The Band of the Hawk's encampment was a study in organized chaos. Tents arranged in precise formations, sentries posted at regular intervals, supply wagons positioned for quick departure. These weren't simple brigands or opportunistic raiders. This was a professional military unit operating with discipline that rivaled Julius's regulars.
I arrived at dawn, moving through the perimeter without triggering alarms. The sentries never saw me, their human senses inadequate to detect someone who didn't want to be detected. I could have walked directly to Griffith's tent, but I was curious to observe them in their natural state, unaware of being watched.
The camp was waking, soldiers emerging from tents, fires being stoked for breakfast. The conversations were crude but well ordered. Jokes about the previous day's raid, complaints about rations, speculation about the next target. Normal human concerns for abnormal circumstances.
"You know, it's generally considered polite to announce yourself."
I turned to find Griffith standing three meters away, fully dressed despite the early hour. He must have spotted me from his tent, recognized my presence even when his sentries couldn't. Perceptive.
"I was observing," I said simply.
"Observing what?"
"Whether your band's reputation is deserved or simply effective propaganda. So far, I'm moderately impressed."
Griffith smiled, that same sharp expression I'd seen on the ridge. "High praise from something that considers humans primitives. Come, let's discuss your presence somewhere more private. My officers will want to know why a being like you has decided to join us."
He led me to the command tent, larger than the others and equipped with maps, reports, and the administrative detritus of military command. Several people were already inside. Casca, the scarred woman from yesterday. Guts, his massive sword propped against the tent wall. And several others I didn't recognize. Officers, judging by their bearing.
"Everyone, this is Kars," Griffith announced. "The being Julius has been employing. He's joining us temporarily, lending his considerable abilities to our operations."
"Temporarily?" Casca's tone was skeptical. "What does that mean, exactly?"
"It means I have my own objectives that occasionally align with yours," I replied. "For the duration of that alignment, I'll assist your operations. When our interests diverge, I'll depart. Simple."
"Nothing's simple with something like you," Guts muttered. "Yesterday you paralyzed me with three finger jabs. Today you're our ally. Tomorrow you might decide we're too crude to live."
"An accurate assessment of the uncertainty. But I have no current intention of killing any of you. That should provide some comfort."
"It doesn't," Casca said flatly. "But if Griffith wants you here, you're here. Just stay away from the regular soldiers. They're spooked enough by the rumors without having living proof walking through camp."
"Agreed," Griffith said smoothly. "Kars will operate semi independently. He'll participate in operations where his abilities provide significant advantage, but otherwise maintain distance from daily routine." He turned to me. "Does that arrangement suit you?"
"Acceptable. Though I'll need access to your information network. Any reports of supernatural activity, Apostle sightings, anything related to the God Hand. That's my price for cooperation."
"Done. Casca handles our intelligence gathering. She'll brief you on everything we've collected." Griffith moved to the central table, where maps of the region were spread. "Our current objective is a Tudor supply depot approximately fifty kilometers northeast. Heavily guarded, strategic importance to their southern campaign. Taking it would cripple their logistics for weeks."
"And you want me to help with this raid," I said.
"I want you to make it trivially easy," Griffith corrected. "Normal assault would cost us casualties we can't afford. But with someone who can walk through defenses, eliminate guards without raising alarm, open gates from inside? That changes everything."
I studied the map, noting the depot's position. "You're using me as an infiltrator."
"I'm using you as exactly what you are. Something beyond normal human capability." Griffith met my eyes. "Is that beneath you?"
It was manipulation, simple but practical. Challenging my ego, suggesting that infiltration work was somehow degrading. As if I cared about such primitive concepts.
"It's practical," I said. "When do we leave?"
"Tomorrow night. Gives us time to position scouts, finalize approach routes. And gives you time to understand how we operate." Griffith gestured to Casca. "Show him our intelligence reports. Everything we have on supernatural occurrences in the region."
Casca clearly wanted to argue but nodded instead. "Follow me."
She led me from the command tent to a smaller one serving as records storage. Inside, crates of documents, maps marked with notations, journals from scouts and informants. More organized than I'd expected.
"We've been collecting these for three years," Casca explained, pulling out several bound journals. "Griffith believes information is as valuable as steel. Maybe more. Every weird incident, every strange sighting, every rumor about demons or monsters. We catalogue it."
"Efficient," I acknowledged, taking the journals. "Why?"
"Because knowledge is power. Because understanding the world, all of it, even the parts that shouldn't exist, that's how you survive." She paused. "And because Griffith knows that ambition requires more than just military strength. It requires understanding forces that others ignore."
I began reading, my perfect recall absorbing every detail. Most reports were mundane. Travelers claiming to see ghosts, villages blaming crop failures on curses, the usual superstitious nonsense. But scattered throughout were genuine accounts. An Apostle sighting near the border six months ago. A merchant who claimed to have found a Behelit but threw it away before it could corrupt him. A village that vanished overnight, with only bloodstains and claw marks remaining.
"This village," I said, pointing to one report. "The one that disappeared. When did this happen?"
"Two months ago. We investigated but found nothing. Just empty buildings and evidence of extreme violence." Casca's expression was grim. "Whatever hit them, it was thorough. Even took the bodies."
"Apostle," I said with certainty. "Probably a newer one, still learning to control its transformed state. They feed on humans, use them as sustenance or simply entertainment."
"You say that like it's common knowledge."
"It is, if you know where to look. The God Hand creates Apostles through sacrifice. Those Apostles then operate in the mortal realm, spreading suffering that feeds back to their creators. It's a closed loop system. Efficient, in its way."
Casca was quiet for a moment. "You talk about it clinically. Like you're describing weather patterns instead of people being slaughtered."
"Because to me, that's what it is. Objective phenomenon to be studied and understood. Your emotional attachment to other humans doesn't make the analysis less valid."
"No," Casca agreed. "But it makes you terrifying. You know that, right? Not because you're powerful, but because you genuinely don't care. You could watch this entire camp burn and feel nothing."
"True. But I could also prevent it from burning, if doing so served my interests. Does the motivation matter if the result is the same?"
"Yes," Casca said firmly. "It matters. Because relying on something that only helps when it's convenient, that's how you get betrayed. Griffith might think he can use you, point you at his enemies and watch them fall. But what happens when your interests stop aligning? When helping us becomes inconvenient?"
"Then I leave," I said simply. "I've been honest about that from the beginning. I'm not your ally out of loyalty or shared purpose. I'm here because your resources provide value in my hunt for the God Hand. When that value ends, so does our arrangement."
"At least you're honest about it." Casca handed me another journal. "This one has accounts from Church inquisitors. Official reports they thought were destroyed. We have contacts inside the Holy See who sell information."
That was interesting. The Church's internal documentation would be considerably more reliable than random peasant testimonies. I opened the journal and began reading.
The reports were detailed, clinical, written by trained observers rather than hysterical witnesses. Apostle encounters documented with precision. Locations, casualties, combat capabilities. Methods attempted for killing them. Most failed, but a few succeeded.
"Holy weapons," I said, reading one account. "Blessed steel, sanctified through ritual. The report claims it was more effective than normal weapons against an Apostle's regeneration."
"You believe that?" Casca asked. "That prayer and ceremony can make metal more deadly?"
"I believe that in a world where gods demonstrably exist, where sacrificial rituals grant transformation, the possibility of faith based power enhancement isn't implausible." I continued reading. "Though these reports suggest the effect is minor. Holy weapons slow regeneration rather than preventing it entirely. Useful, but not decisive."
"The Church has been fighting Apostles for centuries," Casca said. "If they haven't found a reliable method by now, maybe there isn't one. Maybe these things are just unkillable by normal means."
"Everything can be killed," I replied. "It's simply a matter of applying sufficient force to the right location. I proved that when I killed the Apostle in Julius's courtyard."
"By tearing its arms off and stabbing it through the heart. Which requires your level of strength. Not something regular soldiers can replicate."
"Not my problem. I'm not here to solve humanity's Apostle infestation. I'm here to study the phenomenon and use it to reach the God Hand."
Casca shook her head. "You're going to fit in great with this band. Half of them are bastards, the other half are pragmatists. You're somehow both."
I spent the rest of the day reviewing intelligence while the camp prepared for the upcoming raid. The reports painted an interesting picture. Apostle activity was increasing across Midland and Tudor both. More sightings, more attacks, more villages destroyed. The pattern suggested either more Behelits activating or existing Apostles becoming bolder.
Or something else. Some external factor driving the increase. A thought that troubled me more than I cared to admit.
Night fell, and the camp settled into routine. Guards posted, fires banked, soldiers sleeping in shifts. Professional discipline maintained even in relative safety. Griffith had built something impressive here, a military force that operated with cohesion despite being fundamentally mercenaries.
I remained awake, my perfect physiology requiring no sleep. Instead, I sat outside my assigned tent and studied the Behelit I'd taken from the river. The features shifted slowly in the firelight, eyes opening and closing, mouths forming silent words.
"Does it speak?"
I looked up to find Guts approaching, his massive sword slung over one shoulder. He moved quietly for someone his size, probably learned stealth from necessity.
"No," I replied. "It observes. Waits. Searches for the right host."
"And you're sure you're not that host?"
"I'm outside this world's causality. The Behelit can't read me, can't determine if I'm suitable for sacrifice. To it, I'm invisible."
Guts sat down across from me, dropping his sword beside him with a heavy thud. "Griffith thinks you're the key to winning this war. That having you on our side makes us unstoppable."
"He's probably correct. I could end this war in a week if I chose to. Walk into Tudor's capital, kill their leadership, destroy their military capacity. Simple."
"So why don't you?"
"Because I don't care about your war. Human political conflicts bore me. You fight over resources, territory, ideology. All temporary concerns that will be forgotten in a century."
"But the God Hand, they're not temporary?"
"They're supernatural entities that exist beyond normal mortality. Understanding them, testing them, that has value beyond simple political maneuvering."
Guts was quiet for a moment, studying me. "You killed an Apostle. Griffith mentioned that. What was it like?"
"Disappointing," I said honestly. "It was strong, fast, regenerated damage quickly. But it was still fundamentally limited. Still bound by physical law, just operating at enhanced parameters. I'd hoped for something more exotic, more genuinely supernatural."
"You sound like you wanted it to be harder."
"I did. Combat without challenge is simply murder. I want to be tested, want to encounter something that actually threatens me. That's why I'm hunting the God Hand. If they're truly gods, truly powerful, then fighting them might finally provide the experience I'm looking for."
"And if they're not? If they're just more Apostles with delusions?"
"Then I'll be disappointed again. But at least I'll know."
Guts laughed, a harsh sound. "You're insane. You know that? Completely insane."
"So I've been told. Though I'm curious why you're talking to me rather than avoiding me like most of your companions."
"Because you remind me of something I used to be," Guts said. "Before Griffith found me, before the Band, I was just a weapon. A tool for killing. No higher purpose, no grand ambition. Just violence for its own sake." He paused. "You're like that. A weapon looking for something worthy to cut."
"An apt metaphor," I acknowledged. "Though I'd argue I'm not looking for purpose. I'm looking for worthy opposition."
"Same thing, maybe." Guts stood, retrieving his sword. "Tomorrow's raid, stay out of my way. I don't need you stealing my kills."
"I'll try," I said, amused despite myself. "Though no promises if things become interesting."
He left, returning to whatever tent he occupied. I remained, studying the Behelit and contemplating the upcoming operation. A supply depot raid wasn't intellectually stimulating, but it would demonstrate the Band's capabilities. Show me whether Griffith's reputation was earned or manufactured.
And perhaps more importantly, it would embed me deeper into this organization. Give me access to resources and information I couldn't easily obtain alone. All while maintaining the fiction of being a temporary ally rather than an independent force.
Strategic positioning. Julius had taught me the value of that, even if he didn't realize it.
In the command tent, Griffith stood over his maps, plotting approach routes and contingency plans. But his mind wasn't fully on the raid. Part of him was considering the implications of what he'd recruited.
Kars was dangerous, unpredictable, fundamentally inhuman. But also exactly what Griffith needed to accelerate his plans. With that kind of power supporting the Band of the Hawk, they could take contracts no other mercenary company would dare. Could achieve victories that would make them legendary.
And legends attracted attention. Attention from nobles, from the king, from the very structures of power Griffith intended to infiltrate and eventually dominate.
"You're taking a huge risk." Casca's voice interrupted his thoughts. She'd entered quietly, closing the tent flap behind her. "That thing doesn't care about us, about our dream, about anything except its own obsessions."
"I know," Griffith replied. "But that's what makes it useful. It's predictable in its selfishness. As long as helping us advances its hunt for the God Hand, it'll cooperate. And when it stops being useful, we'll already have leveraged its power to achieve what we need."
"And if it decides we're obstacles instead of assets?"
"Then we'll deal with that when it happens. But right now, Kars represents opportunity. A chance to accelerate everything." Griffith turned to face her fully. "I've spent five years building this band, cultivating reputation, proving our worth. But there's a ceiling to what mercenaries can achieve through conventional means. Kars shatters that ceiling."
"By making us dependent on something we can't control."
"We'll never control it," Griffith agreed. "But we can guide it. Point it at our enemies and watch them fall. Use its presence to intimidate those who might oppose us. That's enough."
Casca didn't look convinced, but she nodded. "The men are nervous. Word's spreading about what it did to Guts. They're worried it'll turn on them."
"Let them worry," Griffith said. "Fear breeds respect. And if Kars's presence makes our enemies terrified before we even arrive, that's a tactical advantage I'll gladly accept."
"You're playing with forces you don't understand."
"I'm playing with forces no one understands. That's the point. While everyone else operates within known parameters, within safe boundaries, I'm reaching beyond them. That's how you achieve the impossible."
Casca was quiet for a moment. "Sometimes I wonder if your dream is going to save us or destroy us."
"Both," Griffith said with a slight smile. "Great change always requires sacrifice. The question is whether what we build is worth what we pay."
He returned his attention to the maps, but his mind remained on Kars. On the opportunity and threat it represented. On the gamble he was taking by bringing something so powerful and so alien into his carefully constructed plans.
But Griffith had built his entire existence on calculated risks. This was simply the largest one yet.
And if it paid off, if Kars could truly help him achieve his dream, then the risk would be worth whatever consequences followed.
The next evening came with clouds that promised rain but hadn't yet delivered. The Band of the Hawk broke camp with practiced efficiency, leaving no trace of their presence. Professional paranoia, ensuring Tudor scouts couldn't track their movements.
I traveled ahead of the main force, moving through the wilderness at speeds that would have exhausted horses. The supply depot was exactly where the intelligence reported, nestled in a valley with good defensive positioning. High walls, guard towers, multiple entry points all covered by overlapping fields of fire.
Effective against normal attackers. Useless against me.
I observed from a nearby ridge as the Band positioned itself. They moved in darkness, using natural cover, maintaining silence despite numbering nearly two hundred soldiers. Griffith's training was evident in every movement, every practiced signal.
When they were in position, Griffith sent a runner to my location. A young soldier, barely eighteen, terrified of approaching me but too disciplined to refuse.
"Commander says it's time," the boy whispered. "He's waiting for your signal."
I nodded and began my approach. The walls were five meters high, stone construction reinforced with timber. Guards walked the battlements, carrying torches that destroyed their night vision. Amateur mistake, but common among soldiers who feared darkness more than tactical disadvantage.
I reached the wall without being spotted, pressed my palm against the stone, and began to climb. My fingers found purchase where none should exist, my enhanced strength allowing me to ascend vertical surfaces as easily as walking. Within seconds, I was over the wall and dropping into the compound beyond.
Two guards died before they registered my presence. Quick strikes to the base of the skull, precise and silent. I caught their bodies before they fell, lowering them gently to avoid noise. The rest of the compound remained unaware, continuing their patrol routes with predictable regularity.
The main gate was reinforced wood bound with iron. A team of soldiers would need rams and time to breach it. I simply placed my hands against the bar securing it and pushed. The wood shattered, the metal bent, and the gate swung open with barely a sound.
Griffith's signal flare arced into the sky, and the Band of the Hawk poured through the open gate like a flood.
What followed was chaos, but organized chaos. The Hawks knew their roles, moved with coordination despite the darkness and confusion. They targeted supply wagons, storage buildings, anything of strategic value. Guards who resisted died quickly. Those who surrendered were bound and left.
I watched from the walls, observing. This was their operation, not mine. I'd provided the opening. Now I simply evaluated their execution.
It was efficient. Brutal but not unnecessarily cruel. The Band killed when required but didn't engage in the sadistic torture I'd seen from other mercenary groups. Professionalism over savagery.
Griffith appeared beside me, seemingly materializing from the darkness. His white hair caught the firelight from the burning supply wagons below.
"Impressive work," he said. "You made this look trivially easy."
"It was trivially easy. Your human limitations are what make these operations difficult."
"And yet those limitations force us to be creative. To plan, to coordinate, to achieve through teamwork what we can't accomplish individually." Griffith gestured to the organized destruction below. "You could have done all of this yourself. Killed every guard, destroyed every supply wagon. But you didn't. Why?"
"Because that wasn't the arrangement. You asked me to open the gate. I opened the gate."
"No," Griffith said, his tone thoughtful. "You let us do the actual work because watching us succeed has value. You're studying us. Trying to understand what makes humans effective despite our primitive nature."
Perceptive. Uncomfortably so.
"Perhaps," I admitted. "Your species survives through cooperation. Through organizing into hierarchies and systems that transcend individual capability. It's interesting, in a zoological sense."
"We're zoo animals to you."
"More than that. You're a species that achieved significance despite fundamental limitations. That's worthy of study."
Griffith was quiet for a moment, watching his soldiers work. "Do you know what I want, Kars? My dream?"
"Power. Authority. Elevation beyond your current status."
"More specific than that. I want my own kingdom. Not to serve a king, not to be a noble among nobles. I want to be the king. To build something lasting, something that transcends the temporary nature of mercenary glory."
"Ambitious."
"Necessary. I've seen what happens to mercenaries who don't aim higher. They grow old, lose their edge, end up dead in a ditch or begging in the streets. I refuse that fate. I'll climb as high as possible, whatever the cost."
"And you think allying with me accelerates that climb."
"I know it does. With you supporting the Band, we become unstoppable. Nobles will beg for our services. The king will notice us. And when we've proven our worth, when we're indispensable, that's when I make my move."
I studied this young human, this creature who looked at impossible odds and saw opportunity rather than limitation. His ambition was staggering, his confidence absolute. He reminded me, uncomfortably, of myself before achieving perfection.
"Your dream will require sacrifices," I said. "Are you prepared for that?"
"I've already made sacrifices. Every person who's died under my command, every decision that cost lives, those are sacrifices for the dream. And I'll make more if needed."
"Even personal sacrifices? Things you value more than abstract soldiers?"
Griffith's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. A calculation, a moment of uncertainty quickly suppressed.
"Yes," he said finally. "Even personal sacrifices. A dream this large requires commitment beyond what ordinary people can give."
"Interesting," I murmured. "Hold onto that conviction. You may need it sooner than you think."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. Just observation." I stood from the wall, preparing to descend. "Your operation is concluding successfully. We should depart before Tudor reinforcements arrive."
The Band of the Hawk withdrew as efficiently as they'd attacked, taking what supplies they could carry and destroying the rest. By dawn, the depot was a smoking ruin, and the Band was miles away, vanishing into the wilderness like ghosts.
Griffith rode beside me as we traveled, his white horse matching pace with my walking. "The Church inquisitor Julius mentioned," he said. "Word is she arrived in Windham yesterday."
"She?"
"Inquisitor Mozgus. Zealot, true believer, extremely dangerous if you believe the stories. She's convinced demons walk the earth and considers it her holy duty to burn them out." Griffith glanced at me. "That describes you, from her perspective."
"And you're warning me out of concern for my wellbeing?"
"I'm warning you because if the Church starts an actual crusade, it complicates my plans. I need Midland stable, not plunged into religious hysteria." He paused. "What do you intend to do about her?"
"Nothing, unless she becomes a direct obstacle. Julius will handle the political maneuvering. If that fails, I'll handle her personally."
"Killing an inquisitor would bring the entire Holy See down on you."
"Then I'll handle them too. How many priests and zealots can one organization field? A thousand? Ten thousand? All fundamentally human, all fundamentally killable."
"You say that like it's simple."
"Because it is. Humans die easily. Even trained ones. Even faithful ones. A knife in the right place, and all your conviction means nothing."
Griffith laughed, the sound carrying genuine amusement. "You're going to cause such beautiful chaos. I'm almost looking forward to watching it unfold."
We traveled for three days, returning to the Band's main encampment in a secluded valley. The raid had been profitable both strategically and materially. Tudor's southern campaign would be hampered by supply shortages, and the Band had acquired weapons, food, and coin.
Casca met us at the perimeter, her expression grim. "We have a problem. One of the scouts found something twenty kilometers east. A village, completely empty. No bodies, no signs of struggle. Just blood and these."
She handed me a piece of cloth, stained with something dark. I examined it closely, then smelled it. Not human blood. Thicker, with a chemical signature that matched what I'd observed from the Apostle I'd killed.
"Apostle," I confirmed. "Recent activity, probably within the last week."
"That's the third empty village this month," Casca said. "Something's hunting in this region, and it's getting bolder."
"Or hungrier," I corrected. "Apostles feed on human suffering. If one's active nearby, it'll continue until stopped or until it moves on to richer hunting grounds."
"Then we need to stop it," Griffith said. "Can't have our operations disrupted by monsters."
I looked at him, evaluating. "You want me to hunt this Apostle."
"I want us to hunt it together. You for the challenge, us for the safety of our operations. Mutual benefit."
"Acceptable," I said after a moment. "Though I should warn you, Apostles in their true form are considerably more dangerous than Tudor soldiers. Your people will likely die."
"Everyone dies eventually," Griffith replied. "The question is whether their death achieves something worthwhile."
I found myself smiling despite the callousness. This Griffith understood what most humans refused to accept. That life was transient, that individuals were expendable in pursuit of larger goals, that sentiment was weakness masquerading as virtue.
"Very well," I said. "We'll hunt this Apostle. Show me what your Band can do when facing something actually dangerous."
In the realm beyond, Void observed these developments with something approaching satisfaction. The anomaly was embedding itself deeper into the world's causal flow, forging connections with those marked for significance. Griffith, destined for ascension. Guts, destined for suffering. Casca, destined for tragedy.
The Ultimate Being thought itself outside fate, but fate was adaptable. It would weave around the anomaly, incorporate it into the pattern whether it willed it or not.
And when the time came, when Griffith faced his moment of despair, when the Eclipse descended and the sacrifice began, the anomaly would be there. Would witness the birth of the newest God Hand.
Would it try to interfere? Would it attempt to prevent the ascension?
Void didn't know. For the first time in eons, genuine uncertainty colored his thoughts.
But uncertainty could be managed. Could be shaped into new patterns, new possibilities.
The question was whether those possibilities served the God Hand's interests or threatened them.
Time, as always, would provide the answer.