An echo of death surrounded a squadron from below, from above, and from their flanks as a pair of footsteps loudened, their senses being toyed with as their hands tingled from the chilling air of a fiend. A trembling soldier picked up a brass bullet from his ammunition satchel, loaded a single shot into the chamber of his rifle, and cocked down its bolt. He and his comrades raised their weapons and aimed down a narrow corridor of unfinished concrete walls and exposed, tangled wires, brightly lit by some dangling electric lamps. Ominously, there was not an ounce of wind. Despite the warm, white hue of light pressing against their faces, the darkness of what awaited them troubled the dozen and one men standing in two ranks across the width of the aisle, tightly packed to cordon off the path against an enemy yet unseen. The silence rang in their ears, and they could feel their hearts throbbing in their chests, their sweat forming a coat of mist that stagnated around them. Despite the calmness that they wished to show, fear had latched onto their bodies. Their feet felt anchored by the gravity of their wait as the footfall on the steel steps of the stairwell the squadron faced wound down and around a central pillar.
“Třau tur padzїtsÿ! (Hold your ground!)” The Rus captain tried to steady his squadron as he checked his revolver’s chamber.
The shadow of a man slithered down the stairwell, concealing himself behind its final corner before swiftly scouting his enemies. Taking a breath, he straightened out his black suit jacket with red linings and fixed his collar. The imperial eagle embroidered on the centre of his tie glistened from the shimmering of a wedding ring as he pinched onto the thin rim of his glasses coated in gold before wiping down its lens dirtied from dried blood. Two cylinders were taken out of his pocket, and he pulled out each of their pins, tossing them down the stairs, where they were sent barreling towards the squadron. When they stopped by the soldiers’ feet, the confused men, who had never seen such a peculiar device, were quiet, but they reckoned there was no immediate threat, for a fragmentation grenade would have ignited already. Instead, the canisters popped, and the soldiers flinched when smoke poured out, creating a grey canvas that rolled up like curtains on a stage. The area in front of the squadron vanished, and they began to panic, although they somehow managed to maintain their formation. Becoming more reliant on their ears, their thirteen heartbeats were far too loud, and even the slightest imagination of a dusty silhouette that whiffed by in the clouds stirred the jittery captain.
In the unease, he felt his lungs accidentally compress without his command, and he unleashed an order that his men had been waiting for. “Šautau! (Fire!)” It did not matter that he made a mistake, for his men obeyed him because their fingers were like loose switches.
They pulled on their trigger, and the hammer of their rifles slammed into their bullet, igniting the gunpowder that separated the round from its shell. Flurries of ember flowered out of the muzzles that bloomed into a spring of clouds as a single volley of thirteen rounds fleeted through the bleak air, penetrating the smoke before resurfacing out of the other side, where the infiltrator, unbeknownst to the squadron, had shown himself. The chilling whistles of bullets whizzed by, and the infiltrator continued unfazed, flicking his jacket back and revealing a holster from which he drew a pistol that was an old make with a history of at least a hundred years. Stamped in its grip was an iron cross. He snapped the hammer of his handgun back as another hand grabbed a fistful of pellets from his side pouch, hearing the soldiers’ panic as they realised they had missed their target and frantically reached for their sabres. The infiltrator tossed his pellets, joint-sized chambers holding a liquid that swished like molten gold, into the air, and he fired his pistol once. His round pierced a pellet’s glass and unleashed the source of unnatural human power that was said to have been gifted on the dawn of civilisation. The Heavens blessed man with the zeal of gods, hoping that it would bring chaos to the world that They created for Their entertainment, but like any experiment, there were anomalies. Not all were granted this power, which they called Eifer, and even if one did wield it from birth, most were impotent on the battlefield. Then, there were men like this infiltrator who rejected the Heavens and rescinded his Eifer, who sought a world without Heavenly interference. Brightening, his Eifer, once enclosed in his pellets, exploded and formed a chain reaction that flourished like fireworks, changing the colour of the liquid from a majestic, gilded hue to purplish lightning streaks. In their last moments, the soldiers of the Rus filled their thoughts with regret and horror before a wave of light rays slammed into them, littering their bodies with holes and tearing their flesh apart. As if they had been struck by grapeshot, their blood gushed out from new orifices, with many lucky enough to have been spared the torment instantly and some who had to suffer the infiltrator’s hellish wrath in its entirety. The volley that came from the single round continued to pummelled the squadron, who released a choir of screams as they fell, and in the sliver of consciousness that remained in them, they were forced to watch their comrades collapse. It was slaughter, and among the squadron of an original thirteen defenders, two remained barely breathing from the fiend’s attack.
The Eifer dried up, and a red mist sprouted from the moist warmth of blood shadowed by the vicious man who stood victorious. He continued on his way down the corridor, stepping over the bodies and pools of vaporised flesh, and came across a fatally wounded soldier leaning against a wall, clinging onto his last string of life. As he walked past him, the infiltrator fired a round into his head, and he slumped over as his captain crawled on the floor, trying to save himself, but with his knees smashed and his flanks pulverised, there was little hope, even if his will had not yet broken. Only when the bloodlustless fiend stood over him, his face shaded by the dampening light, did he finally admit the dread of death. The barrel of a pistol pointed at him, and his last memory was a single flash.
The infiltrator felt the soles of his shoes sticking to the ground as he marched on, painting a trail of footprints as he approached the end of the corridor. The last of the Rus guards, two dismounted cavalrymen, stood their ground, but even though they had seen many battles and fought many wars, their fear betrayed them. Having watched their comrades ploughed down by a foe they outnumbered and outgunned, they doubted their lances and wondered if they could even land a single strike on this invincible fiend standing before them, but regardless of their lack of confidence, they had a job to protect whoever lay beyond that door. Charging towards the infiltrator, they thrust forth their lances, but as the tips of their blades seemed to reach the enemy, they found themselves suddenly outflanked. The fiend snatched their lances and clutched them beneath his arm before reeling them inward until they were shoulder by shoulder. The advantage of distance that they had gambled their lives on was annihilated in an instant, and they found themselves at the whim of a pistol, unable to comprehend their defeat, but before they could recall the memories of their wasted life, a bullet was put through their heads. The infiltrator’s face was streaked with blood as he released their lances, yet despite his devilish nature, there was a fleeting glimpse of humanity in his eyes, as if he was defending something he held dear at the unwavering sacrifice of everyone else.1645Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZ012DbRqpx
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