Cathedral of Ash
POV: First Person (Silas)
Setting: Night – Approaching Oak Cathedral
The wind was heavy tonight. The kind of dense chill that stuck to your clothes and told your bones secrets they didn't ask to hear. I crouched along the stone ledge of a rooftop, eyes fixed on the Cathedral's south wall.
Oak Cathedral.
The last stronghold.
According to Knox's drive, this was it. Silica's faction had rerouted everything here—every operation, every last foot soldier. And at the heart of it all, Father Grimm himself, ready for whatever final act his sick theology had scripted.
They were dug in. And I was running out of time.
I dropped from the rooftop silently, rolling into a crouch behind a line of parked vans. Red-robed guards patrolled in pairs, each of them strapped with rifles and vests. Some held radios. Others carried blades that looked soaked in rust and god knows what else.
They were tighter now. Paranoid. Good. That meant the last hits worked.
Two were leaning near a crate, arguing over loadout. They didn't hear me.
A crescent-blade snapped to life in my grip. Not a sound. One motion—one step—slice.
The first dropped before he could breathe.
The second turned just in time to catch the hilt across his jaw. He hit the ground with a sick crunch.
I exhaled and slid back into the dark.
But they were coming faster now. Like waves. For every three I took down, five more spilled out of the main doors.
The outer courtyard became a war zone. Muzzle flashes lit up the stained glass. I dodged between broken columns, my shadow-formed shield crackling as bullets hit it like rain on steel.
They were trying to pin me down. And it was working.
I ducked behind a shattered wall, panting, chest rising in sharp jabs. My armor held. But it wouldn't forever.
That's when I heard the sirens.
And then—
The roar of an engine. A sharp command.
Then came the real cavalry.
POV: Third Person (Whitlock)
Setting: Oak Cathedral - Tactical Sweep Begins
"GO GO GO!"
Whitlock's voice rang out over the radios as SWAT trucks screeched to a halt outside the Cathedral. Officers disembarked in tight formation, rifles up, shields raised. Flashlights cut through smoke as they stormed forward in squads.
"Clear left!"
"Stack on the arch!"
"Watch your corners!"
Gunfire answered them from the upper balconies—cultists in robes opened fire with military-grade hardware.
Whitlock ducked behind a pillar, barking into her radio. "Suppressing fire on the organ loft! Breach teams push forward!"
Then she spotted him.
In the middle of it all, crouched low behind crumbled stone—Sentinel.
The vigilante. Bleeding. Surrounded.
For a split second, every officer hesitated. Guns aimed. Hands trembled.
Whitlock stepped forward.
"Stand down!" she snapped.
"Ma'am?"
"You heard me. He's not the enemy today."
As her men moved past, Sentinel looked up—silent, nodding once. They didn't exchange words. Not yet.
"Push through!" Whitlock shouted. "Fan out! Prioritize the hostiles—anyone in red goes down!"
Sentinel moved, rising like a phantom. Shadows peeled off him like smoke, and then he vanished again—reappearing behind one of the flanking groups of cultists, dispatching them in blinding strikes.
He was making a beeline for the rear sanctum.
And Whitlock let him go.
POV: First Person (Silas)
Setting: Inner Cathedral Chambers
The back hall reeked of blood, wax, and burned prayer scrolls.
I entered through what used to be a vestry and came face to face with Silica.
She stood at the far end of the room like some twisted priestess, blood-soaked ceremonial whip dragging behind her, blades woven through the cords.
Her smile was slow and sharp.
"You came alone," she said.
"You all do, eventually."
I drew two short shadow blades.
"No more sermons."
We moved.
Her whip cracked—razor tips slicing through the air, catching my shoulder. I winced, dropped into a slide, and slashed low at her legs. She jumped, spun midair, and sent the whip screaming around again.
I blocked with crossed blades, sparks flying as shadow metal met steel.
She was fast.
But I was faster.
Then the room shook. Heavy footfalls echoed behind her.
Father Grimm entered.
Drenched in blood. His skin shimmered with fresh, ritual-carved runes. Eyes glowing crimson. Blood trickled from his tear ducts, like he was weeping for something even hell couldn't hold.
Power rolled off him like radiation.
"You mock what we worship," he growled. "So now… kneel."
Pain punched my skull like a sledgehammer.
My knees buckled. My vision fuzzed.
Mind domination. Fear-based. Psychological interference.
I fought through it. Teeth grinding. Muscles screaming.
Silica struck again—whip coiling around my arm, razors biting in. Grimm rushed in from the opposite side like a truck.
I dropped into a roll, broke the whip's grip, and dove behind a broken altar. Panting.
One at a time. Take one out first.
I faked left, then surged right. Silica read it—but not fast enough.
SLASH.
My blade found her wrist.
She screamed. Her whip-hand hit the floor.
I didn't stop. I spun, kicked her backward into the pews, and turned on Grimm.
No more distractions.
Just me and the prophet.
He roared and charged. I met him head-on.
Blow after blow—his strength was monstrous. He cracked a piece of my helmet. Ribs groaned. But I kept striking. Using his rage. Baiting him into overextending.
One last dodge. One last step in.
My shadow blade drove up beneath his ribs, through his heart.
He gasped.
And collapsed like a deflated god.
POV: Third Person (Whitlock)
Setting: Cathedral Interior – Final Scene
Whitlock stepped through the smoke and scattered bullet casings with a rifle cradled tight in her hands. Her officers moved in a staggered line behind her, weapons drawn, scanning every corner of the desecrated cathedral.
The place looked like hell itself had cracked open and bled through the walls. Collapsed pews, shattered glass, bodies—both civilian and cultist—were sprawled across the blood-slick floor. A few officers were already applying first aid to survivors dragged from lower chambers.
And in the middle of it all, like the final act of a war that wasn't supposed to happen on American soil, stood Sentinel.
The vigilante.
The shadow-wrapped nightmare who had terrified half the force and stunned the other half into silence.
He stood over the broken body of Father Grimm, still breathing hard, blood dripping from one of his arms, but steady. Smoke curled off his armor, tendrils of shadow ebbing from his back like fading wings. His eyes glowed faintly through the black helmet.
He didn't move. Didn't raise his hands.
Just watched.
Whitlock walked toward him slowly, alone.
"You look like hell," she said.
"I've had worse nights," Sentinel rasped, voice low, unreadable.
From behind her, a radio crackled to life on one of the SWAT officers.
"Sergeant, this is Bravo Two. We've cleared the lower chambers. Fifty-four civilians extracted—some injured. Med evac is on standby. No other hostiles found. Over."
Whitlock didn't look away from the vigilante.
Fifty-four people alive.
She swallowed once, hard. "You know I should be arresting you right now."
"You should be thanking me," he said flatly.
She narrowed her eyes. "You broke into a cathedral, killed one man, dismembered another, and left at least twenty of his armed followers bleeding in the aisles."
"I also kept that body count from rising by a hundred."
He nodded toward the shadows behind her.
"There were more down there. Kids. Women. Addicts. People nobody would've even noticed missing. I noticed."
Silence stretched.
Her fingers tapped the grip of her rifle.
"You've caused more property damage in one night than I could explain in an entire precinct briefing."
He exhaled. "But everyone you pulled out of that basement gets to go home."
Another beat passed. Her jaw worked as if she was biting back every protocol drilled into her for over a decade.
From the side, another officer approached, tense. "Ma'am, what do we do about him?"
Whitlock looked from the body of Father Grimm… to the bloodied man in shadows… then to her officers.
"Stand down."
The officer hesitated. "Sergeant?"
"You heard me. He's not our priority right now."
The man blinked, confused. But he obeyed, falling back.
She looked at Sentinel one more time. "You get one pass. One."
Sentinel's voice was quieter this time. "I don't need a pass."
"You need a leash."
"I'm not your dog."
"No," she said. "But you're in my city."
He didn't answer.
In the next breath, shadows coiled upward like smoke in reverse—and Sentinel was gone, leaving only the body of Father Grimm at her feet and the weight of fifty-four lives on her shoulders.
She muttered under her breath, "Damn shadow freak…"
Then turned toward the other side of the cathedral.
There were still civilians to treat. Officers to stabilize. A nightmare to explain to the media.
And a war that wasn't quite over.