“Saint Bramwell had a tragic story—kinda like mine, but worse, since he was too weak to defend himself—but not that life was easy, anyway, for Soulfuls during the Middle Centuries. Of course, it was an improvement over the Dark Century, but as Professor Al Cordoba very well explains in his book The Roots of Chaos: An Unbiased Investigation into the Underlying Causes of the Dark Century—which I didn’t read, but was told is a great book—the treaties that CCC-Class ‘Swansong’ Emperor Connor II Rolandsson had to sign to end the chaos left deep scars in the social fabric of the Holy Rolandish Empire.
”While what Xoán calls Normalcy returned to the prosperous coastal trade cities, the remote outskirts—far beyond the reach of Imperial oversight—fell under the control of powerful lords who ruled as de facto kings—for example, Sofia’s story in The Seven Husbands of the Emerald Princess is a perfect illustration of the price commoners had to paid for that hasty peace. Anyway, back to the point, Saint Bramwell was born in the Swampies, lands so remote, underpopulated, and poor that, ironically, they were spared much of the destruction of the Dark Century. However, when peace returned, the Knights who had answered the call of the ‘Rightful King’ went back to rule their forgotten homelands, including S-Class ‘Moon Lover’ Keswick Oathshire.
”Spoiler warning—he was a complete piece of shit. Well, all nobles are, but this one was way worse due to his insecurity, who, after witnessing the splendors of the Holy Rolandish Empire, grew ashamed of his swampy homeland. All his noble friends had grand castles, while he had a glorified mudhut surrounded by a few smaller huts. Just imagine trying to invite ladies over—utterly embarrassing. So, he decided things had to change, and since he’d grown quite rich from the war, he could afford to import food at half the cost of what his local fishermen and farmers demanded to work that miserable land. Instead, he put those peasants in good use for a special project of his, and the result was a marvel that still stands today and forever etched the Keswick name into history—the Palace of the Kissing Moons.
“Oh, I’ve been there! It’s wonderful. The only villa that can rival an Auxerine Château,” Ælfgifu chimed in, recalling one of the few trips she’d taken while her father was still alive.
“Marquis, please,” Mr. Anhogi replied, raising a hand. “It’s a complicated story. If I lose focus, I’ll get lost.” She nodded in apology, and he continued. “Right, where was I? Oh yes. To be clear, Ser Keswick wasn’t exactly exploiting his subjects in the way the Chaotic Gods did with the First Chaotians, but he wasn’t doing anything to prevent it either. He spent his days abroad, bragging in the most exclusive courts of Chaotia that his residence would one day rival the Twilight Queen’s, demanding constant updates on the progress of his project and pushing his overseers there to increase the working hours to match his inflating pride.
“Day by day, the working hours stretched longer, first by minutes, then hours, until the peasants were toiling twenty-four hours a day—even the cruelest tyrants of the Dark Century couldn’t have dreamed of such a feat. Still, the people of the Shuralands were resilient and patient—you need both to survive a climate like that. And so they endured because by the time the work became unbearable, the palace was nearly finished. However, it is known that when injustice lingers unchecked for too long, fate tends to show up with a sense of humor.
One of Messer Keswick’s so-called friends, tired of his endless boasting, decided to take revenge by inaugurating his new palace a day before Keswick’s own ceremony, and by judging by what the ’Moon Lover’ had written in the surviving letters, he got outshone by far. Thus, desperate, the lord did the only thing that could excuse postponing his humiliation—the east wing of his palace mysteriously collapsed, killing three hundred of his subjects in the collapse.”
“He killed his own people just so he wouldn’t look bad in front of his friends!” Ægifu shouted, outraged.
“Yeah, but he was a social animal, living in a tribe where reputation is the food,” Mr. Anhogi answered. “I’m no big brain like Dr. Moyens, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t even understand what he was doing, like an animal that doesn’t know cannibalism is wrong when it’s starving.”
“Nice excuse to offer a judge. I just don't understand why is someone like that allowed to exist in our society...” The dust in the scars of Ælgifu’s large forehead fastened, glowing yellow.
“Because they were taught to be that way. Essentias are powerful, so imagine if, instead of wasting time competing over petty things, they started fighting each other for supremacy. The overall death toll would be higher in the second case.” The ’Sinful Blade’ shrugged her off, but then an idea lit his face, so funny that the corner of his mouth betrayed a smile. “I’ll give you an example that I loved the first time I heard it. Imagine two Hydrotracks, each with people chained to them. On the first track, there is one person, on the second, thirty-six, and a Hytrain is coming toward them. However, beside the tracks, there’s a lever that, by pulling it, the moving mass of steel will be switched to the first track, sparing thirty-six at the cost of one. Would you kill one person to save the majority?”
Ælgifu closed herself in thought, but each second her porcelain cracked a little more. “That’s an awful question with no real match in reality. It’s the worst type of cynicism, created to make fun of my morals.”
“So, for you too, the answer is to kill that lone man.” The Marquis quickly opened her mouth to protest, but her professor ignored her, his expression bitter as he moved on. “Anyway, let’s finish the story. After the collapse, the surviving workers weren’t only forced to rebuild the section that had fallen, but also to expand it, making it even grander than before. That meant longer hours, more danger, breaking even the strongest among them and igniting a protest that would later be remembered as the Bell Wrecking—the first labour strike in recorded history.
“Was it really the first? Professor Al Cordoba told us that workers had always rebelled, but those uprisings were for tangible things—higher pay, better food, or the removal of some cruel overseer. This one, however, was the first time people rose up for something far harder to define—dignity. They claimed that no one should ever be ashamed of hisprofession. It wasn’t the physical pain that broke these people, but the way their neighbors looked at them, treated like they were filthy slaves, and as consequence, marriages and years-long friendships were severed to avoid being seen as friendly these human trash, but, worse, acts of violence against the workers widespread with people laughed while committing the worst atrocities, as if anything done to them was logical and justified. And it didn’t matter how far they ran, somehow, the stench of that injustice followed these people everywhere—everyone they met judged them before they could even speak.” Ælgifu lowered her sight, understanding a little bit of the pain herself.
“At the head of the revolt was a priest—his real name lost to time—but history remembers him as Bramwell. Although he wasn’t a worker himself, he had been among them from the start, offering both spiritual guidance and medical care—medicine was part of a cleric’s study, after all—and one day, unable to bear watching anymore the torment of his brothers in faith, he climbed the tallest tower of the palace and expressed his honest opinion of Messer Keswick by severing the ropes of the palace bells, and the three bronze colossi fell to the ground. It was an act typical of the Heretics while desecrating a church, symbolizing that the Holy Trinity had no reign there—it's funny how the same meaning can have so wildly different interpretations.
“After that freedom cry, the strike began, and the workers hid in the swamp, fleeing their oppression. When Messer Keswick heard of this, he hastily returned home, and to ensure his palace was finished on time, he hunted down all of them. Bramwell was a shrewd leader, but his foe had fought the worst monsters while campaigning with his Emperor, and the strike was crushed i less than a week. Then, the priest was taken to the top of a hill—the very same hill where, five hundred years later, the Short King of the Short Shortlands would die with his loyal Knights—beheading him. His body rolled down through a field of yellow flowers, then into the river below—hence the name Bramwell.”
“It ends like that?” Ælgifu bitterly asked.
“Nah, this story has a good ending. The rumor of a church bells being cut down immediately alerted the Sacred Inquisition, who sent a battalion of Exorcists to purge the area from Chaos Worshippers. When they arrived, they learned of Bramwell’s story and went to question the ‘Moon Lover,’ but not about the workers’ conditions—since the Emperor’s laws guaranteed his loyal Knights complete authority over their Fieedom—but about his obsession with finishing the palace so quickly.
“You see, desiring to possess something magnificent to make everyone jelly as hell of you is a perfectly understandable feeling for a noble. But why the hurry? Why finish in a couple of years what normally takes forty? That, my little squirrel, is heretical behavior of the finest kind. Thus, a quick inspection of Keswick’s estate revealed dozens of Chaotic idols hidden beneath his new palace, and he was immediately arrested, tried, and burned at the stake in the Capital. And with his infamy, Bramwell’s story spread too, creating something new for its time—a link between heresy and the workers’ abuse. Riding that wave of zeal, the Emperor signed the Bramwell Declaration, establishing twelve hours as the maximum legal workday—any additional hours to be paid double—and, most importantly, it proclaimed that there is dignity in all honest labour because it is work that makes us free.” Ælgifu clapped her hands, genuinely delighted by the ending. “So, can you guess why this church was consecrated in honor of Saint Bramwell?”
The professor gestured toward what remained of the church, now a skeleton of stone and wood with a single wall still standing and with dozens of corpses of giant beasts scattered throughout the floor, lying in pools of blood—the professor and his student rested their backs against the warm belly of a lion, the last Sphinx they had slayed.
“Miraval City is a jewel separated from the rest of the Empire, where the Emperor has basically no say in the decision of the Miraval Family. Therefore, the immigrant steelworkers, exploited by the cold hearts of the Miraval Family, started praying to Saint Bramwell to bring his justice even to the most isolated of places.”
The Sinful Blade nodded. “Smart girl.”
She beamed at the compliment. “Do you know, professor. I have always thought you were just a brute who got this job by threatening someone, but you’re slowly becoming my favorite teacher.”
Mr. Anhogi didn’t take the bait, shrugging and lighting a cigarette. “Flattery won’t save your ass from punishment, little squirrel.”
“I’m deadly serious!” The Marcher lady jumped to her feet, leaning so close their noses nearly touched, leaving him to blink in confusion. “Your order was to never lose sight of the VIP students,” she reminded, pressing her finger on his chest multiple times. “But you left everyone behind to look for me—incredible.”
“Ahem…your case is special,” he muttered, turning slightly red. “It was a matter of security—I couldn’t let the Demmies capture you, again.”
Her amethyst eyes sparkled. “In other words, you defied an absolute order to do the most moral thing to do. Why? Because you do care about your students! You’re not that rigid old military fossil after all. Also, didn’t you say you spotted the Hegemon entering here while you were looking for me?” The Sinful Blade scratched the back of his neck, then nodded reluctantly. “So you prioritized my safety over capturing a vital piece of intelligence!”
“N-no, you’re wrong,” he stammered, waving both hands in denial. “There was no proof it was really the Hegemon!”
“Liar! You knew exactly who he was.” A smile formed on Ælgifu’s face. “You wanted me to see you defeat the man who ruined your life. You wanted someone to know the truth, didn’t you?” Defeated, Mr. Anhogi lowered his red face. Then, he gave her a single nod.
“AAAAAAAAAAA—I KNOW IT!!” Ælgifu seized her professor’s hands, intertwining their fingers and shaking them with excitement while the poor Verdan was now as red as a pepper. “Don’t worry, professor! Once this siege is over, the whole world will know the truth. We’ll take Rougeserker from that bastard’s corpse and restore your honor—I swear it, on the name of the Rougedior family!” La Marquise De La Marche had made a vow, and as the history of the Rougedior Family taught, it was one she would have to keep to the bitter end, regardless of the consequences.
“Well…thanks,” he muttered, giving a half-hearted thumbs-up, but couldn’t bring himself to look at that radiant smile—his heart too clogged by years of hatred might not have survived that celestial sight.
“Oh, by the way. How did you know such a wonderful story?” Ælgifu asked, curious.
“Well, overheard it in Gus’s office…oh, I mean, Head Department Miraval’s. His assistant, Jacques, was begging for a raise and told his boss this story to butter him up—it didn’t work.”
The ’Dust Symphonist’ pressed her finger against her lips. “Jacques? That name sounds familiar…Who is he?”
Mr. Anhogi raised his knife, staring at its violet pulse of its blade. “A man who’s hiding something. But don’t worry. Once this siege is over, let’s just say I have my ways of making people talk—”
*Claaaaaaaaaaaaang—THUUMMM!*
Suddenly, the bell tower collapsed, its bronze titan crashing down into the altar below. Saint Bramwell Church’s requiem was now completed with the destruction of its last beauty.
“Well, that’s not a good sign, isn’t it?” The professor joked, but his student’s expression turned GRIM.
“Down there…there’s something.” Ælgifu raised her hand, opening her palm to reveal dust swirling above it. “There’s a strange symphony coming from there.”
Frowning, Mr. Anhogi stepped toward the ruins of the altar, and after pushing aside a few slabs of stone and debris, he discovered something extremely out of place for a church—a sewer manhole, its cover engraved with the Miraval Tree. They exchanged a glance, nodded, and began their descent.
The tunnel below resembled an underground gallery rather than a sewer, its walls coated with tin and its walking platform in fine copper, but the strangest thing was the complete absence of dust. To be clear, the one the masses couldn’t see. Whereas, Ælgifu’s eyes were more refined, allowing her to peek at those small ashes—smaller than atoms—but she could also hear them—a haunting vibration, the oldest song Adam had ever sung.
The pair walked in silence until a distant light flashed ahead, reaching the edge of a large, circular chamber.
“Stop,” Mr. Anhogi ordered, raising a hand. “He’s already dead, and there could be traps.” He sent his flying knives into the room, their violet edges scanned every corner until they perceived a faint click on the ceiling, discovering a bomb wired into the ventilation. Once it was safely disarmed with a quick succession of slashes, professor and student moved to the center of the room, where a rusted dentist’s chair was bolted to the floor.
“Whoever did this did plan to come back as soon as possible,” the ’Sinful Blade’ murmured while he examined the corpse. “But when the siege began, our man couldn’t return to finish the job, and his victim must’ve starved to death.” He exhaled his frustration as he gently closed the corpse’s eyes. “Lucky or unlucky? I wonder which fate would have been worse.”
“Why would anyone do this? Maybe Some kind of revange?” But why in a church, of all places?” Ælgifu looked closer, and immediately wished she hadn’t.
The victim’s lips were sewn shut with a thread while his body was pierced with dozens rusty nail proably taken from the church. The work was methodical, each spike stuck at an exact distance from the next, but since the killer’s ritual had been interrupted by the Korinthians, only the arms and legs were nails graveyards.
“You probably don’t know because the story showed up on the headlines only the morning the siege started. ” Mr. Anhogi began as he turned the corpse to make the other side visible. Etched across the man’s back was an Animated Tattoo—a butterfly flapping its wings. “At Miraval City there’s…”
“A serial killer.”
***
“Sybille, where’s my coffee!?” The high-pitched shout made the slender nurse hurriedly prepare a very special brew, one personally conceived by DDD-Class ’Divine Hand’ Dr. Esteve De Miraval. “Thanks, Sybille. I genuinely don’t know what I’d do without you.” His trembling hand lifted the cup, but the vibrations spilled half the viscous green liquid across his shirt. “Ah, as always, vrai magnifique! Now, let’s get back to work.”
"Steve, you should rest now…please.” Although their relationship was all fire and fury, Sybille’s tone was sincere. The tremor in her brother-in-law’s fingers had spread to his arms, and the dark half-moons beneath his eyes had turned into full ones.
“Sleep? I’ll sleep all I want once I’m in the grave. For now, there are lives to save!” Dr. Miraval smirked as he put on his Leaves-Ambered Coat, the embroidered Miraval Tree gleaming across its back as he strode into the operating room. Waiting for him were three rows of stretchers filled with the siege’s victims, but these were neither those whose limbs had been crushed beneath falling debris, nor those who had escaped the Sphinxes’ jaws—they were the unluckiest of them all.
The stench that filled the air was beyond any possible description—neither the result of the urine nor the feces stained their stretchers, but from the sheer abundance of infection. Their bodies were blanketed in thousands of grotesque blisters, each one oozing mucus as they exploded, feeding the colonies of germs which released that fragrance. However, despite it all, all these people remained conscious—their faint groans forming a dreadful chorus that backgrounded the Maestro’s solo as he swung his scalpel.
After more than an hour of interrupted concert, the ’Divine Hand’ succeeded in fencing off the scyte of the ’Grim Reaper’ from each patient, and although recovery would have taken months—perhaps years—they would see their loved ones again. It was yet another round without committing any mistakes, breaking his personal record with more than three hundred successful and continuous shifts in less than a week—all without sleeping once.
“Sybille! Where’s my coffee!?” Esteve bellowed as he stormed into the corridor, blinking hard to keep his eyes open. Yet, no one answered for a full minute. “SYBILLE!” Enraged, he stepped forward, breaking into the nurses’ lounge. But when he pushed the door open, his fury was instantly quenched by what he saw. “Sybille…” There she was, sitting beside the still-fuming coffee machine, her hands tucked under her cheek, peacefully sleeping like a little girl in kindergarten. “How can someone so cold have such a warm smile while she sleeps?” The ’Divine Hand’ thought aloud before removing his coat and gently laying it over her shoulders, and for the first time in years, Dr. Esteve de Miraval decided to prepare the coffee himself.
For nine long days, Dr. Miraval had operated on patients without rest, and to stop himself from falling asleep while opening a belly with his scapel, he had perfected a cocktail—Aramashy Black Coffee, cocaine, and a few drops of Imperfect Paradise. As he sipped the lemon-flavored blend of a dark type of alchemy, the ’Divine Hand’ sank onto a bench overlooking the main hall. Down there, hundreds of desperate souls crowded the floor, shouting curses at the nurses struggling to calm them.
“We’re here to save them, and look how they treat us.” He raised his cup, but again, the tremors spilled more than he drank. “Ahhhhh…sometimes I wonder if this is really what I wanted to do with my life.”
*Tweet!*
“I know, I know,” he replied to the small friend perched on the railing beside him. “The Holy Trinity blessed me with a [Class] that most other doctors would kill their own families for.” His hand trembled harder, the same for his tone. “But sometimes…I wonder if there’s another road for us Essentias, one not in the script our ’Author’ has written for us.”
*Tweet!* *Tweet!*
“Oh, right. Tell that to the people I’ve just operated on. You think being poisoned by that filth was written too in their destiny? Are you telling me Adam enjoys watching us suffer!?”
*Tweet!*…*Tweet!*
“Sorry…I know it’s difficult for you too…It’s the gas fault…” he mumbled, lowering and clutching his head. “That cursed Korinthian Sarin, the vilest thing ever made—it shouldn’t have become the standard of war.” His expression cracked in half. “I was there, at Bloodmarch, the first doctor to face the Blue Mist when we knew nothing about it. It’s a cruel weapon, projected to kill slowly, forcing us to waste medical supplies on lost causes…”
*Tweet?*
”Who, you ask? The fool was a Korinthian agronomist. A good man, at first, who lived through the horror of the famines that plagued Western Chaotia and swore to end hunger forever. And he actually did it, creating an insecticide that saved millions of crops, feeding his entire nation.” His lips curved. “However, one day, a politician came for a state visit. A Black Lion that asked him for a new kind of insecticide—one that could wipe out the most filthy pest of all.”
*Tweet!* *Tweet!* *Tweet!*
“Big words for such a little bird,” Esteve betrayed a smirk. “I can’t save the world alone, and honestly, there’s no honor in what I do. Most doctors don’t choose medicine out of compassion, but for pride, for money, or because their families pushed them into it…and I’m no better.” He laughed at himself. “When I was a kid, I wanted to be a Miramble player. But when the Miraval Hand noticed my surname, it branded my soul with the letter D, and my fate was sealed.” He offered his cup to the Bluegale, and the tiny bird dipped its beak and drank. “Sometimes, I dream of making one fatal mistake—just one—and being forbidden to ever practice again. The life of one innocent soul for my freedom…Am I a monster for thinking t—”
”MY CHILD IS DYING!” Esteve’s conversation was interrupted by a father in the floor below, roaring the guards and nurse alike while holding his dying son. His words gave courage to the rest of the parents who surrendered to the hospital’s staff. ”Bring us to the doctors—NOW!”
*TWEEEEEEEEET!*
”You are right, little friend. I might hate my job, but I made the Oath of the Red Trinity, to save all wounded souls who pray for our coming—I have to go,” The ’Divine Hand’ declared to the Little Blue Phoenix, before gripping the balcony’s guardrail, and jumping below.
“Let me see your son.” For an instant, no one moved, utterly shocked by his entrance. But then, one by one, the parents began forming a line, all clutching their feverish or bloodied children. Dr. Miraval gestured to the various rows of seats in the hall, dividing each of them according to their problem.
“These ones are just tired and malnourished. Give them vitamins, food, and a good night of sleep,” he ordered, and the nurses obeyed in silence, ferrying the weaker cases away.
He moved to the second row. “These are the ones injured by the Sphinxes.” Esteve crouched by the first child, unwrapping the bandages. “Retractors.”
*Tweet!
* The Bluegale perched on his shoulder, ’handed’ him the tool. Then, the ’Divine Hand’ opened the wound with delicate speed and froze.
“Oh, shit—EAT IT!” He hastily threw the recovered objected up.
*BRAAAAPPPTTT!*
The tiny creature puffed up like a balloon before deflating with an unholy flatulence that filled the air with sweet, lavender-scented smoke.
…*Tweet* …
.
“Thanks, little bro, and don’t worry---it smells good.” He moved to the next child. “Sometimes the Sphinxes let a few escape alive,” he explained to the horrified parents. “However, before that, the monsters plant these tiny bombs inside their prey, embedded with a CO density checker. When the victim enters a crowded space…well—boom. We got lucky that they are greedy creatures.”
Once the bombs got all eaten by the Bluegale, Estave passed to the last row, the ones who needed him the most.
“Scalpel!”
*Tweet!*
“Retractor!”
*Tweet!*
“Sponges!”
*Tweet!*
Instrument after instrument swung throughout the air in a flawless tempo—a duet between a maestro and his vocal prodigio.
Within thirty minutes, the queue was over, and, finally, the children embraced their parents once again—sobbing, and the parents revolt mutated into a standing ovation for Dr. Miraval.
Sadly, the triumph lasted only a few seconds, as new victims flooded the hall. Dr. Miraval sighed, raised his cup of green coffee, and whispered, “Round three, I guess.”
His concerto continued until the other doctors finally caught their breath, allowing him to move away before it happened again.
“What do you think, my friend? Should I quit? Should I stop fighting and just…accept the inevitable?” But he heard no answer.
When Esteve turned around, the Bluegale was gone—its feathers fading into faint blue light before vanishing completely.
“Wha—?”
The effects of Imperfect Paradise had run out, but his coffee cup was empty, and the nurse’s room was too far.
So Dr. Miraval simply sank to the floor, closed his eyes, and finally enjoyed a well-deserved rest.
***
The wooden tunnels were shrouded in something darker than darkness itself. The horseless Kataphracts—encased in their towering plate armor—marched into the void as their five senses dimmed one by one—soon, their sanity would follow.
The Korinna's Knights had been trained since childhood to be the champions of the Soulfuls, sacrificing individuality, joy, and dreams alike to prove that mankind could sever the heads of gods, and today—that day had come.
The Miraval Dam was the heart of the MIMT’s power grid, and now, the last artery sustaining the defenders—seizing it would mean delivering the final blow to the filthy Reactionaries. But enthusiasm soon became paranoia, as every expedition sent into the Miraval Dam’s depths had vanished, and with time running out, the High Command had no choice but to dispatch their elite soldiers. However, the sonars aboard the Mother Korinna detected no trace of radiation, raising questions about who had attacked their comrades. That being said, when technology fails, Adam’s Gift comes to the rescue. At the head of this expedition was an Anima—his [Instinct] serving as a lighthouse throughout that eerie dusk.
”STOP!” The torches fixed atop the Kataphracts’ featureless helms flared, illuminating the raised hand of their Naturain leader—he had caught the faint scent of their missing comrades. So, they advanced into a vast chamber, completely in shadow except for a single smear of red paint glowing on the wall. It encircled a switch, and above it, there was written in crimson—’CLICK HERE.’
The Knights unsheathed their Zweihänders, charging them with enough Crude Mana to split a warship in half, while the Anima slowly reached the switch, turning it on.
*CLICK!* *CLICK!* *CLICK!*
Dozens of Magicbulbs flickered to life all at once, veiling the chamber in a reddish gloom. The Kataphracts froze as they finally saw their surroundings and—their brothers.
“Oh, for the love of Korinna…oh, for the love of the Holy Trinity…oh, for the love of Adam…”
A forest of chains hung from the ceiling, each one featuring a bloody meathook. Every missing Knight was there, except for one detail. Their meat, organs, and bones were gone. The only thing left was—their skins.
”KEKKEKEKEKEKEEKE!”
