Translation — Epic Fantasy Narrative Style
A new era had dawned, and the relentless wheels of progress crushed every trace of the age now left behind.
It was as though tens of thousands of birds were shrieking in terror—yet they were nothing more than the piercing wails of iron whistles. Like a massive storm-born flock, those cries gathered into a trembling cloud above the Lower District. Soldiers marched beneath that sound, iron boots striking the damp ground in perfect unison, spreading out to claim every street and square at the command of that metallic chorus.
The final stage of the catacomb's purification had begun. Tons of fire-oil were poured through every access point, and a sea of flame roared to life, devouring stone, shadow, and bone alike. From within that inferno, the thunder of arquebuses cracked again and again—raw and merciless.
Across the firestorm, endless silhouettes ran, screaming with a madness that could not be smothered. No matter how many bullets tore through them, no matter how much hellfire swallowed them whole—they always returned from the pitch-black nightmare that birthed them.
"Increase firepower!"
Borel barked the order. The obsidian-plated steam tram shuddered as its armor retracted, revealing a welded row of heavy rifles that unleashed death with brutal force.
Robin murmured a solemn prayer, his voice resonating through every soldier's communicator like a dim, flickering blessing. Yet even his words brought risk—for with each transmission, some soldiers' suits shrieked with panic alarms. When that happened, Borel would, without hesitation, raise his gun and fire a tranquilizing round at his own comrades.
Those electrodes—implanted beneath flesh and wired to the brainstem—were a product of the Mechanical Institute. Originally designed as treatment for the insane, the Purification Bureau had repurposed them into safeguards against demonic corruption: a shock to sever the mind before madness could drown it. It awakened clarity—or, if clarity was lost entirely, it made execution easier.
This conflict had endured since the old age—bathed in blood and suffering. Tonight, the Purification Bureau commanded overwhelming force… yet even so, the losses continued to mount.
Blood dripped from fever-hot gun barrels. Soldiers' palms had long since split from the recoil, even through their gloves. Their strength, will, and sanity were wearing thin.
And then, at last, the Geiger counters stabilized.
The monsters within the catacomb had ceased to change—
or perhaps Galahad had killed the source.
From within the blazing abyss, footsteps echoed—slow, heavy, and fate-laden.
"It's Galahad!"
Robin could not hide the relief in his voice. To walk into hell and return was a blessing granted to very few.
He stepped forward to welcome the survivor—only for Borel to seize him by the arm. Behind Borel's mask, his eyes glinted with a storm of emotion. He spoke into the communicator, tone sharp as steel:
"Galahad, confirm your consciousness. Say something. Now!"
A silver barrel leveled toward the flames. His finger tightened around the trigger—and this time, no sedative rested inside. These bullets were the kind meant to kill.
"What are you doing, Borel?!"
Robin's anger flared, but Borel snarled back:
"This is procedure! Galahad—respond!"
Silence.
Only the intermittent crackle of electric interference answered.
A silence as dead and bottomless as the sea.
Answer… Please…
Borel had never known such fear. Galahad still had time—just a few seconds to prove he remained himself. Even a broken syllable would be enough.
But the final moment slipped away.
No voice.
No hope.
And the light in Borel's eyes died with it.
A chilling cold knifed through him, impossibly sharp against the heat of the inferno. After a single breath's worth of hesitation, his gaze hardened into iron.
"All units, report! Galahad has succumbed to neural corruption—now classified as a hostile entity. Command is transferred to Borel."
He roared the order, then unleashed a round straight into the burning figure. The bullet struck—yet like a pebble cast into a lake, only faint ripples shimmered across the flames.
"Teams Three and Four—suppress fire, now!"
The sky turned into a rain of bullets. Soldiers pulled back, instinctively fleeing the monster emerging from the fire. Staying would only mean dying in vain.
"I told you—it's a cursed creation! Using that thing always demanded a price!"
Borel sprinted toward the Iron Serpent vehicle, rage and guilt tangled in every heartbeat. He did not need to look to know Robin's fate—the sickening crunch of armor and bone told enough.
Humanity had pried open too many forbidden truths—Pandora's box transformed into a dozen machine chambers and living weapons. With each discovery came disaster… and a sliver of hope.
Galahad was disaster made flesh.
"Have the Praetorian Guard take the perimeter! Everyone—focus fire on Galahad!"
Borel leapt onto the Iron Serpent, a reinforced monster of steel designed to ferry only the deadliest machines of war.
The wind howled past his ears like a furious beast. Berau hurled himself forward, sliding with all his strength beneath the vehicle—then, with a piercing shriek, the obsidian blade tore through the armored hull, driving straight into the earth below.
"Galahad!"
Berau stood atop the blazing wreckage, shouting toward his old friend—now swallowed in darkness. Through the roaring flames, that figure wrenched the blade free. He wasn't holding it. No—scarlet sinews bound the weapon to his very arm, muscle fused with metal.
It was not a sword at all, but the grotesquely elongated part of his armor. Scale-like plates jutted outward like feathers from his elbow, unfurling into a wing of jagged steel. With a harsh clatter of scraping metal, those wings spread wide, claiming the inferno as their stage.
Monstrous and divine all at once—like a fallen angel torn straight from the pages of the Gospel.