The smell was the worst. Burnt stone dust, fresh and old blood, and beneath it all, the sweet, nauseating odor of charred flesh. Garcia crossed the main hall like a silver Specter, his armor now dented and blackened, but the gems in his gauntlets still intact—just sleeping, awaiting his will.

  Along the way, he saw the wreckage of his power. Fire Adepts who should have been on the walls raining destruction now lay in grotesque positions—some dead, others moaning in agony, their burned hands still clenched like claws. A youth, likely no older than sixteen, was trying to crawl, leaving a dark trail on the stone floor. His eyes met Garcia's, pleading.

  Did Peixoto survive? The question flashed through Garcia's mind like lightning.

  He reached what was left of the eastern wall. Where solid stone two meters thick had once stood, there was now an irregular hole, like the gaping maw of a dead giant. Through it, he could see the field beyond, and the green shapes moving methodically.

  Then they appeared. First one, then another. Republican soldiers, as young as the dying adept behind him, but with different eyes—not of terror, but of focus. They quickly assessed the scene: the dazed earth adepts trying to regroup, the wounded, the disarray.

  One made a hand gesture—quick, efficient. A military signal. The other retrieved something from his belt: one of the metal "oranges."

  Garcia saw the movement, saw the rounded object spinning through the air in slow motion. Something inside him snapped.

  "COWARDS!" The roar tore from his raw throat, echoing off the broken stones. "Fight like men! Face to face!"

  His right foot slammed into the packed earth floor. The gems in his gauntlets ignited with an amber glow—not the solar brilliance of before, but a tired light, like embers at night's end. Still, they responded. The ground ahead swelled like a waking animal, rising into a wall of compacted earth that intercepted the grenade in mid-air.

  But it didn't bounce back—it exploded half a meter off the ground.

  The blast was followed by a shower of hot metal. Shrapnel found flesh with a wet, piercing sound. The screams that followed were brief, cut short by instant death.

  Through the smoke, more blue figures appeared. Not in ones and twos—a dozen at once, moving in formation, their strange, long weapons raised in unison.

  Garcia saw a younger earth adept, his master builder's son, raise his hands to conjure a barrier. Dry cracks split the air. One, two, three—small holes appeared in the youth's chest before he even realized it. He fell to his knees, then face forward, his eyes still wide with surprise.

  This is it, Garcia thought, the exhaustion turning into a cold acceptance. This is where I die. But not like a rat hiding in its hole.

  The gems in his armor ignited again—each one answering his command, loyal to the end. The light was weak now, flickering like a candle flame in the wind. The energy came from him, and he was almost empty.

  And he charged.

  It wasn't the run of a noble warrior, but the charge of a cornered animal. His heavy footsteps echoed on the stone floor as he closed the twenty meters separating him from the first soldier.

  The man—a boy, really, with his smooth face and wide eyes—barely had time to raise his rifle. Garcia's sword, a simple steel blade, cut him from collarbone to hip in a single motion. The sound was horrible—not just metal cutting flesh, but breaking bones, entrails meeting the air.

  The second soldier reacted faster. His rifle spat fire. Garcia felt the impacts in his abdomen—not like cuts, but like hot, deep hammer blows. The air left his lungs, but his feet kept moving.

  The blade found the man's chest, piercing the green uniform, finding the heart beneath.

  The third, the fourth—all were firing now. A bullet hit his shoulder, spinning him around. Another grazed his leg. He felt the bone crack.

  Still, he reached a fifth soldier, grabbed him by the neck with his left hand—the hand whose gems still glowed faintly—and crushed his throat.

  Then something hit his head. Not a bullet—a rifle butt, swung by a soldier he hadn't seen approaching. The world spun, darkened at the edges. The gems in his helmet flashed one last time, cushioning the blow just enough to keep him conscious.

  Garcia fell to his knees. The sword slipped from his strengthless fingers, clattering on the stone floor with a final ring. He looked up, saw the rifle barrels aimed at his face, saw the eyes behind them—not triumphant, not hateful, just... professional.

  With a final effort, he commanded the gems on his chest to ignite. They obeyed—a faint but steady glow. The brown stones seemed to whisper to him, reminding him of centuries of connection to the earth, which had tried in vain to protect him.

  The last thing he thought of wasn't Inês, nor the castle, nor even the dead child. It was of the first gem his grandfather had given him as a boy—a small amber stone, still warm from the earth. "This gem," the old man had said, "will answer only to you. Never let them fall into the wrong hands."

  The volley of shots was almost musical in their synchronization. The gems in his armor flashed one last time as the bullets struck them, as if protesting the violence done to their master, before going dark—not dead, just orphaned.

  Outside, Nzambi watched the last echoes of gunfire fade from the hole in the wall. His hands, calloused from years of forced labor before liberation, gripped his repeater rifle until his knuckles turned white.

  "Damn vermin," he whispered, eyes fixed on the body of the youngest soldier in his squad, Diego, who lay in two pieces separated by a meter of blood. "He was barely eighteen. Joined my team a month ago. Wanted to serve under a 'hero of the republic'..."

  He spat on the ground, the bitter taste of bile in his mouth.

  "But I'm no hero. Just a survivor who knows when to attack and when to retreat."

  His eyes shifted to Tiago, the next closest man. He was sitting against a fallen stone, breathing with difficulty. An ugly gash crossed his chest, tearing through the uniform and the flesh beneath. Dark blood seeped between his fingers as he pressed the wound to little effect.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  "Marcos!" Nzambi called, without taking his eyes off the hole in the wall. "First aid on Tiago, now!"

  "Yes, Corporal!" The young Marcos ran, his medical kit already open. His hands trembled slightly as he applied a pressure bandage.

  Nzambi watched for a second, assessing. Deep wound, but didn't hit the lungs if he's still breathing like that. The medical team with the healing gems can save him. Luckily, the wind-wielding rescue team should be here any minute now; we just have to eliminate all threats from the area.

  He stood up, his knees popping. At thirty-five, he felt every one of the twenty years he'd spent mining and being a lab rat.

  "The rest, with me!" His voice sounded more confident than he felt. "Let's clear the castle. Remember the training: two-man teams, covering angles, no stupid heroics."

  His squad—what was left of it—gathered. Felipe and Tatiane, with their rifles. And Marcos, now finishing the first aid.

  They entered through the hole in the wall, stepping on still-warm rubble. The inside smelled worse than the outside—fresh death, but also the ancient scent of damp stone and oppression.

  Sure would be nice to have a vision adept, Nzambi thought, his eyes scanning every shadow. Or the Whisper to guide us through the shadows. Or Tainá with her earth barriers...

  They advanced down a side corridor, away from the main carnage. Light filtered through broken windows, creating shifting patterns of light and dark. They walked the halls, illuminated by fire. That's when Nzambi saw.

  At the end of the corridor, in front of a heavy wooden door, was a figure he knew all too well.

  The fire priest.

  It wasn't a hallucination—he was there, as real as the wall behind him. He wore the ceremonial Aztec robes Nzambi had tried to forget, the red and gold patterns seeming to bleed in the half-light. In his hand, the dagger with the dark purple gemstone blade—the same one that had left most of the scars on Nzambi.

  "Nzambi!" The priest's voice was a whisper that filled the corridor. Sweet. Paternal. Horrible. "I've finally found you. Did you really think you could escape forever?"

  Nzambi felt his legs weaken. The smell of the corridor changed—now there was the scent of burnt incense and charred flesh, the smell of the sacrifice temple.

  "I was so sad when you ran away," the priest continued, taking a step forward. His leather sandals made no sound. "But you know, without you, I had to make adjustments. Maria... remember Maria? Her green eyes? I had to sacrifice her. Eduardo, who sang so well. Even little Melissa, barely six years old..."

  Each name was a stab. Nzambi felt cold sweat running down his back. His hands on the rifle shook so much the sight wavered.

  I am free, he thought, trying to steady his breath. I'm free. This isn't real. He's not here. Except he's not lying... I did abandon Maria, Eduardo, Melissa...

  The figure was there. Smiling. The purple dagger glowing with an inner light that only a sacrifice adept could make pulse.

  Nzambi began to squeeze the trigger.

  The shot that rang out didn't come from his rifle.

  It came from behind him, grazing his leg like a hot wasp sting. Nzambi spun, the pain a shock that yanked him from the trance.

  Felipe was pressed against the wall, his face a mask of pure terror.

  "AHHHHHHH!" The scream tore through the corridor. "Get away from me, monster!"

  It wasn't Nzambi that Felipe saw. His eyes were fixed on something to Nzambi's right, something that made the veteran shooter tremble like a child.

  "Felipe!" Nzambi shouted, his voice rough. "Felipe, calm down! It's me!"

  But the man wasn't listening. His fingers fumbled for the magazine on his belt, automatic training movements taking over even in the midst of panic.

  Shit, Nzambi thought. He's going to reload and shoot someone. Me, Tatiane, himself.

  Without thinking, Nzambi dropped his rifle—which clattered metallically—and drew the dagger from the sheath on his thigh. Not a republican weapon, but a short blade made with sacrifice gemstone—the dagger he stole from the fire priest.

  He cut his own left palm. Blood welled up, hot and dark. And as he did, he fixed his eyes on Felipe's rifle, concentrating on the weapon.

  The gem in his dagger glowed with a faint purple light—not the vivid light of the priest's dagger, but an echo, a fragment of power he barely controlled.

  And Felipe's rifle disappeared.

  It didn't explode, didn't disintegrate—it simply ceased to be there, as if it had never existed.

  Felipe stared at his empty hands, then at Nzambi, his confusion temporarily overcoming his panic.

  "Get away from me, monster!" he still shouted, but now there was doubt in his voice.

  "It's me, Felipe! Nzambi!"

  The man stared at him, his eyes still wild but focusing. "Corporal?"

  "Yes! Something here is messing with our minds!" Nzambi was already turning, his cut hand pressed against his uniform to staunch the blood. "Tatiane, Marcos, stay alert for—"

  He stopped.

  Tatiane was a few steps back, her face pale as chalk. In her hands, her weapon was raised, the barrel trembling as it pointed directly at Nzambi's forehead.

  Her eyes were full of tears.

  "Captain..." she whispered, her voice broken. "I can't control it... there are strings, on my limbs and a voice telling me to shoot... says you killed my brother..."

  Nzambi didn't hesitate this time. The dagger cut again—this time his arm, deeper. The pain was a line of fire. He focused on Tatiane's weapon.

  The gem glowed. The weapon disappeared.

  He crossed the distance in two strides and slapped Tatiane—not a violent blow, but firm, decisive. The slap echoed in the corridor.

  Her eyes blinked, focused. "Nzambi? What...?"

  "No time!" he interrupted, grabbing her by the arm. "Felipe, can you walk?"

  The shooter nodded, still trembling but functional.

  "We retreat! Now!" Nzambi ordered. "Defensive formation, back the way we came!"

  But when they turned, the corridor was no longer the same.

  The windows were in different places. The doors they had passed were now solid walls. And the way back was blocked by a partial ceiling collapse they would have certainly noticed before.

  "Which way..." Tatiane began, her face still pale.

  "We're lost," Nzambi concluded, blood dripping between his fingers now. During the trance. We walked without realizing.

  They moved forward—not by choice, but because it was the only possible direction. The castle seemed to breathe around them, the walls closing in and receding in the half-light.

  Until they found the other team.

  Or what was left of it.

  Four republican soldiers, all from Company B, lay in a small room that had perhaps been a pantry. There were no signs of a fight with enemies—their weapons were beside them, some still smoking. The carnage was intimate, horrible. Two had their skulls blown apart at point-blank range. Another had his own bayonet plunged into his chest. The fourth was sitting against the wall, as if he had sat down to rest, except that his throat was slit from ear to ear.

  "My God..." Marcos whispered behind them, the sound almost a sob. "They killed each other..."

  Nzambi swallowed dryly, the smell of fresh blood and burnt gunpowder filling his nostrils. They didn't kill each other, he thought, his eyes scanning the shadows in the corners. They were made to do it. Someone or something here is playing with our minds like children playing with ants.

  "Turn back," he ordered, his voice lower now. "Go back through the corridors, try to find any mark, anything we might have left..."

  But they were already moving, their hurried footsteps echoing on the stone. They didn't know they were safe now. That the source of their hallucinations, the architect of the nightmares that had surrounded them, was already moving away.