Manziholet finished toying with a Quorathene arachnid, who was practically a cripple compared to his last two kills due to four javelin rods buried deep into its main body, then observed Chiorou taking on the last three herself.

Unlike his Armament, Deathspine Lash possessed only one state, yet its destructive potential was nothing short of extraordinary. The blonde Archivist wielded the whip with precision and force, cracking it through the air like thunderclaps.

The first lash struck at a charging arachnid across its face. Quite instantly, the bronze platings bursted into pieces among a spray of green sap. A simple movement of her wrist, and the Deathspine Lash darted forward again to exploit the wound. It tore deeper and dragged away more plant matter, leaving behind an oozing cavity in the arachnid’s core.

Her mercenaries went up and spewed flame onto the caress, as Chiorou stepped past it to engage the other two, although these had been softened during the bombardment with most of their bronze limbs replaced with more vulnerable plant matter.

She snapped her wrist, sending the whip toward the one on her left and looping it around the arachnid’s only blade. With a sharp pull, the vertebrae whip tightened, digging the bone spurs into the metal part and shattered the hybrids’ best hope. Then, after a few unchallenging lashes, the battle was over. Leaving behind them a handful of burning wreckage, the line marched on.

Manziholet kicked a javelin rod sticking out on his path as the psychopath in him idly wondered whether a fight against Chiorou might be a test of his limits or hers. He would probably win, but he must swing his blades first before she realized they were even fighting and sever her dominant hand (or both) as soon as possible, thereby depriving her of a chance to contest their Armaments. He chuckled at the thought. Already plotting against allies, his mother was to blame for that.

By the time the sun hit its zenith, they had done cleansing their half of Vonna and arrived at the Ruin’s entrance. Raka and Mirish had reached there first. Their mercenaries were erecting field fortifications – four walls in a rectangle, with corner watchtowers and surrounded by a ditch, constructed from wood and mason airlifted via sa-raven and unloaded by thralls. The hole that the islanders had dug had also been widened and installed with stairs to provide easier access to the entrance. The Seraphist of Ocean was crouching before it, his fully armored head staring down.

“What are you looking at?” Manziholet asked.

“Dart launchers, hidden saws, giant flowers that spit acid, and more bronze-flora hybrids. Not those fodder arachnids, novice, but actual monsters with tentacles and thorns designed specifically to kill us.”

Manziholet followed Mirish’s gaze, but only saw simple wooden stairs leading down to a wide tunnel seemingly carved from silvery stone. Vines wound their way along the ceiling, their tendrils heavy with glowing fruits that cast a soft golden light over the floor, on which etched geometric patterns made from lines of bronze and covered with blood of Vonna’s islanders who first came in.

A soft breeze wafted from the entrance, carrying a faint smell of crushed lemon leaves but somehow made his tongue taste bitter as if he was chewing medicinal herbs. He was inclined to agree with the independent’s intuition. Dangers awaited them down there.

Over the throat of the entrance, there were also a series of bold symbols set on a bronze plate. So far, humanity's efforts to understand the Quorathene hieroglyphs were on par with their attempts to interpret the subtle nuances of horse grunts.

“But the Archivists have figured it out, haven’t they?” Manziholet asked Raka and Chiorou, when the host were having lunch.

“Not exactly,” Raka replied. Of the four, he was the only one exempt from the inconvenience of eating thanks to his Bastion Miracle and decided to spend time reading. “Have you heard about Zinzenmo?”

“It’s the ruin where they found the Cipher Engine.”

“An incredibly valuable artifact which propelled our mathematics forward by years. How about Ciazen?”

“Another Quorathene ruin, with a walking palace powered by wind.”

“How about the one on Kallan?” Chiorou chimed in, putting a spoonful of broth in her mouth.

Manziholet looked at her, who winked back. “Isn’t it one of the three–”

“We don’t talk about Kallan, novice,” Raka raised his voice, “because there’s nothing there. Anyhow, you can see the similarity between them. All contained some kind of unique Quorathene inventions. We also discovered, in each of their entrances, another similarity.” He took out the previous piece of paper. “The five middle ones. Look familiar?”

“Yes.” Manziholet had seen them on the bronze plate. Like most Quorathene hieroglyphs, each followed a consistent pattern: the lower half commonly featured sharp and angular designs, whereas the upper half was made of delicate and flowery curves.

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“Although the accompanying hieroglyphs on the left and right may vary, these five appear consistently at every entrance to the Ruins. We believe they denoted ‘vault’, a secure location where the Quorathene preserved their most precious possession. These won’t be weird domestic trinkets that are only valuable to collectors either. Whatever artifacts hidden inside will be worth a Greatling’s wealth due to their immense utilities.”

“Of which their Grand Archivist will hoard three quarters,” Mirish muttered, as if he had ever needed money; they all knew who the independent’s mother was. He had retracted the mouthpiece of his steel armor down to eat lunch, revealing pearly white teeth on unnaturally pale skin, although his hands were still cladded in the heavy gauntlets. Even then, his forkwork was surprisingly delicate and refined, like a surgeon operating on a patient – in this case, a huge roasted pheasant glazed with honey and served with juices of starfall fruit.

“The Ruin,” Raka continued, “will likely possess a lot more security measures than usual. Nothing four Seraphists can’t handle, but hardly any harm in being thorough; I’ll send volunteers ahead to map the way and test for traps. And, I must remind you, learn and support, novice. Don’t do anything to jeopardize this expedition and you will come home to your mother intact.”

Later, Manziholet recalled the number of casualties listed in the discoveries of and expeditions into those ‘vaults’. These were records provided by the government, which meant he should multiply it by one and a half to get a realistic picture: two millions mortals and five independent Seraphists lost for Zinzenmo, along with seven professional Second Sphere and a peninsula wiped clean of life for Ciazen. The majority of the casualties had been inflicted by hybrids, especially the last one to be awakened at the end of the expedition. Perhaps those hieroglyphs really meant ‘This way to your ultimate end’, although, if anything, that made him want to go in more.

The volunteers arrived soon after. Once the survivor child had confirmed those hieroglyphs, Raka had promptly asked the governor to provide some resilient individuals to lead the way. He had brought thralls from TerraSol, but he would like to use local goods as much as possible. Just as well, not only did Marwind have a group of people fitting those exact criteria within an hour flight, but they were also absolutely disposable.

Manziholet watched two lines of convicts assembled before the entrance. They were young, almost his age even, and also devout followers of Invincible Light. Since they were arrested, the entire congregation had gone on a hunger strike. Their sackcloths had more wrinkles than their body had muscles, which had been further scarred by tortures.

According to the government officials who delivered them, the youths’ monstrous and shocking transgressions included such acts as unlicensed healing practices (they provided free prayer services and physical comfort to a local infirmary) as well as unlawful proselytizing (they distributed pamphlets after eight at night).

The Church would have intervened to protect their own, but the congregation had the single distinction of declaring that paid indulgence was a crime in God’s eyes. Therefore, working towards a brighter future, the planetary Patriarch had joined hands with the governor (the enemy) and added heresy to the list of crimes. The convicts were set to be quietly executed and buried in a mass grave next week, if the hunger had not gotten to them first, until they found gainful employment under the host.

Of course, being the resilient volunteers they were, none was too eager to set foot inside the ruin first, especially when they had laid eyes on the mangled corpses of Vonna islanders.

“Order your congregation to cooperate, priest,” Raka told their leader, a young man with only a few strands of auburn hair left on his scrawny head. He simply looked up at the Seraphist and responded with a vacant stare. Like the dead people that followed his guidance, he was fresh out of cares to give.

“Sorry, I was wrong.” Raka raised his hand slightly, palm open as if it was a genuine apology. “Order your congregation to cooperate, heretic, or I’ll be forced to take a harsh measure.”

“We answer to Invincible Light,” the priest said steadily, though it seemed his throat had been damaged due to hunger and lack of water, “not to our lost brothers or sisters, and certainly not to the faithless. You threaten violence but, the darker the path, the brighter God shines.”

“Alright, harsh measure it is.”

“Do your worst.”

“Chiorou.” Raka beckoned the other Archivist over to take his place.

“Imagine this very feasible scenario,” Chiorou said leisurely. “We force feed you faithmongers a stimulant, weak enough to give you the illusion of control but potent enough to make the subsequent and unavoidable surrender into pleasure a grand spectacle,” –she paused to let the horror sink in– “then lock you all in a room and let nature take its course. Well, it won’t exactly be natural, but whatever sins you perform there, do you believe, deep down, that your God will absolve you of half of it?”

The congregation exchanged panicked glances and murmurs, but not their priest. “You wouldn’t dare,” he said. “It’s too depraved even for the government.”

“But we have,” she replied, almost proudly, “twice, during a study into human lineage continuation. We documented enough material to write three books about the subject. We didn’t experiment on the clergy, though, but probably won’t make much difference. It is a very effective stimulant.”

It was probably the tone she used that convinced them. Manziholet could see the priest’s faith visibly falter on his face. The nudge of terror had tipped the scale from defiance to compliance. Maybe they were not hardcore zealous in the end, so easily discouraged by what essentially was fiction, although…

While the volunteers were put to work, he sought out Chiorou. “The study, was it true?” he asked. “You really did go down that route?”

“Of course not. We are not barbarians,” she replied. “We paid some strays fair and square. It’s amazing how low those people were willing to go in exchange for a few measly forisma. Why ask?”

“Just making conversation,” Manziholet lied with a shrug. “What are those books you mentioned, by the way?” It was good to know his ally considered empathy to be optional, a weakness he could take advantage of if their self-interest ever crossed paths.

The study was also no doubt horrific, and he did not condone such actions on account of waste, but it was not that surprising. At the age of five, he discovered where his mother stashed away sensitive documents for potential blackmail. Reading them had long made him accustomed with the fact that disregard for human life for the greater good had always been a standardized policy to government employees. Someone really ought to step up to fix it, but then that someone must be a lunatic who loved the thrill of death.