The headless woman lunged, a streak of silent, burning white. Johnathan threw himself sideways, the enhanced muscles granted by the potion the only thing saving him. The air where he'd stood screamed as her passing tore reality itself.
In the opening, Amir acted. He jammed the Iron Argument forward, the barrel steady despite his terror, and pulled the trigger. The BOOM was a physical prayer in the confined space. The .577 round, capable of punching through brick, flew straight for her chest.
She didn't even flinch. With a casual, almost bored grace, her form simply shimmered, and the massive round passed through her as if she were a mirage. The chorus of voices giggled, a sound like breaking glass and children's laughter.
"Awhhhh, nice try, little toy," the voices cooed. "You know... my children would love to play with you."
"Children?" Johnathan spat, scrambling back to his feet.
Amir's blood ran cold. "Don't tell me—"
He didn't have to. From the pristine, burning fabric of her gown, from the smooth skin of her neck stump, they began to emerge. Tiny, skittering shapes of solidified shadow, each the size of a man's hand. They had too many legs, bodies like distended spiders, and pinpricks of the same malevolent violet light as the doll for eyes. They poured forth in a chittering, clicking tide, a living carpet of darkness that flowed down her dress and began to swarm across the floor with terrifying speed.
The fight was a frantic, horrifying dance of annihilation. Johnathan became a whirlwind of alchemical death, shattering vials that erupted into concussive blasts and clinging fire, vaporizing dozens of the shadow-spiders at a time. The air filled with the shrieks of dying nightmares and the smell of ozone and burnt void. Amir fired his hand cannon again and again, the blasts clearing temporary, bloody furrows in the skittering horde, the concussive force pulping the creatures into puffs of dissipating black mist.
For a few, desperate seconds, it seemed they were holding the line. They were a bastion against the crawling dark, a storm of fire and lead.
It was an illusion.
The headless woman watched, a silent, burning monument. Then, she moved.
She didn't run. She appeared. One moment she was meters away, the next she was directly in front of Johnathan. Her hand, pale and perfect, lashed out. It wasn't a punch; it was a dismissive flick. The impact against his chest sounded like a sack of wet gravel being dropped. The enhanced strength potion meant nothing. He was lifted off his feet and hurled across the room like a ragdoll, crashing into one of the dark cylindrical chambers with a sickening crunch of metal and bone. He slid to the floor, motionless.
Amir had time for one single, strangled gasp.
Then she was in front of him. He tried to raise the hand cannon, to create an illusion, anything. Her other hand shot out, her fingers closing around his throat. The grip was absolute, colder than the void between stars. It wasn't just cutting off his air; it was freezing his very soul. The world began to dim at the edges, the chittering of the spiders fading into a distant hum. He was lifted, his boots kicking uselessly inches from the ground.
The chorus of voices whispered directly into his dying mind, sweet and final.
"Shhh, now. The game is over. Time to sleep with the others."
The grip around Amir's throat was absolute, a cold that was leaching the very life from him. The world narrowed to a pinprick of light, the chorus of voices his only lullaby into oblivion.
"Shhh, now. The game is over. Time to sleep with the others."
Then—BANGGGGGGG!
The roof of the chamber didn't just break; it exploded inward. A cascade of shattered concrete and rusted metal rained down, and through the newly opened skylight, two figures dropped into the hellish gloom.
One was Pyotr, landing with a heavy, solid impact. "Sorry I'm late," he grunted, his eyes scanning the nightmare. "But I brought backup."
The second figure landed without a sound. He was clad in dark, form-fitting leather, his face obscured by a sleek, predatory mask shaped like a wyvern's skull. In his hands, he held two wickedly curved blades that seemed to be forged from obsidian and dragon bone. This was the Blade Master, a Frequency 4 Tuner of the Gear of the Sky-Sunder Line. The air around him crackled with the promise of a predator's violence.
Johnathan, groaning, forced himself to one elbow, fumbling for a healing potion. He chugged it, staring in disbelief. "Wait... Blade Master? The one the King himself tasked with—"
"Yep," Pyotr cut him off.
The headless woman, intrigued, casually tossed Amir aside. He crashed to the floor, gasping.
"Ahhh, a new plaything! A sharp one!" the chorus giggled with manic delight.
The Blade Master didn't speak. He took a single, deep breath, and the air warped around him. The psychic pressure that had frozen Amir and Johnathan seemed to part before him like a curtain. He exploded forward, not with a run, but with a pounce, moving with the impossible, fluid speed of a diving wyvern.
The fight was reborn.
He was a storm of cutting fury. His obsidian blades were a blur, moving so fast they left after-images in the air. The creature swiped at him, her pale hands capable of tearing steel. The Blade Master didn't block; he met the strike, one of his blades screeching against her arm with a shower of sparks, as if he were fighting forged metal, not flesh. The impact was tremendous, but he held his ground, his other blade already snaking past her guard.
"You are FAST!" the voices shrieked, a mix of surprise and glee. She phased, becoming intangible, and his blade passed through her. But he was already anticipating it. As she re-materialized, he was there, his boot connecting with her chest in a kick that launched her backward through the air. She crashed into a metal cylinder, denting it deeply.
She pushed off the dent, her form flickering with rage. "You ruin the game! I don't like you!" Shadowy tendrils, thick as pythons and lined with barbs, erupted from the floor, lashing at him from all sides.
The Blade Master became a vortex of dismemberment. He didn't evade; he annihilated. He spun, leapt, and twisted, his blades severing the tendrils at their source. Black, ichorous fluid sprayed the walls, sizzling where it landed. Each movement was a killing strike, efficient and brutal. He moved through the forest of grasping darkness and left only dissipating shreds in his wake.
He closed in again. This time, his attack was a relentless barrage. He wasn't just fighting her; he was dismantling her. An obsidian blade scored a deep gash across her shoulder. The chorus of voices screamed, this time in genuine pain.
"It HURTS! Why does it hurt?!"
He gave no answer, his silence more terrifying than any taunt. He pressed his attack, his movements a furious, relentless dance. A slash opened a rent in her pristine white gown, revealing the glistening, unnatural darkness beneath. Another strike carved a chunk from her arm.
The playful glee in the voices was gone, replaced by a rising tide of panic and fury.
"Stop it! STOP IT! I don't want to stop playing!"
She unleashed a final, desperate wave of psychic energy, a blast meant to shatter his mind. The Blade Master roared, a raw, bestial sound that tore from his throat. The Wyrm King's power surged through him, a predator's will meeting the assault head-on. He pushed through the invisible wave, his mask cracking under the strain, and lunged.
His blade, the Sunder-Claw, found its mark. He drove it deep into her torso.
A single, unified, ear-shattering SCREAM tore from the entity—a raw, primal sound of agony and terror that had nothing to do with children or games. It was the sound of something ancient and vile facing true obliteration.
"NO! PLEASE! I DON'T WANT TO GO BACK TO THE DARK! I WANT TO PLAY! LET ME PLAY!" the voices begged, weeping and cursing in the same breath. "YOU MONSTER! YOU'RE TAKING MY TOYS AWAY! I HATE YOU! I'LL FIND YOU AGAIN! I'LL—"
Her words dissolved into a guttural, fading wail. Her form began to convulse, the darkness that composed her unraveling at the edges, dissolving into a foul-smelling smoke. The pristine white gown fluttered to the floor, empty. The last thing to vanish was the sound of her weeping, a pathetic, lonely sound that was somehow more horrifying than her rage.
Then, silence.
The Blade Master stood over the empty gown, his chest heaving, the crack in his wyvern-skull mask revealing a single, sweat-streaked, and utterly grim eye. He yanked his blade from the air where she had been and finally, slowly, straightened up
Johnathan hauled Amir to his feet, the rookie's legs trembling like a newborn foal's. Amir sucked in a ragged breath, the air still tasting of ozone and something foully sweet. "Is it... dead?" he croaked, his throat raw.
"Yes," Johnathan grunted, his own body protesting with a symphony of aches. "At least for now."
Amir's gaze was drawn across the chamber. The Blade Master stood over the empty, crumpled white gown. With a ritualistic slowness that commanded absolute attention, he moved. His hands, which had moments before been a whirlwind of death, now moved with a precise, reverent calm. He crossed the two obsidian blades before him, the wicked curves gleaming dully in the gloom. With a soft, definitive shing-klak, the twin hilts locked together into a single, reinforced cross-guard. In one fluid, practiced motion, he swept the unified weapon over his shoulder, sliding it into a waiting scabbard built into his armor. The final thud of the hilts seating home was like a period at the end of a sentence written in blood. Only then did the palpable aura of predatory violence around him seem to recede, banked like a furnace.
"Who... who is that?" Amir whispered, awestruck and terrified in equal measure.
Johnathan followed his gaze. "Him? That's the Blade Master. A member of the special inquisitors."
"Special?"
"Yes. The Harmonic Inquisition has a special team. It's called IRON ANVIL. Led by the Captain himself."
Amir's mind reeled. "Ohhh, I see. Do other cities have Harmonic Inquisitions too?"
"All the cities of the Iron Republic do," Johnathan confirmed, finally pulling out a cloth to wipe grime from his face. "Special forces, the works. And most kingdoms in Echogard have their own version. Different names, same damn job: cleaning up messes that regular folk can't even comprehend."
As they spoke, Pyotr ambled over, a fresh cigar already smoldering between his fingers. "Hmm. Looks like you two are getting along well. That's good. It's important to have strong bonds between fellow Inquisitors."
Johnathan let out a derisive scoff. "Good bonds? It's a pain. The Captain didn't tell me I was getting a partner who's uneducated."
Amir felt a fresh wave of heat rise to his face, but he bit his tongue. Play it cool. You need to learn about this world. Just take it.
Suddenly, Pyotr was in his personal space. "What's wrong? What are you thinking?" he asked, his tone overly friendly. He slung a heavy, comradely arm around Amir's shoulders, enveloping him in a cloud of expensive cigar smoke. "It's okay, don't mind Johnathan. He's just like this." He took a long, theatrical drag. "Congratulations," he announced, his voice booming.
Amir blinked. "For what?"
"For surviving your first mission! And a DANGEROUS one!" Pyotr laughed, a loud, booming sound that echoed in the cavernous room. This guy is weird, Amir thought, but maybe he has a good heart underneath it all.
His thought was cut short as Pyotr's grip tightened. "We should celebrate! I know a place. A real establishment. The Rusty Cog & Flask. Best aether-ale in the sector. And the women..." He leaned in conspiratorially, his voice dropping to a stage whisper. "Let's just say the clientele is... very friendly. Maybe you could charm one. Definitely you could take her to a bed. I should come with you—show you the ropes!"
Amir's mental assessment instantly shifted. I take it back. This old-ass motherf—er is definitely a stone-cold pervert.
"Wha—? No, it's... no, thank you," Amir stammered, taking a step back. "I'm... a virgin."
Pyotr's head tilted, his expression one of genuine, confused curiosity. "A... virgin?" he repeated, as if tasting a foreign word. He gave Amir a sidelong glance, his eyes narrowing. "What does that word mean?"
Amir felt his soul leave his body for a brief second. He mumbled into his collar, "It... it means I haven't... slept with a single woman."
Pyotr's face exploded into a grin of pure, unadulterated delight. "OHHHH! I SEE!" he boomed, his laughter returning tenfold, now mixed with a new, awkward edge As he looks at johnathan and says who said he is uneducated you are one who is uneducated Johnathan have ever heard the word virgin before ? as Johnathan scoffed NOW Then you ABSOLUTELY MUST come to the Rusty Cog with me! This is a necessity! An initiation! as johnathan said
Phewww, Amir thought, a wave of relief washing over him. I almost used a word from my world. He looked at Pyotr, who was now slapping his thigh with mirth. But not gonna lie, this guy is CRAZY and a PERVERT, both at the same time. I'm like ten, fifteen years younger than him, and he's treating me like we're frat brothers.
Just as Pyotr was opening his mouth, undoubtedly to suggest something even more mortifying, the Blade Master approached, his silent presence instantly sobering the mood. A line of dazed, traumatized hostages shuffled behind him.
"The hostages from the factory are secured," the Blade Master reported, his voice a low, filtered rasp from behind his wyvern-skull mask. "There are casualties. Dead bodies remain.
Pyotr's comedic demeanor vanished, replaced by the cool professionalism of a senior officer. "Doesn't matter. You got the living. The main threat is gone. There's another team waiting outside; they'll handle the cleanup and the investigation into what happened here." He clapped his hands together, the sound sharp in the quiet. "Now, let's get the hell out of this hellhole
The transition from the factory's chemical-rot hell to the open air was like being reborn. Amir stumbled out, blinking against the hazy, smog-filtered daylight. "Damn," he breathed, his voice hoarse. "It never felt this good to see the sun again."
The scene outside was one of controlled chaos. The area was cordoned off, swarming with Inquisition members in their charcoal grey and silver and Cog-Watchers in their practical blue. Standing at the center of it all, a still point in the storm, was Captain Rustof.
The Captain's sharp blue eyes scanned Amir from head to toe, taking in the torn coat, the grime, and the lingering shock. A slow, knowing smirk spread across his face beneath that magnificent silver mustache. "I knew you had guts, kid. A real spirit in you." His expression sobered slightly. "Although, it was my fault. I shouldn't have sent you on a mission that hard. But when I got information from the Council that it wasn't a normal cult summoning, that it was way beyond you and Johnathan's capabilities... I sent Pyotr and the Blade Master."
Amir nodded, the gesture feeling heavy. "Understood, Captain."
Captain Rustof's smirk returned, fiercer this time. "You've got huge potential, kid. Keep that fire. Maybe one day, you might even become stronger than me." He clapped a firm hand on Amir's shoulder before turning, his voice shifting to a command. "Now, I'll see this factory for myself. I need to confirm what kind of ritual that was, and what exactly it unleashed."
As the Captain and a team of senior Inquisitors moved toward the factory's blasted entrance, a new arrival stole the scene. A steam-wagon, unlike any Amir had seen, purred to a halt. It was a masterpiece of polished brass and dark, lacquered wood, its body sleek and predatory. Intricate, swirling patterns were etched into its metal panels, and its windows were tinted a smoky, impenetrable black. A miniature, silent-running Aether-core glowed with a soft blue light where a smokestack would normally be, hinting at obscene expense and advanced technology. It was followed by a convoy of brutish, functional Cog-Watcher vehicles, looking like guard dogs next to a refined panther.
The door opened and a man in his early fifties stepped out. He wore a long, exquisitely tailored coat of deep charcoal wool, his face a mask of frantic worry. He rushed towards the huddled hostages, a phalanx of Cog-Watchers struggling to keep up with him.
"Salena!" he cried out, his voice cracking.
The mayor's daughter looked up, and her composure shattered. "Father!" She fell into his arms, sobbing uncontrollably as he held her, his own shoulders shaking with relief.
Amir watched the emotional reunion, his instincts prickling. He moved to Johnathan's side. "Who is that man?"
Johnathan didn't take his eyes off the scene. "Oh, that's Mayor Valerius. Sector Seven. The girl's father."
Amir narrowed his eyes, looking back at the embracing pair. "Something's off," he murmured. "I can't shake the feeling we're missing something important. She's clearly hiding something, right?"
Before he could finish, Johnathan cut him off, his voice low and final. "Stop. That's enough. You're still a rookie. You shouldn't get your head this deep into it. You have a long way to go. Watch. Learn. Then you can handle a case."
Amir fell silent, giving a terse nod.
Suddenly, Pyotr materialized, slinging an arm around Amir's shoulders. "Let's go, brother! Mission is finally done! For now, at least. Let's head to the Iron Anvil, debrief, and then... celebration!"
Amir hesitated, trying to form a rejection, but Pyotr was already dragging him away from the scene with irresistible, cheerful force.
As they disappeared into the foot traffic, Johnathan remained, watching Mayor Valerius. He sat on a low wall, lighting a cigarette. He's a rookie, Johnathan thought, but he understands. That mayor's daughter is hiding something. But why in the world was the Sector Seven Mayor's daughter in Sector One, at a plumber's company banquet, all alone? No bodyguards? The questions swirled, a knot of suspicion he couldn't yet untie.
Meanwhile, Amir found himself being steered down the street by a beaming Pyotr, whose chest was puffed out with pride at the prospect of the evening's potential debauchery. Amir walked in despair, the grim thought echoing in his mind: I'm being dragged through the city by a crazy old pervert.
And from the shadows of a nearby alley, hidden within a deep hooded robe, a figure watched them go. A slow, sinister smirk spread across its hidden face
Found you.