The conquest of the new territories was slower than Iktan was used to, the people here not so used to the constant shifting of territories in the wake of a thousand petty khans. But neither was it of any real concern, after all, resistance did not tend to survive first contact with a Dragon, and when it did Cipactli ate very, very well. Greywater was already flying his banners, any holdouts would soon follow in the wake of the destruction of the local bulwark. By all ordinary means it was an absolute victory. The spoils alone would fuel their burgeoning empire for the next few months at least, everything from ancient technologies to masses of Spirit Stones and even mass stores of basic necessities; things Iktan had learned to greatly appreciate through his experience herding this army. In terms of conquest it rarely went better than this. However, Iktan could not help but feel like it was anything but.

Dozens of cultivators unaccounted for, fled to parts unknown somehow in the chaos. After Gabriel was discovered to be compromised by some psychic trickery he had ordered his forces three days and nights to scour the ruins for signs of what did it and where the survivors went, as well as the crown jewel of the operation. The secret cache buried deep beneath the Sect. Eventually not through their own effort but sheer accident a series of tunnels were found that explained it all. A maze like mass of twisting stone corridors stretching unfathomable miles beneath the ground. And they had somehow missed it… or as his extremely unpleasant spymaster suggested something was blocking their senses around it. Some sort of psychic mental block similar to, or perhaps even of the same type, as the one used to so entirely fool the indomitable will of his loyal marshal Gabriel.

If that man was not so useful he swore he would have his slimy body fed to the Bone Worms. But as it stood, he was most likely infuriatingly right.

“G… great Khan…” A blithering messenger stammered at his feet. The man standing up tall on both legs would not reach his thigh, prostrated as he was before him it was a truly pitiful sight. But alas, a ruler needed his news to effectively rule. And he had no intention of collapsing from dismissing a crucial message when his destiny hung so near.

“Speak.” He demanded.

“The Jackalope Empire, they have sent a force. Easily ten thousand mortals, headed by several dozen cultivators and supplemented with their own war rigs. It is inferior to our forces as is b-but…” The man explained, voice breaking again at the last sentence as Iktan’s aura flared.

“But?” He questioned, his intent washing the room with heat. Charring the edges of the mans hair.

“We receive reports from the south… strange ships near the coast. Stalking like predators watching sheep.” The man gulped from the intensity of Iktan’s glare. “We believe them the same type as the ones up north. The only reason the Empire has not sent a far greater force against us, a horde of metal demons from the East…”

“Of course…” He groaned, rubbing his head between his horns. Perhaps it was foolish to believe it could be so easy. When he was young it was not his destiny to rule, mandated to remain at the low Mutant realm in order to one day breed more heirs to create a lasting dynasty for his clan. He knew he was not his grandfather, and here and now he was feeling it. What would his grandfather do? Would he even be able to do it?

“Please restrain yourself Great Khan, I fear your continual output at this rate may kill a man. It would do you no favours to char a loyal servant.” Diego politely informed him.

Immediately he got a grip on himself and restrained his power, feeling the Si rush back through his meridians and into his demon hearts in an instant. The messenger on the floor gasped for breath like a fish out of water, sweat beading like small pearls on his face and forehead.

“I apologise, that was unbecoming of me.” Iktan said. “Diego, I will have you organise the coastal defence. Do whatever is necessary, I trust you, do not make me rescind that.”

“I would never dare.” Diego said with utmost seriousness.

“But what do you intend to do about the incoming army?” The messenger asked.

Iktan called Cipactli over, whose shadow immediately blotted out the sun. Darkening the world and evidently disrupting the focus of the man before him given how he started coughing blood. The Curse undoubtedly driven by the taste of his power taking advantage of a moment of weakness.

“I will meet them myself with Cipactli.” He said simply. There was much he had yet to learn, but he knew of the universal language of violence and power.

And on that front at least he was overqualified.

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It was bad news when a major Sect requested urgent aid by telepathic message, even if it was the smallest one with the status in the Empire and of a border province. Worse still when no further messages arrived. A force was immediately mobilised as soon as the first message was conveyed, but with their greatest warriors and generals dealing with this new homunculi threat ravaging the forces on the East what could be gathered on such short notice was… underwhelming to say the least. General Mattock, Elder of the Three Silos Sect and loyal servant of the Empire had wanted at least two or three times the men for this, something in his bones told him this was no mere border uprising. He didn’t need a psychic mutation for prophecy to see his current forces, while decent enough for most engagements, was not enough for something that could make the Lead Cave request aid. Unfortunately the fools in the capital had been living in luxury so long they had forgotten their roots, forged in the chaos of warring states, borders inflating and disappearing in a blink of an eye. The Lead Cave had been seen as only a step over barbarians to much of the Capital nobles, the entire Golden Plains Province a rural backwater that could be largely ignored in favour of more pressing matters like the undoubtedly concerning reports from the East. He could only pray when they learned otherwise the damage would not be too great.

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The air in the wastes tasted unmistakably like iron today. Like a fine misting of blood had been scattered across the world, and his keen single eye detected a single figure approaching at speeds impossible for a mortal perhaps a dozen or so miles away. A man who was between 18 to 20 feet tall, dressed in fine furs and golden jewellery. Crowned with feathered and horns and wielding an obsidian tipped power blade of some sort, the very air boiling and warbling around him. He was alone, which was even more concerning than if he had come with an army. The way he carried himself, the regalia, the Relic, this was no fool. This was no ordinary barbarian cultivator. This was something else entirely. He prepared to order his men to stop and prepare the artillery via his psychic links when…

But then he paused as the man he was watching paused and unmistakably stopped to look directly at him. Aura sharpening to a razor edge as a shadow passed overhead and he disappeared in a bolt of lightning…

A massive shape flew overhead, a truly titanic beast who even miles up drowned the world in such oppressive Si even he felt sweat beading across his forehead. The mortal men in his retinue gasped for breath as clouds began to gather overhead and the sky went a deep bloody red, unnatural stormclouds gathering and releasing inky black rain below. A bolt of bright blue lightning in contrast to the dark crimson of the world around them cracked the earth, sending a plume of dust covering his forces. And from it emerged the gigantic form of the man he had been watching, power uncoiling from him like a monstrous Man-Swallower Serpent from the Fungal Swamps of the Poison Peninsula.

“Greetings, forces from the Lead Cave. I know why you are here, as you know why I am here. So I will spare you the trivialities and pleasantries.” The man said in a low, rumbling voice. More rolling thunder than mortal words. “I have come to reclaim my birthright by my Grandfather, you know him as the Red Star. As it happens my forces have more important things to occupy their time with presently, as I imagine do yours. So I give you this one chance to turn your men around and not come back, and if you decide otherwise…”

He simply pointed towards a great stone a half mile off and the beast in the sky let out a deafening roar. General Mattock was forced to close his eye as a flash of truly blinding light erupted, the air itself cracking from the sheer power unleashed. It was not thunder, it was something so much greater it was unfair to even describe it as such. If he was to imagine the weapons that destroyed the Old World he would imagine much the same, and his fears were confirmed as he slowly opened his eyes and saw a field of molten glass around the deep crater where the stone once was.

He carefully channelled the toxic Si around him and his allies as it built to dangerous levels, some of the weaker men in his forces already showing concerning signs of feeling the Curse. The emotions he was picking up from his men were much the same as his own, with a lot more panic and fear as well. He couldn’t blame them after this display, it must have been at the very least the Eighth Step of the Abberant Realm, perhaps the Ninth. And done as a threat.

He would be called a coward for this, he knew. And perhaps he would be. But someone needed to let the Empire know just what they were facing. They weren’t ready, they couldn’t even slow him or that creature down with all their firepower. They needed to muster a proper army, not a ragtag group of whatever reinforcements were not presently busy…

“I understand.” He told the Red Star’s blood, as he ordered his men to turn back. The Emperor himself would need to hear of this.

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Faith washed her hands in a small stream, the cold, slightly muddy liquid soaking into her robes. Getting all over her prayer bracelet and pages of Holy Scripture. But she did not stop washing… the filth on her… she needed to get it off…

Flashes of memories plagued her. Seeing herself simply standing aside as the flames spread higher and higher. Father preaching a litany of forgiveness as their forces massacred flocks of civilians… were they not the Faithful as well? Were they not protected by the Golden Promise a year or two ago? Heretics she had told herself, assured herself that they had strayed from the light. They had to, or they would not be here. The Holy Order was fractured, and snakes had wormed their tongues into the hearts of the once righteous. It was a mercy to end them quickly rather than damn them to an eternity of hellfire…

She saw a child's toy burning in the pyres. Pages of the Holy Book, the Golden Scripture alongside it. Blasphemy… was this not blasphemy? She looked at her hands, and they were soaked with a deep scarlet fluid.

She was suddenly back at the stream, and looking down her hands were covered in the same bloody mess. As she redoubled her efforts to scrub away her sin the blood only spread into the water, staining the entire body a bright red, all over her robes and regalia. She doubled over, not sure if she wanted to scream, puke or something else entirely…

She woke up gasping for air on a splinted wood cart, hidden beneath a load of cloth from prying eyes. Her eyes quickly adjusting to the dark, she looked at her hands again. The same bright green as always, no blood in sight. Yet deep in her soul she felt it still, that ache. She was filthy, and having deserted her country and church she would never be clean again. She told herself this was a necessary pilgrimage, like the great Prophet did as he journeyed the wastes in those early days of the End Times. That she would find the answers that would make her life and acts make sense, and absolve her at last of her sins and doubts before the charred scraps of the unworthy left behind could be judged once again before the Great Spirit…

But pilgrims were celebrated. They did not hide in merchants carts like criminals… as criminals. Fugitives to their own people. Acolytes travelled the world in great missionary bands alongside seasoned priests and faithful servants, bearing gifts of the righteous to send to an unworthy world. Not alone and miserable, little more than the clothes off her back and a rapidly shrinking pile of Spirit Stones.

“Everything alright there missy?” The merchant asked. He was a good man, a faithful man. His soul would certainly be smiled upon when Judgement came.

“Certainly.” She lied. She was not like him at all, her soul was so stained she was sure the only thing that could cleanse it would be a righteous death. Martyrdom… but for what cause? She didn’t know herself.

“Alright…” The merchant said after a pause, clearly not believing her. “Well, in about two dozen more miles it will be as far as I am willing to take you North. Any further and it is just barbarians… and the Great Forest. They say the Old Gods still have power there, that you can sometimes see their messengers when the leaves and spores die off in the deepest depths of the bitter winters. I reckon it is just the natives seeing things, huffing kracking spores half the year has to have some effect on you. Still, you sure you are willing to go there alone priesty girl? I am not sure if they would take so lightly to your attempts at conversion.”

“Yes.” She said, lying through her teeth once more. She had not gone to convince anyone of her faith when she herself was wavering so much. She… didn’t really know why she was going here… but she knew she wanted to be far from home. “It is my calling.”

“Well if you say so…” The man grumbled. “Just make sure you don’t act too suspicious. We are past the toll point, thankfully, but I have no desire to be labelled a smuggler. Especially with the whole Holy War mess going on in the Union.”

Faith clutched her prayer beads harder, feeling her sharp nails dig into her flesh enough to draw bright green blood.