The victory feast at Doldrey fortress rang hollow.
Wine flowed freely through halls that should have been soaked in blood. Mercenaries celebrated a triumph they hadn't earned, their laughter echoing off stone walls that had witnessed no true siege. The Band of the Hawk occupied a fortress taken in under an hour—a feat that should have been impossible.
Kars observed from a shadowed alcove, crimson eyes tracking the revelry with clinical detachment. The humans celebrated as if they'd achieved something meaningful. As if walking through gates he'd opened constituted conquest.
"Not joining the festivities?"
Griffith approached, two cups of wine in hand. The White Hawk's armor gleamed even in dim torchlight, polished to mirror perfection despite the day's events. He extended one cup toward Kars.
"I don't drink," Kars said simply. "Alcohol serves no purpose for perfect biology."
"Neither does joining a mercenary band, yet here you are." Griffith took a measured sip from his own cup. "The men are uneasy. They know what you did—what you made possible. Some worship you for it. Others..."
"Fear what they don't understand." Kars shifted slightly, moonlight catching the subtle iridescence of his skin. "A predictable response. Humans always fear superiority they can't achieve."
"Is that what you think you represent? Superiority?"
"I don't think it. I embody it." No arrogance colored the statement—merely fact, delivered with the same certainty one might declare water wet. "Every cell in my body represents ten thousand years of evolution compressed into singular perfection. I am what your species could become given geological time."
Griffith studied him over the rim of his cup. "Yet you follow my commands."
"I follow my curiosity." Kars's lips curved slightly—not quite a smile, more the expression of a scientist observing an interesting specimen. "You intrigue me, Griffith. Your ambition burns bright enough to rival the sun, yet you're bound by flesh that will rot, dreams that will crumble, a kingdom that will fall to dust. The contradiction is... educational."
"All things fall to dust eventually. Even gods."
"Perhaps." Kars tilted his head, considering. "Though I wonder—when your dream demands sacrifice, what will you offer? When the cost exceeds what mere ambition can pay, what then?"
Something flickered in Griffith's eyes—a shadow of calculation, there and gone. "Every dream has its price."
"Yes. But not every dreamer understands the currency required." Kars glanced at the celebrating mercenaries. "These men follow you believing they share your dream. What happens when they learn they ARE the price?"
"That's a strange question."
"Is it? That crimson pendant you carry—the one you think no one notices. It pulses with something beyond physical matter. I've observed three similar energies since joining your Band, all connected to those creatures at Doldrey." Kars leaned forward slightly. "You're involved in something larger than mortal ambition, Griffith. The question is whether you're the player or the piece."
Griffith's hand moved unconsciously to where the Behelit rested against his chest, hidden beneath armor. "Some things are meant to remain hidden."
"From humans, perhaps. Not from me."
Before Griffith could respond, Guts's voice cut through the feast's din—sharp with anger.
"I said get your hands off her!"
The great hall's celebration stuttered to silence. Guts stood over a sprawled soldier, knuckles bloodied. Casca knelt nearby, her torn sleeve revealing a growing bruise on her upper arm. The fallen mercenary—one of the new recruits picked up after Doldrey—spat blood and reached for his sword.
"Bitch was asking for it," the soldier slurred, wine heavy on his breath. "Walking around like she's better than—"
Guts's boot connected with his jaw. Bone cracked. The man crumpled, unconscious before hitting stone.
"Anyone else?" Guts's hand rested on Dragonslayer's hilt. "Anyone else think they can put hands on one of ours?"
The recruits—men who'd joined for glory after hearing of Doldrey's impossible capture—shuffled nervously. They outnumbered the original Band three to one now, drawn by tales of invincible victories and supernatural allies.
"Guts." Casca stood, voice steady despite her torn clothing. "It's handled."
"The hell it is." He turned to face the crowd. "You all think because we took Doldrey easy, because HE—" Guts jabbed a finger toward Kars's alcove, "—did the real work, that makes you heroes? That gives you rights?"
"Enough." Griffith's voice carried absolute authority. He descended the stairs, each step measured. "Casca, see to your injuries. Guts, cool your head. As for the rest of you..."
His gaze swept the hall, blue eyes cold as winter sky.
"We are the Band of the Hawk. We soar above common soldiers because we maintain discipline. Anyone who forgets that will be cast out. Or worse." He glanced meaningfully at Kars. "Our recent victories have attracted... diverse talents. Some of you seem confused about what that means."
Kars materialized beside the unconscious soldier—movement too fast for human eyes to track. He crouched, examining the man with the same interest one might show an insect.
"This one thought proximity to power granted him power," Kars observed. "A common delusion among inferior beings. Shall I demonstrate the difference?"
His hand began to shift, fingers elongating into something between claws and surgical instruments.
"No," Griffith said calmly. "He's learned his lesson."
"Has he?" Kars's transformed fingers traced the air above the man's throat. "His heartbeat suggests otherwise. Unconscious, yet still aggressive. Still believing himself entitled. I could adjust his brain chemistry—remove the aggression entirely. Make him docile as a lamb."
Several mercenaries stepped back.
"We don't alter our men," Griffith stated.
"Your men. Not mine." But Kars withdrew his hand, fingers returning to normal. "Though I admit curiosity—why maintain such flawed tools? Why not improve them?"
"Because they choose to follow. Choice requires agency. Remove that..." Griffith smiled thinly. "And they become mere extensions of will. Useful, perhaps. But ultimately limited."
"Interesting philosophy from someone who treats people as stepping stones."
The hall held its breath. Griffith's smile never wavered.
"We all use each other, Kars. The only question is whether we're honest about it."
Later, in the fortress's highest tower, Guts found Casca treating her bruises with herbal salve. The moon hung full beyond the window, casting everything in silver.
"You didn't need to do that," she said without looking up.
"Yeah, I did." Guts leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "These new recruits... they don't get it. They see Kars tear through those monsters like paper, think that makes them invincible by association."
"It's more than that." Casca winced as she applied salve to a particularly dark bruise. "The original Band—we bled for every victory. Earned our reputation through sacrifice and skill. Now? We're riding someone else's power. The men know it. The nobles know it. Hell, we know it."
"Griffith doesn't seem to mind."
"Griffith sees a tool that advances his dream. Nothing more, nothing less." She finally met Guts's eyes. "But what happens when the tool decides it has its own purpose? What happens when Kars gets bored?"
Guts shifted uncomfortably. "He's been training me. Teaching me techniques, ways to survive against things that shouldn't exist."
"Why?"
"Says I'm interesting. That my refusal to accept weakness despite being surrounded by superior forces is... educational." Guts snorted. "I think he just likes having someone who doesn't worship or fear him."
"And you? What do you think of him?"
Guts was quiet for a long moment. "He's not human. Not in any way that matters. When he looks at us, he doesn't see people—he sees specimens. Variables in some experiment only he understands."
"That should terrify you."
"It does. But..." Guts's hand unconsciously moved to Dragonslayer's hilt. "He's also the only reason half the Band is still alive. Those three things at Doldrey—apostles, he called them—would have slaughtered us."
"Apostles?" Casca frowned. "Is that what those monsters were?"
"That's what he called them. Said they were impossible, even for him to fully understand. Biology that shouldn't exist." Guts paused. "He also said something else. That they serve something called the God Hand."
"God Hand..." Casca tested the words. "Sounds like something from old myths."
"Maybe. But the way he said it... like they were real. Like they were watching." Guts moved to the window. "He's hunting something, Casca. Using us as bait or cover, I don't know which."
"And Griffith knows?"
"Griffith knows enough. That pendant he wears—Kars mentioned it. Said it pulses with the same energy as those apostles."
Casca's face went pale. "You think Griffith is connected to those things?"
"I think Griffith would make a deal with demons if it got him his kingdom." Guts's voice dropped. "The question is whether he already has."
Below in the courtyard, Kars stood motionless in moonlight. He hadn't moved for hours, simply observing the stars with inhuman patience. His perfect vision penetrated atmosphere, seeing details human eyes could never perceive.
This world operated on different rules. The apostles were biological impossibilities—transformations that violated conservation of mass, abilities that transcended mere evolution. And beyond them, something else. He'd felt it when the last apostle died at Doldrey. A presence observing through dying eyes. Multiple presences, actually. Evaluating. Calculating.
They called themselves the God Hand, according to the apostle's dying thoughts he'd absorbed. Four beings that existed partially outside physical reality, manipulating something called causality. The apostles served them, were created by them through objects called Behelits.
Objects like the one Griffith carried.
"You sense it too."
Kars didn't turn at the new voice. He'd detected the presence approaching—old, female, touched by something beyond normal humanity.
A crone emerged from shadow, bent with age but moving with surprising grace. Her clothes might once have been noble finery, now reduced to carefully maintained rags. But her eyes... her eyes held depths that had seen far more than a human lifetime should allow.
"You're not entirely human," Kars observed.
"Neither are you, perfect one." She circled him at a careful distance. "But at least I was born to this world. You... you're an anomaly. Something that shouldn't exist in the current of causality."
"Causality. The apostle's mind mentioned that concept. Predetermined fate, immutable destiny."
"Close enough for your purposes." The crone smiled, revealing too many teeth. "You've disrupted things simply by existing. The God Hand watches, uncertain how to account for you."
"They're planning something."
"They're always planning something. It's their nature—to orchestrate suffering into meaning, transform pain into power." She produced a small vial filled with liquid that seemed to exist in too many dimensions simultaneously. "But your presence has created... ripples. Possibilities that didn't exist before."
"What is that?" Kars examined the vial with perfect sight, but the liquid defied analysis.
"Insurance. When the moment comes—and you'll know it when it does—drink this. It will anchor you when they try to scatter your consciousness across dimensions."
"Why help me?"
"Because I'm curious what happens when perfect evolution meets immutable fate. Because I want to see if causality can be broken." Her smile widened impossibly. "Or perhaps because I enjoy watching gods bleed, even if only metaphorically."
She placed the vial on the ground between them and began retreating into shadow.
"Wait. Tell me about the God Hand. What are they? What do they want?"
"They are humanity's darkness given form. Born from a collective unconscious desire for meaning through suffering. As for what they want..." She paused at the edge of shadow. "They want what all parasites want—to feed. And their food is human despair, served at a feast called the Eclipse."
"Eclipse?"
But she was gone, melted into darkness as if she'd never been.
Kars retrieved the vial, studying it. The liquid inside defied every law of physics he understood, existing in a state that shouldn't be possible. Yet it was there, tangible in his perfect grip.
The Eclipse. A feast of despair. The God Hand. Griffith's pendant. All pieces of a puzzle he couldn't quite see yet.
But he would. Time was on his side, he had eternity to understand.
Above, the stars continued their eternal dance, indifferent to the ambitions of men and monsters alike. But Kars, perfect in form but still learning about this strange world, sensed something else among those stars. A watching presence, vast and malevolent, patient as stone.
Something was coming. Something that would test whether physical perfection could overcome metaphysical predetermination.
He looked forward to it.
In his chambers, Griffith held the Crimson Behelit up to candlelight. The strange egg-like object's features were scattered randomly across its surface—an eye here, a nose there, lips somewhere else entirely. It had been with him since childhood, a gift from an old fortune teller who'd spoken of destiny and kingdoms.
He didn't understand what it truly was. Only that it was important. That it would, somehow, someday, grant him his dream.
But Kars had noticed it. Had identified it as connected to those apostles. Which meant it was connected to power beyond human comprehension.
"What price would you demand?" Griffith asked the Behelit. "What sacrifice would you require?"
The Behelit, of course, didn't answer. It never did.
Not yet.
But sometimes, in quiet moments like this, Griffith could swear he heard it whispering. Promising everything he'd ever wanted.
All he had to do was wait for the right moment.
And pay the right price.
Whatever that price might be, Griffith had already decided—it would be worth it.
His kingdom was worth any sacrifice.
Any sacrifice at all.