Alex picked up the first sheet of the report. But as his eyes scanned the title, they widened, his breath catching as though the words themselves had struck him.
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Massacre in the Village of Marcialla
Report written by: Bishop Francesco Gambassi
An abrupt summons arrived from the local parish demanding my immediate presence in Marcialla. When I arrived at the gates of the village, instead of being met by the local guards, I found the gates wide open. I entered the village accompanied by a dozen soldiers and three priests. The streets beyond them were empty. An eerie silence hung in the air, invoking a sinister aura.
Before proceeding further into the village, we knelt and uttered prayers to the Creators for protection and strength, then advanced down an alley that appeared to be the quickest path to the village center. It didn't take long to encounter the first signs of an incident. Black stains, like soot, marred the walls of certain houses, but there were no indications that anything had been burned - no smell, no charred remains. Nor was there any smell that might suggest burning or provide clues about the substance.
Following the trail of black marks, we reached the heart of the village. The doors of the ramshackle homes stood wide open. Two soldiers inspected a few of the houses, but they were empty, showing no signs of struggle. It seemed as if the villagers had left their homes in a hurry.
Uncertain of the situation and wary of a potential ambush, I sent two soldiers back to the nearest observation post to summon reinforcements. The rest of us continued slowly, every step heavy with dread. Anxiety gripped our bodies, but with faith in our Creators, we pressed on.
And then, we saw it. A scene so grotesque, it could only be described as something out of the forbidden texts about the Abyss. There was no doubt this was the work of demons. In front of us lay a pile of bodies—hundreds of them—arranged in lines to the left and right, creating a clear path to the local church.
I'm not sure how to describe the bodies. Their condition defied comprehension. They looked as though every drop of blood had been drained from them, leaving the skin as a mere shell. But what troubled me more was the lack of blood—there wasn't a single drop anywhere. Upon closer inspection, I noticed black holes piercing through the clothing and skin. It seemed as though something had emerged from within, burning its way out. Each body bore dozens of such marks.
May the Creators forgive me, but I struggled to hold my faith. I didn't know what to say; my prayers were caught in my throat. All I could do was stand in silent agony, staring at the scene. Around me, others fared no better; one of the priests even fainted.
After a moment of silent observation, we knelt to pray. If we ever needed the Creators' protection, it was now. Every protective prayer we knew was uttered. In the end, we prayed for the souls of the dead, though we didn't know if they had already been cast into the Abyss. For the sake of Harmony, I hoped that despite this tragedy, they had found peace in the Creators' heavens.
With the path to the church open, we made our way to its doors. Unfortunately, whatever had befallen the villagers had likely also reached the clergy, judging by the shattered, blood-stained doors lying on the ground.
Inside the church, we encountered a similar scene. The clergy's bodies were displayed on the altar, in the same state as the villagers in the square. But the violence hadn't stopped there. The perpetrator had desecrated the sacred space. Frescoes and tapestries on the walls were torn and shattered. In place of the central tapestry behind the altar, the perpetrator had left a message, which had been scrawled in blood, I cannot say whose.
"My dearest Icarus, I have finally found what we were searching for, but I have lost everything because of it. Please forget me." At the very bottom of the message was a name carved in small font - Heron.
Reinforcements arrived shortly after. The village was quarantined, and forensic teams were summoned to gather evidence. Their findings, along with photographs of the scene, are included in this report. The investigation now lies in the hands of the Church's criminal division, with all relevant institutions to be informed.
From dust we were created, and to dust we shall return.
Bishop Francesco Gambassi, 2057 S.C., 155th day, Season of Nadia
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Alex set the letter down and took a long swig of mead, and his gaze met Sergei's, shadowed by unease.
"Why weren't we informed about this directly? Aren't we the closest outpost?" Alex cried.
"No," Sergei replied, shaking his head. "There's a closer base west of the village—the 10th Scallia Brigade."
"Gaah!" Alex growled, his fist slamming against the table. "Classified reports from the Church of Harmony. No doubt the investigative team will demand to station themselves here."
"Alex, calm down. If they come, we'll adapt some rooms to accommodate them," Sergei said in a firm, but measured tone.
"Sergei, I'm not concerned with accommodations—I'm concerned with this classified nonsense. What are we supposed to tell the soldiers?"
"We'll leave that to the representative from the investigative team," Sergei replied, his calm unshaken. "We don't even know what we're authorized to say yet."
Alex sighed, the tension in his shoulders loosening slightly. "You're right. Let's go through the rest of the report."
The next document consisted of the forensic team's findings. The black marks on the houses were classified as black dust of unknown origin. As for the wounds, it was concluded that the penetration had occurred from the inside—that whatever created the holes had emerged from within the victims' bodies.
And then there was the matter of the blood. Samples were taken from the walls and from what little remained in the victims' bodies—just enough to attempt identification. The blood did not match any of the victims.
Even more disturbing was the analysis of the message left in the church. The forensic team concluded that the perpetrator had likely cut their own fingers to extract blood for writing. Fingerprint impressions embedded within the letters of the message lent credence to this theory.
"Dear Creators," Sergei sighed as he looked at the pictures, while Alex finished reading the forensic report.
Only one folded piece of paper remained, neatly folded.
Alex unfolded it carefully, almost reluctantly. The moment his eyes fell on the top of the page, his breath hitched. Sergei froze, his gaze locking on the emblem emblazoned there.
It was unmistakable. The insignia known to every soul across Rohana and beyond—the mark of Rohai, the entity that stood unchallenged above the Church and the Federation alike.
The silence was shattered as Sergei let out a piercing scream. Alex recoiled, stumbling out of his chair and throwing the paper away from himself. Tears streamed down his face.
Sobbing, his voice cracked and broken, Alex asked the question: "What sin have we committed to warrant such punishment from the Creators?"
Sergei and Alex embraced each other, crying, trying to find comfort. Their terror was not unfounded—receiving a letter from the Rohai was an unthinkable event. The last recorded instance had been 250 star-cycles ago, when a letter was delivered to the city of Mako. It had been a proclamation: the Creators would judge them for harboring heretics.