The ruins of the aqueduct loomed before them like the
bones of some ancient beast, jagged arches rising from the earth,
half-swallowed by time and weeds. The once-mighty water channels were dry now,
choked with debris and shadow. The air hung damp and cold, the scent of moss
and rust seeping from every stone.
Maxwell adjusted the strap of his sword and scanned
the ruins with sharp eyes. Even before stepping closer, his Nephilim blood
pulsed uneasily. Something here rejected them, like a body rejecting a foreign
intruder.
Anthony drew a breath, his crucifix clutched tight.
"The Codex said the Crimson Chalice hid themselves where life once flowed, but
where water dried to dust. This is it."
Gabby's gaze swept the arches, her golden hair
catching the faint light of dawn. Her hand rested on the hilt of her radiant
blade. "And they have not been idle. Can you not feel it?"
Maxwell grimaced. "Feels like the walls are
breathing."
They descended the cracked steps into the aqueduct's
underbelly. Light faded quickly, swallowed by the dark. Gabby lit her palm with
a faint glow, casting the tunnel in celestial white. The light revealed
carvings etched into the walls—runes of blood sacrifice, twisted imitations of
holy symbols. Faces crudely scratched into stone stared at them with hollow
eyes, mouths twisted into eternal screams.
Anthony's voice was low, steady despite his unease.
"These were once men of the cloth. Priests, bishops, leaders. They traded
salvation for power, drank blood in place of wine, and called it sacrament."
Maxwell spat on the ground. "Guess damnation makes for
lousy art."
But his humor faded as they pressed deeper. The
tunnels branched endlessly, the air growing thicker, warmer. Whispers echoed
faintly, though none of them spoke.
Maxwell paused, hand tightening on his sword. "Did you
hear that?"
Anthony nodded grimly. "Voices."
Gabby raised her hand for silence. The whispers grew
louder—chants, guttural and rhythmic. The sound crawled over their skin like
ants.
They followed it until the tunnel opened into a vast
cistern chamber. Broken pillars jutted upward, and at its center stood a crude
altar made of stacked bones. A single object rested atop it—small, crystalline,
pulsing faintly with sickly red light.
The shard.
But they weren't alone.
Figures emerged from the shadows, cloaked in crimson,
their faces hidden behind masks of bone. Their bodies were gaunt, their skin
pale and cracked, eyes glowing faintly as if something burned inside them.
Anthony drew in a sharp breath. "The Crimson Chalice."
One stepped forward, his voice rasping like dry
leaves. "The vial calls. The shard is ours. You will not profane it."
Maxwell stepped forward, blade gleaming as the runes
along it flared. "Funny. I was about to say the same thing."
The zealots hissed, drawing blades that shimmered with
a red sheen. Then, as one, they lunged.
The chamber erupted in chaos.
Maxwell met the first strike with a furious parry,
sparks flying. He spun, blade slicing through crimson robes, but the zealot
didn't fall. Instead, black ichor oozed from the wound, the figure screeching
inhumanly before slashing again.
"They're not human anymore!" Maxwell shouted, ducking
under another blow.
Anthony raised his crucifix, voice strong: "Exorcizo
te, omnis spiritus immunde!" Holy light burst forth, searing three zealots and
driving them back, though it didn't destroy them. They shrieked, flesh
blistering but holding together.
Gabby's sword ignited like a star, her wings unfurling
as she struck. Each swing carved arcs of light, cleaving zealots in half, their
corrupted forms bursting into ash. But for every one she felled, two more
seemed to crawl from the shadows.
Maxwell fought fiercely, his Nephilim strength burning
hot, but the zealots' strikes grew faster, more frenzied. His blade cut deep,
but their blood hissed and stung his skin like acid. He hissed, staggering
back.
"Maxwell!" Anthony's voice rang out. "The shard—it's
fueling them! Destroy it!"
Maxwell's gaze snapped to the bone altar. The shard
pulsed violently now, its glow spreading into the zealots' veins. Their
movements were no longer erratic—they were synchronized, like puppets pulled by
invisible strings.
Maxwell gritted his teeth, cutting down another before
sprinting toward the altar. Zealots surged to block him, blades clashing in a
storm of steel. One struck his shoulder, pain searing white-hot, but Maxwell
pushed through, sword blazing brighter.
Gabby shouted, "Go, Nephilim! I will cover you!" She
leapt, her wings filling the chamber, her blade scattering zealots like chaff.
Anthony poured every ounce of faith into his prayers,
holy fire lancing from his crucifix to sear a path.
Maxwell vaulted the last step and reached the altar.
The shard pulsed like a heart, its glow searing into his vision. His hand shook
as he raised his sword.
But then—
A voice. Sweet. Seductive. Inside his head.
"You are mine, Maxwell Halloway. You are blood of
Heaven and dust of Earth. But with me—you will be a god."
Maxwell froze. His sword wavered above the shard.
Images flashed in his mind—his mother alive, smiling, safe. His father
descending in radiant wings, embracing him. A world where he was no longer
hunted, no longer broken.
His chest tightened. "No…"
The shard pulsed harder, the voice growing sweeter.
"Yes. Take me. Claim me. With my strength, Samael will kneel before you. No
more weakness. No more failure. Only power."
Maxwell's hands trembled violently. His blade lowered,
inch by inch. Sweat dripped from his brow.
Behind him, Anthony screamed. "Maxwell! Don't
listen—it's corruption!"
Gabby's voice cut sharper, fierce as a trumpet's
blast. "Maxwell! Remember who you are!"
His breath caught. His mother's last words echoed in
his mind. "You are stronger than they know."
Maxwell roared, lifting the sword high—and brought it
crashing down on the shard.
The crystal exploded in a burst of crimson light. The
zealots shrieked as if their souls were torn free, their bodies disintegrating
into ash that scattered across the chamber. The altar collapsed in a heap of
bone and dust.
Silence fell.
Maxwell stood trembling, smoke rising from his hands
where the shard's energy had seared him. His sword pulsed faintly before
dimming again.
Anthony rushed forward, grabbing his shoulders.
"Maxwell—are you—?"
"I'm fine," Maxwell rasped, though his storm-gray eyes
still burned faintly red. He shook his head hard, forcing the lingering
whispers out. "It's gone. The shard is destroyed."
Gabby approached, her gaze steady but solemn. "No. Not
destroyed. Severed. Its essence returns to the others. The vial is still
calling, still gathering. This was only one piece."
Maxwell clenched his jaw, lifting his blade again.
"Then we'll take the rest before Samael does."
Anthony looked between them, fear shadowing his eyes.
"And if the next shard is stronger? If Samael himself is waiting?"
Gabby's wings unfurled, her voice unshaken. "Then we
stand. Heaven did not choose Maxwell to falter. He is the key. And I will not
let him fall."
Maxwell met her gaze, something steely settling into
his chest. "Then let's finish this."
Far beneath the ruins, deep in shadows no light had
touched for centuries, Samael stirred. His laughter echoed faintly, a sound
like blades scraping stone.
The Nephilim had survived the first trial.
But the war had only begun.