Weeks passed in measured rhythm. The Band took contracts, escorting merchant caravans, securing trade routes, eliminating bandits who'd become bold enough to challenge organized mercenary forces. Standard work for a company of their reputation.
But their reputation was growing far beyond standard.
Because while the Band handled regular threats, I eliminated the irregular ones.
An Apostle terrorizing a northern trade hub? I killed it in five seconds, leaving the creature's ash scattered across the marketplace while merchants watched in stunned silence.
A nest of lesser demons infesting a monastery? I purged them in 1 minute, methodical and thorough, each one vaporized before it could fully manifest its threat.
A Tudor commander who'd made a pact with something from beyond? I found him in his tent, extracted what had been implanted in his chest, studied it briefly, then incinerated both the supernatural parasite and its host.
Word spread.
The White Phoenix and his perfect weapon. Griffith who commanded armies and Kars who killed gods. The Band of the Hawk, untouchable, unstoppable, ascending.
Griffith's name was being spoken in noble courts now. Not as a mercenary captain as something more. A rising power. Someone who might matter.
Exactly what he'd always wanted.
And exactly what made him dangerous to those already in power.
The royal messenger arrived on a morning that had started unremarkably. Forty cavalry bearing the king's colors, led by a nobleman whose posture screamed "reluctant diplomat sent on distasteful errand."
He dismounted with visible discomfort, approached Griffith with a sealed letter bearing the royal seal, and delivered his message with the tone of someone who'd prefer to be anywhere else.
"Lord Griffith of the Band of the Hawk. His Majesty, King of Midland, requests your presence at court. You and your... associate." The nobleman glanced at me with barely concealed unease. "Are to present yourselves in the capital within one week."
"Requests," Griffith repeated, examining the seal. "Not commands?"
"His Majesty is aware that you operate outside traditional military hierarchy. The request is genuine—an invitation to discuss matters of mutual benefit." The nobleman's professionalism was admirable given his obvious discomfort. "Suitable quarters will be provided, safety guaranteed under royal protection."
Griffith broke the seal, read quickly. His expression remained neutral, but I saw the calculation in his eyes. This was it—the opening into legitimate power structures he'd been maneuvering toward.
"Please convey to His Majesty that we accept his invitation. We'll depart tomorrow and arrive within four days." Griffith's tone was perfectly balanced—respectful but not subservient, confident but not arrogant.
The nobleman looked relieved to have his duty completed without incident. He remounted, and the cavalry departed with disciplined efficiency.
The moment they were out of earshot, the officers converged.
"It's a trap," Casca said immediately. "Has to be. The king doesn't invite mercenaries to court unless he's planning to eliminate them quietly."
"Or recruit them," Judeau countered. "We've been effective. Maybe he wants that effectiveness working for him rather than potentially against him."
"Either way, it's dangerous." Pippin's voice was thoughtful despite his size suggesting pure muscle. "Going to the capital puts us in his territory, under his rules. If things go wrong, we're surrounded."
"Things won't go wrong." Griffith's certainty was absolute. "This is opportunity. The king doesn't summon people he intends to kill—he just kills them. Formal invitation means he wants something. And what he wants, I can negotiate."
"You're betting our lives on that assessment," Casca said quietly.
"I'm betting my life. The rest of you can stay here." Griffith looked at each officer in turn. "But I'm going. This is the path into power that I've been working toward since founding the Band. I won't refuse it because of fear."
"You're taking Kars." It wasn't a question from Judeau—just observation.
"Of course. If it is a trap, he eliminates threats. If it's genuine opportunity, his presence reminds everyone why antagonizing me is unwise." Griffith turned to me. "You'll come?"
"Obviously." I'd been curious about the capital's power structure since arriving in this world. Meeting the king, observing the court's dynamics, understanding the human political machinery—all valuable intelligence. "Though I make no promises about diplomatic behavior if threatened."
"I wouldn't expect you to." Griffith almost smiled. "Your presence is the diplomatic statement."
That Evening - Casca's POV:
She found Judeau at the camp's edge, staring toward where the capital lay beyond the horizon.
"He's going to outgrow us," Judeau said without preamble. "Once he's in that world—noble ranks, royal favor, legitimate power—what does he need with a mercenary company?"
"He needs us because we're loyal. Because we followed him when he had nothing." But even as Casca said it, she heard the uncertainty in her own voice.
"We're loyal," Judeau agreed. "But loyalty becomes a liability when you're playing politics at that level. We're too honest, too direct. Court politics requires people who smile while stabbing you in the back. That's not us."
"That's not Griffith either."
"Isn't it?" Judeau turned to face her. "He's allied with something that tortures Apostles for fun. That views humans as insects. That admits openly it would abandon us without hesitation if convenient. What does that say about Griffith's willingness to compromise his principles?"
Casca wanted to argue. Wanted to defend Griffith's character, his integrity, his commitment to the Band.
But she'd seen how he looked at Kars. Not with horror at the sadistic displays—with calculation. With recognition that such power, properly directed, could achieve objectives that moral constraints prevented.
"He's changing," she admitted quietly. "Ever since Kars arrived. Ever since he started winning battles through overwhelming force rather than tactical brilliance. He's getting... comfortable with shortcuts."
"More than comfortable. Dependent." Judeau's voice held genuine concern. "We used to win through discipline, strategy, skill. Now we win because Kars eliminates anything actually dangerous before we even engage. What happens when Kars decides we're not worth his time anymore?"
"Then we go back to winning the hard way."
"Can we?" Judeau gestured at the camp. "Half these soldiers have never faced a real Apostle. They've never had to fight something genuinely supernatural without Kars there to handle it. We're losing our edge because we don't need it anymore."
Casca had noticed the same thing. Training had become less intense. Discipline had relaxed slightly. Soldiers who used to maintain perfect readiness now operated with the confidence of people who knew a perfect weapon would handle any serious threat.
It was making them soft.
"What do you want me to do about it?" she asked.
"I don't know. Maybe nothing. Maybe this is just what happens when you ally with something beyond normal power scales." Judeau turned back toward the horizon. "But I wanted you to know I'm worried. That I think this capital visit might be the moment everything changes. And I'm not sure it'll change in ways we can follow."
Casca had no response. Because she shared his concerns, and because saying them aloud made them feel more real.
Four Days Later:
The journey to the capital was uneventful—deliberately so. Griffith had selected a small escort: himself, me, Casca, Guts, and Judeau. Enough to demonstrate importance, not so many as to suggest military threat.
We rode in formation, maintaining professional appearance while Griffith and I spoke.
"What do you actually want from the God Hand?" he asked on the second day. Direct question, no diplomatic phrasing.
"To test whether they're genuinely powerful or just effective propagandists." I'd answered this before, but his tone suggested he wanted deeper explanation.
"You've fought an Apostle the God Hand sent specifically to kill you. You've eliminated dozens of their assets. Haven't you already tested them?"
"I've tested their proxies. That's different from testing them directly." I manifested additional eyes to scan the surrounding terrain—habit now, constant threat assessment. "Apostles are enhanced humans. The God Hand claims to be something more fundamental. I want to know if that's truth or performance."
"And if they're genuinely powerful? If they really can control fate itself?"
"Then I'll know what I'm actually fighting against. Information has value regardless of whether it's comfortable." I retracted the extra eyes. "Why do you ask?"
Griffith was quiet for a moment, his hand unconsciously touching where the Behelit rested beneath his collar. I'd noticed him doing that more frequently—touching it like a talisman, drawing comfort from its presence.
Concerning.
"Because I'm starting to understand that power has layers," he said finally. "Physical power like yours, overwhelming, obvious, immediately decisive. Political power like what the king wields, subtle, structural, built over generations. And then whatever power the God Hand represents, metaphysical, operating on rules I don't fully understand."
"And you want to know which type matters most."
"I want to know which type I need." His voice held that calculating edge. "Physical power alone isn't enough, you're proof of that. You can kill anything, but you can't make people follow you. Can't build institutions or establish legitimate authority. Political power has limits too, the king commands armies, but they're useless against supernatural threats. And the God Hand's power..."
"Shapes reality itself but requires specific conditions to manifest," I finished. "Each type has advantages and constraints. The strategic question is which combination achieves your objectives most efficiently."
"Exactly." Griffith looked at me directly. "You understand that. You think strategically about power structures despite claiming to view humans as insects."
"Strategic thinking isn't uniquely human. It's just pattern recognition and resource optimization applied to goal achievement." I manifested wings briefly, testing, confirming capability after hours of riding. "Though I admit, you're more sophisticated in your analysis than most humans I've encountered. You recognize complexity rather than seeking simple answers."
"Simple answers don't win kingdoms."
"No. They don't." I retracted the wings. "Is that what you're planning? To win a kingdom?"
"I'm planning to matter." His voice held absolute conviction. "To build something significant that persists beyond my death. What form that takes depends on opportunities presented and resources available."
"And I'm a resource."
"You're the most powerful resource I've ever had access to. The question is whether you'll remain available or whether your objectives will diverge from mine." He met my eyes. "So I'm asking: what do you actually want from all this? From fighting the God Hand, from allying with me, from being here?"
Honest question deserving honest answer.
"I want to prove that perfection exceeds predetermination. That my transcendence of limitation means I'm not bound by their causality." I considered how much to reveal. "The God Hand claims to control fate. I exist outside their system. That creates fundamental conflict, either I'm incorporated into their design or I prove their design is incomplete. Either outcome interests me."
"So you're using me to force that confrontation."
"Obviously. Just as you're using me to accelerate your rise to power. We're both using each other." I manifested a hand, gestured between us. "The difference is I'm honest about it."
Griffith actually laughed. "You really are refreshingly direct. Most people would pretend altruism or mutual benefit."
"Pretending wastes time. You're intelligent enough to recognize transactional relationships. Why insult you with comfortable lies?"
"Why indeed." He looked ahead toward where the capital would appear on the horizon tomorrow. "One more question. If our objectives genuinely diverge—if I become obstacle to your goals—what will you do?"
"Eliminate you." I said it without hesitation or emotion. "Not cruelly, not theatrically. Just efficiently. You'd be a problem to solve, not a toy to play with."
"Honest to the end." Griffith's expression was unreadable. "I appreciate that. Makes planning easier when I know where we stand."
We rode in silence after that, both of us understanding the dynamic clearly. Alliance of convenience, built on mutual utility, lasting exactly as long as our goals aligned.
Longer than most human relationships, honestly. At least this one was honest.
Wyndham - The Capital:
The city appeared on the fourth day's horizon—massive walls, towering structures, the concentrated evidence of human civilization at its most developed. Population somewhere around two hundred thousand, making it the largest human settlement I'd encountered since arriving.
Impressive in scale if not in architectural sophistication.
We were met at the gates by royal guard—professional soldiers who maintained discipline despite obvious curiosity about our group. Particularly about me. I'd made no effort to appear human, and my presence generated visible discomfort among the guards.
Good. Discomfort was useful. Made people careful, made them think before acting.
We were escorted through well-maintained streets toward the royal castle at the city's heart. Citizens stopped to stare—some with awe at Griffith's white armor and phoenix emblem, others with fear at my obviously inhuman appearance.
The castle was genuinely impressive. Centuries old, built and rebuilt through generations, incorporating architectural elements from different eras. Defensive structures that suggested actual military thinking rather than purely ceremonial design.
Someone competent had planned this.
We were brought to a formal audience chamber—high ceilings, elaborate decoration, throne positioned to maximize the king's psychological advantage over petitioners. Standard power display, effectively executed.
The king sat on his throne, appearing perhaps fifty years old, showing the weight of long rule in his bearing. His eyes held calculation similar to Griffith's, intelligent, strategic, constantly assessing.
Beside him stood what I assumed were key advisors and nobles. And among them-
I felt it immediately. Supernatural presence, carefully concealed but detectable to my enhanced senses. Someone in this room wasn't entirely human.
I extended additional sensory organs, subtle enough that most wouldn't notice, scanning the assembled nobles.
There. In the shadows at the chamber's edge. A figure whose presence read wrong—not Apostle, not demon, but something else. Something that moved with practiced stealth, that existed partially outside normal perception.
Interesting.
The king spoke, formal words of welcome and recognition of Griffith's service to the realm. Griffith responded appropriately, maintaining perfect diplomatic posture.
I only paid partial attention. Most of my focus was tracking the figure in the shadows.
It was watching me. Not obviously, its attention was carefully managed, divided between the formal proceedings and covert observation of the unknown element I represented.
Professional surveillance. Skilled enough to avoid notice by everyone except something with my perceptual capabilities.
The king's offer was straightforward: Griffith would receive noble rank and royal commission in exchange for taking high-risk military contracts that conventional forces couldn't handle. Generous compensation, official recognition, path into legitimate power structures.
Exactly what Griffith wanted.
He accepted with appropriate gravity. Formalities were concluded. We were dismissed to assigned quarters while details would be negotiated over following days.
The moment we left the audience chamber, I spoke quietly to Griffith.
"There's something in the castle. Watching us. Supernatural origin but controlled, professional. Not Apostle, something else."
"Threat?" Casca asked immediately, hand moving toward her weapon.
"Unknown. But it moved like a hunter. Like something that specializes in tracking dangerous targets." I manifested additional eyes, scanning corridors as we walked. "It's following us now. Maintaining distance, using servants and guards as cover. Very skilled."
"Should we confront it?" Guts's hand rested on his sword.
"Not yet. I want to see where it goes. What it reports." I retracted most of my additional organs but kept enhanced perception active. "Whatever it is, it's been watching us since we entered the chamber. It knows what I am. Probably has been briefed on my capabilities."
"The Church," Judeau said suddenly. "It has to be. Who else would have intelligence on supernatural threats and the capability to surveil them?"
Smart analysis.
"Possible. We'll know soon." I noted the figure's position—still trailing, maintaining professional distance. "It's not attacking, which suggests reconnaissance rather than elimination. Whatever organization sent it wants information before committing to action."
We were shown to our quarters, suite of rooms in the castle's guest wing, well-appointed and comfortable. Guards posted outside, ostensibly for our protection.
Also useful for monitoring our movements. Standard procedure when hosting potentially dangerous guests.
The moment we were inside with doors closed, I spoke.
"I'm going to track it. Find out what it is, who sent it, what it knows." I manifested wings. "Stay here. Maintain diplomatic posture. I'll return when I have information."
"Be careful," Griffith said. "We just gained royal favor. Don't compromise it by killing someone important."
"I'll be diplomatic." I opened the window. "Unless they attack first. Then I'll be efficient."
I launched into the city's night sky before anyone could argue.
Kars's POV - The Hunt:
Tracking the figure was trivially easy once I committed to pursuit. It had skill at avoiding normal observation, but I wasn't normal.
It moved through the castle's less-traveled corridors, avoiding main passages, using servant routes and maintenance access. Professional infiltration techniques, executed with practiced efficiency.
I followed from above, using the castle's architectural complexity as cover, manifesting additional sensory organs to track without direct line of sight.
The figure descended into deeper levels—areas that felt older, less maintained. Original castle construction, built centuries ago and preserved beneath newer additions.
Finally, it entered a chamber that radiated wrongness. Not demonic presence, but something else. Concentrated sanctification, blessed materials, holy symbols arranged in patterns that suggested both protection and containment.
A Church facility. Hidden within the royal castle itself.
Bold.
I landed silently outside the chamber's entrance, manifesting additional eyes to observe without exposing myself.
The figure stood in the chamber's center, and I finally saw it clearly.
He was perhaps forty years old, built like a fortress, massive shoulders, thick neck, hands that looked like they could crush stone. His face was brutal, all hard angles and old scars, with eyes that held absolute conviction bordering on madness.
And he held a weapon—a massive tome bound in blessed materials, radiating enough concentrated holy power to make lesser demons uncomfortable.
"You can come in," he said without turning around. "I know you're there. Have known since you landed."
Interesting. Either he had supernatural perception or simply expected me to follow.
I entered the chamber, returning to baseline humanoid configuration. Non-threatening posture, observing.
"Father Mozgus," he introduced himself, finally turning to face me. "Chief Inquisitor of the Holy See. Twenty years hunting demons, seventeen Apostles killed, countless lesser supernatural threats eliminated." His eyes, zealot's eyes, burning with unshakeable faith, studied me carefully. "And you are Kars. The anomaly. The perfect being. The thing that has been systematically eliminating Apostles across Midland."
"Accurate summary." I manifested a chair from compressed biological material and sat. "Why were you watching me?"
"Because the Church needs to understand what you are. Whether you're tool to be aimed or threat to be eliminated." He set the tome down but kept his hand near it. "You've killed forty-seven Apostles since arriving in Midland. Saved thousands of lives. Your actions serve God's work despite you clearly not serving God."
"I serve my own interests, which currently align with eliminating the God Hand's assets." I manifested additional eyes briefly, demonstration of capability. "Does that alignment satisfy the Church?"
"It should." Mozgus's voice held frustration beneath the certainty. "You're the most effective demon hunter I've encountered in twenty years. You achieve in days what takes our best inquisitors months. You should be celebrated, supported, encouraged."
"But?"
"But our intelligence suggests you view humans as insects. That you operate without moral constraint. That you make decisions based purely on tactical efficiency without regard for human life beyond its utility to your objectives." His grip tightened on the tome. "Every theological framework says you're a demon. That power without moral constraint is fundamentally evil. That I should be trying to destroy you right now."
"Are you?" I manifested bone blades from my forearms—not threatening, just observing. "Trying to destroy me?"
"I don't know." The admission seemed to cost him something. "I've spent twenty years with absolute certainty about good and evil. Then you arrive—something that registers as inhuman, admits to viewing humans as beneath you, and kills our enemies with terrifying efficiency. You break my understanding of how the world works."
"So the Church sent you to assess whether I'm acceptable monster or unacceptable one."
"Essentially." He met my eyes, all of them, without flinching. Impressive courage. "And I can't make that determination. Because you're not evil in any way I understand. You're just... empty. A perfect killing machine that happens to be pointed at targets we also want dead."
"Empty is accurate." I retracted the blades. "I don't experience good and evil as humans do. Don't have moral framework that makes certain actions inherently wrong. I have objectives, and I pursue them through optimal means. Currently, those means involve eliminating Apostles."
"And if eliminating Apostles stopped being optimal? If your objectives changed?"
"Then I'd pursue different objectives through different means." I stood, the biological chair dissolving. "I won't pretend otherwise. I'm not bound by your morality, your faith, your understanding of proper behavior. I simply exist and act according to my nature."
Mozgus closed his eyes, and I saw him reciting silent prayer. Wrestling with theological impossibility—a being that should be evil but whose actions served good.
When he opened his eyes again, decision was made.
"The Church will tolerate your existence. Conditionally." His voice carried absolute authority. "You continue hunting Apostles and targeting the God Hand. You don't attack humans or Church assets without provocation. You maintain basic cooperation with those fighting supernatural threats. In exchange, we provide intelligence, don't interfere with your operations, and prevent other factions from moving against you."
"Acceptable terms." I manifested wings, preparing to depart. "Though I make no promises about diplomatic behavior if Church interests conflict with mine."
"I wouldn't expect you to." Mozgus picked up his tome. "One more thing. The God Hand knows you're here. Knows you're in the capital, gaining royal favor, building alliances. They're preparing something."
"They're always preparing something. That's what predestination does—prepares." I moved toward the exit. "But preparation has diminishing returns. Eventually, they'll need to commit to action. And when they do, I'll discover whether their metaphysical power exceeds my physical capability."
"You sound excited about that."
"I am." I paused at the doorway. "Because I'm bored with uncertainty. I want definitive test. Either they're genuinely powerful enough to matter, or they're just elaborate theater. Either outcome is educational."
"And if they win? If they prove stronger?"
"Then I'll have learned something important before dying. Information has value even in defeat." I launched through the corridor, accelerating to speeds that left Mozgus's perception behind.
Behind me, I heard him mutter: "Lord preserve us. We've allied with something that views its own death as interesting data."
Accurate assessment.
I returned to our quarters through the window, landing silently in the room where Griffith and the others had waited.
"Well?" Griffith asked immediately.
"Father Mozgus. Chief Inquisitor. Church facility hidden in the castle. They've been monitoring me since I arrived, assessing threat level." I dismissed my wings. "We reached accommodation. Church tolerates my existence, I continue killing their enemies. Standard alliance of convenience."
"That easily?" Casca sounded skeptical.
"He's intelligent enough to recognize that practical cooperation serves more purpose than theological purity. I kill demons efficiently. They want demons dead. Our objectives align." I moved to the window, observing the capital's nighttime activity. "Though he did mention the God Hand is preparing something. Knows we're here, knows about the royal favor, building toward some response."
"Always something," Guts muttered.
"Always," I agreed. "But that's what makes it interesting. Predictable enemies are boring. The God Hand keeps adapting, keeps responding to our actions with escalated strategies. That suggests they're genuinely concerned."
"That should worry you," Judeau said.
"Why? If they're concerned, it means I'm succeeding at being threatening. That's the objective." I turned from the window. "You should rest. Tomorrow begins contract negotiations. Griffith gains legitimate power, I gain access to royal intelligence networks. Both useful developments."
"You're not sleeping?" Casca asked.
"Don't need to. I'll maintain watch, ensure no nighttime complications." I manifested additional eyes around the room's perimeter. "Sleep. Tomorrow matters politically."
They settled into the provided beds, all except Guts, who maintained his own watch by habit despite my assurances.
I stood at the window, observing the capital, analyzing the tactical situation.
Royal favor gained. Church alliance secured. God Hand aware and preparing counter-moves. All pieces positioning for whatever confrontation was approaching.
The Eclipse, probably. All intelligence pointed toward some major event that would reshape supernatural dynamics in this region.
I found myself looking forward to it.
Not because I wanted people to die, their survival was tactically irrelevant. But because I wanted the definitive test. Wanted to know if the God Hand's metaphysical power could actually challenge my perfect biology.
Wanted to prove, once and for all, whether fate was stronger than perfection.
Behind me, I heard Griffith's breathing deepen into sleep, his hand still touching the Behelit beneath his collar even in unconsciousness.
Concerning.
But a problem for later. Tomorrow brought politics, negotiation, formal establishment of the alliance that would make Griffith legitimate and me officially sanctioned.
And after that?
After that, the God Hand would make their move.
And I'd discover whether gods bled the same way demons did.
Meanwhile - The God Hand's Realm:
"He's in the capital," Ubik reported, his small form tense with calculation. "Met with the king, gained royal favor, established Church alliance. Everything positioning exactly as predicted."
"Not exactly as predicted," Void corrected. "We predicted tactical movement. He's demonstrating strategic sophistication beyond initial estimates. The Church alliance particularly—that shows long-term planning rather than reactive response."
"He's learning," Slan said with evident interest. "Adapting not just biologically but strategically. Becoming more effective as opponent."
"Should we accelerate Eclipse timeline?" Conrad's flies buzzed agitated patterns.
"No." Void's tone was firm. "We maintain schedule. But we adjust assumptions about his capability. He's not just physically overwhelming—he's strategically competent. That combination is dangerous."
"Can we still manipulate Griffith as planned?" Ubik asked.
"Griffith's corruption proceeds regardless of Kars's strategic developments. The Behelit works on psychological level that external tactical situations can't prevent." Void turned his attention to broader causality flows. "But we need contingencies for Kars's interference during the Eclipse itself."
"Physical barriers won't contain him," Slan noted.
"No. We'll need metaphysical binding. Conceptual constraints that his perfect biology can't adapt around." Void's exposed brain pulsed with rapid thought. "He's vulnerable to attacks on meaning, identity, predetermined structure. We use those."
"And if he breaks through anyway?" Conrad asked.
"Then we discover whether perfection truly exceeds predetermination." Void's voice held something almost like anticipation. "Either outcome serves causality. Either he's incorporated or he proves incorporation impossible. Both teach us something fundamental."
The God Hand continued planning, adapting their strategies for an opponent who was proving more complex, and more dangerous than their initial estimates had suggested.