The forest screamed before the soldiers ever did.

Vines snapped and curled into smoke as an army's vanguard forced its way through a rainforest, flames licking up their lengths. Towering trunks—so wide that three men could not have circled them—toppled one after another in wet, cracking bursts, sending flocks of unseen creatures shrieking into the canopy.

The army did not pause to watch. Hundreds of thousands pressed on in a single, massive tide, the grind of boots, bare feet, and claws rolling through the forest like a storm.

At the very front marched branded Runebound slaves. Their brands glowed faintly with each heavy breath.

Various werecreatures trudged with shoulders hunched, torsos rippling beneath fur and scars. Vampires slipped between them like dark knives, pale eyes narrowed against the harsh daylight forced upon them by the burning advance. They moved quickly, but never freely. Every few dozen steps, they glanced back toward the woman who led them, as if remembering why they continued forward at all.

This woman walked as though the chaos were merely a carpet unfurling before her.

She wore a qipao, black as an eclipse and slit high along both thighs, fluttering about her legs in the heat currents. She made no effort to protect it from ash—if anything, the flecks of soot that clung to her sleeves seemed to please her.

Twin hook swords rested against her shoulders, curved ends catching the firelight like twin crescent moons. Her features were delicate, almost serene, but her eyes and slight grin held the cruelty one would quickly come to expect of confessors after meeting a few of them.

Crimson irises glinted within monolid eyes that clearly denoted her East-Asian ancestry, and raven-black hair fell down her slender back.

Behind her, Arcanist battalions flowed like a second river, their formation steady despite the crush of numbers. They murmured spells under their breath, stamping down flames that grew too wild, reinforcing roots before they could twist into traps, shaping the path so the slaves ahead had no choice but to march exactly where she intended.

The army, for all its size, depended on her stride—each step she took dictating the movement of thousands. And though the rainforest resisted, though it fought tooth and vine and beast, its resistance only made her cruel grin widen.

Several more third-rankers all surrounded this woman, but their stature was obviously lowered in her presence. They occasionally glanced wearily at her, perhaps afraid of catching her eye for any perceived slight. At the same time, they also appeared ill at ease just based on their surroundings.

"C— Confessor…?" one of the braver men among them muttered in a carefully questioning tone. "Is this… really wise? Our previous invasion force was more than three times the size of this one, and it was repelled… Won't we just share their fate?"

The woman's cold eyes swivelled in his direction. Her hook swords twitched for a moment. For a moment, she looked like a predator about to devour her prey… after making it suffer appropriately for disturbing them. The man's breath hitched. Sweat trickled down his back.

Yet… she held back. Perhaps she appreciated his bravery, or perhaps his role in the army was important, and her reasoning stopped her. Whatever the case, the man dared not show any relief.

The woman scoffed with amused disdain and turned her attention back towards the front of the army. Just as the man and his comrades assumed they wouldn't be getting an answer, she suddenly started talking.

"We're not invading," she grinned, her voice clear and beautiful, but ruined by the bloodthirst and arrogant excitement apparent in it. "We're just here to burn the place to the ground! We just need to finish before their barbarian emperor returns!"

The man and his compatriots shuddered a little. They'd heard vague rumours of the defeat their people suffered in Djibouti, and the man who contended with one of their confessors was on everyone's tongue… in hushed tones, of course. Speaking too openly about that defeat would usually not end well.

A shaky smile spread on the man's lips, his words dripping with honey. "But… if he does appear, then your all-powerful might can surely deal with him, no?"

"Hmpf," the woman snorted, yet was clearly pleased by his compliment. "Of course I can! Gabriel and Lilith are pointless dirt worms compared to me!"

Another shudder travelled through her subordinates. No one dared to agree, disagree, or even acknowledge her words, as they all simply pretended not to have heard that last part. Even agreeing with her might cause her to lash out for insulting those above their station, even if she was the one who said it.

Meanwhile, the woman glanced at the man who spoke before with a cruelly playful smirk. "Although… he might keep me occupied just long enough for you and everyone else to die to the rest of his forces…"

Seeing their terrified expressions caused her to giggle. "Hehe, stop being scared little babies, or you won't even have to wait to be killed by those forces!"

Her threat was obvious, and the subordinates scrambled to calm themselves, despite their fear having only flared. This only made the woman giggle louder. Though they failed in her order, the way they failed was funny enough for her not to lash out.

After enjoying their misery for a moment longer, she smirked dismissively and continued walking in silence, her gaze pointing forward once more.

But then another voice spoke up. Another of her braver subordinates, a woman this time. "Is… Is he the only problem, though…? They've clearly been expecting us, because everything we've encountered so far has been abando—"

Shing

A splash of blood. A flash of cold red light. A horrified, pained scream.

The woman who spoke clutched her mouth has blood streamed out from between her fingers. She looked at the confessor with horror, still processing what just happened. Just in front of her feet was a short pink piece of flesh… also known as what was left of her tongue.

"Don't say useless things," the confessor grinned, clearly revelling in her own cruelty. Slowly, she licked the hint of blood from one of her hook blades, then continued. "We'll deal with whatever comes our way to fulfil the Primarch's will!"

She flicked her sword in the direction they were marching, no longer interested in this. "Now, spread out and remind those useless wretches we're supposed to be in a hurry! I want to move faster!"

The other third-rankers looked apologetically at the one who'd just lost her tongue, but didn't dare disobey. They all left to do her bidding, leaving the woman to clutch her tongue and moan in pain. Though her own body's healing factor as a third-ranker—even as an Arcanist—would soon close the wound, recovering her tongue would be something else all-together.

Still, what could she do but stumble off to do fulfil the task to whatever degree she could without her tongue? All she had now was the same thing every non-confessor third-ranker in the Humanitas Sangh had: a desire to gain power an rise above.

The power to stand toe-to-toe with their tormentors and perhaps even take revenge.

The power to have people grovel before you just like they once did.

The power to hold the lives of others in your hands.

And just like all the others, she knew that only their all-mighty Primarch could grant power like that. Tongues could be grown back with the right application of magic, but power was forever.

Or so she, and every other pitiful Humanitas Sangh Arcanist believed.