English Translation — Fantasy Narrative Style
"I have given you authority to trample on serpents and scorpions, and over all the power of the enemy; nothing shall harm you."
In the pitch-black night, someone seemed to be whispering, murmuring in the dark.
Press could barely make out the words—verses drawn straight from the Gospels.
Before the age of steam rose to power, the Holy Evangelical Papal State ruled the Western world. In the name of God they stirred strife and fire across the land; under the might of faith, the Crusading Templars swept through archipelagos and continents alike. Where their iron steeds passed, cities fell and people perished.
By divine will they enforced sacred authority—until Engelvig triumphed in the War of Radiance. Steam shattered the foundations of faith; a leap in technology drove a vast chasm between the old Theocracy and the nations armed with engines and steel. From that day forward, belief could no longer rule anyone.
Even so, the Church of the Gospel still cast its shadow upon all nations. After all, Old Dunling was originally built by the Romans, and most people still clung to fear and reverence for that ancient faith. Their whispers braided together into a flood of prayer.
Now, Officer Press knelt on the cold ground, utterly lost in what this night had become.
Hours earlier, the Chief had summoned every available hand. Press had no idea what was going on—only that this was Suarlan Hall's largest mobilization in years. He thought it would be some secret operation and had even prepared to die in duty. Yet when the mounted police arrived, they were met not by enemies… but by the Royal Guard.
Press rarely ever saw those soldiers clad in crimson cloaks. In the War of Radiance, they had been Engelvig's elite. Rumors said their cloaks were once black, but had been dyed red by the blood of their foes. Those who feared them called them the Redcoats.
Iron boots hammered the earth—crisp metallic thuds echoing in every ear. A resident of the nearby lower district pushed open his window, ready to curse whoever woke him… only to find himself staring into unprecedented darkness.
The red-clad Guard sealed off the entire catacomb and its surroundings. They raised rifles—an iron wall of gun barrels—to prevent anyone unqualified from witnessing what lay here. Moments earlier, the Academy of Mechanics had cut all power in the area. Lights died. Darkness fell, severing civilians from the filthiest of secrets.
There was no resistance. There didn't need to be. Before the mounted officers could even process what was happening, the Royal Guard had them subdued. Disarmed, a whole squad of Suarlan Hall's mounted police knelt beneath Old Dunling's freezing night sky.
Something significant was happening tonight. Silence ruled—save for the iron marches and the ragged breaths… and whispered prayers.
Suddenly, one of the mounted officers rose to his feet. Several soldiers leveled unfamiliar weapons at him—tools Press had never seen, doubtlessly experimental products of the Academy. He dared not look too long; the more one knew tonight, the sooner one would die.
"I am Chief Donnas of Suarlan Hall! I have the authority to meet your commanding officer!"
Chief Donnas could no longer endure this humiliation and roared in fury. His answer was the brutal smash of a rifle stock. The soldiers cared nothing for rank.
"Chief Donnas?"
A voice tested the name from the dark. Through the haze of pain, Donnas saw a man emerge from the shadows.
His attire was unlike anything Donnas had known—an obsidian cloak edged in ornate designs, and both sword and firearm crafted in styles foreign to his eyes. The intricate workmanship alone revealed them as exquisite instruments of death.
There was a strange scent about him—not foul, but sharp and familiar. It took Donnas a moment to recall: sulfur.
"Good evening. I'm the one in charge here."
A finely wrought mask concealed his face, and the darkness kept its details hidden.
"Do you have any idea what you are doing?" Donnas spat, outraged. A chief did not receive treatment such as this. His protest earned only a vicious kick of an iron boot to the gut, curling him into the dirt in agony.
"I want you to understand two things, Chief."
A black muzzle pressed against his skull. The masked man's posture was casual—ready to fire at any heartbeat.
"First: If your mounted officers weren't so large in number, we wouldn't care about leaving Suarlan Hall understaffed. By protocol, all of you would be dead tonight."
The gun twisted cruelly against Donnas' head. The remaining officers tensed, wanting to defend him—only to find barrels swinging toward them.
"Second: tonight, we have every right to execute anyone."
He withdrew the gun, checked his watch, and nodded as if everything was progressing perfectly.
"Cover their ears and blindfold them. What comes next is not for their eyes."
Press was hauled away without resistance. Even the soldiers hadn't expected to encounter the mounted police tonight, so they shoved them into deeper darkness, binding sight and sound away. But when it came to Press, the masked man abruptly halted the process and demanded he be brought forward.
"What is your name, officer?"
The man gazed toward the outer district, as though waiting for something.
"Press Lailana, sir."
Press wouldn't dare show disrespect—not when his superior was beaten without hesitation.
"They call me Red Falcon."
The painted crimson mask turned toward him, eyes studying him. Press knew it was merely a codename, but had no idea why the man chose to share it.
"Take this. Protect your colleagues."
It was a weapon identical to those of the Guard—heavy, unfamiliar, and unlike any firearm Press had ever handled.
"W-why me?"
Press had countless questions—like what protection he could possibly offer with such overwhelming soldiers here—but when the moment came, those were the only words he managed to force out.
English Translation — Epic Fantasy Narrative Style
"Hmm… maybe it's just a familiar face. Or maybe I simply can't stand that sheriff of yours," Red Kite muttered, then waved his hand impatiently. "Don't just stand there. If possible, I want you to pretend you never saw anything that comes next. Understand?"
He paused, as if remembering something crucial.
"And one more thing. 'Loss of control' may occur among those mounted police as well. If necessary, I'll need you to kill your colleagues… or yourself."
"What… do you mean…?"
Press was baffled. Confusion piled upon confusion. Meanwhile, that holy chanting intensified—an overwhelming sense of divine rite suffocating every inch of this land.
"Knowing these things comes with a price. Best you stay ignorant."
Red Kite clearly had no intent to explain further. It felt as though he had spoken only on a passing whim.
Before Press could push for answers, events surged ahead without mercy. A shrill train whistle wailed from far away.
There shouldn't be any steam trams running at this hour—yet one tore through the fog regardless, its blazing light shredding the darkness.
It was a monstrous speed—wind roaring past him. Press only caught a fleeting glimpse as it thundered by: a war beast clad in heavy black armor, far larger than any tram he had ever seen. This was no transport—this was an iron serpent, rushing across the defensive line with hunger for blood.
More whistles shrieked from within the mist—like a thousand warhorses screaming in unison.
For a moment, Press felt a strange hallucination: that the Royal Guards were not the protagonists of tonight. It was these unknown iron serpents, marching from the night's abyss, who were the true actors on this stage.
Soon they plunged into the dark depths of the Lower City—and then came the artillery. Flames bloomed like vengeful flowers. The earth trembled, as though colossal beasts clashed unseen beneath the ground.
…
Like the blessed refuge that Belaugh once created, the Catacombs too lay hidden beneath a field of ruins. It had once been a grand structure of solemn stature. But during the Radiant War, enemy bombardment reduced even this desolate landmark to a scar.
Soldiers dressed identically to Red Kite guarded every approach around the Catacombs, silent and cold, their gun barrels fixed firmly upon the darkness below.
Belaugh's long stay in the Lower City had not been wasted—somehow he acquired the original blueprints for the Catacombs. Every exit was now sealed beneath layered defenses: the first line of soldiers, then scattered squads covering the perimeter, and beyond them—the Royal Guards encircling like a tightening iron noose.
"So you intend to enter personally? Your duty is to command from outside. If anyone should go in, it's me."
Belaugh objected sharply to Galahad's plan to search for Eve himself. The two stood at the Catacombs' main gate—a location predicted to suffer the fiercest assault.
"No. There's no time. Once they arrive, we must strike immediately."
"So you plan to get in, rescue her, and return—all before we move out? You know our protocol. You'll die by our hands. And for a perfect purge, not even a corpse will remain."
Belaugh's voice was filled with mistrust.
"Then what do you propose?" Galahad growled back.
Silence answered him. Truth was—Belaugh didn't know either. Lloyd—damned bastard that he was—had always been a perfect sword. Tell him the objective, and he would eliminate it flawlessly. Yet a sword that sharp was also quick to slip from its master's grasp. One never knew what chaos he might unleash next—like now.
But the night did not grant them time for indecision.
A freezing chill stabbed through their bodies.
It was impossible to describe—a primal, instinctive warning. Their breaths thicken, fear rising like venom from the heart. Their eyes locked—just as an ear-splitting alarm erupted into the night.
Rapid ticking—growing faster, sharper—until it fused into a single shrill scream.
The Geiger counters.
Complicated machines built for one purpose: detecting radiation unseen by human senses. Their alarms meant only one thing: the anomaly was near. The numbers spiked past the safe limit, bathing everything in a blood-red glow.
Everyone understood. No debate. No hesitation.
Rounds chambered. Cannons primed.
A storm of artillery fire rained down upon the surface above the Catacombs—merciless and absolute. This was a purge. The Purge Bureau required no survivors. As for Eve—her fate was sealed the moment the alarm sounded.
That was the iron creed that let humans stand against monsters.
"All units, reality-warping anomaly confirmed. Commence operations. Tonight—no one but us leaves alive!"
Galahad's roar boomed across the comms. Holy radiance fell upon the ruins—blindingly bright—banishing all shadows. The heavens themselves offered steel-born salvation: an enormous iron whale glided through the clouds, its light like a divine javelin hurled toward the earth.
From the darkened entrance, a foul stench of blood oozed forth. Unease coiled in their spines. Galahad raised his arm—instantly, flames flickered to life across a line of soldiers. They wore heavy fireproof gear, faces hidden behind toxin masks, breath echoing like bellows.
Incinerators.
Nightmares designed for underground war. Their modified flamethrowers and massive fuel packs could burn for unbroken minutes—consuming all air within a confined space, turning tunnels into ovens that roasted enemies alive.
Behind them, riflemen formed ranks. Incinerators were slow—bulky—vulnerable. Only with full protection could they function as the spearhead of destruction.
A fortress made of men—break one stone, and the wall collapses.
"You hear that, Galahad?"
Belaugh aimed his strange silver-white rifle, finger poised upon the trigger—eyes sharp, wary.
Footsteps. Ragged breathing. Frenzied whispers.
Survivors… scrambling for escape. But what awaited them outside was not salvation—only the purifying fire.
"Remember the report: a fuel explosion beneath the Lower City caused the Catacombs to collapse. No survivors."
Galahad's tone was mechanical—stripped of his earlier resolve to save Eve.
Then the distorted shapes burst from the gloom—reeking of rot. No longer human. Their twisted forms mirrored the horrors recorded in ancient texts.
Demons.
Thus the iron serpents returned—racing through the night. Their brakes screeched—sparks cascading like falling stars. Armored plates peeled open one by one. And that sacred chanting resonated through every communicator:
"Be sober-minded and watchful.Your adversary the Devil prowls like a roaring lion,seeking someone to devour.Resist him—firm in your faith."
The iron doors slammed wide. Steam exploded outward—white like a rising tide.
And through that blinding mist, the men stepped forward—whispering into war.