Fiend

"I have given you authority to trample on snakes and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy; nothing will be able to harm you."

In the pitch-black night, someone seemed to be whispering.

Press barely managed to make out the words; they were from the Gospel Book.

Before the rise of steam technology, the Western world was ruled by the Holy Gospel Papal State. In the name of God, they incited disputes and wars across the land. Under the power of faith, the Templar Crusaders swept across the islands and the continent; wherever their iron cavalry arrived, cities were destroyed and lives were lost.

Under the will of God, they exercised theocratic rule until Inverwig emerged victorious in the Glorious War. Steam engines shattered all faith, and with the leap in technology, a massive military gap formed between the antiquated Holy Gospel Papal State and the nations possessing steam technology. From then on, faith could no longer rule anyone.

Although this was the case, the Gospel Church's influence over the nations remained. After all, Old Dunling was originally established by the Romans, and most people still maintained awe and faith toward it. They whispered together, their gathered prayers forming a torrent.

Officer Press was kneeling on the ground at this moment, feeling confused by everything happening tonight.

A few hours ago, the Chief had gathered all available personnel. Press did not know what was happening, only that this was the largest deployment of the Suaran Hall in years. He had assumed it was a secret operation and had even prepared himself to die in battle, but when the large force of mounted police arrived, they were met by the Royal Guard.

Press rarely saw these soldiers in their red cloaks. During the Glorious War, they were Inverwig's trump card. Rumor had it that their cloaks were originally black, but the blood of their enemies had dyed them red; the enemies who feared them called them the Redcoats.

Iron boots struck the ground, the crisp metallic sound echoing in everyone's ears. A resident living not far from the Lower District opened his window, intending to curse at the people who had woken him up, but upon sticking his head out, he found a darkness he had never seen before.

The red-clad Royal Guard sealed off the entire Underground Palace and its surroundings. They raised their firearms to form a wall of artillery. To prevent outsiders from seeing the scene or causing accidents, the Mechanical Institute had cut off all electricity in the area several dozen minutes ago. The lights went out, and the darkness completely isolated the people from that filthy secret.

There was no resistance, nor was there any need for it. Before the mounted police could even figure out the situation, the Royal Guard had already brought them under control. A group of Suaran Hall mounted police had their weapons confiscated and were left kneeling in the cold night of Old Dunling.

Something must have happened tonight. Everything was deathly silent; apart from the sound of iron boots, there was only the sound of everyone's breathing and the murmurs of prayer.

Suddenly, someone among the mounted police stood up. Several Royal Guard soldiers pointed their guns directly at him. They were weapons Press had never seen before, presumably secret products of the Mechanical Institute, but he did not look for long. He knew very well that the more one knew, the faster one died.

"I am Chief Donas of the Suaran Hall! I have the right to see your person in charge!"

It was Chief Donas. He could no longer endure this and roared in anger, but he was met with a heavy blow from a rifle butt. These soldiers did not care about his status at all.

"Chief Donas?"

Someone in the darkness said tentatively. As he tilted his head, Donas saw the man emerging from the darkness through his pain.

It was an outfit Donas had never seen before. The edges of the pitch-black cloak featured gorgeous patterns, and both the sword and the gun were models he had never encountered, though their complex craftsmanship suggested they were excellent weapons for killing.

There was a strange smell on him—not exactly unpleasant, just very familiar and pungent. After thinking for a long time, Donas realized it was the smell of sulfur.

"Hello, I am the person in charge here."

It was an exquisite mask, but because of the darkness, Donas could not see its features at all.

"Do you know what you are doing?"

Chief Donas cursed angrily. As a chief, he had never been treated this way, but his words were clearly useless. An iron boot kicked his abdomen hard, and Donas curled into a ball on the ground in agony.

"I want you to recognize two facts, Chief."

The pitch-black muzzle pointed directly at the Chief. The man's demeanor was casual, as if he might open fire at any second.

"The first fact: if it weren't for the fact that there are too many of you mounted police and we don't want to leave the Suaran Hall understaffed, you would all be dead tonight according to protocol."

The muzzle pressed against Donas's head, twisting hard enough to make him let out a painful moan. The other mounted police wanted to act when they saw their Chief being treated this way, but the soldiers immediately shifted their muzzles toward them.

"The second fact: we have the right to shoot anyone tonight."

Raising the muzzle, the man checked his watch. The time had almost arrived, and he shouted loudly.

"Plug their ears and cover their eyes. What comes next is not for them to see."

Press was moved without resistance. The soldiers had not expected to encounter this group of mounted police tonight, so they could only drive them to the other side of the darkness, covering their eyes and plugging their ears. But when they reached Press, the man suddenly called a halt to the operation and ordered the soldiers to bring Press over.

"What is your name, Officer?"

The man looked toward the Outer District behind him, as if waiting for something.

"Press Lailana, sir."

Press did not dare to be negligent with this man; after all, he had beaten his own superior without hesitation, let alone a subordinate.

"I am Kestrel."

Kestrel turned his head and said, his gaze from beneath the red-lacquered mask sizing Press up. Press knew very well that this was just a codename, but he did not understand why this man would tell him.

"Take this and protect your colleagues."

It was a firearm identical to those of the Royal Guard soldiers. It was heavy and unlike any other weapon Press had ever used.

"W-why me?"

Press had many questions, such as how he could possibly have a chance to protect anyone when this group of powerful Royal Guard soldiers was present, but when the words reached his lips, he could only say this dryly.

"Hmm... perhaps you have a kind face. Or maybe I just don't like your Chief. Alright, don't just stand there. If possible, I hope you treat everything that happens next as if you never saw it, okay?"

Kestrel said, but then he remembered something and added.

"'Loss of control' might also happen among those mounted police. If possible, I need you to kill your colleagues... or yourself, if necessary."

"What... do you mean..."

Press did not understand, and his confusion only grew. At the same time, the sound of holy prayer intensified, and a mysterious religious atmosphere blanketed every inch of the land.

"Knowing these things comes at a price. It is better for you not to know."

Kestrel did not want to say anything more; it seemed the previous conversation had been nothing more than a whim.

As Kestrel's words fell, the situation gave Press no chance to ask further questions; a shrill whistle of steam echoed from the distance.

Logically, there should have been no steam trams left, yet it appeared as if by reality itself, its scorching light cutting through the darkness at the edge of the fog.

It moved with galloping speed, carrying a whistling wind. Only as it passed before Press's eyes did he briefly catch a clear look at the steam tram.

Its pitch-black surface was armored in heavy plating, and the vehicle's overall frame was far larger than any steam tram Press had ever seen. This was a true Iron Snake, sweeping past the defensive line with a murderous desire. Soon, more whistles sounded, roaring from the fog like the thundering gallop of ten thousand horses.

For a fleeting moment, Press had a strange illusion: the Imperial Guards before him were not the main characters of this night. Those Iron Snakes, which he had never seen before, stepping slowly out of the night, were the true protagonists.

As they plunged into the darkness of the Lower District, the roar of cannons and the flash of fire descended. The entire earth trembled, as if some behemoth were slaughtering within that darkness.

Just like Shrike's Paradise, the Underground Palace was also built beneath a ruin. It was remembered that this had once been a tall, majestic structure, but unfortunately, during the Glorious War, it could not escape the enemy's artillery bombardment, even in the wilderness.

Soldiers dressed the same as Kestrel guarded every point near the Underground Palace, standing in silence with cold gun barrels pointed toward the entrance.

Shrike had not spent his time in the Lower District in vain; somehow, he had obtained the original blueprints for the Underground Palace. Heavy troops were already deployed at several exits—these were the first line of defense, followed by soldiers scattered in the perimeter, and the Imperial Guard on the outer edge.

"So you intend to enter yourself? Your duty should be to command from the outside; if anyone goes, it should be me."

Shrike opposed Galahad's suggestion to enter the Underground Palace to search for Eve personally. The operation was about to begin, and the two were currently at the main battlefield of the palace gate, where the fiercest impact was predicted to occur.

"No, there isn't much time left. Once they arrive, we must launch the attack."

"And you think you can save her and get out in such a short time? You know our protocols well. You will die by our hands, and for the sake of complete purification, you might not even leave a corpse behind."

Shrike was filled with distrust toward Galahad's words.

"Then what do you suggest we do?" Galahad asked angrily.

He was met with silence. In truth, Shrike did not know what to do either. That bastard Lorenzo was a very useful sword—so useful that if you told him the target, he would clean it up entirely. But at the same time, this sword was easily prone to losing control; you never knew what kind of trouble he would stir up the next second, just like now.

Fortunately, the wretched night did not intend to let the two dwell on this. It gave its own answer directly: a bone-chilling coldness struck them both.

It was hard to describe the feeling, as if it were a defensive response born of biological instinct. Their breathing turned heavy in an instant, and an emotion called fear rose from the depths of their hearts. They looked at each other, and immediately, a piercing siren rang through the night.

It was a high-frequency ticking sound, emanating from everyone's person, the frequency intensifying over time until it became a shrill, continuous wail.

It was a Geiger Counter, a complex mechanical device designed to detect radiation levels invisible to the average person. The frequency of the warning determined the proximity of the target. At this moment, the indicator climbed steadily, finally breaking the critical threshold as blood-red lights illuminated everything.

Everyone knew exactly what this meant. Without excessive debate or words, bullets were chambered and cannons were readied. Without a moment's hesitation, an overwhelming barrage of shells directly blanketed the surface of the Underground Palace. This was a purification operation; the Purification Agency required no survivors. As for Eve, in their eyes, her life had ended the moment the alarm sounded.

This was the iron law of the Purification Agency, and the reason why they had been able to fight against those Fiends with mortal bodies until this day.

"All units, attention! Reality-warping anomaly detected. Commence operation! No one leaves here alive tonight except us!"

As Galahad's roar echoed through the channel, holy light descended upon this land of ruins. Everything was illuminated, and all darkness was expelled, as if the land were favored by the gods. It was support from the night sky; a massive Steel Whale swam slowly through the clouds, its light like a sword cast down by a deity.

A foul stench of blood and an ominous presence drifted from the entrance before them. Galahad waved his arm, and countless sparks ignited before the flamethrowers. These were rows of soldiers wearing heavy fireproof suits, their bodies completely covered save for a pair of lenses to observe the outside world. Heavy breathing echoed from within their gas masks.

These were the Incinerators. In the assault on underground facilities, they were the most terrifying nightmare. With modified flamethrowers from the Mechanical Institute and high-capacity fuel backpacks, they could sustain high-temperature combustion for tens of minutes. The scorching fire would consume all the air in the underground space, then bake the enemies to death like an oven.

More soldiers set up long guns behind them. The Incinerators' only weakness was their lack of mobility and fragile protection; to insulate against the heat, their fireproof suits were incredibly cumbersome. Only under the protection of these soldiers could they be guaranteed not to be killed at close range by any stragglers.

This was a tightly knit wall; the slightest gap would cause the entire section to collapse.

"Do you hear that, Galahad?"

Shrike had already braced his strange, silvery-white long gun, his finger resting lightly on the trigger, his expression grave and cautious.

It was the sound from within the dark entrance before them: hurried footsteps and hoarse whispers. It seemed a crowd was fleeing in panic toward this place. They were about to escape the underground darkness, but what awaited them was not a new life of repentance, but a raging inferno that would destroy everything.

"Remember our plan. Tonight, a fuel explosion in the Lower District caused the Underground Palace to collapse... no survivors."

Galahad's voice was cold, executing orders like a machine, entirely different from the heroic image he had projected while trying to save Eve.

Countless twisted figures rushed out of the darkness, reeking of rot. They no longer resembled humans; their hideous, mutated visages looked exactly like the monstrosities recorded in ancient books. It was remembered that people back then called them by this name.

Fiends.

Just then, the pitch-black Iron Snake arrived from afar with a whistling gale. The excessive inertia caused sparks to fly where the wheels met the rails as it braked to decelerate. Then, the heavy iron armor plates lifted one by one, and a deep, distant prayer echoed through everyone's communicators.

"Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour. Whom resist steadfast in the faith."

The iron door sprang open, scorching steam surged, and amidst the endless white tide, a man stepped into the battlefield, whispering.