“To think I would be forced to expel my stockpile of vapor… curse that Sarathiel. My tankard runs dry. It will not be long until it is fully empty, and then time will rewind. Back to that day. Back to the fate I so desperately cheated.

“How interesting. I thought death to be a terrifying thing, but now I am not so sure. My body feels light, my heart at ease. For many years have I sought to prolong this life already expired; I could never escape it, the dread of knowing not when I would inevitably succumb. Only in insanity did I stave off the fear, yet here I am more sane than ever before. And I feel liberated.

“Perhaps… yes, perhaps I have been mistaken all this time. Rather than avoid the end, I should embrace it. And only then will I be free of the ticking clock. I will finally ascend past the limitations of man’s flesh.

“But first, I must prepare. A deranged Sarathiel will not delay the Polus army for long; I need another force to serve as mine guardian. Fortunately, there are many bodies left inside this fortress, and many more concoctions still left untested…”

- Alchemist Regent Nokron

———

Ascalon

The King’s army and his trusted Templars make their advance past the ruined gates of the Magnus Murus. A crudely-made opening awaits them beyond the rubble; Ascalon is first to step foot within, and he carefully inspects the interior for any sign of attack.

However, all he discovers is a winding maze of corridors and walls dulled grey. There is not a voice in the air, not a step that echoes despite the metallic floor. The fortress is mysteriously devoid of life.

This is… strange, Ascalon ponders. I would have felt more at ease had Nokron’s soldiers ambushed us. Are they hiding in wait? No, I sense something else. Something haunting. A cold chill runs along my spine, shivering as if these halls are a gateway to another realm: one where the boundaries of life and death are in transition.

Something is not right, but the King does not have the luxury to back away now. He must carry on no matter what lies ahead. Still, one problem remains, and that is the sheer size of the fortress itself.

“Dismas, how long would you need to chart the Magnus Murus’s structure?” he asks his shadow.

The Dominion’s head sprouts up from the darkness, and he replies with an exasperated sigh. “Too long. The damn place’s a whole city in and of itself; it’ll take all day before I start makin’ sense of it.”

“Unfortunate, but we shall make do. What about Nokron—can you predict where he may have fled?”

Dismas raises his chin in thought before returning the King’s query, his reply skeptical. “I’m not certain, but if this hunk o’ junk’s like the other Caelum strongholds, then chances are he’s holed up in a control room somewhere near the center. Problem is, the hall’s aren’t straight. They branch off and take ya runnin’ around ‘till you’ve looped right back. Only way we could find ‘im faster is by splittin’ up.”

Ascalon winces before the proposal, especially after having witnessed Cain and Abel almost meet their end from Sarathiel’s ray. But the half-brothers in question are by no means feeble; they have fought on the frontlines for much longer than any other here.

“Then let us proceed as so,” he says, raising his finger and directing the others into groups. “Cain shall join hands with Surasha and the Virtues. Abel, you move with Dismas. And as for me—I will pursue Nokron alone.”

If he cannot be there by his knights’ side, then he shall protect them through other means: by luring the Alchemist’s attention. Whatever the ploy or scheme, let it be cast first upon Ascalon in his solitude, for to have the King be so precariously alone would prove far too great an opportunity for Nokron to ignore.

The Templars understand this, but that does mean they agree with it; they cross their arms and nag at him like he is a disobedient child, pleading him to take at least one another along. But he reassures them that all shall be fine. Even whilst separated in the fortress will Ascalon still receive the blessing of the Monarch’s Wings.

He does not tell them that his invulnerability has waned after the battle with Sarathiel.

“We are in agreement, then?” he says. The others give him a tentative nod, and Ascalon relays his plan to Lorelai.

“Hm, It is indeed the most efficient course of action” she begins. “But I worry your isolation will result in a similar scenario to Sarathiel.”

“That is the intention.”

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“Ascalon…”

“No need for concern. Why, my strength has almost fully recovered!” he replies with a bold-faced lie. “A fast recovery is but one of my many skills.”

Lorelai pauses, and he can feel clearly her displeasure threatening to be let loose in a tirade of words. But just like before, she humors his attempts to maintain dignity and remains calm—though her composure only aids in fostering an intimidating aura. She is terrifying while silent.

“You truly do have a talent for reckless heroism,” she says with such intensity that his every instinct begs to flee. “What is the point of anointing me as strategist if you are going to ignore my orders, anyway? Soon people will believe me to be a vassal taking pleasure in endangering their lord.”

“Nonsense, I am wholly capable of endangering myself.”

“That is not something to be proud of.”

Ascalon cannot help but giggle at her scolding.

“This is no laughing matter, Ascalon!” she chastises him.

“My apologies. It is just—you went along with my whims more easily than I had anticipated. If it was before, you would have left your station and dragged me back by force if needed so.”

Ascalon says as such in what is meant to be a jesting manner, but Lorelai reacts rather oddly. She whispers something vague, and her voice is almost avoidant. It is not the first time she has acted like this, and if he suspects correctly, it will likely not be the last.

Her mind is always seemingly sharp except in the moments when he calls back to her past. Suddenly, she acts as if in a daze, always changing the subject or appealing to his wistful memories. Once or twice it can simply be dismissed as a symptom of her amnesia, but…

… He should stop teasing her.

“Was I always so obstinate a person?” she attempts to say casually.

“Obstinate is a harsh word. I prefer to think of it as a staunch commitment to one’s beliefs.”

“Oh? How optimistic. Then what is your view of the current me?”

Ascalon doesn’t answer at first. The words linger in his throat, unsure whether to be let loose or remain buried as a passing impulse. When he does finally have the courage to speak, he does so with a smile: a sad one, but not necessarily bad. Sometimes it is to the benefit of both that one does not disclose their secrets; if only he isn’t so keen.

“Precious,” he says, to which he can hear a faint mumble of embarrassment in reply. “You are irreplaceable.”

And he truly means it.

“… I think we should end this here.” Lorelai firmly ends the conversation, and Ascalon wonders: if he could see her now, would she have blushed cheeks?

“Hehe, by your word.”

With his mischief sated, Ascalon raises his sword and bids the knights a final goodbye. “Then let us meet again at the Alchemist’s haven. Be safe.”

The respective groups take their places amongst the differing routes, and then they set off, dashing into the unknown.

Dismas’s words are correct; navigating the fortress is an arduous task. Forks upon forks open up before him, leading to a confusing tangle of dead ends and repeating paths. Sometimes he goes up, and sometimes he goes down, yet there are hardly any indicators that differentiate the various floors. All he can do is trust in his memory.

Fortunately, or rather suspiciously, his trek is a smooth one. Like before he has encountered none of the Caelum’s combatants, and Nokron reveals not a hint of his existence. Even so, the King refuses to let his guard down; danger yet lingers still where he least expects it.

In the midst of his rush, Ascalon steps on a seemingly harmless tile, and it sinks. He hears a snap, a creak above, and he raises his head only to witness a gigantic saw-blade descending from the ceiling and threatening to split his head in two.

But instead of metal cleaving through flesh, Ascalon needs not even move a step as the weapon breaks itself upon his body and shatters into hundreds of pieces.

The Monarch’s Wings are not so brittle a protection as to falter under a mere trap. However, the saw is not the only defense he has triggered; soon, countless gaps in the walls open to reveal an array of mechanical contraptions. One blows a surge of flame at him. Another releases a cloud of toxic gas. Even the floor is laden with peril, for large, gleaming spikes erupt from below as to skewer him like one does a piece of meat.

Yet through it all, Ascalon prevails. He does not try to evade, nor does he ever slow. He persists in his steady pursuit as the fortress continues to unleash terror upon terror, demolishing the hall into a wreckage of broken bits, shattered fragments, and crude oil set ablaze—all ineffective. The King is unharmed: physically, at least. Though such protection does not prevent his mind from shuddering in pain.

When the assault finally weakens, and his body reaches the next staircase, Ascalon lets out a gasp and clutches at his heart with a trembling hand. Hah… I have not felt like this since my days in the forest. It is a distant memory, pain. My soul demands that I rest, but to tarry any longer is a comfort not allowed of me. Not when my fellows are still out there braving danger. I must be the first to discover; only then will their safety be assured.

Ascalon takes a deep breath, and then he climbs to the next floor.

Something is wrong. Before he can take another step, a wave of dread seizes him. It is the same sensation he has felt at the fortress’s entrance, only stronger. Deeper. More drenched in misery. And as Ascalon reaches behind and instinctively takes out his blade, he hears a noise in the distance: a faint shuffle, dragging, and the tortured moans of tens—no, hundreds.

He has finally found them, the fortress’s personnel. But what he sees is more horrifying than any of sane mind could possibly imagine.

For they are no longer of human body, but a clump. A giant, fleshy, conjoined clump of sludge and grafted flesh. They are the souls of many, melted and fused into an abomination, and every single one is conscious of their nightmarish form: screaming, sobbing. Begging to be released from their suffering.