Alexander stumbled out of the medical tent in a troubled daze, ignoring the medic’s pleading. The voice was deep, piercing through all noise, men and monster alike. It was as if the entity was speaking directly into Alexander’s ears. The fighting ceased. Everyone stared blankly at the floating thing above.
Levitating at the center of the encampment, of Black Paladin Station, above the vehicles and sandbags and open tents, was Caller A, a being shrouded in a heavy black cloak not dissimilar to Problem’s, yet several times more imposing. It had called the monsters here, to Ordo, who indiscriminately slew thousands and thousands more in the coming days. It had summoned them, the Incogs, the goblins, the ghouls, every monstrous soul in Dawns. That was Caller A.
It was the stereotypical image of wickedness, Alexander saw. It was, it really was. There was no better picture of evil than something dressed in all black wielding a black weapon, speaking so arrogantly as it did. Thus, it had to be slain, but he doubted he had the strength to do it rightly.
“Silence is what pervades. A fitting companion daresay I. Bearing witness to the eternity that awaits you, I grant praises to your astute perception thus. It is I bringing death, and death you comprehend in your dark oculars, so turn them inwards and pay patience, lest I turn them on your behalf.”
“You…” said a woman stepping fearlessly, perhaps stupidly, to the caster above—Jury. She had seen better days. “Pereyra, correct? How did you discover our intentions so soon?”
“It is I who said, woman of deafness,” Pereyra replied, snapping. “Dawns is the demesne you reside, and it is here the similarity we share. The light touches all, then I am the sun of Dawns for all is touched and beyond. This is the lot given to I, Pereyra, who watches.”
“Shit…” muttered Alexander. That made things infinitely more difficult. It had some sort of watching skill; if it had overheard Jury’s briefing, then what else could it hear? Really, couldn’t Pereyra foil every operation?
Something grazed Alexander’s hand. He flinched, startled, ready to strike. It was Leona. She looked pale and tired, but he took her hand. It was sticky from sweat and crusted with dirt. Damie was hiding out in the tent still, watching from a safe place.
There had to be a plan. Something to at least rout Pereyra.
“Can I ask then?” followed Jury after much thought. “About your intentions? About the Cosmos Caller’s?”
“Cosmos Caller?” curiously charmed Pereyra, then realizing. “Ah, so you speak of the Great Kreutz. Ask of our intentions, ask of mine. I am a servant thus serving. He is a servant thus serving. I am to he a servant and to he a greater lord, Sirius Aethfell, the Lord of Many. To his will we obey, for my master is he who abandoned the greater wills for the greatest.”
"Aethfell...?" questioned Jury.
I wonder why it’s entertaining this conversation… Alexander thought before glancing around. No one seemed to do anything. Then a ding came. Something from the [Party Chat].
> Kirk:
>
> Are the invisible bastards gone?
>
> Damien:
>
> I don’t think so
>
> Kirk:
>
> We’ll have to risk it then
>
> Jury said to evacuate the civilians back in the metro
>
> Notify the soldiers
>
> Proceed carefully
Alexander and Leona exchanged looks.
> Alexander:
>
> im stuck outside with leo
>
> cant
>
> Damien:
>
> I’ll do it
Damien ducked away out-of-sight.
> Kirk:
>
> When Jury gives the signal
>
> Fight like hell
>
> Leona:
>
> What’s the signal?
>
> Kirk:
>
> Everyone fighting like hell
In place of a response, Leona held Alexander’s hand tighter. In terms of plans, that was it: fighting. Wasn’t the best plan but it was the only one they had. Alexander’s breath hitched; he was terrified out of his mind. He had personally seen monsters from all sorts of worlds, but Pereyra was different. It was simply different.
Alexander noticed Team Luster hanging back as well, waiting for the order to engage. Montana and Problem hung back, focused on Pereyra and Pereyra only, and Hidden was nowhere to be seen. Naturally.
“Must you ask so, dear human child?” replied Pereyra to some question Jury asked—Alexander didn’t catch it. “Indeed, our mission is to ravage this earth. It is as simple as breathing.”
Jury stepped forth to ask again—
“You are quite inquisitive in your efforts, are you not, human child?” it said after, preventing Jury from saying another word. “Do you intend to stave off your destined demise so determinedly? A foolish endeavor, Adelyn Peers.”
Jury tensed. A quiet growl tittered through her teeth.
“Rank S5 Slayer Jury, Adelyn Peers, I know your name. I am not infinite; it would be hubris to claim it so. Yet through the mirrors of this cosmic expanse dwelling within, all is revealed, and you are the witnessed. History be known, blood be known—in other words, you, Adelyn Peers, are but a window to otherselves in worlds beyond.
“Many Adelyn Peers perished, so it seemed. In warfare.” Pereyra’s scepter began glowing in pomegranate red. Jury prepared herself. “So shall you, who will contribute to the ceased streams. Farewell, my patience has run thin—”
Ink-drowned, arcane chains sprouted like sudden roots and yanked Pereyra’s scepter-arm down. Despite how stick-thin its tender limb was, it took on greater resistance than one expected. Much greater. Although the chains pulled and pulled, the Comet did not fall. Alexander traced the length of the links and found the source: Problem. Their heavy black cloak shimmered, illuminated in a deep violet, and in its cowl were two distinct red dots.
“Oh?” said Pereyra, amused by the feeble attempt. “What a fascinating—“
This time, Pereyra had fallen directly into the center of the encampment and ushered all irrelevant parties away. Smoke and dust arose from the impact as if creating an arena. Montana charged in, bellowing loudly, disappearing inside the cloud and fire flashed in the gray and brown. Dark ritual circles manifested around Problem, emitting sword-wide projectiles into the fray, seemingly uncaring about their ally within. Jury shouted something and retrieved her [Arbiter]: pearl-steel, hilted in shining gold. With a flourish, eleven identical—no, exact clones emerged from Jury, totaling twelve, and they formed an ironguard perimeter around the smoke cloud. They channeled a white element into their blades, Aether. Yet one—the real Jury?—entered the cloud.
“Think that’s the signal!” Alexander exclaimed, frantically looking around to assess the immediate situation.
If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
Leona panickedly replied, “Do we help them or—?!”
The smoke had dissipated at that point, and Problem’s chains had vanished, replaced by crimson. Long, curving lines of strange red magick came countlessly, moving in wide parabolas and impossible angles. Alexander swore, tackled Leona to the ground and avoided one. He lifted his head. Limbs were taken off effortlessly by the magick. Soldiers, civilians, it didn’t matter. The vehicles were punctured, tipped over even, rendered inoperable by a single line. One Juror tried to deflect the magick with the flat of her blade, instead it curved and pierced clean through her heart; another Jury was dealt a weave of them, twirling through most until one got her leg, then her arms, lastly her head. Montana got hit in the chest but his armor held, yet the force threw him down onto his back. Problem, using their own levitation, threw themselves backwards harshly, allowing the vectors to pass. Hidden was nowhere to be seen fortunately.
Men and women cried like lambs to the slaughter, and the monsters, too, cried, from the east and west, and perhaps below as well, where the Incogs dwelled. Black Paladin Station erupted into chaos once again, and order was destroyed. Red magick, arcs, crossbow bolts from the windows and roofs, glinting axes and rusty swords, crude explosives, smoke and powder, rat-a-tat-tat, rifles and pistols, and the roar of men and beast, together, doing what came natural.
Left was dangerous, right was dangerous, down was dangerous, but down was the best case scenario.
In a matter of moments, things went to shit. That was the story of Alexander’s life, he felt like.
Alexander threw himself off of Leona, flinching when one of Pereyra’s bolts came just a few meters in front of him, cleanly cleaving through a man’s left leg, then a bolt ripped into his neck. The man fell, violently convulsing and all he breathed was gurgles of blood. There was no point in saving him.
The remaining soldiers stayed their ground despite the rapid breakdown of command, doing what came obvious: shooting anything and everything that wasn’t human. Kirk popped up midst the crowd, firing too, barking orders, ducking every time a projectile hurled towards him. The soldiers were scared out of their minds probably, but there was nowhere to run. Only here, so they had to fight.
Fire emerged to his right: Damien. The mana crystal embedded into his [Protector’s Stave] was dim; he probably had little mana remaining, if at all. What else could anyone do but fight?
Alexander gritted his teeth. “Dammit all, alright! We really are fighting a Comet right now, whatever the hell that is! Leo, keep your head down and don’t let a single bastard through! I’ll get the crossbowmen!“
“Alright!” replied Leona, requipping her [Protector’s Shortsword]. She saw a mother curling over her child against a wall and sprinted over, managing to avoid getting stuck with a bolt. Alexander’s eyes stayed on her longer than they should. Even now, he mouthed, Stay alive, you.
Shaking his head, Alexander grabbed the nearest S68 rifle, patted his pockets for the remaining magazines he had—three—and spotted a glint of dirty steel from a few buildings over. [Certain Shot] blew a hole into the crossbowman, it fell. He looked around for the next target only to find a middle-aged woman hiding against a long planter, a bolt in her leg. “Shit!” he cursed, running over.
“H-Help!” whimpered the woman; he provided two legs for her one, hanging her arm over his shoulder, rifle slung around him.
“Let’s get you out of here!” Alexander exclaimed, racing towards the metro. An explosion rattled him, making him duck. Then another and another.
Black orbs barreled towards Pereyra, who swiftly dodged the first few with unexpected agility. Montana closed in swinging his ax, spinning with flames. One spin caught one of the orbs, the fire changing colors, to black, and Montana came with a second spin. Pereyra leapt back, higher, as the blow erupted the pavement underneath and caused a great geyser of concrete, earth, and purple-brimmed smoke.
Pereyra cut the air with its glowing scepter as though it was a blade—it might as well be. It carved a wincing wound into existence, opening a gate to some unknown world, and fire poured through.
Montana twirled his ax and manifested a darkfire arc, as boiling and steaming as his rage, and parted the summoned flames like the sea. Pereyra flew away and allowed the arc to cut the portal closed. It began to cast another cursed spell from its ruby but met an annoying beam from Problem.
Alexander kept his head down, watched the beam carved through the concrete, earth popping from the cracks, and kept an eye for any pesky threats. By some luck, he came to the metro’s entrance, guarded by soldiers still, leading the escaping civilians in. The Incogs were not an issue, thank God.
“Hey!” called Alexander to one standing soldier. “Get her inside!”
The soldier nodded, taking the injured woman. “You staying out here?!”
Alexander shrugged. “Why the hell not?! Someone got’s to get these civilians out of here! Good luck, man!”
“You too!”
Alexander entered the fray once again. A bolt had grazed his cheek. Over there, a crossbowman on the western side, some sort of dog-person on a roof. It was a challenge. As challenges went, a [Certain Shot] was all that was needed and it fell. He ran towards the west flank where Kirk was, firing.
Pereyra was grounded again. Two Jurors joined together for a joint attack: a biting steel at its thighs and one at its neck. Too slow, however. Red moon-rings fluttered out like butterflies. The Jurors were swift enough to disengage, jump back, and deflect the first few pests, yet some weaved through, cutting deep. Then a dagger, flung like a boomerang, came and made the first actual wound: a cut on its stick of an arm.
The dagger was caught by Hidden, who finally revealed herself. Pereyra stared at its wound, seemingly tensed, and a swarm of red dots manifested. Like bees to honey, they tracked Hidden. She sprinted, disappearing and reappearing, left, right, left again, left more, right, letting the dots patter the ground. A point-blank red blast came at her, but she turned into a blur and reappeared behind Pereyra, coming down with a cutting X. But Pereyra disappeared too. Then her back was illuminated red, and a crunching blast was next.
Alexander winced, seeing Hidden hit the ground harder than a ten-story fall, but she was moving. Team Luster, despite their skill, was losing. Worst yet, seeing how Pereyra fought… Alexander thought it was holding back.
He saw the rest of his party: Leona carried a bleeding child to the metro, Damien long expended his [Protector’s Stave] and resorted to low-power elemental conjuration, and Kirk shouted orders over the sounds of gunfire. Alexander fired as well, an eye on the outside forces, an eye on Pereyra.
If worse came to worst, he’d call everyone’s retreat into the station.
Montana, whose darkfire enchantment expired, swiveled on his feet to chop nothing. Problem’s spells were getting too frantic, too desperate, unable to do anything but miss. Hidden managed to stand, blood pouring down her face, and fought. Slower, weaker, like a wounded lioness. And Jury centralized the rest of herselves, all seven (which remained), all to subjugate that bastard.
Pereyra cackled. It deftly avoided their combination of axes and swords and daggers and magic, then slammed the butt of its staff into the shattered concrete and exposed soil. A boom cascaded out, a translucent shockwave of red radiating like an explosion. Everyone that was hit fell instantly.
Alexander was no exception, feeling searing pain across his body, like someone used his nerves as guitar strings. He collapsed and convulsed similarly to a cheap marionette. Nearly everyone on the field was affected. His party members, the soldiers, even the monsters outside. Everyone was on the ground rolling. Some, due to their existing injuries, most likely died.
Yet Team Luster remained, surely in pain, but they stood. Pereyra chuckled, amused. “You stand with such animosity, do you? How admirable.”
A Juror charged with a swipe towards Pereyra’s waist. It leapt over and blasted the clone in her back, opening a gaping hole in her stomach. A second Juror approached as Pereyra landed, swung and missed, and the scepter crunched into her ribs. Pereyra wanted to finish her off but was pushed back by Problem’s pesky little magic, more of those bolts and beams and orbs. A swirl of red formed around their waist, preventing them from moving. Hidden shouted and reached for the stave, but she was too slow; suddenly, she was hit by Problem, both thrown back.
Another Juror came from the side and struck, clashing her blade with its staff. From behind, Montana roared and Pereyra vanished—exactly like what it did with Hidden earlier—and the ax split the Juror’s head open. He panicked. “Shit—!”
A blast struck his back, then again, and again, and again until the man was down, repeatedly being blasted deep into the soil, and when he broke into the rocks, maybe he’d break too. Then someone suddenly roared—Hidden. She leapt and was stopped in mid-air, a red ring around her neck. Before she could act, before she could think, her body was slammed into concrete face-first, then whipped against an armored car, bouncing off like a ragdoll, then having her back cracked against a planter.
It was only the Jurors that were left: four standing. One blindly ran in only to have her body popped open by a concentrated red blast. It was a distraction. The last three rushed in, together, capitalizing on her death. A horizontal red gash flew out, halved the forwardmost one and the two leapt over. The left Juror suddenly lost her entire torso, blown away. And the final Juror hesitated seeing how quickly she had died. It meant her death: decapitation, red.
One Juror remained, the same Juror whose ribs were crushed by the scepter—the real Jury. That was how her honor worked. Every Juror was and wasn’t the real Jury; it was only then when all of the clones had died, the last one would always be the original.
And Jury was kneeling.
“Adelyn Peers,” said Pereyra, marching towards her. “I prophesied your fate as I, Pereyra, foresaw. You weep tears of gravel, so let them be the last tears shed.”
“Go…” She coughed. “…to hell…”
“There is no ‘Hell’ to speak of. Only oblivion—“
Something struck Pereyra across the head.
A punch.
Alexander punched it. He didn’t know when he got up, or ran, or decided to punch the damned thing, but he did all of the above. He gritted his teeth, knowing he did absolutely no damage to Pereyra. “What?” he heaved.
If Pereyra had eyes, Alexander was certain it blinked. “Human child, what were your expectations? No matter, your fate will be shown—?!”
Pereyra gasped.
“What—?!” Alexander was suddenly slammed onto his back, a great force pressing on his chest. He couldn’t breathe. The weight of a truck sat on him.
“So you exist in this world as well?!” declared Pereyra. “You absolutely must die—!”
A raven-black arrow pierced through the ruby jewel of Pereyra’s prized device, and immediately, Alexander felt better. Other than a fractured spine worrying him.
There, he saw, standing on a rooftop, a tall man imposed, hair as dark as surrounding night, yet turned carmine at the ends. From his fingers weaved strings, from strings loosened arrows.
“So that’s why…” Alexander muttered.
“How troublesome,” boomed the man’s voice from afar. “I suppose I was almost too late. What sort of Guild Master am I to allow grievous harm to my comrades?”
[Slayer Archknell “Deathweaver” has entered combat!]
Archknell, No.5 Slayer in Ordo, Guild Master of Glory Guild, had arrived.
“That’s unforgivable.”