Uncertain about what awaited him at his dreaded destination, a wisp of gray smoke hanging in the air, burning his lungs and stinging his eyes as to bring forth tears, soon unveiled some of the mysteries.
Even from a distance, he could discern the slender column of ash and smoke pillaring far into the night, orange-red flames painting the darkness with an eerie layer. Soon, the silhouette of the dilapidated and decrepit building came into view.
Shattered glass glimmered on the ground around it in crimson hues, and flames leaked from the windows like luminous tongues.
A significant portion of the farm had already succumbed to the inferno, but the rear end stood untouched still, undoubtedly the result of the combined efforts of various Conduits working in tandem, conjuring water from thin air to spray it through the night, dousing the flames as they attempted to spread their chaos.
Cargil had chosen a destructive yet efficient approach. The factory lay deeply concealed within LUV territory, leaving little time to salvage their spoils and claim resources, as reinforcements were sure to arrive promptly.
With this in mind, they opted for a strategy of utter destruction, bathing the old, unassuming building in a raging inferno and dealing a heavy blow to the organization's resources. The recent events in the city, with terrorists holding the Dominion in their dreadful grasp, had evidently played into their planning.
Were it not for this massive distraction drawing the guards' attention away, this part of the city would have been more closely monitored, and Cargil might not have dared to act so brazenly. But with the government's watchful eye elsewhere, no one was available to intervene and stop their carnage or arrest those responsible. It was all up to to LUV itself.
It was a seldom occurrence for so many of its members to gather in one place. It was typically wiser for them to keep a low profile and avoid appearing together openly, for there were many among them wanted for prosecution by the noble family.
Now, they stood in a loose circle, engaged in heated discussions about countermeasures, fidgeting like anxious children. Only their vague silhouettes were perceivable, as a shimmering dome of spiritual energy shielded their words and expressions from prying eyes.
Inside the protective barrier, Aurelius, the undisputed leader, remained composed, merely observing the discussion.
"We should strike back and fight!" bellowed one Titan of a man with long, spiked prod.
"No, you fool," a woman clad in a tight-fitting bodysuit chimed in. "That's exactly what they want. They anticipate our attack, a reckless act driven by anger and impulsive decisions. They'll be prepared! If we attack now, not only will we have lost a significant portion of our resources and products, but we might also lose our lives in a futile attempt at childish revenge!"
"Childish?" The towering man turned to face her, dwarfing her smaller frame at a height exceeding two meters. "Childish?" he echoed again, slower now as he chewed each syllable with obvious disdain. The woman met his gaze unwaveringly, and spiritual energy swirled and crackled in the evening air like thunder, creating a palable tension that Anthemion could feel even at a distance, causing his heart to race and his blood to freeze to chilling cold in his veins.
Just as the situation was on the verge of escalating, Aurelius crooked his finger, and a metaphysical pressure descended with crushing force upon the two hot-headed individuals like an invisible vice, stifling their rage as they stumbled in place.
Speaking with the calm of a still lake, his eyes detached as he observed the last fires being extinguished, Aurelius declared, "We'll strike."
The Titan grinned triumphantly, while the woman allowed herself a groan of defeat, a subtle display of her regard for Aurelius' decision. His gaze settled on her until she cast her head slightly downward, avoiding eye contact. "But not without conducting a well-devised plan beforehand," he added, his tone calculated. "Any ideas?"
"Other than their heavily guarded headquarters, we only have knowledge of some minor hideouts," another senior member, with grey hair and a face marked by countless years of experience, began, somewhat hesitantly and meakly at first. "But nothing truly substantial to focus on. However, if we organize it correctly, our existing knowledge could prove devastating."
"Extrapolate," Aurelius ordered, prompting the senior member to go on further.
"Of course. Cargil probably waits for us to enter their territory and lash out at every obstacle. They'd grant us some minor triumphs to delude us with false confidence until we advance so far behind the borders that retreat is impossible, and they can castle us in," he explained.
Aurelius nodded in agreement, and the man continued with newfound vigor and confidence.
"So, why don't we send out small groups, each with a predestined destination in mind? We know of seven hideouts with certainty and suspect the position of two more. While their loss in product might not be as high as ours, even if we manage to destroy every single one of them, their loss in men would certainly outweigh ours. Especially if they are prepared for a large-scale assault and have concentrated their power around their headquarters to shield their high-ranking members.
If you agree, I would create nine smaller diversions and assign a hideout to clandestinely assault to each of them while the rest marches towards the headquarters as they probably suspect. After the smaller groups have accomplished their goal, they may join the march in an ambush on the headquarters."
In addition, Aurelius mused inwardly, it also reduces the risk of a traitor conveying potentially dangerous information about our planned assault to our enemies.
At least, if every group only knows of their designated target, that is, and the members remain in the darkness of ignorance about the other to be assaulted quarters. They couldn't betray information they didn't know.
The probability of a traitor amongst their ranks, a fellow member of LUV, was but near certainty. Of that Aurelius was sure. How could they've known the location of their most treasured farm, the backbone of their organization, a secret guarded like a sacred relic, otherwise?
Another man frowned and for the first time in the meeting, raised his voice, pulling Aurelius from his contemplating. "Those attacking the headquarter will be defensless for quite some time. If anything doesn't work out, we'll send them to certain death."
There was no change in expression, no discernable emotion on his hardened face as Aurelius' focus of attention shifted. "Is there a problem?" A subtle pressure flooded the air as his Presence slightly released, like a heavy blanket shrouding them.
The man turned a little pale, even lavish, and quickly shook his head. "N-No, sir. Of course not."
"Good," Aurelius nodded, and his cold eyes glittered with the reflection of the dying flames. "Make it so."
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As the men and women that had gathered to confront their nemesis formed smaller groups, Anthemion searched amongst the crowd for familiar faces and soon stood before Lucian. The man wore tight, leathern pants and a rowdy black jacket.
His hair was meticulously pulled back, and a pair of brass knuckles sparkled on his fists in the dim evening light of the moons. While everybody around appeared somewhat nervous, anxiety striking through their bodies, he appeared unfazed, excited even by the prospect of violence and gang war.
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He gleamed nearly with desire and bubbling anticipation. Grinning, he took Anthemion by his shoulders and shook him like one would a little child.
"It'll be glorious! We'll let them taste fear and make them regret the day they entered this world! Our world!" he declared, fervor ringing in his voice, loud enough for those nearby to hear. Hesitant exclamations of approval resounded through the night, but most were busy preparing themselves mentally and physically for the upcoming battle. Weapons were bransihed, spirits fortified, for they were on the verge of unleashing bloody havoc.
While some still relied on weapons with material ammunitionin, most didn't as the ability to cultivate one's body to the extent that most weapons of ancient times had become but minor inconveniences rendered them largely obsolete.
If one could move at ten times the speed of a bullet, why fear their feeble power? If bullets broke against your skin, why dread their measly strength?
Even Conduits of lower ranks could shield themselves from material projectiles through their Spiritual Touch, controlling incoming projectiles. And for those of true power, even the passive release of their Presence was sufficient to weaken incoming attacks significantly or avert them entirely, given they lacked the protection conferred by being enveloped in spiritual energy.
Without this imprint of protection, they became vulnerable to manipulation by any Conduit capable of doing so, and as Spiritual Touch was one of the first skills taught to those aspiring to follow the path of cultivation, guns and pistols weren't favoured. Anthemion had heared of some people using rifles sporting missiles of pure energy but he had really no idea.
For most Conduits, especially those of higher power, this led to them resorting to the use of historical and ancient-style weapons like swords or lances. Some among the crowd even wielded axes or other implements designed throughout history with the intent to maim and butcher.
They presented a terrifying sight, with each person appearing fully prepared for war. The promise of impending death loomed over them like a shadow.
A brutish man with chiseled muscles, raising his enormous war axe into the sky and unleashing a burst of concentrated spiritual energy, captured the group's attention and silenced their chatter. All eyes rested on him, each pair reflecting a unique blend of emotions.
Some trembled with fear, others dripped with reluctance, but all tried to maintain an air of composure. He observed the hastily assembled war band for a while before a smile of pure satisfaction flashed across his face.
"I don't need to tell you what has transpired today. I don't need to tell you what wrongdoings we have suffered." He shook his head and waded into the crowd, walking directly among them. With each new word, he turned to face a different person, scrutinizing them from head to toe.
"You all know of our loss and burn with the desire to avenge our pain! So, I say, let us be the heralds of destruction! Let us tread paths of carnage and walk right into their headquarters! Let our fury be their demise, our weapons be the last thing they lay their pitiful eyes on!
Let us wage war! Let us be victorious!" he roared skyward and raised his axe high, pulses of spiritual energy dancing along the bladed side. The hesitance and reluctance washed from most men like a bad odor in the shower as they joined him in his cry of war.
Just minutes later, a column of numerous cars sped through the night.
Anthemion sat in a van with seven others, Lucian sitting opposite him, and grimaced at the thought of the coming assault. One thing was as plain as day to him: they had been condemned to near-certain death.
A head-on attack on the headquarters was nothing but a fast and brutal way to join the Fallen in the afterlife. Fidgeting with the knife in his hand, he pondered his options and how he might manage to survive this night.
Should he make a run for it, escape with his tail between his legs? He would love to, really, but saw no possibility to do so without being marked a traitor and struck down by his own in the process. Should he try to fight, stand shoulder to shoulder with those powerful conduits of LUV in an attempt to overpower their enemy?
But, he knew, even with the strongest under the banner of LUV, this attack would still be risky at best. A quick glance around the van told him that the organization had certainly not sent their highest grade material.
The men were old and frail or wobbling with fat at every move. While they were still Conduits, their years of glory had long since passed. It seemed Aurelius still held some resentment due to Anthemion's errors in the past and therefore placed them in this dangerous position.
As if he, as if all of them were disposable and not living and breathing human beings. Anthemion couldn't really come up with a reason why Lucian was placed in this kamikaze convoy other than the man probably had finally annoyed someone he shouldn't have crossed.
Yet, Lucian appeared completely oblivious to their impending doom and irritatingly calm and collected at the prospect of the fight.
It reminded him of an old saying Anthemion had once read, one he wholeheartedly agreed with.
Fear not those men who laugh at the threat of war, for they are either lying or fools. But tread carefully with those who are not fools nor liars, yet remain unfazed.
For they are monsters.
Well, in the end, he was pretty sure that Zerth was just crazy, and he was overinterpreting his demeanor. Not that it calmed him in any way.
He let the thought fall to the back of his mind as an explosion of orange fire hit the car in front of them like a battering ram, hurling it into the air and leaving it crashing upside down onto the stone pavement with horrible metallic screeches.
The bodywork was badly deformed, and the splintered glass on the ground proved a hazard to those trying to exit the car, as they began bleeding from scratches on their hands and legs. Chaos broke loose.
Their driver jerked the steering wheel in panic to the side, attempting to avoid driving over their own men. He succeeded in his objective but instead navigated them on a collision course with an old streetlamp. The impact was abrupt, and the occupants of the car were tossed around as they collided.
Anthemion briefly felt a sense of weightlessness before being caught by his seatbelt and slammed back into the cushion. A deafening sound rang in his ears like a thousand bells as he struggled to shake off his dizziness.
He unlocked his seatbelt and fumbled with the rear end of the car before stumbling outside, the fresh air hitting him like a train. Within moments, the adrenaline coursing through his veins had vanquished all remaining drowsiness, and his eyes cleared to the scene before him.
It was Hell itself had been unleashed. Men fought against each other with such astonishing speed, too fast for Anthemion to follow their movements. He could only catch fleeting glimpses of the gruesome aftermaths of their battles.
He could only watch as their bodies crumbled to the ground as if their threads had been severed, lifeless and with their libs limbs contorted in unnatural ways.
Bursts of spiritual energy flashed through the air, and weapons colored red dropped crimson blood, slowly morphing into a sticky river under his boots. He stood paralyzed, dazed even, as if his wits had desterted him.
He could only watch as a man stumbled in his direction, each step a torturous ordeal, the sharp pointed end of a blade protruding from his chest. The man dropped to the ground just an arm's reach in front of him, his spiritual energy ebbing away, his life fading like a waning ember, leaving no energy for him to remain upright.
Anthemion, driven by pure instinct alone, rushed to his side, and, with tremendous effort, gently heaved his body around. Blood stained his attire a deep red, its warmth seeping into his skin.
He pressed his hands against the wound, attempting with all his might to staunch the bleeding, keep the blood inside his body, and salvage this man's life. A member of Cargil, their sworn enemy, he recognized by a rough tattoo peeking through his clothes. Anthemion didn't care and continued.
Yet, his efforts proved futile, a desperate struggle against the inevitable. The blood flowed freely, slipping through the gaps between his fingers like water from a broken dam, flooded the pavement like an opened water tap.
With a harrowing cough, crimson spilled from the man's mouth as he gasped for air that wouldn't come, choking on his own blood.
There were untold words lingering on his lips, but none escaped.
There were unuttered pleas trapped in his eyes, but none conveyed.
There was pure panic etched into his features, but no sound emerged. No sounds other than his rattling and groaning, like a wounded animal in its final throes.
His fingers curled into painful, white-knuckled fists, and his body contorted until even that movement became too strenuous. Anthemion watched, his heart heavy, as life drained from the man and his once-focused pupils clouded over and turned hazy.
In that solemn moment, a simple truth crystallized within Anthemion's mind, a fundamental law that would forever remain etched in his memory:
The eyes of men could be made bestial by pain.