Thomas and Corvus faced each other in the nave of the desecrated chapel, the air vibrating with tension and mutual hatred. The old man gripped his club so tightly that his knuckles whitened, while the Puppeteer Scourge stood upright despite his broken ribs, a cruel grimace distorting his raven mask.
- "You really think you have a chance, old fool?" hissed Corvus, his labored breathing betraying the pain of his fractured ribs.
Thomas wasted no time on answers. He charged.
The club sliced through the air with a violence that would have caved in a normal man's skull, but Corvus had ceased being human long ago. He dodged with supernatural fluidity, his body moving as if he himself were a perfectly oiled puppet.
The weapon struck the stone wall in an explosion of fragments. Thomas pivoted immediately, anticipating a counter-attack, but Corvus was already backing away, an evil smile on his lips.
- "Impressive for a man your age," he admitted, raising his hands. "But you've forgotten something essential."
The atmosphere of the chapel changed instantly. The four puppets that had escorted the prisoners came to life as if they had just been breathed with demonic souls. Their movements ceased being mechanical to become fluid, coordinated, deadly.
They threw themselves at Thomas in absolute silence, their wooden arms extended like spears. The old man spun around, his club tracing a devastating arc that struck the first creature full in the chest. It exploded against a pillar in a shower of splinters and torn fabric.
But the other three were already upon him.
What followed was a battle of pure savagery. Thomas fought like a cornered animal, his weapon spinning around him in a dance of destruction. Each impact resonated like thunder in the confined space. A second puppet lost an arm with a sinister crack, a third had its head torn clean off.
But they felt nothing. No pain, no fatigue, no fear. And above all, they were directed by an intelligence that anticipated Thomas's every movement with surgical precision.
Wooden claws tore open his shoulder, slicing through his jacket like paper. Another gashed his thigh deeply, blood immediately soaking the fabric. Thomas was panting now, his vision beginning to blur at the edges.
- "Not bad," Corvus acknowledged from his position near the altar, observing the carnage with the interest of a connoisseur. "But that was only the appetizer."
He closed his eyes and extended his arms toward the still-bound prisoners. An aura of deep black emanated from him, spreading like ink in water toward Harold and the two other survivors.
The ropes that bound them fell away by themselves, as if they suddenly lost all substance. The three men rose slowly, their movements strangely jerky, their eyes becoming glassy.
Thomas felt his blood freeze. - "No..."
The survivors were no longer free. They had become other puppets, but this time made of flesh and bone. And Corvus had no intention of sparing their fragile bodies.
Something horrible then occurred in the physiology of the three controlled men. Their pupils dilated until they were nothing but two black holes, their muscles swelled abnormally, their veins bulging under their skin like taut ropes.
Corvus had just brutally deactivated all the natural limiters in their brains - those safety mechanisms that evolution had put in place to prevent human muscles from tearing when deploying their maximum strength.
Harold leaped toward Thomas with a power that defied his normal physiology. His thin hands closed on the club with the force of a steel vise, trying to wrench it from the old man's bloodied hands.
Thomas tried to push back his friend without hurting him, but Harold no longer responded to any external stimulus. His eyes were empty, his features frozen in an expression of mechanical concentration.
The two other survivors attacked simultaneously. Their fists rained down on Thomas with a force that should never have been possible for men of their build. The old man had to abandon his club to parry their blows, but even so, he was vastly outmatched.
A fist struck his ribs with a dry sound. Thomas felt something give way in his chest, a searing pain that took his breath away. Another blow caught him in the jaw, making him spit blood onto the ancient flagstones.
But the worst wasn't the physical pain.
It was their faces.
Because despite Corvus's total control over their bodies, part of their consciousness remained trapped, helplessly watching their own actions. Harold was crying as he struck Thomas, tears flowing silently down his cheeks while his fists continued their work of destruction.
- "I can't stop..." he sobbed between blows, his voice broken by the horror of what he was doing. "Thomas, I can't stop..."
- "I know," Thomas replied, trying vainly to parry. "It's not you, Harold. It's not you."
But Harold continued to strike him, his hands now sticky with his friend's blood. His own bones were beginning to crack under the superhuman force that Corvus imposed on him, but his body now obeyed only the puppeteer's will.
The two other survivors were caught in the same nightmare - conscious puppets, prisoners of their own flesh, forced to watch their hands commit the unthinkable.
- "Forgive me..." moaned one of them, squeezing Thomas's throat with his trembling fingers. "My God, forgive me..."
Thomas felt his strength gradually abandoning him. He could have killed them - even in his state, he remained stronger than them individually. But how could he raise his hand against Harold, his childhood friend? How could he strike these men he had sworn to protect?
- "I can't..." he murmured, his legs giving way beneath him. "I can't do that to you..."
Corvus observed the scene with obvious satisfaction, his eyes gleaming with an unhealthy light behind his mask.
- "And there you have it," he said in an almost pedagogical voice. "There lies the fundamental weakness of your species. Those pathetic bonds you call 'love' or 'loyalty' are nothing but chains that paralyze you at the crucial moment."
He tightened his mental grip on the three men, forcing them to strike even more violently. Their bones were now audibly fracturing under the strain, their muscles tearing, but they couldn't stop.
Harold was sobbing openly, his face distorted by an anguish that Thomas had never seen in his old friend.
- "Kill me," he begged, his voice barely audible. "Thomas, please... before I..."
- "Never," Thomas cut him off, even though each word tore at his throat.
- "Then we'll all die," Harold moaned, breaking another of his ribs.
What followed unfolded with nightmarish slowness. Blows rained down on Thomas, who no longer defended himself. His vision blurred, black spots dancing before his eyes. Blood flowed from his mouth, his nose, staining the ancient stone floor.
Harold raised both fists above his head, his arms trembling with effort and horror at what he was about to do. His eyes met Thomas's one last time, and the old man read a mute supplication in them.
Forgive me.
The fists began their deadly descent...