The hull groaned beneath his boots. No lights. No crew. Just him, sealed alone in a rust-dark cargo chamber turned tomb. Metal ribbing above him flickered with pulse-lines of ancient power—red, cold, and slow, like the breath of something dying.
The blackened armor he wore rasped with each motion, a patchwork of dented plates and loose straps, more coffin than protection. Across the chestplate, dried blood—his own—cracked and flaked around the crooked red cross of Saint Peter. The symbol of the Forsaken.
He sat on a crate marked with the seal of the Templari Church, its icon scorched but still recognizable: a sunburst crown around the Twelve, the houses of the holy. His gloved hand rested on it like a prayer half-remembered.
The datapad on his forearm blinked once.
"By Papal Seal: Mission 777-A. Issued under direct hand of His Holiness, Pontifex Caelestis XXIV."
He didn't blink. The voice was hollow, mechanical. A recording. The Pope never met with Forsaken in person, at least not anymore.
> "You are to descend to the surface of Caligo IX—formerly listed as Sanctus Kaleb. Long-range auspex and oracle-scan confirm no known survivors. Last contact reported non-human interference and possible breach of divine sanctity. Your task: identify source of contamination. Cleanse by blade or prayer. All standard absolution rites waived. Redemption credit pending evaluation. God is watching."
A flicker of static. Then silence.
No mention of the death toll.
No warning about the "breach."
Just him and his rusted sword. No comms, no backup.
"Forsaken."
He remembered the word. How the Cardinals said it without saying his name. Because they'd erased it. His thoughts drift back to his sentencing, when he became Forsaken.
-----------------------------------------------------------
"Kneel."
The word fell like iron in a cathedral. Echoes chased it across the vaulted hall of the Templari Citadel.
He knelt on stone worn smooth by centuries of absolution, the last man ever to kneel as a knight of the Twelve. His armor, still whole then, creaked under the weight of the moment. Rows of Cardinals stood in white and gold, unmoving. In the center, beneath a throne of living crystal and flameglass, sat Pontifex Caelestis XXIV, Vicar of the Starborn Throne.
The Pope's face was hidden by the Crown of Mercy—a helm forged from martyr-bones and enshrined relics. Only his voice emerged, ancient and perfect, resonating as if from the mouth of Heaven itself.
"You who once bore the Cross of the Templari… you who stood as sword and shield of the Covenant… you who broke faith under Heaven's gaze."
The silence that followed was a blade all its own.
"You are stripped of title, command, and blood-right. Your name shall be struck from every record. Your deeds shall be recast in shame. Your victories shall be mourned as lies."
He did not weep.
"You will no longer speak the rites. You will not bear the sigil of your House. Your armor shall be shattered, and reforged in disgrace. Your cross will be painted in your own blood—the mark of Saint Peter, who denied his Lord thrice, yet was redeemed by love."
The Pope rose.
"You are Forsaken. You will receive your first trial when insee it fit. Redemption is not promised—but mercy waits for those who endure."
A pause. The crystal throne dimmed.
"Do you understand your sentence?"
He raised his head. The weight of the crown above him was crushing. But he met it.
"…Yes, Holiness."
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The memory dissolved in the instant the hull screamed.
A shudder rippled through the transport, and light—sickly red and flickering—poured into the chamber as the main hatch began to open. Hydraulic arms groaned, parting like jaws. The air turned sour and cold. His breath fogged against the inside of his helm.
Welcome back to the living hell.
The ship didn't land. It vomited him.
The ramp extended halfway before jolting to a stop, sparking. He stepped down onto soil that was neither earth nor metal—ashen, brittle, like the burnt remains of bone. Skies above churned with rust-colored clouds. Structures—if they could still be called that—jutted from the ground in twisted angles, like gravestones skewed by violence.
No welcoming party. No signs of life. No orders beyond the Pope's:
"Identify source of contamination. Cleanse by blade or prayer."
He took one step forward. The armor groaned. A piece of shoulder plating clattered off and hit the ground behind him.
Still he walked.
He moved through the dust and ruin, each step sinking into layers of ash and scorched bone. Silence ruled here—not peace, but the kind of silence left after something sacred had been defiled.
A blackened spire loomed ahead. Once a chapel, now twisted and half-melted by unholy fire. Its stained-glass dome had exploded inward, as though Heaven itself had recoiled. The Twelve-pointed Star of the Royal Houses had been carved out of its stone face—replaced by a jagged spiral etched in dried blood. The mark of the Contamination.
He stepped closer.
Bodies—dozens of them—were piled in ritual heaps. Some wore the ivory-white of Templari Foot soldiers. Others… were unrecognizable. Bones twisted backward, faces locked in terror. And among the dead, the signs.
Blood-drawn symbols. Sigils burned into armor, into flesh. Circles of desecration, scratched with clawed fingers, smeared with bile. A prayer altar lay shattered beneath a corpse impaled on its edge—still clutching a sword too heavy for the dead.
He knelt and touched the hilt.
Still warm. They're not far.
The wind changed, carrying with it the low sound of growling—no, not quite sound. A vibration, like something hungry trying to remember how to speak.
Then he saw it.
A figure, watching from the edge of the ruin. Horned. Cloaked in smoke. Its eyes burned like coals shoved into a skull. It grinned with too many teeth.
And then it was gone.
He didn't move. Not at first.
The horned thing in the mist had vanished, but its presence clung to the air—like a psalm inverted. He scanned the ruins carefully, hand on the hilt of his blade, listening for the wrong kind of silence.
Nothing.
Only the dead. And the signs.
These can't be purified.
The Pope's words echoed like prophecy. "Cleanse by blade or prayer." There were no prayers left for places like this. Only steel.
He stepped toward the nearest blood-drawn spiral, etched across what used to be a Templari war-banner. With one clean motion, he drove his sword down through it, splitting the banner and gouging into the stone below. The spiral ruptured, blood flaking and curling into smoke.
He moved methodically. One by one, he found each sigil. Cut them from walls, broke the bones they were painted on, shattered altars that had been corrupted. A silence settled as he worked—not peace, but something closer to justice.
A final circle lay under a fallen knight's outstretched hand. The corpse stared skyward, mouth agape as if still gasping for sanctity. He hesitated, then drove his sword clean through the center.
The blood hissed and the wind shifted again.
But the cross on his armor remained still. Cold. Dormant. No demon lord. Not yet.
He sheathed his blade with the grim precision of a man who'd buried brothers.
He walked alone, deeper into the wound in the world.
The path ahead was choked with ruin—buildings melted into slag, scorched prayers charred into walls. A trail of destruction arced away from the desecrated chapel, clear as blood on snow. Bones were scattered like breadcrumbs, too many to count. Something had moved through here in a frenzy—hunting, or fleeing, or feasting.
He paused under the shattered frame of a statue—once a depiction of Saint Kaleb the Bold. Now headless. Wings torn off. Its hands still clasped in prayer.
With a flick of his wrist, he raised the bracer on his left arm. The rusted casing hissed open with a pneumatic sigh. The datapad interface blinked alive—dim, cracked, but functional.
He spoke with cold efficiency.
"Mission Log: Unit 777-A. Caligo IX surface. Primary Templari chapel compromised. Full loss of personnel. Desecration confirmed—multiple demonic symbols. Site cannot be purified. Symbols defiled. Moving to follow trail of contamination. Coordinates attached. End report."
The screen blinked. A reply followed seconds later.
"Received. Continue operation."
—Office of the Pontifex, 7th Command Relay.
No blessing. No acknowledgment. Just… protocol. He closed the bracer.
"God is watching." The phrase tasted hollow now.
The ruins gave way to what might've once been a town square—or perhaps a monastery courtyard. Whatever it had been, it was now a killing field.
That's where he saw them.
Crouched near a pile of carcasses, four figures hunched and twitching. They tore at the remains of a Templari knight, slurping marrow through shattered bone. Their forms were vaguely humanoid, but the resemblance stopped there.
One's back was lined with quills that pulsed like veins. Another's arms were too long, ending in finger-bones that curled and clicked like scissor joints. Horns jutted from malformed skulls. Eyes burned red—not with fire, but with hate. Their flesh was cracked and blistered, black ichor steaming from every wound, as if their bodies were never meant to exist in this world.
He stepped forward.
They froze. Slowly, all four turned toward him in unison, as if obeying some unheard command. One hissed, sharp and wet, like a flayed animal trying to speak.
They see the cross. They know what I am.
The wind picked up as he drew his sword.
The first charged—snarling, scraping stone with its claws.
The first demon lunged low, like a beast. Its spine flexed unnaturally, mouth unhinged too wide—rows of teeth like glass shards clattering with anticipation.
He stepped sideways, sword held vertical. The creature's claws raked his patchwork pauldron—metal peeled like fruit skin. He pivoted and drove his blade through its ribs. The thing screamed—not in pain, but rage—and bit at the steel as black ichor sprayed.
He twisted the blade.
Snap. The spine gave out. The body collapsed in twitching pieces.
The others charged.
He barely raised his blade before the next collided with him. Its mass was greater than it looked. They crashed into a wall, and the breath blasted from his lungs. Its claws ripped across his helm, carving deep grooves. One strike caught the seam at his jaw and tore the side plate off entirely.
He headbutted it.
Once.
Twice.
The third time, bone cracked—its or his, he didn't know. He shoved it back and hacked downward. The sword buried itself in its neck, then jammed—stuck in tendon and bone.
Damn it—
He released the hilt and drew his dagger just as the third one leapt.
It struck his chest.
He went down hard—armor slamming into stone, breath knocked out. The demon shrieked in his face, bile dripping from its forked tongue. It drove a claw down—piercing his side, deep.
Pain lit his nerves like fire.
He grabbed its wrist and drove the dagger into its throat, over and over. Blood pumped in thick ropes across his arm. It writhed, choking, and fell limp.
He rolled onto his stomach, groaning.
Move, damn you, move—
The last one stalked now. Smarter than the others. It crept along the edge of the square, eyes locked to the cross on his chest. It saw the blood. It wanted him weakened.
He pulled himself up with the ruined sword still buried in the second corpse.
The demon snarled and sprinted.
This time, he met it.
They collided. He ducked low, grabbed its limb, and threw it into the stone pillar behind him. Bone cracked. Before it could rise, he surged forward, gripping his blade with both hands.
One more time.
He raised it high—and brought it down with a roar.
Crunch.
The skull split like rotten wood. The skirmish was short, but exhausting.
He leaned against a half-collapsed archway, blood oozing between the broken seams of his armor. His sword scraped stone as he dragged it behind him, too heavy for a moment.
The silence pressed in.
He exhaled through clenched teeth. Reached for the puncture at his side—it was shallow, but it would stiffen fast. The demon's claw had sliced through the weak joint in his greaves. In his old armor, it wouldn't have broken skin.
Ivory steel. Gold trim. A perfectly fitting and protective armor. Balanced and sharpened sword. Saint blessed cloak.
All gone.
Now, the blade in his hand was pitted, dented. The armor sagged where it hadn't broken. A pauldron dangled by a single strap. His helmet visor flickered, cracked again. It'd been reforged by apprentices using scrap and contempt.
He sat for one minute. Two. Let the pain settle. Just enough to remember where it hurt, not enough to make him stop.
Then he stood, slow but steady, and limped forward—following the path of wreckage and continuing his mission.
Eventually, following the destruction he saw flicker of movement.
He froze.
Among the rubble ahead, something shifted. Beneath a fallen doorframe, under a mound of ash and shattered glass—an arm.
He approached with caution, blade raised, body screaming.
His blade lowering when he sess that it is a Templari novice, no older than seventeen. Barely conscious. Burned down one side, lips cracked and muttering prayers through blood.
When the boy saw the cross on his chest—the inverted blood-painted cross of Saint Peter—his eyes went wide with terror.
"D-Don't... kill me…"
He knelt beside him. "I'm not here to kill you."
"You're Forsaken," the boy rasped.
"I'm still Templari."
A bitter silence passed.
The boy reached up weakly, grabbing his ruined forearm plate. "They're still here... in the dark. They crawl... beneath the chapel…"
The knight's jaw tightened.
"Can you walk?"
A faint shake of the head.
He looked up. The structure ahead—twisted, half-collapsed—could shelter the boy. He dragged him under a fractured overhang, wrapping what scraps of cloak he had around him.
"I'll return," he said.
"You won't," the boy muttered.
He didn't respond.
As he turned to leave, wind shifted again—no breeze, but a pressure. A chill without air.
He looked up. On the far rooftop, half-shrouded in mist and broken light, it stood again. That shadowed demon. Silent. Grinning. Eyes glowing like brands in a skull. No wings. No weapon. Just watching. Mocking him. He gripped his sword tighter.
The thing raised a single claw to its lips— Shhh. And vanished.