Recovery

The will that had already gone out of control stared at the figure atop the carriage. It was a gift from the darkness, something no mortal power could hope to resist. Shrike had no chance. But just as Galahad prepared to tear him to pieces, a tremendous pressure of wind engulfed him. Only afterward did the sound of mountains crumbling slowly reach them.

The distant blow carried the force of a thousand tons. The shock wave erupted in an instant, sending ripples through the air.

It was a thirty-kilogram shell, fired at tremendous muzzle velocity, striking the out-of-control Galahad. An attack of this magnitude was no different from being hit head-on by the latest heavy armored train. Even that ominous power could hardly withstand such tremendous kinetic force. Galahad's body twisted grotesquely before he was hurled away.

The shell dragged him down hard into the ground. Then its nose exploded, releasing tremendous heat from its powerful charge. The inner projectile embedded inside detonated as well, vaporizing the flowing mercury in an instant. For a moment, deadly mercury vapor shrouded the blast site.

Shrike's heart pounded violently. Using himself as bait had been a tremendous risk. One wrong move, and Galahad's wings would have shredded him into bloody chunks.

On the other side, wisps of smoke drifted from the smoothbore cannon's muzzle. The tremendous recoil had begun to tilt the carriage frame. The soldiers rushed to reload. The cannon had been brought here to kill large targets, but now they were using it against one of their own.

"Load it! We can't let him recover!"

Shrike felt no pity. From the moment Galahad had lost control, he had stopped seeing him as the person he once knew.

The cannon roared again, and its heavy shell knocked down the figure that was just beginning to rise. Milky-white mercury vapor billowed through the raging flames. In the end, fiends were merely strange and mysterious monsters. No matter how terrifying they were, they still retained the traits of living creatures—and that meant ordinary physical methods could still work.

Galahad's body shuddered and twisted. By all rights, a human's internal organs should have been reduced to pulp by that blow. But a terrifying vitality ruled his body. His powerful muscles forced his shattered bones back into place, and he slowly rose to face the next barrage.

The cannon roared again. After the blinding flash of fire, a broken blade tore through the milky-white mercury vapor. The deadly gas had no effect on Galahad. The armor controlled him, but it also protected him.

A storm of explosions erupted. It wasn't only Galahad taking a beating; the Underground Palace was also tottering beneath the sustained fire and blasts. After decades, its sturdy frame was on the verge of collapse. Its internal structure had been damaged, and the whole place had begun to cave in, like a coffin burying all that filth beneath the earth.

Shrike picked up the silver-white rifle and loaded a specially made bullet. Then he peered through the scope at the crater.

Beneath the lens was a life force worthy of a demon god. With the armor protecting him, Galahad could no longer be called human.

The monster spread his wings with abandon. Even a blow that heavy had only broken his wings. As flesh squelched and writhed, new blades extended from his elbows, restoring his full wingspan. Beneath his steel feathers, fabric resembling living muscle split open into dark-red seams. Then, as if venting heat, gray-white steam poured out.

The steam billowed higher, covering the crater in the blink of an eye. Shrike could no longer see him.

"Keep suppressing him!"

Shrike sensed something was wrong and shouted, but the cannon's roar drowned him out.

No human should have been able to catch what happened next. But in that moment, with life and death hanging in the balance, all of Shrike's senses seemed to sharpen beyond measure. He saw it.

Galahad charged with a thousand swords in tow, gleaming with white light and gray-white steam. His steel feathers shrieked as he raced forward, almost seeming to glide over the ground. A deadly shell spun toward him. He twisted his body and casually swung his arm, and a thousand swords slashed into the shell.

The explosion was blinding. Since it went off so close, the shock wave sent Shrike tumbling. His last glimpse was of a dark angel spreading his wings and striding through the flames. Milky-white mercury vapor peeled away from their razor-sharp edges. His eyes were pitch-black, like those of a messenger announcing death.

The next moment, Galahad appeared beside him. Sharp steel feathers fell one by one like the bars of a cage, sealing off every escape route.

The silver-white rifle muzzle pressed against Shrike's chest. Under immense psychological pressure, he lifted his head. Galahad's face was covered in tiny scales, and his eyes were a lightless, pure black. His deathly pale face held an inscrutable sorrow.

Wake up, Galahad!

Shrike cried out in helpless silence. His mind was being torn apart, and he couldn't even speak. As the blades fell, they pierced his body like nails. Blood slowly drained from his warm flesh.

Perhaps Galahad sensed his sorrow too. He seemed to recognize the friend he had once known. He bent down gently and embraced him.

A thousand swords plunged down.

The shrill ring of scraping steel echoed in his ears, cutting at his eardrums like a knife.

It seemed Shrike was about to die—just like that, at Galahad's hands. To be honest, with death at hand, Shrike wasn't afraid. He was only deeply sad. Galahad had killed Robin, and now he was going to kill Shrike too. He had been Shrike's friend, a man who fought against monsters, but in the end, he had become one.

How ironic...

The sharp blades grew larger in his eyes. But just then, a circuit-covered spear pierced through the steel cage and struck Galahad's body. It couldn't penetrate his sturdy armor, but sharp barbs snapped out from its tip and clamped tightly around him.

"Little bird, get airborne!"

The voice at his ear sounded familiar. It reminded Shrike of some lunatic, but before he could recall who, more spears struck Galahad. They couldn't injure him, but the barbs that sprang out locked him in place like shackles.

A dazzling flare passed before Shrike's eyes. The steel wings melted apart, one by one, and searing molten metal dripped onto him. He couldn't help groaning in pain. But though he was hurting, he seemed to have survived. A hand reached through the melted cage, grabbed him, and yanked him out.

"Little bird's safe. Start recovering Galahad!"

The man wore a white lab coat and a gas mask fitted with filter canisters. He seemed to notice Shrike watching him, and the eyelids over his dark circles lifted with effort. With a sickly, excited look, he greeted Shrike.

As the man spoke, Shrike felt a tingling sensation. Floating particles in the air began to glow, then faded. His hair slowly rose, as if someone were gently stroking it. The next moment, a rush of lightning flashed past them, its brilliance illuminating everything, as if the God of Thunder had descended.

The wings let out a low growl, and a thousand swords leapt into the air. But Galahad was bound by the spears. Just as they were about to reach him, a tremendous surge of electricity coursed through his body.

The light illuminated Shrike's exhausted eyes. Those spears—each one was connected to a power cable. They had never been intended to pierce Galahad. Their purpose had been to deliver electricity.

"Here, put this on."

As if handing Shrike a souvenir, the man gave him a gas mask like his own. Then gunfire erupted.

The electricity completely stopped Galahad from moving. One iron canister after another landed beside him, spraying out pale yellow anesthetic and enveloping his monstrous body. Under the massive dose, his frenzied movements began to slow, like a beast fighting desperately against its bonds.

"What are you doing here, Nikolai?"

Shrike didn't feel any joy at having survived when he saw the lunatic.

Nikolai pointed to Galahad amid the flashes of electricity. His voice sounded weary, and its pitch kept wavering, as if he had gone hoarse.

"Galahad can die, but the Original Sin Armor he's wearing is very expensive. Besides, we need the test data."

More people climbed down from the rearmost Iron Snake, all heavily armed and equipped.

Only then did Shrike realize his mistake. The Original Sin Armor wasn't something one person could simply put on. Those damned lunatics had been inside the carriage from the start. They would never hesitate to spend anyone's life for the sake of so-called progress. To them, tonight's operation had been nothing more than a weapons test.

"What the hell are you doing?!"

Shrike shouted furiously. Nikolai wasn't affected in the slightest. He spoke casually.

"These knight commanders have all been specially modified. They can withstand far more mental corruption than a little bird like you. But clearly, not everyone's a Lancelot. None of the other knight commanders have managed to control the armor so far. Galahad couldn't either. The armor took control of him instead."

There was not a hint of remorse in his voice. To Nikolai, everyone was just another lab rat.

The dark figure amid the lightning was reflected in Shrike's gas mask. More people moved past them. They wore outfits made entirely of iron chains, their bodies forming human-shaped Faraday cages to protect them from potential electric shocks. Dragging power cables behind them, they moved Galahad like a wild dog.

The seemingly unstoppable monster had been subdued by the professionals. Then a black coffin was unloaded from the Iron Snake.

The frame was made of some unknown metal, its dark-gold surface carved with sinister, grotesque reliefs. Copper tubes covered the edges of the coffin. It looked like a beautiful painting: an angel descending from heaven, or countless fiends rising from the shadows.

The six corners of the coffin popped open one after another. Silver-white spikes—or perhaps mechanical bolts—sprang out. When the coffin opened, endless white cold vapor billowed from within. The air, heated by the flames, plunged below freezing, and fine frost formed over the metal surface.

They dragged Galahad, limp as a dead dog, to the edge. To control the out-of-control knight, the Iron Snake had brought hundreds of meters of cable. The constant electric shocks numbed his muscles and suppressed every movement. But as they tried to load him into the coffin, which resembled a freezer, his exhausted body erupted with unimaginable strength once more.

His pitch-black eyes turned eerily toward the other side. His dark-red muscles tensed again.

His sharp steel feathers sliced through a soldier's iron suit in an instant. A surge of high-voltage electricity burned the soldier to a crisp, then a blade swept down and severed several cables.

"If you can still move, then help!"

Nikolai panicked too. According to the test data, the Original Sin Armor should have lost the ability to move by now. But the facts were proving strangely different. Galahad raised his blade high, killing one person after another as they tried to restrain him.

He struggled with all his might. One last crash, like a mountain collapsing, rang out—the sound of a speeding shell striking Galahad. But that final cannon blast also caused the Iron Snake carrying the smoothbore cannon to topple over after the relentless barrage.

Shrike struggled to his feet. At the last moment, he grabbed his silver-white rifle and swung it hard against Galahad. Its barrel was fitted with sharp barbs, like thorns.

Between the cannon blast and Shrike's blow, Galahad, who had only just escaped the electric shocks, lost his balance. Another electric spear struck him. As if driving away a wild beast with a torch, Nikolai drew a heavy revolver. Though he was so frail, the enormous recoil couldn't budge him. He fired again and again, each bullet driving Galahad back like a heavy punch.

After the last bullet was spent, the off-balance Galahad was finally forced inside. The coffin slammed shut. The silver spikes popped back into place one by one, reinforcing it twice over.

Dull thuds kept coming from inside, as if an evil spirit were pounding on the door.

Nikolai let out a long sigh and removed his gas mask. A cigarette dangled from his sickly pale lips. He sauntered over and sat down on the coffin, lightly brushing the frost-covered metal surface.

"Galahad has been recovered. Prepare to withdraw. We'll leave this place to the Purification Agency."

The pounding continued, shattering the frost on the surface. Countless pipes extended from the Iron Snake and connected to the coffin. No one knew what they injected into it, but after several minutes, the coffin's violent shaking subsided. The Geiger Counter, which had been shrieking nonstop, fell silent too. At last, the frenzied demon had been pacified.

"Nikolai, I need an explanation."

Shrike struggled to his feet. Blood poured from every wound on his body, but he didn't care. His expression beneath the mask was angrier than ever before.

"Don't rush. Arthur and the director approved all of this."

Nikolai seemed amused by Shrike's anger as he continued.

"Arthur will hold a Round Table meeting at the Shattered Dome in about a month. All your questions will be answered there. But before then, Shrike, you'll have to find a way to stay alive."

Shrike looked uneasy. He wanted to say something, but his vision blurred. The blood loss and injuries overwhelmed him all at once.

Nikolai sighed as he watched Shrike collapse. A group of soldiers soon carried him away. As a senior knight of the Purification Agency, Shrike couldn't be allowed to die just yet.

The engines roared to life. Nikolai strolled across the scorched battlefield, his bleary gaze sweeping over the burning world. At last, he left a white silhouette behind him. On his white lab coat, a black serpent devoured its own tail, coiling and stretching without end.

Things are more or less taken care of for now. I'll probably update 4,000 to 5,000 words a day.