General Valerius’s office is a bastion of order and coldness. The stone walls are bare, except for yellowed maps of the Wasteland and the Militia banners that hang motionless, starved of any breeze. The General sits behind a massive desk of dark oak, hands interlaced, observing Vargo Cortez with the precision of a hawk. Vargo stands straight before him; the stains of the swamp are gone from his skin, but not from his eyes, which hold a new, somber depth.
?The report, Vargo?, Valerius begins. His voice is polished metal, devoid of ripples. ?I want details. It is not often a team returns from a night of darkness in the Cursed Marshes?.
?We were forced to divert, General?, Vargo says, his voice the rough texture of parched stone. ?The Yellow Cloud appeared on the horizon and cut off the main road. The only option was the heart of the Cursed Marsh. We entered the mud because we had no other choice?.
Vargo shifts his weight, his gaze fixed on a point beyond the General. ?We had to keep to the solid ridges. The load was heavy, and the slime would not have held the sleds. This brought us close to the ruins, among the remains of towers and palaces of the Old World sinking into the black. We were close to the darkness. Too close?.
Vargo pauses, his jaw tightening. ?The voices came immediately. You know the phenomenon: the psychic assault the marsh inflicts on anyone who dares tread near the shadows of the Old World. But this time, it was different. It wasn’t the usual background murmur. There was a persistence, an insistent ferocity. It felt as though those demons had chosen to feast on the boys' souls, searching for every single crack to break them?.
Valerius listens, his face as still as a carved mask. He remains silent for several heartbeats, then nods slowly.
?And yet you survived a night of absolute darkness?, the General comments, a hint of icy complacency in his tone. ?Wolf Squad shows promise. It is composed of valuable elements, Vargo. Perhaps that is the very reason: those beings in the shadow recognize the value of the prey. They wanted to snuff out those lights before they became a wildfire?.
?It is a promising team, General?, Vargo replies curtly. ?But light comes at a high price?.
The Captain continues the report, reaching the critical point of the return journey. He describes the fresh tracks, the enormous hooves pressed into the hard ground, and the decision to lengthen the route to avoid a potentially lethal encounter. Valerius leans forward, a spark of interest suddenly flashing in his gray eyes.
?What do you believe it was, Vargo??
?Hard to say with certainty, General. The taxonomy of the Luminous Forest defies the logic of old biology. It is an equine, I believe, but with a mass and structure that would make a draft horse look frail. Perhaps double the size of the largest horses of the Old World?.
Valerius stands, walking slowly toward the window overlooking the ramparts of the High King’s Castle.
?It could be the opportunity we have been waiting for. Killing such a creature outside its territory, where it cannot draw from the sap of the Forest, would allow the Militia to test its strength and endurance in controlled conditions. Imagine the value of that carcass, Vargo. Precious data to advance, to understand how to exploit the resources that green wall denies us?.
Vargo nods, but his tone remains cautious. ?But it requires a team of veterans. Those beings have natural armor so hard our standard rifles inflict no real damage. To bring one down requires a volume of fire that would cost us scouts before it even falters?.
Valerius turns, a hint of a joyless smile on his lips.
?And that is precisely why Wolf Squad has a new mission. It is not a hunt, rest assured. It will be a simple recovery mission. Your people will not run excessive risks; we will send them to regain their confidence, far from the traumas of the marsh, doing what they do best: recovering the past?.
Vargo crosses his arms. ?What does this mission entail??
?Another group of scouts has identified a military foundry about ten days from here, at the edge of the Western Wasteland. A site that has remained sealed for three centuries. Wolf Squad must recover heavy-core armor-piercing rounds stored in that ancient depot?.
Valerius approaches the desk and places a finger on a point on the map.
?With those munitions, the natural armor of the Luminous Forest creatures will no longer be impenetrable. And do not just look for the rounds. Find the Siege Rifles designed for that caliber. I am talking about bolt-action weapons, heavy and massive, capable of handling .50 caliber rounds or higher—designed to disable armored vehicles and tear down walls. If we can lay our hands on those old long-range precision models and their heavy cores, the beast of the Luminous Forest will no longer be a god. It will be just a target?.
?But after three centuries, will they still be functional?? Vargo objects.
?Yes, because at the end of the last Great War, weapons and strategic munitions were stored in polymer crates?, Valerius states with a certain smugness.
Vargo shifts his weight, his gaze darkening. Despite his regained vigor, the memory of his team's faces in the marsh still bites at his conscience.
?There is a problem, General?, Vargo says, his voice low but firm. ?Wolf Squad is still tired. I am not just talking about muscles. They need time. I ask permission not to have them depart for at least a week. If I push them further now, they will snap?.
Valerius observes him, remaining motionless for a moment that seems to stretch. Then, with an almost imperceptible nod of the head, he consents.
?I grant you this time, Vargo. But we will not stand by. I will immediately send a veteran team to scout the territory; I want to ensure that beast is still near the Wasteland, close to the High King's Castle. If they confirm the prey is still within reach, your people can rest for the entire week. Otherwise, if it shows signs of moving toward the heart of the Luminous Forest, they depart at once?.
The General turns back to the map, his back to the Captain.
?In any case, communicate the mission to Wolf Squad. Prepare them psychologically. They must know their next mission is a vital recovery of past warfare technology?.
?It will be done?, Vargo replies. He gives a brief nod of dismissal and turns, leaving the room.
As he descends the stone steps of the tower, the sound of his boots produces sharp echoes that bounce off the circular walls. The further he descends toward the courtyard, the more he feels the weight of the interview. Vargo realizes, with a burning clarity, that for General Valerius, empathy is a luxury the command cannot afford.
For that man, everyone is just a pawn on a worn chessboard. Some pieces are worth more than others, like Wolf Squad, but no one is indispensable. They are all expendable in the brutal struggle for humanity’s survival.
***
The atmosphere in the Library is suspended, saturated with the scent of ancient parchment and spent wax. While Wolf Squad tries to wash the cold of the marsh from their bones, Elian moves through the shelves like a restless shadow. He waits for Zech to take his leave, for the sound of his footsteps to fade along the stone corridors, leaving him alone with Master Silas.
Elian approaches the old librarian’s desk. The light of a single oil lamp carves deep furrows into Silas’s face, making him look like a statue of ancient clay. Without a word, Elian places the mutilated journals on the table. His fingers tremble slightly as he points to the jagged margins where the pages have been torn away.
?It was obvious that sooner or later you would want to know about the missing pages?, Silas begins, without looking up from the volumes he is cataloging. His composure is a perfect armor. ?I did not allow you to read the chronicles of the colony just to give you a superior education, Elian, but to prepare you for greater and, consequently, far more uncomfortable truths?.
Elian presses him, his voice reduced to a feverish whisper. ?So you know the content of the missing pages? You know the secret of the Lord of the Old World??
Silas finally lifts his gaze. His eyes are wells of weary knowledge. ?Yes?, he answers in a low, almost imperceptible tone. ?I know all of it. But if I revealed everything to you now, you would not just be shocked. You would be in danger. Truth is a weight that crushes those whose shoulders are not yet broad enough to carry it?.
The old man pauses, observing his young collaborator with a new solemnity. ?The moment I understood your nature, Elian, I decided you would be my successor. You will be the next librarian to know the Truth?.
?Then tell me!? Elian implores, leaning toward him. ?The marsh almost killed my friends. We have a right to know what we are fighting against?.
?Not now, and not in this place?, Silas counters with a firmness that allows no reply. ?Allow me to prepare you further on certain subjects. Then, at the opportune moment, you will know everything that others before me transmitted. Knowledge is a ladder, Elian. You cannot skip steps without falling into the void?.
But Elian does not surrender. There is another wound burning in his sense of justice. ?What happened to those pages? Who is the architect of this censorship? Who dared mutilate the memory of this world??
Silas sighs, a sound that seems to come from the bowels of the earth. ?It was I, Elian. It was I?.
The youth recoils, his gaze filled with horror. ?What are you saying, Master? You... you censored the Truth? You served the silence??
?To free myself from the control of the Archbishop and the General?, Silas explains, his voice now sharp as a razor. ?I was alone. My mentors were all dead. I had no allies. I had to choose: either lose everything, or pretend to bow. I selected the journals that could be sacrificed and handed them over to the Castle authorities. They removed the uncomfortable pages, convinced that mine was an act of submission. They believed me to be a frightened man?.
A small, bitter smile appears on the librarian’s face. ?In reality, the notebooks with the most important testimonies, the forbidden books, and the potentially “subversive” or “heretical” texts are safe. They destroyed nothing that I did not wish to give them?.
?And where are they now?? Elian interrupts, his heart accelerating.
?Steady, Elian?, Silas replies curtly, turning back to his papers. ?When the time comes, you too will become a Keeper of the Forbidden Truth. Until then, study. Knowledge is the only weapon that does not rust?.
At those words, Elian feels his anger fade, replaced by a cold, conscious calm. He understands there is no need to persuade Silas. The old man has already decided. The torch is ready to pass, but the price to receive it will be higher than Elian can yet imagine.
***
Finally, the day of departure arrives for Wolf Squad, who have, as much as possible, partially recovered their strength. Between the day they returned from the last mission, the week of hospitalization, and the week of rest obtained by the Captain, nearly fifteen days have passed. When the gates of the High King’s Castle rotate on their iron hinges, Wolf Squad finds themselves before an unexpected reception. It is not just the worried glances of a few intimates; the news of their return from the Marsh has spread through the walls, transforming them into a symbol. The colonists watch them from windows and porticos, whispering that they are the predestined, the future sharpest blade of the colony’s scouts.
But the cheers fall on deaf ears. Vargo advances at the head, his step heavy and his gaze fixed on the gray horizon. Behind him, the team responds to that warmth with a leaden silence. They are aware, in a way the others cannot understand, that they are about to cross the threshold of civilization to re-enter a world where human logic has no citizenship.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Mira Vance observes Giada beside her. She notices how her back is no longer as straight as a spindle, how her hand lingers on the grip of her weapon not out of ferocity, but for support. Giada’s face, usually a mask of pride and determination, is marked by an atavistic exhaustion. Mira understands: the mask is failing. The cracks are thin, but deep enough to glimpse the darkness Giada desperately tries to keep to herself.
***
Vargo has studied the maps with maniacal precision, seeking every possible detour to avoid high-density areas of the Yellow Cloud. Ten days of marching with the weight of three leather sleds to haul. An eternity for those who still hear the echo of the marsh voices whispering in their sleep.
The terrain changes gradually. The vegetation thins out, giving way to an expanse of parched earth and cement fragments protruding from the soil like the teeth of a buried giant. This is the Western Wasteland. Here, the air has a metallic taste, an aftertaste of rust and ozone that irritates the lungs.
Despite the apparent calm, every rustle of the wind through the rubble makes the team's hands snap toward their triggers. The trauma of the marsh is not a bruise that fades; it is a scar that pulls with every movement. Yet they advance, driven by the brutal necessity to complete the mission at any cost.
At sunset on the tenth day, thanks to the maps provided by the General and other scouts, the silhouette appears.
It stands against a leaden sky: what remains of the military foundry. Its severed chimneys look like amputated fingers pointed toward the heavens. It is a maze of steel and shadows, a cathedral of iron that ceased breathing centuries ago. The outer gates have been torn away by an enormous force, and the perimeter walls have collapsed in several places, revealing the rusted skeleton of the structure.
?We have arrived?, Vargo murmurs, raising his fist to signal a halt.
The silence emanating from the foundry is different from that of the marsh. It is an industrial silence, heavy, loaded with the weight of machinery ready to collapse at the first breath. But there is something else: a sense of waiting that runs along the walls of twisted sheet metal.
?The depot is down there?, Vargo says, pointing to the central block that sinks into the subsoil. ?We must descend where the light no longer reaches. That is where the Orichalcum is hidden?.
?Orichalcum?? Kael asks.
?The metal used by deities. So powerful it allows a mortal to kill a god. I am alluding to the mythology of the ancient world—things you certainly didn't learn at the academy?.
Giada observes the dark entrance of the building. She exchanges a look with Martel; both know that in this place, danger will not come from shadows, but that matter itself is the true threat.
?The sleds stay outside; we will take only what we can carry in our packs and by hand?, Vargo states.
The entrance of the foundry welcomes them with a puff of cold, stale air, a breath that tastes of rancid lubricant and millennial oxidation. Wolf Squad ventures into the belly of the complex, with only the light of oil lanterns tied to their packs. Only Kael and Giada are tasked with carrying lanterns in their hands, to illuminate the darkest passage points. Every step echoes on the grated metal floor with a somber toll, a warning that propagates into the depths of the lower levels.
?Stay close?, Vargo orders, his voice reduced to a whisper that nonetheless cuts the silence like a blade. ?The concrete here is rotten. Trust nothing that looks solid?.
They reach the main stairwell. What was once a ramp of industrial steel is now a mass of rust hanging in the void. The staircases wobble under their weight, moaning with metallic screeches that sound like cries of agony. Martel tests the first step with his boot; a fragment of iron breaks off and plunges into the dark, disappearing for long seconds before returning a sharp, metallic sound, much further down.
?It’s a leap into the void, Captain?, Martel murmurs, his forehead beaded with sweat despite the cold. ?If this structure gives way, there won't even be bones left to bring back to the Castle?.
?Then don't let it give way, Martel?, Vargo replies, staring him in the eye. ?Move like a shadow. Dax, use the anchoring cables. No one descends without being tethered to a comrade?.
***
After everyone has tethered themselves to one another, the descent is an ordeal of tension. Giada finds herself suspended on a catwalk that swings dangerously with every breath. The metal beneath her feet is so thin it feels like tissue paper. As she descends, her lantern illuminates the walls: they are not smooth. There are signs of chemical corrosion. Her breathing becomes labored; the exhaustion of those mere fifteen days of rest seems to vanish, replaced by a lucid paranoia.
?Giada, look at me?, says Kael, who is tethered to her. ?Don't look down. Look at me. We are almost at level four?.
They finally reach the base. Before them stands an armored door, a circular watertight shutter that looks like the gate to a mechanical hell. Dax and Vargo position themselves at the sides, manually operating the opening flywheel. The sound is a harrowing wail of resisting gears, then, with a sharp crack, the door gives way, revealing the underground depot.
?There they are?, Vargo whispers, touching the icy barrel of one. ?The god-killers?.
The air in the depot is still, a fossil of oxygen that has not moved for three centuries. Vargo asks Kael to illuminate what lies before them. The beam of light finally reveals the treasure of the Old World.
Sealed polymer crates are arranged in orderly rows, covered by a thin veil of oxide. There is no disorder, only the abandonment of those who thought they would return and never did.
The titanium Siege Rifles are beasts of metal nearly a meter and a half long. They do not have the grace of Militia weapons; they are instruments of brutal ballistic calculation, with barrels thick as a wrist and bolt actions that require the strength of a whole man to operate. Beside them, the ammunition crates.
Dax Stern pries open the first with the tip of a spring-steel crowbar created by the Colony Factory. Inside, the heavy cores glow with that amber light Valerius calls “Orichalcum.” They are naked projectiles, without casings—cylinders of a dense alloy that seems to absorb light instead of reflecting it.
After prying open several crates, Vargo orders, ?Thomas, Martel, Stern, and Vance—load the cores into the leather bags. Not a gram must be lost?. The siege rifles, however, they are forced to carry by hand, being too large for the packs.
Mira leans down, grabbing one of the cores. The weight unbalances her for an instant. It is unnatural. That small cylinder of metal weighs as much as a construction stone. As she slips it into the bag, her fingers brush the icy surface. There is nothing magical about that metal, yet it transmits a sense of inevitable end. It is the material man created to say "no" to nature. To cause certain death.
?The ceiling is moaning, Captain?, Kael warns, holding the lamp high toward the support beams. The "Ribs of the World" above them are yielding under the weight of centuries. Small fragments of plaster fall like gray snow onto their hoods.
?Two more crates and we leave?, Vargo retorts, as he helps Dax lift one of the heavy rifles.
Precisely at that moment, a shiver shakes the foundations of the foundry.
Giada freezes. Her breath catches in her throat. It is not a monster she feels. But a tremor announcing the collapse of the place where they stand. ?The structure feels like it’s about to collapse in on itself?, she whispers, her voice trembling with fear.
?Move!? Vargo snaps, grabbing the last bag. ?Dax, hurry! Martel, advance and check if the staircase can still hold us! We must get out of here quickly, but without losing our caution. We have the bags full, rifles in arm—now we just have to get them out of this hole?.
The team begins the ascent. The iron staircases swing furiously under the weight of the cores and the rifles. Every step is a gamble against gravity.
They emerge from the belly of the foundry just as the roar of iron structures falling into the depths echoes behind them, exactly as the sunset light sets the Wasteland ablaze. The sky is a wound of red and purple.
***
The group sets up camp and prepares for much-needed rest. The leather sleds are loaded with the “anti-god” heavy weapons and the ammunition stolen from the foundry before its interior collapsed.
***
The fire crackles at the center of the camp, a patch of warm orange light defying the darkness of the Wasteland. For the first time in weeks, the smoke does not carry the smell of fear, but that of rations heated beside the flames of the bonfire. The leather sleds, heavy under the load of the siege rifles and the ammunition dubbed by the group “orichalcum cores,” rest a few meters away, resembling sleeping beasts.
Vargo is seated on a log, intent on cleaning the barrel of his old rifle, but his features are relaxed. He thinks of the weapons they have gathered and how they might in the future change the balance of power between Church and Militia, and between Humanity and the Luminous Forest.
?If Valerius expected to see us come crawling back, he’ll be disappointed?, Dax begins, popping the cork of a root-liquor flask with a sharp flick. He takes a generous swig and passes it to Martel. ?Those rifles weigh as much as a house, but I think I’ve put on enough muscle to bring down whatever being left those gigantic tracks?.
Martel laughs, a raucous sound that shakes his broad shoulders. ?With your bare hands? Dax, the last time you tried to lift a crate alone you cursed in three different languages because your back was giving out. But you’re right... with those pieces of metal on the sled, I feel like we’ve stolen lightning from a god?.
Giada, who until that moment had observed the flames in silence, lifts her gaze. The exhaustion is still there, but her eyes have regained a spark of that old fierce pride. ?We didn’t just steal lightning, Martel. We proved that the Wasteland can take everything, but not our will?.
Mira Vance, who is distributing rations of dried meat with a rediscovered agility, sits beside Giada. ?You know what I feel? I feel like tonight I’ll sleep without dreaming of voices screaming in the mud. The sound of this ammunition clinking together on the sled is the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard. It’s the sound of security?.
Vargo finally looks up from the rifle and observes his people. He sees the cracks closing, the wounds of the soul beginning to heal under the effect of victory.
?Enjoy this moment?, Vargo says, and for the first time there is a hint of a real smile on his scarred face. ?We have done what no one else would have dared. We walked in the ribs of the world and came out loaded with poison for our enemies. In ten days we will be at the Castle, and we will be welcomed as victors again. Drink, eat. Tonight, the Wasteland is ours?.
?To the Captain!? Dax shouts, raising the flask toward the starry sky.
Don Thomas remains apart for a long moment, fingers slowly tracing the beads of his wooden rosary, his gaze lost beyond the circle of light where the Wasteland merges with the abyss. When he finally speaks, his voice is deep and calm, capable of bringing a respectful silence over the entire group.
?I see your faces?, Don Thomas says, a thin smile lighting the wrinkles around his eyes. ?I see the relief, and I bless it. But remember: what we have on the sleds is not just metal. It is the weight of a responsibility that heaven has placed on our shoulders. We have recovered weapons of the Old World, which dared to defy time and which will allow us to no longer fear the monsters of the Forest?.
Dax stops laughing, the flask in mid-air. Don Thomas looks at him with benevolence.
?Do not fear. I am not trying to extinguish your joy. I only say that tonight we sleep secure because we found the means to defend ourselves, but the most powerful weapon is not the one on the sleds. It is your rediscovered unity. We faced the darkness of the Marsh and remained whole during the collapse of an iron labyrinth. We are blessed. That is why we are alive?.
Then Don Thomas leans forward, taking a piece of bread offered by Mira.
?Captain Vargo, you led this group out of the belly of the earth. Valerius will see the loot, but I see survivors who have found their souls again. That is the true victory of tonight?.
Vargo nods solemnly toward the cleric. ?Your words are welcome, for they are true. With or without God, I too consider this team special?.
?Then you drink as well, Don Thomas!? Martel exclaims, handing him a metal cup. ?Because you too are a wolf, like all of us?.
Don Thomas raises the cup, a glint of paternal pride in his gaze. ?To Wolf Squad. May the path always be illuminated, even when the lamp goes out?.
The group responds with a muffled roar, a chorus of brotherhood echoing against the rocks of the Wasteland. For that night, the darkness is not an enemy, but only the stage for their rebirth.
***
The silence of the Library is broken only by the rustle of parchments Silas puts away with painstaking care. Elian waits until the echo of Zech’s footsteps fades completely in the corridor before stepping forward. The light of the oil lantern flickers, casting restless shadows on the stone faces of the shelves.
?Master?, Elian whispers, breaking the spell of silence. ?There is a detail of the previous expedition I have not yet reported to you. Mira Vance confided in me an unusual discovery. A few days' march from the Castle, they crossed tracks. Enormous hooves, not caprine. Similar to those of a horse, I deduce, but belonging to a creature that must be at least double the size of any equine of the Old World. What can you tell me about it??
Silas stops writing. He lifts his gaze, and in his gray eyes flashes an interest mixed with a somber reverence. He leans back in his chair, interlacing his gnarled fingers.
?Those tracks belong to a Kirin?, Silas answers, and the name resonates like a solemn chord. ?Or at least that is what the scouts dubbed it centuries ago, drawing from myths that humanity had forgotten. It is a sight that takes one's breath away: a coat white as purest light and a figure that recalls the unicorn of legend, but with a majesty that does not belong to this plane of reality?.
Silas pauses, his voice becoming low and cautious.
?You must understand one fundamental thing, Elian: the Kirin is not an aggressive creature. In truth, nothing in the Luminous Forest is born with the instinct to kill. But if it perceives hostility, if it senses the stench of blood, fear, or violent intent, it assumes a defensive posture that provokes terror in any human. If you attack it, you do not fight an animal. You fight a god?.
Elian listens, motionless. ?I told Mira Vance to avoid attacking it, because from the writings I read in the scouts' journals of the past, I already understood that in reality such animals are not predators or aggressive monsters. But if the Kirin were provoked, would it truly be so fearsome??
?Its hide is a natural armor so dense it reduces our rifle bullets to mere surface wounds. Approaching with a sword is a white suicide. Its horn is not just an ornament; it unleashes a light that can blind or throw the mind into such confusion that one forgets how to breathe. Anyone struck by that energy is racked by spasms that break bones from within. And the hoof... a single blow can be fatal, capable of shattering the chest of an armored man as if it were glass?.
?In practice, Master, are you telling me it is an invincible being??
Silas emits a bitter sigh. ?With the ordinary means we have, yes. But the truth is more staggering. In the Luminous Forest, there exist creatures even more powerful than the Kirin, gentle beings devoid of malice that walk among the lights as guardians of the Luminous Forest. The scouts of the past committed the error of treating them as common game or monsters, as resources or dangers to be struck down. They discovered at their own expense, amid blood and terror, that hunting an animal of the Luminous Forest means going against something that seems created for a world of gods. We are but ants attempting to bite the ankles of giants?.
?In that case, I will warn Mira to inform the whole Wolf Squad not to attack the Kirin if they encounter it?, Elian says decisively.
?The problem, my boy, is not the will of Mira—who will surely listen to you—nor of your other former companions, but of those who have decreed that the animals of the Luminous Forest must be bent and killed for human supremacy?.
On the way home, a dire thought makes its way into Elian’s mind: what if Wolf Squad were to meet the Kirin?
