The mere light of Edric’s inner flame was enough to force the tides of the undead to cower senselessly back to the skirts of their Liches where they stood, shivering, blinking, sucking deep breaths from the Everfog to stop their bodies from twitching.

There were hundreds of them pressing into the main gate of the Golden Cathedral, which was cloaked in wavering lights of the Blessed Father that resisted the battering of the Liches’ foul magic. Now and then, a hole opened up around the sides, the Priests patching it with their mana in haste, the Templars and the disciples from the Brotherhood rushing to aid them.

We have to hold on.

He had left Jack to Lenora when Mas and Dain returned from the ninth floor and rushed to the main gate in haste. Valens was still nowhere in sight, and Garran was missing, but if Edric knew the pair of them, then they could take care of themselves. What worried him was this sight that welcomed him outside the Cathedral.

The whole city was taken by a storm, and the reports coming in told him that the undead were only half of his worries.

There were Shapeshifters in Belgrave. Remnants of the Chimeric Order from the Ancient Era had crept into the city and were working with the Ninth Legion. The men of respectable Guilds had already fled by using their own Guild gates, leaving the innocent people alone against this madness. Mighty men praised for their grand deeds had scampered like ants afraid to be trampled under the hooves of this sudden assault.

He read all about them, but couldn’t find it in him to be shocked by any of it. That was the deal with the Guilds. You praise them, haul them off your shoulders, and give them a speech or two in front of the crowds, but when things get tough, they’d be the first ones out of the door.

No change in there, Edric thought. The bloody part of the job was always left to the hands of the Divine Orders, after all. What those cowardly bastards didn’t know, however, was that not even the Golden Church had been prepared for an assault of this magnitude.

Edric turned and waved a hand at the disciples behind him.

Little warriors with their little weapons are trying to defend the Cathedral.

What was the point, anyway? The whole city had crumbled, the order had fallen, and there was no word from the King or any of the authorities. Nobody, it seemed, gave a damn about Belgrave being invaded by a horde of undead who were supposed to be chained to the Underworld.

“Captain!” said a voice as a familiar figure came bounding toward him. Mas gave him a salute, then removed his helmet as he frowned out into the rows of disciples in the back. “I’ve sent men to check the horde. Fresh air has done a number on them. Other than a few dozen Chiefs at the helm, the rest is all just numbers. So long as the Bishop keeps those Liches under his control, we can stall enough for the help to arrive.”

What price would we have to pay to accomplish that, I wonder?

“Have the Pretrial ones stand to the back. Send them to the sides to check the other parts of the Cathedral. Make sure these bastards aren’t trying something under our noses.”

“Understood,” Mas said.

“Any sight of Garran?” Edric asked.

“That fool’s not here, Captain,” Mas said, scowling. “Yet the air has some reek about it. I seemed to catch his stench just now. He must be close.”

“We don’t have the time to wait for him.” Edric peered into the horde out in the front. Those black lines were shifting as the Liches continued battering a singular figure floating in the sky with their spells.

Shit.

Angelic wings supported his weight, elongated to both sides and cloaked in golden lights, holding the Bishop up in the sky as he faced the incoming spells from a dozen Liches. Already, Bishop Cornelius was straining, face gone completely red, the light of his inner flame wavering around him.

As if it weren’t bad enough, a line of twisted creatures had begun spilling into the undead horde from the inner city, the Shifters mentioned in the reports joining their lines and making a scene about it by screeching out toward them.

Chimeric Order. A thousand years without a single sight of them, and now they come into light? Trying to take Belgrave? What is the meaning of this? The Endless Mist is no more. It was gone, wasn’t it?

He seemed to remember there being talk about the Evercrest Family and the Endless Mist in that Cursed Rift in the back of his mind, brought by Valens of all people with no particular reason in sight. Edric waved it away as the undead horde stretched for a true assault on the main gate.

“To the lines!” he roared to the disciples in the back, felt them shift in nervous expectation behind him. “Trust your training. Keep your flame close to your chest. These bastards are weak. Unlike us, they have nothing to fight for!”

He swept a gaze across them, then scowled when he saw the fear and uncertainty plain in their faces. They weren’t prepared for something of this magnitude, and yet these were young men and women of faith and determination. What they lacked was a little push.

Let’s make it a touch bigger, then.

“Tell Dain to come here,” Edric said to Mas before hauling his sword over his shoulder. “We have to show these youngsters how it’s done.”

Mas went to fetch Dain while Edric gazed at the incoming horde, breathing into the confines of his helmet, heart still and serene in his chest. The very presence of the Veiled Mother tried to press upon him, but the boundaries around the Cathedral distilled that stabbing force into mild stings around his neck.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Small inconvenience. Nothing to work myself about.

But then, the eye of the Wretched Mother gazing downward at them from beyond the thick clouds was still a sight that affected the morale of the young disciples.

Jack said she has returned, but I only see her eye. The rest of her couldn’t have possibly penetrated through Haven Reach’s boundaries. So what does this mean? Are the Ancients returning?

That thought was like an insidious worm trying to drill its way into his mind. The moment he let it, it would spark a series of possibilities that he could do nothing about. This matter was beyond him. Beyond any one of them here.

Blessed Father.

He heard the thumping steps of his boys behind him. Mas and Dain neared him with their swords clasped in their hands, taking their places on either side of him. Their inner flames resonated with each other as the first lines of the undead horde came growling toward them.

Edric closed his eyes, focusing on the beatings of his heart, muting the sounds of the chaos around him.

I shall not fear.

He kept his sword close to his chest, feeling the pressure from thousands of foes boring down on his shoulders.

I shall not give in.

All around his body he felt the touch of the Damned, creeping dangerously close to his chest cavity, trying to seep into his core.

I shall not let the veil cloud my judgment.

“There!” Mas’s voice pulled his mind from the mantras of the Blessed Father, and when he blinked, he saw the man pointing a finger at the undead horde. “That’s him, Captain! That fool is there!”

Edric shifted slightly as he squinted toward the swarm of those bastards. Their first lines looked painfully tight, their discipline completely on display. Beyond those lines, however—somewhere on the far left side—was disarray. Golden lights streaked from there in occasional bursts, and when Edric focused just enough, he could see a golden sword making a mess of some solid skulls.

“That damned fool!” Heat rushed to his head as it dawned on him. Garran had never been much for self-control, but throwing himself senselessly into an undead horde? Now that was highly irresponsible of him.

“There’s only one thing we can do, Captain,” Mas said, closing the slit of his helmet and clasping his sword.

“Uh,” Dain grunted, the giant weapon in his hand trembling as though in heat.

“Save his sorry ass from the horde,” Edric said, nodding as a smile crept along his lips. He had to admit there was something respectable about a fool throwing himself into a horde. “Might as well make a show out of it. We move.”

And so, they moved.

Three Templars clad from head to toe in Blessed Father’s armor, swords inscribed and gleaming with a golden hue. The lines of disciples behind them, all no older than twenty, watched in nervous expectation. Edric felt their gaze on his back. The pressure of hauling the weight of their chests. The dread of the fate awaiting them should the Templars prove inadequate against this challenge.

Slowly, Edric put more strength into his steps as he broke into a jog, Mas and Dain keeping pace with him as their feet battered the ground with all their weight. Edric could see the dark plates of the Undead Soldiers catching the crimson and golden lights across the sky, their eyes wreathed in the Everfog of their Liches.

You can’t feel pain. Can’t feel much of anything, either. I dreamt of the day I’d die and become one of you. To fight the good war in the depths against the demons of the Tainted Father. What has changed, good brothers? Who is pulling your strings now?

Rage burned in his chest as he took in the mindless, cold intent in those eyes. These were machines of war. Honorable men who not only spent a lifetime battling evil, but also decided to sacrifice their souls in hopes of continuing their mission after death. The ones who sullied their sacred purpose for this assault…

They were the true sinners.

Inner flame sent its heat across Edric’s arms. His golden plates began gleaming like the boundaries around the Golden Cathedral, feeding from the divine energy of the Blessed Father’s sanctuary. It poured strength and zest into his chest. It spiked the thrill to levels Edric had never felt before.

Like a tide crashing from feet above into a swarm of ants, Edric and his boys ripped into the undead lines. Their dark plates splintered with the sheer impact of their march, bones and weapons scattering about them as they fell. Edric caught one with the tip of his sword, sent him stumbling back to a group, and dove in. Dain and Mas closed in around him in a triangular formation, leaving no sides unprotected.

It was a culling. A slaughter of mankind’s lauded warriors, carried out by the Blessed Father’s chosen. Their armors proved too tough for the undead to breach. Their swords too sharp for them to stop. Golden lights blinded them when they dared to get close, erasing the hold of the Everfog across their minds.

“Move!” Edric growled as they pushed into the tide, taking all the focus of the giant horde. With his command, dozens of disciples standing by the Cathedral began their march, catching the undead horde unprepared from the sides.

Their eyes gleamed with the Thrill. Each one of them yearned to become a Templar, just like how Edric had felt whenever he saw his father in full armor. That man was a hero, a god amongst men to his only son, with his looming grace and strength ever proving unbeatable.

And now, Edric found himself in his shoes, leading a charge against the shadows and the evil.

He lost himself in the ecstasy of it. One more and one more to the back. Caught one with his left hand, golden lights condensed around his palm as he clenched his fingers. The dark plates of the undead crunched under his strength. He flung the corpse to the side and continued on, Mas and Dain following him like beasts out for prey.

They were close to Garran now. Edric could feel his flame even from here, like a beacon refusing to die out in the face of a monstrous storm, battling against a Chief with all his worth. Another one was closing in on him, trying to be clever about it and catch him from behind.

“You will face me.” Edric lunged in and swept the feet of that bastard off the ground, sending him crashing down. He didn’t know what hit him before Edric’s sword found purchase in his Heartstone. “Thank you for your service.”

“Captain!” Garran said after he pushed that Chief back with a stab, then turned and raised a fist at him. “A fine day for the wicked, don’t you think?”

“We’re too deep in their lines. Stop messing around and get here now!” Edric said as he scowled at him. This wasn’t the time to play. This wasn’t the time to—

The sky cracked.

A ripple went through the thick clouds overhead, followed by an immense pressure that pushed the air out of Edric’s lungs and made his knees buckle for a breath. The golden lights of the Bishop flickered dangerously while the boundaries around the Cathedral faltered for a heartbeat. The inner flame within Edric sputtered.

Then slowly, fog began filling out into the battlefield. Fissures laced with shadow peeled open between the cobblestones, tearing through the battlefield like veins of some ancient, buried god awakening. From the cracks, screams burst upward, followed by limbs.

Inside his mind, Edric heard voices.

‘Mistress…’

‘Mistress!’

‘Die. Die. Die!’

‘Save us.’

He blinked wearily to force out the voices and sucked in a sharp breath. Felt his boys grow still beside him, all looking toward the undead horde. They were parting—the Shifters and the soldiers—letting a new line march through their hordes, closer to the Cathedral.

A new line was coming at them.

“Are those…” Garran froze.

“People,” Edric swallowed. “They are sending our own people against us.”

....