Location: The Outskirts of the Richard Estate, Scottish Highlands
Date: August 11, 2017
Time: 10:20 GMT
The mist didn't just hang in the air; it clung to the skin like a cold, wet ghost.
Alen walked away from the Richard Estate, his boots crunching softly on the gravel track. He needed distance. After the confrontation in the library—the secrets, the appearance of Ada Wong, the betrayal he felt radiating from Isabella—the air in the house had become unbreathable.
He pulled his black hoodie up, shielding his face from the biting wind that swept down from the glens. He walked without a destination, letting his feet guide him through the village and out the other side, toward the older, wilder part of the valley.
Eventually, the silhouette of a building rose from the fog.
It was an ancient Catholic church, built from gray whinstone that had weathered centuries of Atlantic storms. It stood proud and defiant against the bleak landscape, a remnant of a time when faith was the only shield against the dark.
Alen walked through the rusted iron gates. In the courtyard, the scene was a stark contrast to the violence in his mind. A group of children—orphans, judging by their mismatched but clean clothes—were playing a game of tag, their laughter ringing out like bells in the silence. Two nuns watched over them, their habits fluttering in the wind.
It reminded him of St. Agnes's Orphanage.
1985.
He remembered sitting by the window, watching the other children play. He never joined in. He always felt... apart. Different. He would sit under the old oak tree, staring at his reflection in the puddles, wondering why he didn't look like anyone else. He hadn't known then that he was the son of monsters—Albert and Alex Wesker. He hadn't known his blood was cursed.
Then, Dr. Jessica R. Richard had come. The woman who became his everything. She had taken his small, cold hand and led him out of the orphanage and into a life of warmth in Cambridge. She had taught him empathy. She had taught him discipline.
Her death in 2001 left the first scar. Master Shi Yan Xing's death last week left the second.
Now, both anchors were gone. He was drifting in a sea of blood.
Alen sat on a damp wooden bench under a gnarled yew tree, watching the children. For a fleeting moment, their innocence soothed the burning in his veins.
Suddenly, he felt a presence. A hand settled gently on his shoulder.
Alen's muscles coiled instantly. His hand twitched toward the knife concealed in his waistband. But the touch wasn't aggressive; it was heavy, warm, and steady.
He turned his head.
Standing behind him was an elderly priest. He had a face weathered by time, like a crag on the mountain, with deep lines etched around kind eyes. He wore the traditional black cassock of a Catholic padre, frayed slightly at the hem.
Father Julian Fraser.
He looked at Alen with a gaze that seemed to peel back the layers of trauma and see the boy underneath.
"What happened, my child?" Julian asked. His voice was deep, rolling with the thick, lyrical brogue of the Highlands. "Ye look more tired than a man should be. Ye don't look so good."
Alen forced a small, fake smile—a mask he wore too often.
"I am fine, Father," Alen lied. "Just a bit out of sorts with the weather."
Julian chuckled, a dry sound like leaves rustling. He walked around the bench and stood in front of Alen, leaning on a walking stick.
"And who might ye be, son? If ye don't mind an old man askin'."
"My name is Alen R. Richard," Alen said, the name tasting heavy. "Son of Dr. Jessica R. Richard. Grandson of Amalia."
Julian's eyes widened slightly, a flicker of recognition passing through them.
"Ah. Ye are that boy who came in 2011," Julian nodded slowly. "I noticed ye back then. Ye were young, full of grief. But now... now ye carry the weight of the world, don't ye? I see the trauma in your eyes, laddie."
Alen looked away, staring at the gray water of the loch in the distance. The facade crumbled.
"I am really tired, Padre," Alen whispered, the truth spilling out. "I am running and running, fighting this war that never ends. I just want a peaceful life surrounded by people I trust. But I lost the only two people who truly knew me. And now... everywhere I go, I see betrayal. I see secrets. I can't trust anyone."
Julian nodded solemnly. "I understand. I knew your mother, Jessica. She was a kind, gentle lass. But her mother told the world she died of cancer in England. You say you are tired of secrets... but you are living in the shadow of the biggest one."
Alen looked up sharply. "You knew her?"
"Come with me," Julian said, gesturing toward the church. "I have something to tell ye. Something the firelight needs to hear."
The Underground Sanctuary
Alen followed Father Julian into the church. It was vast and cold, smelling of incense and old stone. They walked past the rows of pews to the altar. Julian stopped before a statue of Saint Michael the Archangel slaying a demon.
He tapped a specific sequence on the stone plinth. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap.
A grinding noise echoed as a section of the floor behind the altar slid away, revealing a hidden spiral staircase.
"After you," Julian said.
They descended into the earth. The air grew sterile. When they reached the bottom, Alen wasn't looking at a crypt. He was looking at a high-tech medical laboratory, hidden beneath the holy ground.
"Sit down, my child," Julian pointed to a metal chair. "We have a lot to discuss."
Alen sat, his hand hovering near his weapon. "Who are you? Really?"
Julian sat opposite him, clasping his hands.
"Good job killing him permanently," Julian started, his voice hardening. "Brandon Bailey was the root of our rot. A man like that has no right to draw breath. I know you are shocked that a priest would say such a thing. You probably want to hurt me. But I assure you, Alen... I work with your grandmother."
Alen gritted his teeth, his jaw clenching. "Amalia seems to have a lot of secret partners."
"Amalia didn't tell you, did she?" Julian smiled sadly. "I am her second husband."
Alen blinked. "What? That's impossible. She told me she was the secret wife of Dr. James Marcus. That my mother was his biological daughter."
"Yes, she was," Julian confirmed. "But you don't know the full story. The part that matters."
Julian leaned forward.
"I helped her escape James. Your grandmother did the right thing to run. As James fell deeper under Oswell Spencer's influence, his ambition began to poison everything. When they discovered the Progenitor Virus in Africa, James thought it was a triumph for humanity. He wanted me to join them, to help 'guide' the research. But I had seen Spencer's true nature. I saw the monster they were trying to create."
"So you ran away with her?" Alen asked.
"I helped her flee to the Highlands," Julian corrected. "I was born here. I knew the land. We hid here. We married in secret to protect her. I helped Amalia raise Jessica as my own for those early years. But the fear... the fear of Spencer finding us was always there. So she moved to Cambridge with a new identity. Then you came along."
Julian sighed heavily.
"When we got the news in 2001... that Jessica had died of cancer, and her husband in a car accident... it broke us. We felt the guilt. We thought perhaps if we had been there, if we hadn't been hiding... we could have saved her."
Alen looked at the old man. He saw genuine pain in his eyes.
"But who are you exactly?" Alen asked again. "You aren't just a priest who knows virology."
"No," Julian said softly. "I was a classmate. I attended the same university as Oswell Spencer, James Marcus, and Edward Ashford. We were the brightest minds of our generation."
Alen was stunned. This man had walked with the founders of Umbrella.
"Spencer was cunning. Manipulative. A bastard in a tailored suit," Julian spat the words. "Edward was nobility, focused but blind. And James... James was a man of action, not words. I was the introvert. I never spoke to anyone but Amalia. I saw the rot before they did. When the Progenitor Virus was found, I refused to join their inner circle. I took my vows. I chose God over playing God."
Alen sat back, processing this. "So... you are technically my grandfather. My stepfather-grandfather."
"I prefer you call me Padre," Julian smiled. "Or Julian. 'Grandfather' makes me feel ancient."
He stood up and walked to a cabinet, his movements slow but deliberate.
"I know you look like Albert Wesker, Alen. But your eyes... they tell a different story. I know you destroyed The Connections. I know you feel betrayed by the world. But you must not give up. Even your Master Shi Yan Xing wouldn't want you to crumble now."
"I don't know what I am anymore," Alen admitted, his voice cracking. "I have the face of a devil."
Julian turned around. His face was fierce.
"You have the face of a devil, perhaps. But you have the heart of an angel. You are a warrior, Alen. Like the ones who walked these hills a thousand years ago."
Julian walked back to him.
"The Celtic warriors of the Highlands were fierce. They painted themselves for war. They wielded claymores against empires. They were brave not because they had no fear, but because they fought despite it. I see that inside you. You are a lone wolf. If the world gives you no allies, you fight alone. You face the challenge. You do not rust."
Alen listened. The words resonated deep in his chest, filling the hollow space left by Master Shi.
Julian reached into his pocket and pulled out a necklace. It was silver, heavy and tarnished with age. It featured a Christian cross, but integrated with intricate Celtic knotwork—endless loops representing eternity and a central circle for the sun.
He placed it in Alen's hand.
"This is the only thing I can give you as a grandfather," Julian said solemnly. "This is a family heirloom. It has passed down through generations of Frasers who fought for this land."
Alen looked at the silver gleaming in the harsh lab light.
"I see Cú Chulainn in you, Alen," Julian said.
"Who?" Alen asked.
"Cú Chulainn," Julian pronounced it carefully (Koo-KHUL-in). "The demigod warrior of Irish and Scottish myth. The Hound of Ulster. He was known for his battle rage—the riastrad. He defended his home single-handedly against entire armies. He was a son of a god and a mortal, just as you are the son of science and humanity."
"What the hell are you talking about, Father?" Alen shook his head, though a small smile touched his lips. "I'm just trying to stop people from dying in bio-wars. I'm no demigod."
"Don't be foolish, boy," Julian snapped, his eyes blazing. "You are the light this world needs, working in the shadows. Cú Chulainn died standing up, tied to a stone so his enemies would think he was still fighting. That is the spirit I see in you. The refusal to fall."
Alen gripped the Celtic cross. The metal was cold, but it felt right in his hand. An anchor.
"You have to fight," Julian commanded. "No matter what. You have to come back from your mind. Focus on the work. You are the antibody of this world."
Alen took a deep breath. For the first time in weeks, the fog in his head cleared. The motivation wasn't hate anymore. It was duty. It was heritage.
"Thank you, Padre," Alen said, his voice firm. He looked at the old man and corrected himself. "Thank you... Grandfather."
Julian smiled, a genuine, warm expression that lit up the underground lab.
"You're welcome, child. Now, let's go home. Your grandmother will be waiting. And remember... never give up on hope. It's the only weapon they can't take from you."
Alen put the necklace around his neck. He felt the weight of it against his chest, resting over the scars of the A-Virus.
He was a Cog
. He was a Phantom. And now, he was a Warrior of the Highlands.
"Let's go," Alen said.