The morning mist of spring in Imperial Year 2429, heavy like a water-soaked gray cloth, pressed down upon the rooftops of Cagliari.
The "Clanging" from the Blacksmith Shop was the first sound to pierce the stillness, followed by the slightly constrained breathing of the young soldier on the city wall—Hans was standing on his toes, helping him adjust his helmet strap, his fingertip brushing over the polished leather with a familiarity akin to tending to his own old sword.
The iron scale armor he wore was already etched with fine lines by time, and the scabbard of the longsword at his waist was covered in rust, yet the smile on his face was warmer than the morning sun, and the fine lines around his eyes held the familiar friendliness known to all the neighbors.
In the town of Cagliari, "Hans, the city militia Squad Leader" was the embodiment of "reliability"—in the morning he helped new recruits check their gear, at noon he chatted with the baker in the tavern, and in the evening he helped the old vegetable seller carry her baskets; even the wildest children would hide their hands full of mud behind their backs and obediently call out, "Uncle Hans," when they saw him.
"Too tight chafes your neck, too loose won't stop a blade; it needs to sit right under your chin," Hans said, patting the new soldier's shoulder, his voice as deep as if it were striking a stone wall. "Don't think guarding the gate is easy. If you actually run into beastmen or bandits, this iron shell could save your life."
The new soldier's face flushed crimson, and the bearded soldier beside him chuckled while chewing on rye bread: "Captain, don't scare him! Remember that hobgoblin who stole a chicken three years ago? You roared once, and it fell straight from the henhouse wall into the mud pit, forgetting to even grab the chicken!"
"That's no exaggeration!" Hans took a piece of bread, broke it off, and popped it into his mouth, his laughter hearty. "That little fellow was wearing a ragged sack and had just reached out his claw for the chicken's neck when I yelled 'Drop it!' It flinched, fell face-first into the mud, scrambled up, and bolted faster than a rabbit!"
The laughter from the city wall drifted down to the street, and even a passing baker called out over the railing: "Captain Hans, next time you catch a hobgoblin, call me! I'll bake you warm wheat cakes!"
The sun climbed higher, the morning mist dissipated, and the hustle and bustle of the town surged forth. Hans led his soldiers on patrol, and as they passed the general store, the owner's wife handed him a small bag of candy: "These are for Lucy. She said yesterday she wanted strawberry flavor, so I saved them especially for her."
Hans quickly thanked her, and the moment his fingertips touched the cloth bag, his gaze softened like melted butter.
Lucy was his daughter; she had just turned six, and last winter she had contracted smallpox, leaving tiny scattered scars on her face.
He had sewn a small mask out of linen cloth overnight, embroidering a pale yellow daisy on it—every time his daughter wore the mask and peeked her small head out from behind the door to look at him, his heart felt as if it had been soaked in warm water, completely soft.
When they patrolled to the wooden house on the east side of town, the door opened with a "Creak," and the small figure wearing the daisy mask rushed over: "Papa! Mama said could you play blocks with me a little earlier today?"
"Of course I can," Hans said, squatting down, his fingertip gently touching the edge of the mask, afraid of brushing against the scars on his daughter's face. "Papa is on the day shift, so I'll be back as soon as the sun sets, and I brought you strawberry candy."
Lucy kissed him on the cheek and skipped back into the house. The soldier nearby teased him: "Captain, you spoil Lucy too much. If she wanted a star, would you have to build a ladder to go pick it for her?"
"Of course!" Hans stood up and brushed off the dust, his tone full of pride. "She's my only daughter; if I don't spoil her, who should I spoil?"
The setting sun stretched his shadow long, and after Hans finished handing over his duties, he hurried home.
The aroma of potato soup wafted from the kitchen. Lucy, wearing her mask, sat at the table assembling blocks. Seeing him return, she held up the block castle and shouted: "Papa, look! This is our family's castle. With you guarding the gate, no bad guys can get in!"
He sat beside his daughter, helping her build blocks, listening to his wife recount the town's trivial matters: whose chicken was lost, whose bread was burnt, and whose child had climbed a tree to raid a bird's nest again.
During dinner, he unwrapped a strawberry candy for Lucy, and watching her cheeks puff out, his heart was filled with a comforting warmth.
Deep into the night, Lucy was fast asleep, her little face rosy, the mask resting by her pillow.
Hans quietly entered the room, tucked her blanket in, and his fingertip brushed over the faint scars on her face, his gaze filled with an overwhelming tenderness.
He stood by the bed for a moment, then turned and pulled a black cloak from the wardrobe, the wide-brimmed hat pulled down extremely low, obscuring most of his face.
His wife was still sleeping soundly; he didn't disturb her, gently pulling open the door and melting into the night like a drop of water.
The night in Cagliari was very quiet, with only the lanterns of the patrolling guards swaying on the streets, casting dappled light and shadow.
Hans knew these routes like the back of his hand—five years as a city militia squad leader had allowed him to map out every corner and every dark alley, and he had precisely calculated the intervals between the guards' shift changes.
He walked close to the wall base, like a stealthy cat, quickly traversing the main street during the shift change gap; when he encountered a roving patrol, he crouched low and hid in a dark alley, waiting until the sound of footsteps faded before emerging.
Soon, he arrived near the town center square, where there was an inconspicuous drain, its cover heavily rusted and covered with dark green vines, emitting a damp, moldy odor.
Hans glanced left and right, confirmed he was alone, squatted down, and forcefully lifted the drain cover.
A pungent smell of decay and mildew rushed out, and he jumped in without hesitation, descending the steep Kurzadh steps.
The drainage tunnel was dark and wet, with only the occasional moonlight filtering from above barely illuminating the standing water beneath his feet.
His shoes splashing in the water—a "pat-pat" sound—echoed through the empty tunnel like some eerie rhythm.
After walking for about a quarter of an hour, he stopped and listened—there was only the "whooshing" sound of flowing water, and no other footsteps.
Confirming he wasn't followed, he turned into an even narrower pipe and continued forward, bending low.
The tunnel walls were covered in slippery moss; a moment of inattention would cause him to fall. The darkness was like thick ink, nearly swallowing him whole.
After walking for an unknown amount of time, a faint light finally appeared ahead.
Hans quickened his pace, and the moment he stepped out of the tunnel, the space opened up dramatically—it was an underground platform about half the size of the town square. Over a dozen torches were stuck into the walls, their orange-red flames flickering, bathing the entire area in a strange red glow, like stones soaked in blood.
The platform was already crowded with people, all wearing black cloaks, their wide-brimmed hats pulled down low, revealing only the contours of their jawlines.
Hans silently walked to the back of the crowd, merging into this black ocean.
He raised his head, his gaze fixed on the stone altar in the center of the platform—a massive inverted triangle was drawn on the altar, with three circles embedded at the vertices of the triangle. Inside the circles were densely carved, twisted patterns, which were the "Three-Ring Holy Symbol." The patterns resembled wriggling maggots, seeming to come alive under the torchlight.
Suddenly, a tall figure walked onto the altar.
This person was also wearing black robes, but the collar of his cloak was embroidered with a circle of silver patterns, and in his hand, he held a scepter topped with a black gemstone.
He walked to the edge of the altar, raised the scepter, and his voice was rough and fanatical, like sandpaper grinding Kurzadh: "Praise the Father! He grants us strength, He dispels our pain, and He guides us toward eternal bliss!"
"Praise the Father!"
The crowd below instantly erupted in shouts, the sound shaking the platform slightly, buzzing in the ears like countless flies.
Hans also raised his fist and lifted his head, the fanaticism in his voice making him seem like a completely different person from the gentle squad leader he was during the day—it was a nearly savage excitement that had been suppressed for too long, a strange light flickering in his eyes as he stared intently at the Three-Ring Holy Symbol on the altar, as if it were the only salvation.
"The Father tells us that pain is false, and bliss is real!" the man on the high platform continued to roar, the black gemstone atop the scepter emitting a faint light that made the contours of his face appear increasingly distorted. "The feasts of the nobles, the patrols of the city militia—these are all chains binding us! Only by following the Father can we break these chains, allowing decay to become rebirth and pestilence to bring eternity!"
"Follow the Father! Break the chains!"
The shouts exploded again, more frantic and piercing than before.
Hans' body trembled slightly, not from fear, but from extreme excitement—the torchlight danced on his face, revealing the strange curve of his lips pulled into a grin. That smile held none of the gentleness of the daytime, leaving only chilling fanaticism.
He roared along with the crowd, his voice blending in, yet carrying a unique obsession, as if offering a sacrifice to some invisible entity: "Praise Father Nurgle!"