The air was thick and clammy, carrying a scent akin to incense. The elementary school, once meant to educate children, had been remade into a terrifying, sinister altar. Hasimut, former commander of the New California Republic's 96th Infantry Regiment and now commander of the Blood Army's 18th Crusader Brigade, sat quietly behind a barricade.
Missionary Alexis spoke in a low voice beside him:
"You must hold this place for six hours, sir. That is what they said."
The last notes of his words lingered in the darkness, like echoes that had wandered here for millennia.
After the Blood Army was established, every unit at company level or above was assigned a missionary. On one hand, they reinforced the faith of defected soldiers and officers in the Blood God. On the other, they monitored any wavering or unreliable elements that might emerge within the ranks.
In a sense, they were like the military overseers of ancient times.
"Understood."
Hasimut gave a brief reply, then rose and carefully made his way through the rubble.
The air here was hot, humid, and sticky. Twisted vine-like plants had pierced the school's crumbling outer walls. Like the Blood God's tentacles, they threaded through the stone carvings and drew them into their embrace.
The sight made the Blood God's mark on his face itch faintly.
"Company commanders,"
he said softly into his radio. It was equipment the Civic Temple had supplied to Dunwich's defenders, only for it to end up in the hands of their greatest enemies.
"Sound off."
Eight voices answered him from the darkness. Hasimut roughly confirmed their positions. Their deployment was highly experienced, and he trusted their abilities completely.
The distant rumbling continued. Hasimut prayed that the enemy would not notice the district they were stationed in—though that was essentially impossible. His brigade