Operation Kingpin Part 1
The morning sun filtered through the tall, arched windows of Zachary's office, but the Castalia Commander barely noticed its warmth. His desk was buried under a chaotic storm of blueprints, requisition forms, and alchemical formulas that looked more like scribbles from a madman's diary than military schematics.
Zachary rubbed his temples, picking up the latest report from the "Special Projects Division"—a fancy name Asep had insisted on for the disorganized mess that was the abandoned bakery.
The report detailed the final specifications for "Project Stinger." Zachary's eyes scanned the technical jargon Treste had excitedly penned, her handwriting growing progressively more erratic as the description went on.
There were two variants ready for mass production—or as close to mass production as Loriana's blacksmiths could manage without losing their minds.
The first was designated the "Type-1 Bolt-Action Arbalest." It was a sleek. An aggressive redesign of the standard crossbow. Instead of the cumbersome windlass or goat's foot lever, it utilized a spring-assisted top-loading magazine. What made it revolutionary, however, was the stock. Embedded inside was a canister of compressed Wind Lumite. When the trigger was pulled, a burst of air slammed the bolt forward with terrifying velocity.
Muzzle Velocity: Transonic.*
Effective Range: 300 meters.
Penetration: Equivalent to the latest Albion Naval Muskets.
Zachary whistled low. The Albion muskets were clumsy, loud, and agonizingly slow to reload, but they punched through plate armor like paper. To have that kind of power in a weapon that could be reloaded in seconds was... unfair.
The second variant was the "Type-2 Rapid-Fire Arbalest." This was the smaller, boxier model Asep had mounted on his trike and Hank had taken to the border. It sacrificed raw stopping power for volume of fire. Using a gravity-fed hopper and a simpler clockwork mechanism driven by a smaller Wind Lumite charge, it could vomit out bolts as fast as the operator could crank the handle—or, in the premium version, simply hold the trigger.
Fire Rate: 60 bolts per minute.
Role: Suppression, Trench Clearing, Anti-Mob.
Then came the ammunition itself. Asep and Treste had apparently decided that shooting sharp sticks wasn't lethal enough. They had miniaturized the bolts, making them shorter, thicker, and dart-like projectiles. And because they were insane, they had created three distinct types:
1. High-Explosive (HE): Tipped with a volatile Fire Lumite core that detonated on impact. It was designed for the Type-2 to turn a crowded corridor into mincemeat.
2. Armor-Piercing (AP): Machined from solid Blacksteel. Designed for the Type-1 to punch through knightly plate or Thrall crystal hide.
3. Incendiary: Filled with a sticky alchemical gel based on the ancient Minoan Fire recipe. It burned hot and long, sticking to everything.
"They're turning my army into walking siege weapons," Zachary muttered, a hint of awe and terror seeped in it. He signed the requisition order with a heavy flourish. "Kirsche is going to want one of these rapid-fire things immediately. I should probably warn the quartermaster."
His eyes landed on another letter. From the look of it, it was from Roake—Adeline, to be exact.
Dear Zachary and Adreana,
The liberation of Anthill threw the Eclipse's expansion plans into disarray. They've been moving large numbers of troops out of the city lately, which has loosened their grip on Roake. This has given both citizens and resistance forces a chance to recover and gather supplies.
Our resistance forces are growing stronger every day, though the Eclipse's intimidation tactics have kept us from fully uniting as of yet. Brenda and I will keep rallying support and organizing our people to build up our strength and root out the Eclipse completely. Please be careful in your operations outside the city. The Eclipse is still dangerous, even if their grip on Roake is weakening.
Sincerely,
Adeline
Zachary let out a sigh, folding the parchment. The Coalition's campaign had dealt the decisive blow that shattered the Eclipse's hold on Roake.
However, although the Eclipse's operations in Roake and Anthill had been heavily crippled, the cult was far from defeated. Solus, the enigmatic Hierarch of the Children of the Eclipse, still held his throne deep within the labyrinthine mines beneath Roake. As long as he breathed, the cancer would remain.
This was the final piece of the puzzle. The head of the snake.
Zachary stood up and walked to the large map pinned to the wall, his eyes tracing the winding lines of the tunnels beneath Roake. They were a maze, a chaotic tangle of old shafts, natural caverns, and forgotten passageways. A direct assault would be a meat grinder. The cultists knew every twist and turn and could trap an army in there forever.
He needed precision. He needed a strike team.
There was a knock on the door, firm and rhythmic.
"Enter," Zachary called out, not turning from the map.
The door swung open, revealing Renalla, the Papal Judge. In her hand, she carried a rolled parchment marked with the wax seal of the Inquisition's Eye—the symbol of the Papacy's most secretive intelligence branch.
Renalla stepped inside, her ivory robes trailing behind her like a specter of divine judgment. Her face was calm, but her eyes held the peculiar intensity of someone who had spent too many nights awake, chasing ghosts through parchment trails and interrogation chambers.
"Lord Zachary," she greeted, though her usual formality was clipped short. "Intelligence update: we have located the Hierarch."
Zachary turned sharply, his attention snapping from the map to the woman before him. "You found Solus."
"Yes." Renalla moved closer, unrolling the parchment onto the already cluttered desk. It was a detailed report from the spy she had planted inside the Eclipse cult. "My operative managed to infiltrate the inner sanctum and obtain critical intelligence before narrowly escaping with her life."
The report was meticulous, detailing diagrams of tunnel systems, guard rotations, and a rough layout of the so-called "Deep Sanctum" that lay in the bowels of the old mining network. And at the center of it all, a name and a title.
Hierarch Solus. Former Sanktus. Condemned Heretic. Alive.
Zachary's brow furrowed as he read the fine print. "Sanktus... That's the same race as Seraphine."
"Correct." Renalla crossed her arms. "The Sanktus have been the hereditary guardians of the Radiant Faith for over a millennium. They are the bloodline from which the Hierophants are chosen. They are long-lived, deeply attuned to Lumite, and gifted with extraordinary abilities in healing and exorcism. They are, by doctrine, considered semi-divine."
"Semi-divine," Zachary repeated, his tone dripping with skepticism. "Then how the hell did one become a doomsday cult leader?"
"Three hundred years ago, Solus was a high-ranking priest in the Grand Basilica," Renalla explained. "He was a prodigy. Brilliant. But also... heretical. He questioned the Church's teachings on Lumite, claiming it was a foreign entity rather than a divine gift. He argued that it was devouring humanity from within, and that only through 'purification by annihilation' could souls be freed."
Zachary felt a chill crawl up his spine. That philosophy sounded disturbingly familiar.
"The Church tried him and found him guilty of heresy," Renalla continued. "He was executed publicly—burned at the stake, his ashes scattered in the River of Souls. Or so the records claim."
"But he survived."
"Somehow, yes." Renalla nodded, frustration flashing in her eyes. "Either the execution was falsified, or he discovered some forbidden rite to survive death itself. What we know for certain is that he's been hiding in the shadows for centuries, gathering followers and resources. And now, with Roake in chaos, he's using the Eclipse as a front to accelerate his plan."
Zachary stared at the diagram of the Deep Sanctum. It was a nightmare of overlapping tunnels, natural cavern systems, and structural instability. If Solus had spent three centuries fortifying his position, any direct assault would turn into a slaughterhouse.
"My operative also confirmed something critical," Renalla added, pointing at a circled section of the map. "Solus is bound to the Deep Sanctum. He cannot leave. Whether by curse, ritual limitation, or his own physical deterioration, he is trapped down there."
Zachary looked up sharply. "He's a sitting target."
"In theory, yes." Renalla's tone turned grim. "But he knows he is a sitting target. That's why he's turned the Sanctum into a death trap. My operative witnessed traps, corrupted Lumite wards, and worst of all... an army of Thralls."
Zachary cursed under his breath. Thralls were already terrifying in small numbers. An army of them, in cramped tunnels where cavalry and artillery were useless? It would be a slaughter.
"However, this is our chance. If we wait, Solus will recover his strength. He will adapt. He will breed more Thralls. And worst of all, he will complete whatever ritual he's preparing. According to my operative, he's been gathering Lumite cores and human sacrifices at an alarming rate. We don't know what his endgame is, but we cannot let him finish."
Zachary exhaled slowly. The location itself was a problem. He could not deploy his usual forces into the cramped, unstable tunnels, but he also couldn't let this chance slip through his fingers. If they failed to eliminate Solus now, Roake and the entire kingdom would be in grave danger.
"I'll contact Adeline about this," he said. "We also need a distraction if we are to execute this plan. I'll form a small infiltration team to pursue the Hierarch, while the main force of the Coalition and the Roake Resistance engages the cultists at the perimeter of the mines."
"But there's a problem with that," Renalla added. "Our forces can't just move freely into the Deep Sanctum without being noticed. The cult's detection units can read a person's Lumite signature, making it incredibly difficult to slip past them."
"Hmmm..." Zachary placed a hand on his chin, his eyes tracing the diagram once more. We need someone who can hide their Lumite signature... Someone who can't be detected, or who has an incredibly weak signature.*
Suddenly, his eyes widened as he remembered someone with a Lumite signature so faint he wasn't even sure the man had any Lumite in his body at all.
Asep.
"I see... I think I have an idea," Zachary said. "Though it's highly risky."
"Risky how?"
Zachary's eyes flicked to the window, looking in the general direction of the abandoned bakery. "I'll need to speak with a very particular idiot."
---
Meanwhile, at the abandoned bakery-turned-laboratory, the so-called "Special Projects Division" was in full swing. The place smelled like a cross between a blacksmith's forge and a botanist's greenhouse, filled with faint traces of sulfur, oiled steel, and burning tobacco.
Zap!
A flash of light burst from the boxy contraption in Treste's hands. A few seconds later, a sheet of specialized paper slowly rolled out of the machine as Asep and Treste stared at it as if they had just invented the wheel. The paper displayed a black-and-white print of Treste in her signature pose—sticking out her tongue and flashing a peace sign, complete with her pointed hat and the chaotic laboratory background.
It was a primitive camera, or rather, a Magical Photochemical Imager Mark-1. Instead of a digital sensor, it used a complex alchemical reaction combined with a Light Lumite flash to burn an image onto treated paper.
"It works! IT WORKS!" Treste squealed, snatching the still-damp paper. She held it up like a holy relic. "Look at the definition! You can even see the smudge of grease on my cheek! This is revolutionary! Imagine the applications! Reconnaissance! Documentation! Blackmail!"
"Told you, not all 'Forbidden Books' from the Undying Empire are that bad. Sometimes it's just science. Take Elhazen's book on optical illusions, for example. The old man was a genius," Asep said with a grin, leaning back in his chair with a cigarette dangling from his lips. He looked tired but deeply satisfied. "Though we still need to fix the developing fluid. The contrast is too high."
"Who cares about contrast? We just captured reality!" Treste waved the photo excitedly. "Do you realize what this means? We can preserve history!"
"Yeah, yeah. Just don't preserve any pictures of me failing to assemble the engine earlier. That's one part of history that doesn't need to be remembered."
Treste giggled, already preparing another sheet. "Come on! Strike a pose! Do that thing with the knuckles!"
Just then, the lab door creaked open, and Zachary stepped inside. The Commander looked distinctly out of place amidst the half-assembled machines and bubbling flasks. His usually pristine armor had a smudge of ink on the pauldron—a clear sign of his stressful paperwork.
Treste immediately hid the camera behind her back like a child caught stealing cookies, while Asep casually flicked his cigarette ash into a beaker.
"Leader! What brings you to our humble abode of madness?" Asep asked cheerfully. "If you're here to complain about the noise from the engine test, I swear it was strictly for science."
"I'm not here about the noise," Zachary said, his gaze turned serious. He didn't waste time. "I have a job for you, Asep. A special one."
Asep's grin faltered slightly. He knew that tone. That was the 'I'm about to ask you to do something incredibly stupid and dangerous' tone.
"Define 'special,'" Asep asked warily.
"We found Solus," Zachary said bluntly. "He's hiding deep in the Roake mines. We need to kill or capture him before he completes whatever ritual he's planning. But there's a problem: the place is loaded with Lumite sensors."
Asep blinked. "Okay... and? Wait, wait—don't tell me you're gonna send me down to the enemy headquarters to assassinate a high-value target?"
Zachary sighed. He knew Asep had been working tirelessly on the crossbow development over the past few weeks and deserved a break, but they couldn't afford to lose this opportunity.
"You're the only one who can bypass the sensors, Asep. Because of your extremely low Lumite levels, you're practically invisible to them."
"Ah..." Asep groaned, his head falling back. He already knew this. Sooner or later, his anomalous biology would be exploited. "It's not that I don't wanna do it, but... I'm on a break, boss."
"I know... But if we don't stop the Hierarch immediately, people will be in danger. Adeline will be in danger."
Hearing that name, Asep paused.
Adeline.
Asep took a slow drag of his cigarette. Dammit, boss. That's a low blow.
Zachary didn't smile, but his expression softened slightly. "I know, but it's the truth. Solus isn't going to stop, and neither is Adeline. She'll fight to the bitter end, with or without us. I'd rather it be with us—and with you watching her back."
Asep stared at the ceiling for a long moment, watching the smoke curl up into the gloom. Honestly, he wanted nothing more than to stay in Loriana, smoking until his throat was sore and testing Treste's inventions. But then he thought of the people in Roake, of the depravity the cultists had committed, and of Adeline's tired but determined face.
He remembered her calloused hands, stained with grime while handing out bread to the children. He remembered the fierce determination in her eyes when she defended the West District.
Why am I resting here while she's suffering out there?
Am I a coward? An egotistical prick who only cares about his own benefit? I mean, I am, but...
Memories of the starving children in Roake flashed in his mind. The dead infant. The sheer misery inflicted by fanatics who believed death was a mercy.
I guess it all stems from a sense of satisfaction.
Some people have this thing called altruism, finding satisfaction in helping others without expecting anything in return. To them, the feeling itself is worth more than any tangible reward.
I've never considered myself an altruistic person. I fight because they pay me money to buy tobacco—something simple and worldly. But...
Seeing Adeline risking her own life for others makes me think... If someone as ordinary as her can be so brave, then what about me? Someone who actually has experience fighting, even if it was for petty reasons?
Perhaps... I want to be someone like her, too.
Even if it's only a little.
Asep stubbed out his cigarette, his expression shifting from lazy reluctance to resigned determination. "Alright. I'll do it. But I'm taking extra days off after this."
"Deal," Zachary nodded. "I've already assembled a small team, and I'll send Adeline a letter so she can prepare on her end."
"Very well. Treste! Gimme my stuff!"
"Already on it!" Treste shouted. She was frantically shoving gear into a sturdy leather backpack. "The flashbangs, Lumite explosive charges, the grappling hook, the climbing claws... Oh, and I enhanced the Hidden Blade's mechanism—it should retract much faster now!"
She shoved the heavy pack into Asep's chest, nearly knocking the wind out of him. Then, she looked up at him, her large eyes surprisingly serious.
"Don't die, you idiot," she muttered while gripping his sleeve. "You still owe me a proper explanation of how the damn gears work."
Asep smirked and patting her head. "Wouldn't dream of it, Witch-let. Keep the lab from exploding while I'm gone."
He turned to Zachary, adjusting his brass knuckles. "When do we leave?"
"Tonight. We ride hard. Roake is waiting." Zachary declared.