Chapter 102: Alastor

Mist poured into the church, shrouding the parishioners from view. ’What the-’ Charon’s thoughts were stilled as the fog cleared again, revealing the room to be in sudden disarray. Books and papers were left strewn about, the pews overturned, and the hourglass hanging above the podium cracked. Pools of blood seeped into the wooden floor, staining it red. Darkness spilled in from the windows, creating sharp shadows all over the once-sacred space. Screams and shouts echoed from outside. ’What’s going on?’ With quick steps, he moved around a puddle of blood and rushed to the temple doors. They were cracked and broken, one of them limply hanging from a single hinge while the other was shattered into a thousand fragments. Outside, he gasped as he saw a scene from a horror movie. Half-mechanic, half-humanoid machines were marching in formation, firing purple lasers at the fleeing citizens of the town. They were a foot taller than an ordinary man, with sleek metal plates for skin. A purple core thrummed in their chest, powering their weapons. Their faces were a mixture of man and machine, one half being a triangular visor and the other being that of a human. Violet veins crossed under their skin, snaking across their cheeks and leading into various parts of their suits. Whenever their shots missed, they would turn whatever they hit into the familiar gray and onyx materials the Dead Lands were known for. A few of the town’s residents put up a fight, firing back ramshackle laser rifles or charging with swords raised. They often chanted battlecries, the most common being something Charon didn’t expect. "For Achlys!" They never went far, the metal soldiers shockingly precise. With a few well-aimed blasts, even the thickest of armor pieces cracked, the people wearing them disintegrating entirely from the heat. Those that did manage to get close were cut down as razor-thin purple blades manifested on the soldiers’ arms, cutting through flesh like butter, every strike measured and deliberate. Charon stood frozen on the temple steps, the air outside somehow heavier than the mist he had just left. The acrid scent of burning metal and scorched flesh clung to his nostrils, each breath thick with the tang of ozone from the laser weapons. The ground beneath him was warm, as if the battle’s heat had seeped into the very stones. The rhythmic pounding of the soldiers’ boots was unnervingly synchronized, the sound carrying with it the unnatural precision of machines that did not tire or hesitate. Each step was identical to the last, a marching heartbeat of inevitability. He found his gaze lingering on the purple cores in their chests, the steady pulse of light within them almost hypnotic. It reminded him of the ones on the Panoplians or the Colossus Machines, except scaled down, smaller. He wondered if there was a mind behind that glow, or if it was simply the cold, emotionless power of technology pushed to the extreme. Shouts continued to ring out from the alleyways between buildings. Every so often, a scream would cut through the air, abrupt and final, followed by the soft hiss of cooling stone as another home turned to lifeless gray. The town’s once-charming roofs and market stalls were being swallowed in patches, like a viral disease that had no cure Bodies, those that were spared total annihilation, lay crumpled where they had fallen, faces frozen mid-expression. A dropped basket of apples rolled lazily across the stones, each fruit still warm from the sun but flecked with ash, marring their crisp shells. Charon’s mind raced, a strange emphasis on the battlecry forming in his head. ’Why are they chanting her name? Is it worship? Hope? Hatred? What does she have to do with this?’ His teeth hardened as he ground them together. ’What is the point of this?’ A low hum began to rise from the formation of soldiers, the sound vibrating in his bones. It wasn’t a sound of rage or joy. It was the sound of inevitability, of something that had come before, and would come again. It was the sound of conquest. A shout echoed from just down the street, followed by a wave of powerful mist that forced a dozen machines back. The pastor, hunched and weathered, strode forward with powerful steps, a staff clutched in his hand. A pale gem glowed at its head, mist coiling like rope around the shaft. He slammed the butt of the staff down, a second wave shooting out from behind him as small whips lashed at the machines, grabbing their limbs and throwing them through the air. His mouth opened as he bellowed out his rage and fury at a singular target. "Alastor!" The soldiers halted at his declaration, their guns raised at a ninety-degree angle. Each action happened at the same time, as if they weren’t dozens of individual men but one singular will. Pausing, the religious leader frowned and glanced around as if he were expecting a surprise attack, yet none came. A slow, methodical clanking came from further in the town, approaching at a casual pace. The soldiers took measured paces to part, creating a symmetrical tunnel. Charon walked down the temple steps to get a better view, coming to stand almost beside the bearded figure. A tall, gaunt, almost skeletal creature moved towards them. His limbs were both flesh and not, some segments being replaced with steel and copper wiring like an old doll. One of his arms was little more than pure bone, with cords of sinew and bronze twisting through the frame to hold it all together. His chest was partially open, revealing an iron rib cage. A purple orb pumped with in, the beat in time with his steps as if connected to his actions. Just like his minions, his face was half-humanoid and half-machine. One side was a pale, corpse-like visage with sunken cheekbones and cracks in the skin like old marble, the other being a polished black visor engraved with shifting geometric patterns that faintly glowed. His human eye was milky white as if he were blind, dark rings circling it. The other was a crimson lens, a dim light visible behind it. It clicked as it turned in a thousand directions, scanning every inch of the town. He wore war robes that hung limply from his shoulders, barely masking the large metal plates fused into his skin. Whether for defense or practicality, Charon didn’t know, too focused on the nauseating scent of embalming fluid and oil that emanated from the creature like an aura. Once he grew close enough to be within stabbing distance, he stopped, raising his one good hand with his palm held to the sky, as if he were offering an item. The wrist joint was pure copper, glinting in the sunlight, while his fingers were pale flesh, dry and cracking. When he spoke, his voice was like sandpaper, scratching your skin just from hearing it. It came in short bursts, as if the action pained him. "Ceris... I should have expected... you to survive..." The priest, Ceris, raised his staff threateningly and hissed. "You shouldn’t be alive, Alastor! Your siblings should have finished the job they started!" The chuckle he received in reply was like an airbag sucking in. "They... tried so hard... Ceris... you should know... this... better than most... Your... patron... was there, after all... Achlys... always was... a good... fighter..." With stiff movements, the priest slashed his staff forward, a wave of mist shooting from its tip and shooting towards Alastor. "Then I shall finish her work! For Achlys!" A small collection of metal cubes left the creature’s chest cavity and collided with the mist. Small explosions of black and purple clouded the scene and banished the mist. With inhuman speed, Alastor vanished and appeared beside the priest, a spear in his hand. It pierced the man’s chest, stabbing through him down to the metal pole’s center. He sputtered, blood dribbling from his lips as he limply grabbed at the shaft. The creature looked down at him with calculating eyes, its red lens roaming his body. He raised his bony hand, the distal phalange of his index finger lowered to trace a lazy line across the man’s forehead. "You... will make... a beautiful... puppet..." Ceris died quickly, his mouth agape as he released a shaky breath. The mechanical soldiers stirred to life as his was lost, their weapons lowering as they continued their merciless hunt of the townsfolk. Alastor was left with his project. Charon was left watching, his eyes wide and his hand covering his mouth in terror.