hung prominently in every corner of the slums. The display served as unmistakable warning, bodies left to rot as object lessons.
At that point, the Blood Coven transcended ordinary criminal organization or religious cult. They became a terrifying legend throughout the slums, the kind of threat invoked to stop children's crying at night. Mothers whispered warnings: behave, or the Blood Cult will take you.
This history explained one of the primary reasons why the Mediterranean leader and his associates proved so unwilling to reveal any information to Nolan initially.
They genuinely could not afford to offend those insane blood worshipers. The consequences were too terrible to contemplate.
Nolan, wearing his concealing metal helmet, straightened his tall armored body to full height. Servos adjusted smoothly to support the motion.
His metal palm slowly withdrew from the young man who continued groaning in pain, still clutching his crushed shoulder. Blood seeped between trembling fingers pressed against the wound.
Other gang members sitting at the dining table quickly stepped forward with urgent concern. They supported the unsteady young man's weight, helping him remain upright. Several produced torn cloth to serve as improvised bandages, pressing the material against his injuries to slow bleeding.
"Boss, whether you are a superhero or someone from another organization entirely, please listen carefully to my advice as someone who has survived here for decades." The Mediterranean leader's face showed only traces of despair now, resignation replacing earlier terror. He spoke with earnest intensity to the metal giant standing before him.
"Don't imagine that no one has attempted to address this situation over the years. That would be incorrect. Both Mexican official agencies and various young heroes' wannabe have tried intervening, one after another. Each time, they only caused massive civilian casualties throughout the slums while the Blood Coven remained completely unscathed, untouched."
His voice dropped lower, carrying bitter experience.
"My advice? Don't investigate further. Don't ask more questions. Leave the slum immediately before the Blood Coven can mobilize response. That represents your best chance for survival."
"Thank you for your cooperation and information." Nolan's deep voice emerged through the helmet's vox-grille, interrupting the Mediterranean leader's well-intentioned warnings. "Now choose: money or assisted relocation away from the slums?"
The question hung in the air with businesslike directness.
Upon hearing Nolan's inquiry, the Mediterranean leader's face displayed visible signs of internal struggle. His features twisted with conflicting impulses, weighing options against consequences.
But finally, he turned his gaze to sweep across his assembled subordinates. He observed their faces, read their expressions, understood their dependence on him. Then he sighed heavily, the sound carrying resignation.
"A sum of money," he stated quietly. "We'll take our chances here."
Nolan shook his metal helmet slightly in acknowledgment, neither approving nor disapproving the choice.
He raised one thick arm wrapped in metal plating and gestured with minimal movement.
The next moment, David, who had been waiting patiently just outside the building's destroyed entrance, stepped into the interior space.
David's appearance once again shattered whatever remained of the gang members' sense of normalcy. Eyes widened, mouths fell open, minds struggled to process what they witnessed.
Blue light flashed subtly in David's optical sensors as internal systems activated financial transfer protocols.
A six-figure payment, substantial enough to represent genuine life-changing money in this impoverished area, transferred rapidly to the Mediterranean leader's private account. Electronic confirmation pinged on the man's phone seconds later.
One by one, the automatic servo robots curled up their mechanical tentacles. The appendages withdrew into compact configurations as the machines powered down their aggressive postures.
The robots lowered and secured their heavy logging guns, weapons returning to safe positions. They moved with synchronized precision toward the building's exit, filing out in orderly fashion.
Just as Nolan, driving his power armor with heavy footfalls, and David, maintaining its characteristic slight stoop, prepared to depart the premises entirely, the Mediterranean leader made an impulsive decision.
The gang boss, who had been sitting behind the dining table staring at his suddenly inflated account balance with disbelief, abruptly stood up. His chair scraped loudly against the floor.
He ran behind Nolan in several quick steps, covering the distance before second thoughts could intervene. His voice emerged as a shout, words forced out with desperate intensity.
"Maybe I've truly lost my mind! I actually feel you might be capable of helping the people in these slums completely escape their suffering. Something no one else has managed."
He drew a shuddering breath before continuing.
"According to gossip that has circulated in our local area for many years, passed down through generations, the reason the Blood Coven has maintained dominance for so long is because their sect priests control ancient magic. Real supernatural power, not tricks or illusions."
The Mediterranean leader's voice dropped to something approaching a whisper, as if speaking the words too loudly might summon unwanted attention.
"Priests and fanatic believers above certain ranks in their hierarchy also possess some kind of near-immortal flesh and blood body. Ordinary firearms and conventional weapons prove completely ineffective against them. I witnessed this personally as a child during the gang uprising! I swear on my life this is truth!"
The gang leader's eyebrows drew together as he forced himself to take a deep, trembling breath. He barely suppressed the fear that manifested automatically when discussing these matters, primal terror warring with determination to speak.
Nolan's helmeted head moved slightly, his chin dipping in what might have been a nod, though he didn't turn to face the speaker.
He addressed the Mediterranean leader calmly, voice carrying through the vox-grille with absolute certainty.
"If I were you, I would choose to leave this place tonight. Immediately, without delay or second-guessing. Because there is going to be a war here. Real combat, not gang skirmishes."
The words fell with finality.
Without further comment or backward glance, Nolan drove his power armor out of the brightly lit building. He stepped through the destroyed entrance and slowly entered the depths of gathering night, blue ceramite fading into shadow.
When sufficient distance separated them from the gang headquarters, Nolan's heavy steps suddenly ceased. His armored form came to a complete halt.
He stood in the middle of a wet street, refuse-strewn pavement gleaming with moisture under flickering streetlights. Through his helmet's eyepiece, he stared at David following steadily behind.
"David, contact Raditus immediately. Tell the tech-priest to activate and prepare a full batch of flamers for deployment." Orders emerged with crisp efficiency, tactical planning already complete in his mind. "Also notify Bucky. The gang dogs need to prepare for combat operations, full weapons loadout."
He paused briefly, adding final instructions.
"Additionally, have Madame Gao mobilize a large convoy from Imperial Heavy Industries. I want vehicles staged and ready to deploy at any moment."
"Understood, my lord."
David, blue light flashing rapidly in its optical sensors as it processed and transmitted multiple communications simultaneously, shook its metal head in acknowledgment.
The Man of Iron immediately established contact with the base, relay systems carrying orders across the distance.
At that precise moment, Nolan's enhanced senses, sharpened beyond normal human capability through Astartes modifications, suddenly triggered warning signals in his consciousness.
He rotated his metal helmet sharply, tracking movement his ears had detected before conscious thought registered the threat.
He stared directly at the deep entrances of several narrow side streets nearby, passages leading into the slum's labyrinthine interior.
Instinctively, his armored hand raised the precision bolter, the weapon coming up to firing position with practiced speed. His finger found the trigger, applying first-stage pressure.
Simultaneously, all five automatic servo robots stepped forward in coordinated defensive formation. Heavy logging guns elevated, black muzzles tracking toward the detected threat.
The next moment, accompanied by the sound of rustling footsteps, many feet moving in eerie synchronization, figures emerged from darkness into peripheral illumination.
Slum residents wearing blood-red cloaks draped across their shoulders stepped into Nolan's sight. Their faces showed no expression whatsoever, eyes vacant and distant. Each figure gripped various cold weapons in their hands: machetes, clubs, sharpened pipes, improvised blades.
They advanced with mechanical precision, their movements suggesting something beyond simple human coordination.
The Blood Coven had found them.