The village was called Wyndcliff, though that name meant nothing now. Whatever had once lived here was gone, replaced by silence so complete it felt oppressive. Not even insects made noise. The air itself seemed to hold its breath, waiting.
I walked through the empty streets while the Band of the Hawk established a perimeter. Griffith had brought fifty of his best soldiers, leaving the rest to guard their main encampment. A reasonable precaution, though I suspected fifty or five hundred wouldn't make much difference if the Apostle proved genuinely dangerous.
The blood patterns told a story. Drag marks leading from homes toward the village square. Claw marks on door frames, some cutting clean through timber. And everywhere, that distinctive chemical signature I'd identified earlier. Apostle ichor, left behind in quantities that suggested the creature had been wounded during its rampage.
"Something fought back," Casca observed, standing beside me in the square. She'd volunteered to accompany the hunt, along with Guts and a dozen other veterans. "These marks, they're defensive. Someone got a few hits in before they died."
"Or before they were taken," I corrected, examining a particularly deep gouge in the cobblestones. "Apostles don't always kill immediately. Some enjoy prolonging the experience."
"Wonderful," Guts muttered. He'd been scanning the surrounding buildings, his massive sword ready. "So we're hunting something that tortures for fun. This just gets better."
Griffith emerged from one of the houses, his expression thoughtful. "No bodies inside. Whatever took them, it was thorough. Either consumed them entirely or transported them elsewhere."
"Transported," I said with certainty. "Apostles that consume humans typically leave remains. Bones, organs they don't want. This level of cleanliness suggests a lair somewhere nearby. Somewhere it's stockpiling victims."
"Why would it stockpile?" Casca asked.
"Food preservation. Entertainment. Ritual purposes. Apostles are transformed humans, and many retain psychological patterns from their previous existence. If this one was a collector in life, it might be a collector in death."
"That's disgusting," one of the veterans said, his face pale.
"That's nature," I replied. "Predators adapt their hunting strategies based on prey availability and psychological drives. This Apostle is simply following optimized behavior for its particular psychology."
Griffith moved to stand at the village's edge, looking out toward the surrounding forest. "The question is where. These hills have hundreds of caves, abandoned mines, old ruins. Finding a specific lair could take weeks."
"Not if we use appropriate bait," I said.
Everyone turned to look at me. Griffith's expression was carefully neutral, but I could see the calculation happening behind his eyes.
"What kind of bait?" he asked.
"The kind Apostles prefer. Humans. Alive, afraid, generating the emotional resonance they feed on." I gestured to the gathered soldiers. "Take a small group, position them in an exposed location, and wait. The Apostle will come to investigate, and when it does, we'll track it back to its lair."
"You want to use my soldiers as bait," Griffith said. It wasn't a question.
"I want to use an efficient strategy that minimizes time wasted searching. Whether those humans are your soldiers or captured bandits or volunteer peasants is irrelevant. The methodology remains sound."
"Like hell," Guts said, stepping forward. His hand was on his sword, knuckles white with tension. "We're not dangling people like worms on a hook for some monster."
"Why not? You use scouts to draw out enemy positions. You sacrifice forward units to expose enemy strength. This is tactically identical."
"It's not the same," Casca said, her voice tight with anger. "Scouts know the risks, accept them. What you're proposing is using people as expendable resources without their consent."
"All soldiers are expendable resources. That's the nature of military hierarchy. The only difference is whether you're honest about it."
The tension in the air thickened. Several soldiers had moved their hands to weapons, responding to my casual dismissal of their lives. I could smell the fear and fury mixing in their biochemistry.
"Stand down," Griffith ordered, his voice cutting through the tension. The soldiers obeyed immediately, though they remained visibly agitated. He turned to me, his expression unreadable. "Your tactical assessment is correct. Using bait would be efficient. But humans aren't purely rational. We have emotional needs, social bonds, concepts like loyalty and sacrifice that don't calculate easily."
"I'm aware. I find them inefficient but acknowledge their existence."
"Then acknowledge this: I won't order my soldiers into a trap without their consent. If you want bait, you'll ask for volunteers. And if no one volunteers, we find another way."
I considered arguing, then decided it wasn't worth the effort. This was Griffith's command, his people. If he wanted to indulge their emotional fragility, that was his prerogative.
"Very well," I said. "Ask for volunteers."
Griffith turned to address the gathered soldiers. "You've heard the strategy. We need a small team to position themselves as bait, draw the Apostle out so we can track it. This will be extremely dangerous. The creature we're hunting has already killed at least one entire village. I won't order anyone to take this risk, but I will ask. Who volunteers?"
Silence. The soldiers exchanged glances, fear warring with pride. No one wanted to volunteer for what sounded like suicide. But no one wanted to be the coward who refused when their commander asked.
"Fuck it," Guts said finally. "I'll do it. Been wanting to test myself against one of these things anyway."
"Guts, don't be stupid," Casca started, but he waved her off.
"Someone's gotta. And I'm the strongest fighter here besides the purple haired bastard. If anyone can survive being bait, it's me."
"I'll go with him," another soldier said. A veteran named Judeau, quiet but competent. "He'll need someone to watch his back."
Two more volunteers stepped forward. Young soldiers trying to prove themselves, or perhaps simply resigned to their likely deaths. Griffith studied each of them, then nodded.
"Thank you. Your courage does you credit." He turned to me. "Will four be sufficient?"
"Adequate. The Apostle will respond to any human presence. Numbers are less important than positioning and timing."
We spent the next hour setting up the trap. The volunteers positioned themselves in a clearing two kilometers from the village, building a fire and making noise. Deliberately announcing their presence. Meanwhile, the rest of us concealed ourselves in the surrounding forest, far enough back that the Apostle wouldn't detect our presence but close enough to respond when it appeared.
I positioned myself in a tree overlooking the clearing, my enhanced senses tracking multiple parameters simultaneously. Air currents, thermal signatures, chemical markers, sound patterns. If the Apostle approached, I would detect it long before the volunteers did.
Griffith climbed up to join me, moving with surprising stealth for someone in full armor. "You know they might die," he said quietly. "The volunteers. Even with us watching."
"Yes. Apostles are fast, lethal. If it decides to kill rather than collect, your soldiers could be dead before we intervene."
"And that doesn't trouble you."
"Why would it? They volunteered. They understood the risks. Their deaths would be unfortunate from a tactical perspective, losing trained soldiers, but not emotionally significant."
Griffith was quiet for a moment. "You really are something else. Not evil, exactly. Just fundamentally divorced from how humans process morality."
"Morality is a social construct designed to promote group survival. I exist outside your social structure, therefore outside your moral framework. It's not complicated."
"No," Griffith agreed. "It's perfectly logical. And somehow that makes it more disturbing than simple cruelty."
We waited. Hours passed with agonizing slowness for the soldiers below, though I found the time useful for observation. The way humans handled stress, the different coping mechanisms they employed. Guts sharpened his sword repetitively, a meditative action. Judeau told quiet stories, keeping spirits up. The younger soldiers oscillated between nervous energy and forced calm.
Fascinating behavioral patterns. Primitive but effective in maintaining group cohesion under pressure.
Night fell, and the forest transformed. Sounds that had been background noise during the day became ominous. Every snapping branch, every rustle in the undergrowth, potential threats. The volunteers' stress hormones spiked, their biochemistry shifting into prolonged fear response.
Then I detected it.
Movement, three hundred meters northeast. Something large, moving with predatory caution. Not following normal animal patterns. Too deliberate, too intelligent.
"It's here," I whispered to Griffith.
"Where?"
"Northeast, approaching slowly. It's being cautious, suggesting higher intelligence than the Apostle I killed in Julius's courtyard."
Griffith made a subtle hand signal, alerting the hidden soldiers. Everyone tensed, weapons ready, waiting.
The Apostle emerged from the treeline.
It was massive, easily four meters tall, with a body plan that defied conventional anatomy. Six limbs, some functioning as legs, others as arms, all ending in blade like claws. Its torso was heavily armored with chitinous plates, but the head was almost human. A woman's face, beautiful despite being attached to a monstrous body, with too many eyes scattered across the skull.
In a world already saturated with horror, where daily existence was a grinding march toward inevitable death, the appearance of such creatures should have been merely another shade of grey in an already dark palette. But Apostles were different. They were personal. They were humanity perverted, transformed, made into something that existed solely to inflict suffering. They were what humans feared they could become, given enough pain and desperation.
The Apostle's multiple eyes fixed on the volunteers in the clearing. Its human mouth curved into a smile.
"Well, well," it said, its voice unexpectedly melodious. "What do we have here? Lost little soldiers, far from their regiment. How convenient."
Guts stood, his sword coming up. "We're not lost. We're hunting. And you're the prey."
The Apostle laughed, the sound like wind chimes mixed with breaking glass. "How delightful. Prey that thinks itself predator. I haven't had entertainment like this in weeks."
"Now!" Griffith's voice cut through the night.
The hidden soldiers emerged from concealment, arrows and crossbow bolts flying. The Apostle moved with liquid grace, dodging most projectiles while those that connected simply bounced off its armored plates. It seemed more amused than threatened.
"An ambush? Oh, this is wonderful. I was so bored, just collecting villagers who couldn't fight back. But you've brought me real warriors!" The Apostle's eyes gleamed with anticipation. "Let's see how long you last."
It moved.
The speed was impressive. It covered the distance to the nearest soldier in less than a second, one of its blade arms sweeping out. The soldier tried to dodge but wasn't fast enough. The blade caught him across the torso, cutting through armor and flesh like paper.
The soldier collapsed, screaming. Not dead yet, but dying. The Apostle left him there, moving to the next target. Sadistic, choosing to wound rather than kill outright.
Guts charged, his massive sword swinging in a devastating arc. The Apostle blocked with two of its arms, the impact sending shockwaves through the clearing. They were locked together, strength against strength.
"You're strong," the Apostle observed. "For a human. But still just a human."
It threw Guts backward with casual force. He crashed through a tree, the timber splintering. Before the Apostle could follow up, Casca and three other soldiers attacked from different angles, trying to overwhelm it with coordination.
The Apostle's multiple limbs made it a nightmare opponent. It blocked, parried, and struck simultaneously, forcing the attackers to fight defensively. One soldier got too close and lost an arm to a sweeping claw. Another took a strike to the leg, bone shattering audibly.
This was going poorly. The soldiers were outmatched, and the Apostle knew it. It was playing with them, drawing out the violence for entertainment.
I dropped from the tree.
The impact of my landing created a small crater, drawing the Apostle's attention. Its multiple eyes focused on me, and something like recognition flickered across its human face.
"You," it said, its melodious voice tinged with something approaching fear. "You're the one the God Hand warned us about. The anomaly. The thing that doesn't belong."
"Warned you?" I stepped forward, manifesting my bone blades. "Interesting. So they're actively communicating with their Apostles about me. That suggests genuine concern."
"They said you were dangerous. That you'd killed one of us already. That we should avoid you if possible." The Apostle's multiple eyes narrowed. "But they also said that killing you would earn great reward. Elevation in their hierarchy."
"Then by all means, try."
The Apostle lunged, all six limbs attacking in a coordinated assault. It was fast, skilled, using its multiple attack vectors intelligently. Against any normal opponent, it would have been overwhelming.
I was not a normal opponent.
I moved through its attacks like water, my enhanced perception reducing its impressive speed to manageable inputs. My blade arms found gaps in its assault, scoring shallow cuts across its chitinous armor. Not deep enough to seriously wound, but enough to communicate the threat.
The Apostle backed away, reassessing. "You're faster than I expected. Stronger. The God Hand's warning was accurate."
"They warned you I was dangerous. They didn't warn you I was perfect."
We clashed again, and this time I increased my aggression. My blades found deeper purchase, cutting through chitin into the flesh beneath. Black ichor sprayed, the Apostle's regeneration struggling to keep pace with the damage I was inflicting.
"How?" it gasped, backing away again. "How can a human be this strong?"
"I'm not human. I'm the Ultimate Being. The apex of evolution. And you're simply an insect that's been granted temporary elevation." I pressed my advantage, my blades carving through another limb. It fell to the ground, twitching. "The God Hand promised you power, but all they gave you was a more elaborate way to die."
The Apostle's beautiful face contorted with rage and fear. "No! I sacrificed everything! My family, my humanity, everything I loved! I was promised eternity!"
"You were promised servitude," I corrected, removing another limb. "You traded your humanity for the privilege of being their puppet. And now your strings are being cut."
The Apostle tried to flee, its remaining limbs scrabbling for purchase. But I was faster. I caught it by what passed for its neck, lifting it off the ground despite its considerable mass.
"Wait," it begged, the melodious voice cracking. "Please. I can serve you instead. I have knowledge, information about the God Hand's plans. I can tell you things they don't want you to know."
"Can you?" I brought it closer, studying its terrified eyes. "Tell me then. Quickly, before I lose interest."
"They're gathering strength," the Apostle gasped. "Preparing for something big. They've been activating more Behelits, creating more of us. Building an army."
"For what purpose?"
"I don't know! They don't tell us everything! Just that something's coming, something they need to be ready for." Its eyes found mine, desperate. "That's all I know, I swear! Please, let me live!"
I considered this information. More Apostle activations, accelerated recruitment. That suggested the God Hand was anticipating a threat or opportunity. Interesting, though not immediately actionable.
"Thank you for the information," I said. "Unfortunately, I don't need you alive to verify it."
I drove my blade through its skull, piercing the brain. The Apostle convulsed once, then went still. Its body began dissolving almost immediately, the supernatural physiology breaking down without its animating consciousness.
Within minutes, there would be nothing left but ash and memory.
I turned to find the soldiers staring at me in shocked silence. The wounded were being tended to, but everyone had stopped to watch my execution of the Apostle. Their faces showed a mix of awe and horror.
Griffith approached, carefully stepping over dissolved Apostle remains. "That was educational. You killed it in less than two minutes."
"It wasn't particularly strong. The multiple limbs were its only significant advantage, and even that became a liability once I understood the attack patterns."
"You made it look easy."
"It was easy. That's the difference between perfection and granted power. The Apostle was a human elevated through sacrifice. I'm something that transcended humanity entirely. There's no comparison."
Griffith studied the ash pile where the Apostle had been. "It mentioned the God Hand preparing for something. Building an army. Does that concern you?"
"It intrigues me. If they're mobilizing resources, gathering strength, that suggests they're not as omnipotent as they pretend. Actual perfect beings don't need armies."
"Or they're preparing for war."
"Even better. War means conflict, conflict means revelation of capabilities. The more active the God Hand becomes, the more opportunities I have to study them."
Casca approached, her expression grim. "We have three dead and five wounded. One of the wounded probably won't make it back to camp. All because we were hunting this thing."
"The casualties were within acceptable parameters," I said. "You engaged a supernatural threat with primitive weapons. Losses were inevitable."
"Acceptable parameters," Casca repeated, her voice tight. "They were people. They had names, families, dreams. They're not just numbers in your tactical assessment."
"To me, they are. I acknowledge your emotional attachment but don't share it. That's simply reality."
Guts had returned from the treeline, covered in splinters but otherwise intact. He looked at the dissolving Apostle remains, then at me.
"You're stronger than I thought," he said bluntly. "When we sparred, you were holding back. A lot."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because killing you would have ended the opportunity to observe your capabilities. Restraint served my interests better than demonstration."
"I want a real fight someday," Guts said. "No holding back. Full strength. See if I can actually make you try."
"You'd die."
"Maybe. But at least I'd know where I stand."
I found myself appreciating his attitude. Most humans, confronted with the gap between us, would despair or deny it. Guts simply accepted it and wanted to test himself anyway. Foolish, but admirable in its way.
"Perhaps someday," I said. "If you survive long enough to be interesting."
We returned to camp as dawn broke, carrying the wounded and the dead. The victory felt hollow to the soldiers, mourning their losses. But Griffith was pleased. The Apostle threat had been eliminated with minimal resources expended, and I'd demonstrated capabilities that would enhance the Band's reputation when word spread.
Always calculating, always planning. This Griffith saw everything as a move toward his ultimate goal.
Casca watched Kars walk ahead of the group, isolated despite being surrounded by soldiers. There was something deeply unsettling about it, about him. Not just the power, though that was terrifying enough. But the complete detachment from anything resembling human emotion.
Griffith was ambitious, sometimes ruthlessly so. But he cared about the Band, about the people who followed him. He made decisions that cost lives, but those decisions weighed on him.
Kars felt nothing. Would sacrifice anyone for marginal advantage without hesitation. And Griffith was voluntarily allying with that.
"You're worried." Judeau appeared beside her, his quiet voice carrying concern. "About the thing we're working with."
"Shouldn't I be? It just casually discussed using us as bait like we're livestock. Killed an Apostle without breaking a sweat. Told Guts he'd die if they fought seriously. And Griffith's treating it like a valuable asset instead of a catastrophic liability."
"Griffith knows what he's doing," Judeau said, though he didn't sound entirely convinced. "He's always calculated the risks, always planned several moves ahead."
"What if this is the move he miscalculates? What if Kars decides we're obstacles and removes us as efficiently as it removed that Apostle?"
Judeau was quiet for a moment. "Then I guess we die. Same as we could die tomorrow in a raid, or next week in battle. We're mercenaries, Casca. Death's always been part of the job."
"This is different."
"Maybe. But Griffith's decision is made. We follow him. That's what we've always done."
Casca knew he was right, but it didn't ease her concerns. Griffith was walking a dangerous path, allying with forces he didn't understand. And history showed that such alliances rarely ended well for the humans involved.
But she'd follow him anyway. Because he was Griffith. Because his dream was their dream. Because loyalty demanded it.
Even if that loyalty led them straight into disaster.
Back at camp, Griffith called for a command meeting. Just the core officers and me, discussing the implications of what we'd learned.
"The God Hand is building an army," Griffith said, pacing before the map table. "That's significant. Wars require resources, logistics, planning. If they're mobilizing Apostles en masse, they're preparing for large scale conflict."
"Against what?" Casca asked. "They're supposedly beyond human power. What threatens them enough to need an army?"
All eyes turned to me. I shrugged. "Insufficient data. The Apostle didn't know, claimed the God Hand doesn't share plans with subordinates. But the acceleration of Behelit activations is verifiable. Multiple reports in recent months, concentrated in this region."
"Concentrated around you," Griffith observed. "Three Apostles in as many weeks, all in territories where you've been operating. That's not coincidence."
"No," I agreed. "They're testing me. Sending pawns to probe my capabilities, assess the threat. Each Apostle I kill provides them data about my fighting style, my strengths, my limitations."
"Do you have limitations?" Guts asked.
"Everything has limitations. The question is whether theirs are discoverable through pawns, or if they'll need to confront me directly."
"And when they do?" Griffith's eyes were sharp, calculating. "When the God Hand decides you're enough of a threat to warrant personal attention?"
"Then we'll discover whether gods can bleed."
The meeting continued, discussing tactics and strategy. But my mind was elsewhere, processing the Apostle's final words. The God Hand was preparing for something. Building strength, mobilizing resources, behaving like beings who anticipated conflict rather than existing in serene omnipotence.
That was valuable information. Because it suggested vulnerability. Beings who needed to prepare were beings who could be threatened.
And if they could be threatened, they could be defeated.
The hunt was far from over. In fact, it was only beginning.
Far away, in the realm beyond causality, Void gathered his fellow God Hand members to discuss the recent developments. The anomaly had killed another Apostle, extracted information, demonstrated capabilities that far exceeded their estimates.
"It grows stronger with each encounter," Ubik observed, his tone analytical. "Or perhaps more accurate: it reveals strength it was already hiding. We may have significantly underestimated the threat."
"Then we send stronger Apostles," Slan said, her voice carrying anticipation. "Test its limits properly. Find the breaking point."
"That strategy has failed twice," Conrad rumbled. "Each Apostle we send dies, providing the anomaly with information while costing us assets. The exchange rate is unsustainable."
"Then what do you suggest?" Slan's tone carried irritation. "We allow it to continue disrupting the flow unchecked?"
Void raised a hand, silencing the discussion. "We accelerate the timeline. Griffith's ascension was planned for years hence, but circumstances have changed. If we bring the Eclipse forward, if we trigger his transformation while the anomaly is embedded in his organization, we can observe its response directly."
"Risky," Ubik said. "Griffith isn't ready yet. His despair hasn't deepened enough, his circumstances haven't deteriorated sufficiently. Forcing the Eclipse prematurely could result in rejection."
"Or it could provide exactly the catalyst needed," Void countered. "The anomaly's presence is itself a destabilizing factor. Use it. Let Griffith's dream collide with reality, let his ambitions crumble, let despair take root. And when he's ready, when the moment arrives, the anomaly will be there to witness what happens when causality reasserts itself."
The others considered this. It was bold, potentially dangerous. But the alternative was allowing the anomaly to continue operating freely, growing stronger, learning more about them with each encounter.
"Agreed," Slan said finally. "Accelerate the timeline. Bring Griffith to his breaking point. And when he accepts the Behelit, when he makes his sacrifice, we'll see if the Perfect Being can stop fate itself."
The decision made, the God Hand dispersed. Each returning to their eternal vigil, each preparing for the collision between predetermination and anomaly.
The Eclipse was coming. Sooner than anyone expected.
And when it arrived, the world would learn whether perfection could triumph over destiny.