Meryll stood at the jagged edge of the shaft, an ancient scar gouged into the facility’s bowels, a secret artery plunging a hundred feet into the unseen depths below. The map had brought her here, to this forsaken atrium with its hollow, false column. The hidden elevator had long since gone dormant, its forgotten mechanism festering. Slurry trickled down the shaft’s narrow throat as Meryll wrenched the access door open, the stench of decay wafting up like a warning. She glanced down into the pit of darkness, her stomach tightening at the thought of what awaited her.

With the faith taught by a hundred drills and the weight of her battered armor cradling her frame, she stepped off the ledge with practiced ease, leading with her left foot. She fell silently, plummeting into the abyss. The shaft’s claustrophobic confines screamed around her, metal groaning against metal as her gauntlets and greaves scraped along the walls. Sparks burst to life in the black void, a crackling constellation of her own creation. The heat of friction slowed her descent, but the price was being paid in the whine of her suit’s diagnostics.

Poisonous mire from the swamp above had already gnawed at her armor’s integrity, eating away at her greaves until they sat at a miserable ninety-two percent. Now, her boots degraded with each second that passed, bleeding percentages into the void. Her gauntlets, too, weren’t spared, though they began at a meager ninety-eight. The armor’s degradation was a constant, bitter reminder of the filth clinging to her every move.

Her integrated altimeter chirped a grim notice. Impact imminent. She braced, fingers flexing inside her gauntlets as she curled her body inward. She hit the elevator carriage like a battering ram, her fists punching through steel and filth alike as she tore into the ancient machine. The slurry rushed up to meet her, submerging her in toxic muck. But her armor held, every environmental seal locking tight. The poisonous tide of sludge could claw all it wanted at her—but it would find no weakness.

She forced the elevator doors open, emerging from the wreckage into the flooded remains of the facility. Water swirled around her boots, but she barely noticed. Her focus lay on the cavernous chamber stretching before her. Jonas had lied. The plant wasn’t some simple meat production factory—it was a breeding ground. A Porc cloning plant.

Massive, towering tanks lined the chamber in neat, sinister rows, each filled with a sickly green amniotic fluid. The floating, half-formed Porc shapes within were grotesque, their bodies twisting lazily in their suspension. The dull, ambient light gave the place an eerie, dream-like quality. Meryll’s gaze swept the room, landing on six gigantic vats at the chamber's center. They loomed, vast as war machines, each large enough to birth something far more dangerous. Porgres. Just as the Sacred Lore had whispered to her. She had been prepared for this, but the sheer scale of the operation rattled her.

Her grip tightened on her weapon. She had anticipated waves of Porc soldiers, fierce defenders protecting their foul birthing chambers. Yet there was nothing. No sound but the soft drip of water off her armor, no movement but the lazy drift of the clones in their tanks. The stillness was oppressive, more unnerving than an army.

Across the room, mounted high on a gantry, was her objective: a command center, nestled against the far wall like a spider in its web. There, the data node awaited her, the information she had come to extract. Meryll strode forward, resolute, boots splashing through the water as her eyes locked onto her target.

And then he emerged.

The figure appeared from the shadows of the command room, stepping into the dim light with a languid grace. He stood at the edge of the gantry, looking down at her with a gaze that was almost… curious. A Porc, but not like the others. He was taller, leaner, more human in form. Muscle rippled beneath his bare skin, the light catching the sculpted contours of his body. Dark chains hung loosely around his neck and shoulders, mixing with scraps of faded ribbons, trophies from a dozen forgotten battles. His hair, dark as night, fell in wild tendrils down his back.

But it was his face that drew her attention—nearly human, almost handsome if not for the upturned, pig-like nose. He looked like a beast out of myth, a savage warrior who had clawed his way out of the muck to become something greater. Meryll knew him at once. The Hogfather. The leader of the Porcs.

“You’ve come far,” the Hogfather said, his voice rich and measured, as though he were greeting a guest at a banquet rather than an enemy at his door. “But you are unwelcome here, wanderer. Turn back now, while you still can.”

“I will,” Meryll's voice thundered, amplified through her armor's speakers, echoing like the pronouncement of a judge. “As soon as I’ve taken the cloning lore from your terminal.”

The Hogfather blinked, slowly, deliberately, before fixing her with a gaze that dripped with condescension. His cold, piggish eyes lingered on her as though she were nothing more than an insect in his path. That look turned Meryll’s stomach—being scrutinized by something so grotesquely inhuman was revolting.

“And why would you seek such knowledge?” His voice was a slow, rich drawl, smug as a predator who already knows his prey is trapped. “Has your Order run dry of recruits? Must you clone yourselves now, or face extinction? Ah, that is a plight I resonate with.”

Meryll halted mid-stride, her boots splashing in the shallow water beneath her. The Hogfather was a mockery of life—an unawakened thing. Yet his voice carried with it a honeyed smoothness, an allure she hadn’t expected. For a moment, the thought of simply ending him with a single shot seemed distant, pushed back by the strange need to hear him speak.

“What would you know of extinction?” she snapped. “Your kind have outlasted every purge this world has thrown at you. You’re a rot—a festering cancer, too stubborn to die.”

The Hogfather laughed, a cruel, mirthless sound—half snort, half chuckle. Yet, beneath the cruelty, there was something charismatic. Meryll hated how it wormed its way into her thoughts, as if it were a charm rather than mockery.

“Do not tell me, lady warrior,” he purred, his voice suddenly as soft as silk, “that you haven’t noticed—all my kind are male.”

It was true. She had noticed. Her gaze involuntarily traced over his chiseled form, the strength in his shoulders, the sleek lines of his torso—down, unbidden, to his loins.

“Our great Genesire,” he continued, pacing now with the grace of a jungle beast, “was a paranoid wretch. He bred us for one purpose alone—to wage his endless war. He gave us no concept of love, no capacity for reproduction, no place for loyalty or family. We were designed purely for wrath, bred to depend on his mad tools to replenish our numbers.”

“Is that why you’ve commandeered this cloning facility?” Meryll asked. She felt a pull of curiosity, the question slipping from her lips before she could stop it. Her heart hammered in her chest, each beat a thunderous countdown, as she awaited his response. She hated that she wanted to hear it, hated that he had drawn her into his web of words.

The Hogfather smiled, a slow, amused curl of his lips.

“Commandeered? Oh, my sweet warrior, you flatter me. Do you truly think I am some brutish pirate, a marauder in the night? No… I made my home here. After I tore free from my master’s chains, I found this place—after dealing with the inbred dregs of what remained of the old world’s elite. Here, I began to build something more… something greater. I sought to create a family, yes, but not through the crude tools of war. I used the very genecraft my former master bestowed upon me—only now, I use it for freedom.”

The Hogfather’s hand reached up, his thick fingers stroking the short beard along his chin, drawing Meryll’s gaze once again. She found herself watching the way his fingers moved through the coarse hair, imagining what it would feel like if her hands touched his face, tracing the strong lines of his jaw, his lips… pressing hers against his. More than just a thought—it was a yearning.

In the recesses of her mind, a primal scream of warning cut through the fog of temptation. Something was deeply, horribly wrong here. And yet, she silenced that voice. It didn’t matter. Not now.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“Lady warrior,” the Hogfather’s voice was like a gentle tide lapping against her, each word pulling her further from reason. “How much do you yearn for freedom? I can give it to you. I can release you from the chains of tradition, free you from the suffocating bonds of duty. Stand with me. Together, we could be equals. I will let you become your true self.”

His words caressed her like a lover’s touch, soft and seductive, playing at the edges of her deepest desires. Each syllable was a blade of temptation, designed to cut into her resolve, to hollow out her mind and fill it with his sickly sweet promises. Meryll’s lip curled in disgust, but even as she recoiled, she could feel the pull. It clawed at her, sought to dig deep into her soul. This was no mere conversation. It was an assault—a psycho-emotional manipulation, worming into her through every weak spot it could find.

“You—charming pig,” Meryll spat, though her words lacked the venom she had intended. She struggled for a sharper insult, but found her mind fumbling. “I don’t know what end you thought this would have, but let me tell you one truth. Your corpse will lie at my feet.” She bared her teeth at him, forcing steel back into her voice. “If you think I am enslaved by my faith, by the Sacred Lore, then you are gravely mistaken. I am no prisoner. I am the liberator. Mark my words, beast—I will set this world aflame with a new host of righteous warriors, forged from my own flesh.”

Meryll took a step forward, her armor gleaming with the fierce light of her renewed purpose. Her spirit blazed, a newborn star ignited once more within her chest. The Hogfather’s spell—his vile seduction—was shattered by her contempt, her disgust turning into a searing fire. He had come so close to dragging her into his pit, but she was not his to control. Now, she wanted nothing more than to obliterate him, to tear him from this world with her own hands.

“You won’t stop me,” she growled, her voice burning with the white-hot intensity of a rising sun. “Not you. Not any of your kind.”

"So be it," the Hogfather's voice was calm, indifferent. With a casual shrug, he unsheathed a long, black blade that seemed to drink in the light around it. In a swift, fluid motion, he vaulted over the gantry, descending like a black phantom.

Meryll barely registered the return of her movement before her instincts took over—somewhere deep inside her, she realized she had been momentarily paralyzed by his vile charm. Her hands moved with the practiced precision of years of combat training. Her lux-carbine snapped into place, its sights locking onto the Hogfather as he fell. She unleashed a hail of eight perfectly aimed shots, each streaking through the air like lances of righteous fire.

But the Hogfather’s blade moved like smoke through shadow—elusive, deceptive. Each shot was deflected effortlessly, the black blade cutting through the laser beams with an ease that made Meryll’s stomach twist. He landed with a catlike grace behind one of the massive vats, his form disappearing into the darkness.

“Lady warrior,” his voice floated up from the shadows, taunting and unbearably smug. “I do not think you are quite on my level. Might I suggest you withdraw?”

Meryll’s response was as sharp as the steel she carried. She suggested, with a venomous edge, that the Hogfather do something anatomically impossible with his black blade. Her anger was white-hot, every nerve in her body coiled like a viper ready to strike.

From around the vat, the Hogfather emerged, his hand outstretched, palm open in her direction. A sudden, invisible force slammed into her armor, the sheer pressure of it rocking her back on her heels. But Meryll did not fall. Her armor, ancient and blessed, was too heavy, too powerful for his telekinesis to overcome. She grinned beneath her helmet—he wasn’t strong enough.

Without hesitation, Meryll flipped her lux-carbine to full-auto and let loose a blazing stream of radiant energy. The holy light tore through the air, burning away the shadows as it collided with the Hogfather. His squeals of pain cut through the cavernous chamber—a delicious sound to her ears. His monstrous flesh sizzled beneath the onslaught, the smell of burning pork filling the air as she advanced, unrelenting, closing the distance between them. She knew her weapon wouldn't kill him, but she had other means. If she could just get close enough...

And yet, the Hogfather did not retreat. Instead, to Meryll's horror, he opened his maw wide—grotesquely wide—and began to devour the light. The beams of radiant energy vanished into his gaping mouth, his body absorbing the devastating power as if it were nothing more than sustenance.

Predictable, Meryll thought grimly. The Hogfather was about to regurgitate that energy, vomiting it back at her as raw, lethal force. She was too close to evade the blast, no time to dodge—but she had never been one for cowardly retreats. Lightning fast, she stepped forward, discarding her weapon. Her gauntleted fist arced upward, slamming into the Hogfather’s chin with the force of a meteor.

Meryll wasn’t built for unarmed combat, not without her armor. On her own, she was rated a mere four in strength—barely enough to dent the Hogfather’s thick skull. But encased in her delta-type armor, she was something else entirely. Her strength surged to a ten, and that was more than enough.

The Hogfather’s head snapped back with a sickening crunch, his jaw yanked upwards as the bolt of black light shot wildly into the ceiling, blowing through the reinforced structure. Meryll felt a surge of satisfaction, hoping for a brief moment that she had managed to rip his head clean off his shoulders, just like she had seen Valasques do earlier in the hospital.

But no. The Hogfather still stood, his body swaying but unbroken. His eyes were wide with shock, his face twisted in disbelief. Meryll had rocked him—but not ended him.

The black blade flashed. The Hogfather lunged, and Meryll barely had time to react. Her power blade sprang to life in her hand, its edge glowing with a deadly charge. She parried the first strike, the clash of their weapons ringing through the chamber like thunder. The impact jarred her down to her bones. The Hogfather’s strikes were impossibly fast, a whirlwind of lethal precision. Meryll kept pace, her agility boosted to eleven by her armor, her reactions honed to razor-sharp perfection.

But his strength was overwhelming. Every strike felt like a sledgehammer crashing against her wrists, the power behind each blow forcing her back step by step. She was parrying for her life, each movement barely keeping her from being overwhelmed.

She was outmatched.

Her power blade’s ability, the flaming burst that would have leveled the playing field, was still on cooldown. Each time she blocked, the Hogfather pressed harder, faster—Meryll could feel her stamina draining, her strength ebbing as her arms grew numb from the relentless assault.

"This combat is unsustainable," Captain Meryll muttered to herself, her voice a rasp in the cold confines of her helmet. Every clash with the Hogfather's black blade brought her closer to the edge. Her armour, once the bastion of her survival, now buckled under each strike. It was only a matter of time before it gave way completely, before that cursed blade would carve through her flesh and bone with brutal efficiency.

She knew what had to happen.

The plasma pistol in her off-hand screeched with an almost feral intensity, as if it shared in her thirst for vengeance. Overcharged and humming with lethal power, the weapon practically screamed for release. The moment demanded sacrifice, and Meryll was prepared to deliver it.

Locking her blade around the Hogfather’s stabbing sword, she twisted into his guard, closing the distance in a blur of fluid motion. The Hogfather reacted with disturbing ease, flicking his wrist with a precise, almost careless skill. His black blade slid past her defenses, shearing through her damaged leg armour. It bit deep, carving through metal and flesh, and she hissed through gritted teeth, feeling the warmth of her blood spill within the confines of her suit.

But pain was secondary. She had the advantage now.

Snarling with fury, she drove the muzzle of the plasma pistol against the Hogfather’s stomach. Her voice was a low growl, filled with venom.

"Eat this."

The trigger snapped back with a satisfying click, but fate had a twisted sense of irony. Her plasma pistol, overcharged to the brink, suffered the rare but deadly critical failure. The detonation was sudden, savage. A sphere of blinding plasma erupted from the gun, a furious ball of molten light that seared through armour, flesh, and bone. Meryll screamed as the heat ravaged her arm, her flesh vaporizing up to the elbow before she was thrown back.

The Hogfather, however, bore the brunt of the weapon’s wrath. His torso was consumed, vaporized in an instant by the plasma’s rage, leaving behind only a grotesque mockery of a form—head, arms, legs, and that accursed black blade. His charred remains toppled, nothing more than a butchered shell.

Meryll collapsed onto her side, howling in agony, clutching at the molten stump where her arm had been. She writhed on the ground, the pain suffocating her senses until her armour’s cooling systems dulled the burning sensation. Her breath came in ragged gasps as the pain ebbed into a distant throb. Slowly, she staggered to her feet. The loss of an arm was an annoyance—a hindrance—but her mission was far from over.

The Hogfather was dead, and that was all that mattered.

She limped toward the control terminal in the Hogfather's lair. The pain pulsed in time with her heartbeat, but she pushed it aside. Pain was weakness, temporary, and she was bred for more than this. With her good arm, she connected her armour’s systems to the terminal and began the data transfer. The process would take time—five minutes. A lifetime in combat. Meryll watched as files streamed across her interface. Clone-craft schematics, genetic data, medical supplies stored below—everything she needed to rebuild her chapter.

This was the key. Her chapter’s future lay in the cloning lore locked within this facility. All she had to do was survive long enough to claim it.

The exfiltration was brutal. The service elevators carried her back to the surface, but not without cost. A handful of Porcs had stood in her way, lesser creatures trying to halt her escape. They were dealt with swiftly, the black blade cutting through their flesh like it was nothing. But the journey was grueling, her one arm a hindrance, the blood loss making her movements sluggish.

Finally, she stood where she had landed, barely an hour earlier. The rhythmic chop of aerocopter blades cutting through the night sky was a welcome sound—a promise of salvation. Meryll let herself collapse into the waiting craft, her body spent but her mind still burning with purpose.

She half-expected the pilot to make some comment, to acknowledge the absence of Kane and Valasques, or the loss of her arm. But the artificial person said nothing. Unawoken, like all the rest. Blind to what truly mattered.

"Of course he wouldn’t notice," Meryll muttered, her voice barely a whisper in the thrum of the engine. "The unawoken never do."

And yet, despite everything, a strange sense of peace washed over her. The Hogfather was dead. Her chapter’s legacy would live on. And even if all she ever had was herself, she would not be alone.

She would remake them all in her own image.