Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In the emptiness of the void it was all but quiet, a rare moment for the man that lies on the medical table. All throughout the past year the young man had known nothing but bloodshed, death, decay and horror on the front lines. No man should have to bear witness to what has transpired here.

Deep in thought he remembers the tidal wave of German troops charging through no man's land, mowed down by the synchronized fire of rifles and vickers machine guns. Hundreds of men from both sides died through this brazen tactic and he hated it.

The sound of the artillery was near constant, but even in his slumber, the shells fell quiet and still. As if the crews had been killed by an unseen spectre of death. He couldn't tell if he was hallucinating or if what he was hearing was true, there were no shells being fired. Whether or not it was a good thing, it wasn't certain, but at least he could rest soundly that the neverending barrage ceased for once.

Nor were there screams of the dying that he had been so accustomed to. Whether from being caught in an artillery blast, or from failing to put on their gas masks in time before the various chemicals suffocated them. Remembering all too well of the many times the tactic was used by the Germans, he had experienced them so much that in some days he would rarely remove his own.

But something now didn't feel right. He tried to open his eyes but all he could see was a never ending void of pitch black, as if he had gone blind. Then the fear started to grow, he tried to move his hands to feel his face, to see whether or not his eyes had somehow been removed. But he couldn't feel his hands, he thrashed around in the void thinking it would help in escaping his darkened prison. But he couldn't move at all, he was blind and immobilized.

However as soon as panic started to flood in, he heard faint murmurs, to him it sounded like ghostly moans, desperately trying to move his hands and open his eyes. He tried to find the source of the noise, but he didn't have to wait long. As if by some coincidence, his sight was starting to return to him, and he could see the ghastly sight of several deformed humanoid creatures.

Their faces were misshapen and disfigured, almost looking like the skeletal remains of someone rotting in no man's land. However the proportion of their faces compared to their torsos and arms was off putting. The arms were pencil thin with long blue-gray hands and small torsos. The creatures starting to climb up on the man's body, he thought they were the ghosts of the soldiers he's killed wanting revenge on their murderer, swarming his body until his eyes were forced shut.

Awakening from the nightmare, Cyril took in several gasps for air after the horrible vision he had occurred, nothing like that had appeared in any of his dreams before and it startled him. However, the larger question that loomed on his mind was what he was doing, for some inexplicable reason, he can't recall anything that happened in the past several days.

Looking at his clothes Cyril noticed he wasn't wearing his standard issue uniform, instead all he wore was a plain white shirt and small gray shorts. Noticing something on his right big toe, Cyril saw a small piece of paper with string attached to it. Bending forward he noticed there was a tag that listed several details about him. Cyril White, Lance Corporal, Brown hair, Green eyes and date of death, October 11th 1918.

"Wait a minute, how is this possible? But I'm alive."

Cyril spoke softly and then soon realized where he was. Looking around him, he saw that he was in a tent hospital which must've been 7 meters long on each side, there were operating tables with small wooden tables holding various surgical devices and tools. In the distance, Cyril could see a pair of clothes. Getting up from the table, he stepped down on the ground.

Taking a few seconds to walk over to the wooden table that displayed the assortment of clothes before him. Cyril soon changed out into the new outfit of a blue jacket, dark gray pants and a black flat cap. There were also several pairs of brown standard issue boots that British troops wore into battle. Now wearing something more comfortable, Cyril was about to exit the tent before a sneaking feeling crept up on him.

It was absolutely silent, just like in the nightmare. Had the artillery crews gone to requisition more shells? But something else bothered him, he couldn't hear the rustle of soldiers away from the frontline, or the conversations some had. It's like everyone vanished. Pulling the tent entrance aside he saw several other white tents, some in better shape than others. One tent looked as if it was still being set up, but the people responsible left it unfinished.

Stepping out onto the dry ground Cyril turned to his right, seeing a sight that caused him to process it. Several six inch howitzer guns piled up and completely destroyed, forming a makeshift barricade blocking the right side. How did something like this occur, more importantly is why?

Turning around he saw a dirt path that led further down the labyrinth medical tents, starting down it, he looked from left to right to see what lies inside the tents, it was all similar to the one he left moments ago. However, there were sedatives and syringes strewn about as well as medical tools scattered on the ground. Stopping for a moment, he stared into the tent containing the scattered tools and missing items, only to see in the distance a medical table with dried blood, the table was drenched almost entirely in the dark reddish black color. Cyril didn’t pay too much attention to it, soldiers came in bloodied, so maybe the doctors and nurses forgot to clean it up.

Turning away from the broken tent he continued down the path of scarred medical tents and remembered all the pained screams and cries of soldiers who were injured from either bullets or the endless bombardments. It’s a sound Cyril would probably never forget, some desperately crying to their mothers, others begging god to save them, he remembered a kid that couldn’t be any older than eighteen, his right leg completely blown off by an incoming shell. His high-pitched cries for help slowly drowned out from the constant fire of German and British rifles, when that skirmish was over, Cyril learned that the kid bled to death. A tragic way to go, crying for help but receiving none until you slowly succumb to the wounds inflicted by an enemy who doesn’t even know the young boy they killed.

There were dozens of other moments like that, too many to remember the specific details, but that one stuck with Cyril the most. But he tried to bury it deep in his unsavory memories and moved on. Passing through several more tents, he saw that the dirt path split into two sides. On the left were more tents, but these ones had dried blood on the cloth. The other path was much like what he saw when he exited his medical tent. Another barricade of metal and broken artillery guns, sealing off that section. He thought of climbing over it but decided to take it easy for the time being.

Turing to the right Cyril heard the first bit of sound since he had woken up. He stopped dead in his tracks to hear it, the sound came from the right side of the bloodied tent, the noise was as if a dog was gnawing on a chewed piece of meat. Wanting to keep quiet, Cyril crouched down and started to carefully step forward slowly. But stopped just short before noticing that there were little to o ambient noises. No crows cawing and circling over the dead, no insects buzzing about, and the distant gunfire and artillery was silent much like his dream.

Something was definitely off, and he knew that whatever caused this, it was not going to be a welcomed encounter. But Cyril needed to know what happened, and why he couldn’t remember anything days ago. So he pressed onward. Shifting towards the tent on his right, he crouched behind a wooden barrel and looked for some kind of weapon or tool to use, but found no such luck. All he could find was a wooden plank with a nail dug into it. The improvised weapon was crude, but he had seen similar ones used in trench raids.

Hoisting the plank up with one hand, Cyril turned to the corner and soon caught the stench first. Something he was all too familiar with living in the trenches, but what shocked him more was what made the noise. It looked like a cavalry horse but something was wrong with it. There was dried up blood on its fur, several muscles on its hind legs were exposed and had a pale pinkish-red color to it. The tail was nothing more than a stub, exposing the skeletal frame.

Cyril muttered a curse under its breath and wondered what happened to the cavalry horse. It was eating the rotting flesh on the ground as a coyote would on locating a leftover carcass. He couldn’t make out features of the front hooves, body or face, and maybe that was a good thing. Maybe this beast is why no one is around, and if that is the case, then how was Cyril alive? Surely a carnivorous animal would’ve come to feast upon him, but he didn’t think too much of it. Wanting to catch the ravaging horse off guard, he started to slowly creep up behind it, readying the moment he would have to strike with the blunt plank, and gaze on its face. Nearing two meters from the horse, it stopped feasting on the corpse and perked its head up.

Cyril cursed again and stood absolutely still to see the creature slowly shift its head to face him. The muscles and fur on the horse’s head were all completely gone, all that remained was a lifeless skull and hollow black eye sockets. The arrays of razor sharp teeth near its cheekbones stained with blood.

Cyril was frozen with a mixture of fear and disgust at the sight of the disfigured horse, but those thoughts were dashed away when the creature turned around from its feast and pounced on him, letting out a bestial howl. But it wasn’t a horse neigh that he was so used to, rather it was a monstrous howl closer to sounding like a distorted wolf or rabid dog. The decayed beast landed on top of him and Cyril could smell it up close, the stench was fouler than it was from a distance.

But before the rabid horse could bite his head off, Cyril smacked the wooden plank on the horse’s stomach, which caused it to jump back and howl at him again. Slowly getting up from the dirt he saw the creature soon leap towards him again and used its…claws? Cyril rolled away from the strike and saw that the horse tore up one of the medical tents with its front bladed feet. He was confused on why this horse had bladed claws instead of hooves on its front legs, questioning it at this very second was pointless since it reared its head to face him again and went in for another swipe.

This time however, Cyril stepped out of the horse’s path and went in for an upward bash with the wooden plank towards its face. Hearing the wood making an audible thump and cracking several parts of the skull, he thought the beast would surely be defeated. But all that did was make the horse continue its attack, this time striking Cyril in the chest. At first he didn’t feel anything, but two seconds later, the pain receptors finally hit him like lightning and he could feel his stomach letting out blood. Cyril was too shocked to let out a cry of pain, but he crouched down and stumbled onto the ground, dropping his weapon.

Before he went into shock and passed out from blood loss, he could see directly into the sky above, the dark gray clouds let out a drop of water on his right cheek. The rain came in, to turn the area around him into a quagmire. But it wouldn’t matter for long, he was dying, and his killer would soon dine on him any second now. Hopefully after he finally leaves this Earth and joins his friends in heaven.

Almost on cue, his sight began to wane, and before his eyes slid shut, he saw the monstrous equine look down on him with the emotionless eye sockets. Cyril wanted to curse at the beast but couldn’t, he didn’t have the strength to do so, until all he could see was the familiar dark void of his nightmare.

Almost in an instant, Cyril could feel the air in his lungs return. Somehow, the slash he inflicted from the creature had not killed him. But something was different, his eyes were welded shut like in the nightmare. All he could see was the pitch blackness of nothing, a sort of purgatory he thought to himself. Maybe this is where everyone goes to die, wandering aimlessly in this empty space to be forgotten by everyone. He couldn’t think of a more cruel way to spend eternity.

As a young boy, Cyril would often enjoy solitude. As to be away from his younger brother and sister, so he could be alone in his thoughts. But even in long periods of isolation he needed some company, just not the type of company that was loud and boisterous. He didn’t hate his younger siblings, he just needed times of the day to be left alone. His mother could understand it, but his father was confused by this behavior. Every now and then when he was free from his job at the harbor his father would try to take Cyril on fishing trips or hiking throughout the countryside, he enjoyed the moments he spent on those trips as he rarely left home.

Cyril thought the war would be just like that. A sort of adventure like the ones he partook with his father as a child. Not even two days into his first posting in 1916, he knew this war wasn’t going to be an adventure. Maybe it was his child like attitude upon joining up, or maybe he was blind to the fact of what was going on, but experiences in the Western front sapped all of the innocence from Cyril’s eyes and he wish he never joined the military, if only so he wouldn’t see the horrors of war first hand.

Now here he was. Killed by a monstrous horse, floating in limbo wondering what will become of him as he stares into nothing, he could be alone for as long as he wanted. However, it didn’t last long, as his eyes started to slowly open and he could see faint colors. It looked like white and dark green, slowly blinking again, Cyril could see more details, leaves in several shades of dark green, and a misty fog that gave off a white color. He blinked several more times and slowly tried to get up, he felt sluggish trying to get up from his position of lying down, looking below him he could see he was sleeping on a brick path.

Where was he now? This wasn’t anything like the dreary frontline medical stations where he had died. Was this the afterlife?

Now in a crouch, Cyril’s eyes were now open fully as he took in the surroundings of where he woke up. The place looked as if it was a dreamworld, there was a large chateau with grayish-white walls and blue roofs, locked behind a high gate and perched on a small rocky hill. He could see a flight of steps that led to the gated entrance that was made up of stone bricks like the one he was lying down on. Surrounding the area was a chained off steel fence with ornate designs adorning the pointed spikes, as well as several trees without any leaves attached to their branches.

All of this Cyril could faintly see in the white fog, until he saw two figures walking towards him. One was walking, while the other looked to be moving in a wheelchair. He couldn’t make out any details on them since the fog obscured his vision. Cyril wanted to call out and make his presence known, opening his mouth and preparing to speak before quickly shutting it. He didn’t know if these people were here to harm him or help him, wherever he was. So he was playing it safe, for now.

As the two figures closed the distance to Cyril, he could now make out details on them. One was an old man, wearing a brown tunic, trousers and officers cap used by high ranking British members in the military, however his beard looked unkempt and ragged, with a graying white color to it. He carried what looked like a wooden cane on top of both of his upper legs. Whoever this man was, he clearly had seen a lot of combat and the rank insignias on his cuffs and upper chest showed it.

The other figure was a woman, pale skin like the fog that enveloped the area, blonde hair that borders on white to match her skin. Wearing a sort of nurse outfit, however it was not in the traditional all white clean color that Cyril had seen so many times, but rather, it was primarily light brown with a medium sized white apron, a small red flower like piece of fabric was attached to her apron. Lastly was the grayish-black cape that she had on her back that certainly isn’t part of regulation, and the regular white cap of nurses with the distinctive red cross on the top.

The woman moved behind the old man’s wheelchair and started to push it for him, however the old man held up a hand to stop her.

“Do not worry about me darling, I am able to push myself.” He spoke in a ragged but quiet voice

The woman nodded without a word resuming their walk towards Cyril, until they were all face to face. Cyril was the first to start the conversation.

“How am I alive? I thought I died from this horrid beast.”

The old man chuckled and shook his head, almost as if he had heard something similar to this before. “My young man, there is much that needs to be explained. But asking questions to a complete stranger is no way to introduce yourself, wouldn’t you say?”

Cyril completely forgot his manners, he quickly brushed himself up and looked down to see the slash he had before was gone. This all had to be a bad dream, maybe he was still sleeping in the medical tent and this is all in his head. He looked at the old man’s cuffs and saw the three golden buttons with several stripes on it, indicating that the old man’s rank was a General. With this discovery Cyril stood at attention and saluted.

“Lance Corporal Cyril White, sir.” Cyril blurted out, looking down nervously at the general who only shook his head.

“This isn’t a place where ranks are needed, mister White. But I can understand your discipline. Now, I am Edward. But the people I’ve met usually call me Old General Edward.” The man softly said.

Cyril was confused for a moment, he didn’t know of a General Edward, none of his regiment mentioned one, the ones they usually talk about was Haig or French. But never a General Edward, but that wasn’t important now.

“Okay, General. Please explain where I am and how I’m not dead?”

“You are in the Hunter’s dream.” General Edward didn’t speak but the woman on the left spoke first. Her voice was void of all emotion.

Cyril looked at the woman with a perplexed stare, but the woman returned it with a blank expressionless one right back at him. Something about her seemed off, but the Old General broke into the conversation.

“It’s alright, the Doll can be rather unique in her way of speaking. But she is right, you are in the Hunter’s dream, and you are a new hunter.”

With one question answered, another presented itself to Cyril, what did the General mean by him being a new hunter, and where exactly is this Hunter’s dream? Edward simply smiled at the bewildered young man before continuing on.

“This is a safe haven for people like you and I, no harm can be done here. Come, follow me and I will answer your questions.”

He motioned his right hand to Cyril to follow him, who was hesitant to at first but then soon followed along with the Doll in tow. She walked up behind Edward and assisted him in moving the wheel chair, unlike before he did not object to it, allowing the Doll to do the work for him. A half minute passed and the trio soon were in the vicinity of a beige house with a brown roof, Cyril thought this must be where Edward and the woman lived.

The Doll moved away from Edward and opened the door to both him and Cyril. Upon entering, there was a small workstation that contained a blue sheet of paper, several cabinets of varying sizes, a stone fireplace and what looked like an altar containing a stone statue of a hooded individual, Cyril couldn’t make out any details on the statue, but he didn’t pay too much attention to it, as Edward beckoned him to stick close to him. Walking on the wooden floor, each step made an audible squeaking noise, the kind that annoyed Cyril when he was a young child.

“Doll, if you would be so kind as to open the cabinet doors?” Edward asked politely to the woman apparently named “Doll”.

She quietly nodded and stepped in between the two men and opened the cabinets that revealed an array of misshapen weapons. None like the ones that Cyril had seen before on the trenches, these looked to be cut up, sawed or bandaged together to give off a Frankenstein monster like appearance to them.

“Pick one.” The general said to Cyril, who looked at him in confusion at first but then turned back to the odd weapons in front of him.

One was a shovel containing barbed wire scattered around the spade, a good tool and an effective killing weapon. Cyril could recall the dozen or so times he had to defend himself from German shock troopers raiding the trenches and using a shovel as his close quarters weapon.

The one above it was a wooden club with multiple spikes on it, however this one looked like it was crafted expertly and not improvised in several seconds. The grip wasn’t made out of wood like a majority of the weapon, but it was a metal grip with a grating similar to the American M1911 pistol. The last weapon was what appeared to be a shortened farming scythe, but the handle is too short for the large blade that it has.

With the three options before him, Cyril moved ahead of Edward and the Doll to grab the handle on the barbed shovel. The wooden grip was almost like any other shovel he used so at least it would be easy to swing around. Looking at the blade of the shovel and the barbed wire that surrounded the spade, he noticed that it was not covered in blood, how this weapon was created without the maker at least getting caught in one of the barbs was beyond him.

He turned over back to the other two and noticed the Doll reaching for the cabinet next to the one storing the weapons, with it she took out a MK VI Webley revolver and a Browning Auto 5 shotgun, looking to the general Cyril could assume he was given a choice on which weapon he would prefer to use. Given how he was more familiar using revolvers than shotguns, he picked up the british gun and hefted it on his right hand feeling the weight and inspecting the darkened gun.

After looking at his weapons for several seconds and inspecting them, Cyril finally spoke up to the old man. “Alright, now what the hell happened to me and why was there a reanimated horse corpse.”

He saw the Doll turn towards the general and heard an audible chuckle. Edward looked up to see the confusion on Cyril’s dumbfounded face.

“You’ve been asleep for a very long time. Long enough for you to miss out on the horrors that came forth.” The enigmatic sentence that Edward spat out didn’t help Cyril out at all. He furrowed his brow and raised his voice.

“Ok, then humor me. What is today, how long have I been sleeping?”

The general simply chuckled before revealing the answer.

“The seventh of June, nineteen-twenty.” He said in a mundane tone.

Cyril stared at the man in absolute silence, all eyes were now on him as he started to process the answer, in denial he shook his head. “That can’t be, you’re lying.” he replied back.

The general simply shook his head and turned the opposite direction towards the fireplace, not even noticing the stacks of newspaper from when he entered, Cyril watched as he and the Doll shifted through a column of newspapers until the woman pulled out two that were near the top, handing it down to the General who wheeled back towards him.

“Will this be enough?” Edward said, handing the newspaper. Cyril angrily took the newspaper from Edward and looked at the front page.

The headline read: “ALLIES RETREAT FROM FRANCE!”, in absolute horror Cyril looked at the date and noticed it was set at the first of July nineteen-nineteen. Reading more of the details he couldn’t fathom the thought of the United Kingdom just abandoning the war. All of those years, all of those men died for absolutely nothing. Upon further examination he realized it wasn’t because of a German victory, but the article ends with only several words “Soldiers forced to withdraw from the frontlines after a gruesome encounter with horrifying foes.”

With that sentence, Cyril’s mind looked back to the skull of the reanimated horse and its eyes, or lack thereof, before hearing the rustling of another newspaper from Edward. Unlike before, he gently received it and read the date before the headline, the sixteenth of February nineteen-twenty. The headline simply read “EUROPE RAVAGED, STAY OUT!”, there was no story to accompany the title. This paper itself was rather sparse in its words, only seeing local stories from home rather than world events or what has happened to Europe after the war.

In utter disbelief, Cyril simply returned the paper to the Doll and stared at Edward in silence. Unable to comprehend what he just read, he stared blankly at the wooden floor without an idea of what to do now, he was now trapped, with no hope of getting home. He looked back up to face Edward.

“So I’m trapped in Ypres? No one is going to come and save me or anyone else alive?” Cyril said

“No. No one has ever stayed in France, Germany, Austria or other countries affected by the Great War. As of now, a majority of Europe has been isolated from the rest of the world and it is a hellscape.” Edward replied.

“What about my home? The United Kingdom?”

“It is alive, the beasts and horrors have not gone so far as to spread out to the rest of the world. For now they seem to be isolated primarily in certain areas.”

The general wheeled back over to the fireplace and the Doll soon followed him, grabbing a map right next to the stacks of newspapers, rolling back over to the workbench, he laid out a map detailing Europe and parts of the Middle east, there were sections of the map circled over with black ink. Which Cyril assumed were areas affected by the so called “monsters”.

“So, where did these creatures spawn out from? It couldn’t have happened overnight?”

“That is something you will have to find out for yourself.” Edward replied with his cryptic answer.

“Fine, if that is the case can you tell me if anyone is still alive down there?”

“Yes there is, good hunter.” The Doll’s quiet voice surprised Cyril for a split second, of the short time he knew these two people the Doll almost unsettled him with her silence, and lack of emotion.

“The Doll is right, there are still hundreds of thousands of people around the area. However, most have gone mad.”

Mad? There were many ways a man could go mad, but in the context that Edward was referring to, Cyril knew that a majority of the people left were insane. Have they been afflicted with a disease that causes damage to the brain? Has the constant war driven them insane? Or was it something more sinister at work?

“Whatever people you find down there, they are more beast than man. The war may be over, but some continue to fight even after all of this time.”

Cyril just quietly nodded, deep down he knew that there could be plenty of people alive and scared of what was going on, but he didn’t know if he could even help them. But he had a bigger question roaming on his mind, what was he going to do now?

“So where does that leave me? Why are you telling me this?” Cyril asked, to which Edward looked up directly into his eyes and spoke with a quiet but grating voice

“To end the nightmare, my young man. I don’t have a set of orders to give you, that is up for you to decide on where your path must take you. But know this Cyril, the nightmare must end if your home is to be safe from these horrors.”

Chapter Text

It was all a lot to take into for such a short span of time. Even after comprehending the gravity of what was laid before him, Cyril just stood quietly in the field of grass in silence. Staring into the horizon ahead Cyril was now alone with his thoughts, much like he was when he was younger. A preferable thing to do compared to what has happened.

Had it been up to him, Cyril would just stay in this Hunter's dream for all of eternity, it was just the type of area he dreamed of being in. No people, no noise, no worries. Just empty silence in the endless sea of green flora. But it would be selfish just to stay here and do nothing while others potentially suffer, he knew that much.

Maybe Edward was wrong and that there are still hundreds of people trapped in Europe trying to escape. But how would he save them? Cyril couldn't do it alone, not to mention how long it would even take to get to coastlines. And then they would have to use a boat to reach to safety somewhere.

He was just one man, he had to look out for himself first and foremost. Plus, the likelihood of finding someone worth saving down in that mess was extremely low. He'd have better luck finding a shilling, or one of those American baseballs he heard of. For now, his only company at the moment was a cryptic old officer and a quiet woman. Not at all like the other soldiers he served with in the trenches, at least they would provide interesting conversations and tell funny quips. Something that was desperately needed to distract him from the utter chaos that he and everyone else around him needed to stay sane.

Sitting down on the grass, Cyril quietly stared at the white flowers that dotted Hunter’s dream, the first time he ever saw greenery in so long. He had been so used to the mud and dirt that came in various browns and grays that he almost forgot what normal vegetation looked like. It relaxed him, easing the muscles on his shoulders and arms.

Hearing footsteps behind, Cyril turned to see the Doll walking towards him, away from the house. Stopping to sit right next to him which almost caused Cyril to move to a different spot, but the Doll placed her hand on his leg to stop him.

“Good hunter, why are you frightened of me?” The Doll softly spoke. Cyril was taken aback by the question, since it was the first time this Doll ever spoke up in a questioning voice, rather than an emotionless husk like she was before. Looking down at her, Cyril noticed her hand looked strange, the knuckles and wrist looked as if they were doll joints. If she truly was a Doll, then how was she alive? More questions he would need answering. But Cyril was getting distracted and noticed the Doll was still staring at him.

“I’m not sure, ma’am. But, there’s something about you that reminds me of some of the boys in the trench.” Cyril responded finally. With the question answered, the Doll tilted her head to the left as a way of not understanding his response. Cyril let out a sigh before he continued. “There were people down there in the trenches right next to me, who didn’t say a single word, moved a single centimeter. Their eyes were locked on one fixed position.”

“But why?”

The more questions the Doll asked, the more relieved Cyril was to know that she had some sort of emotion. It reminded him of the curiosity of a gullible child. It was refreshing to see someone who had no idea what he and many others experienced.

“It was because of the constant shelling and the noise that it and the thousands of machine gun fire did to a man. It was enough to drive some mad.” Cyril said. With those words spoken, he could recall the dozens of faces he had seen in his group. Some would remain silent for days or weeks. Cyril sometimes wondered what went on in their heads to make them so still and quiet. But sometimes, curiosity should be left unanswered.

The Doll simply nodded in understanding this time. This unexpected conversation put Cyril at ease for once in the past two years. He didn’t know if he was going to have many opportunities like this, given what he was now tasked to do, but the least he could do was enjoy it while it lasted. Hearing creaking behind him, Cyril turned to notice Edward was wheeling his way over to the two of them.

“I see you and the Doll are becoming well acquainted.” Edward spoke up.

Cyril stood up from the ground and walked over towards the old man before offering a response. But before the words came out of his mouth, he realized he didn’t know where he had to go in specific.

“Pardon me for asking, sir. But how am I supposed to get back to Ypres?” Cyril asked.

“Look ahead of you, do you see that gravestone?” Edward pointed to the opposite direction Cyril was looking.

Turning around Cyril saw an unmarked grave with a tiny metal fence surrounding it. Walking towards it he could see that the stone looked to be weathered and cracked, as if it was left out exposed to the elements for centuries. In confusion, Cyril turned around to see the General close behind.

“That is your ticket back to Ypres. You must kneel before it, and soon you will be sent back to the location you were previously occupying.” Edward said.

With this knowledge, he wondered where exactly he would be sent back to? The tent he awoken from, or the moment where he was killed by the horse creature?

“Where will I stand once I return to Ypres?” Cyril asked.

“There is a sort of lamp that is your guiding light in this new world. They will offer you safety to and from the Hunter’s dream. When you find one, light the lantern so you can freely move about various locations.” Edward responded in his quiet voice. With this knowledge, travel can be much easier and less tiring on his legs.

“If only we could’ve had this in the war, then transporting supplies and men would have been much easier.” Cyril said. Edward only shook his head silently and looked up.

“They were only constructed once the horrors were unleashed. I’m not sure who was responsible for their creations but maybe he’s out there somewhere building more as we speak.” The general quietly spoke. As Cyril moved closer towards the gravestone, he saw a familiar being rising up from the rocks below it. They were humanoid monsters from his dream only minutes ago, recognizing their oddly proportioned faces all too well he recoiled his hand from the grave and looked at Edward for an answer. “Do not be alarmed, they will not harm you.”

The sight of them again made Cyril feel uneasy being around them, remembering how they started crawling all over him, but this time they just stood still and only slightly motioned their arms in a repetition.

Relaxing his muscles, Cyril soon touched the stone and closed his eyes, the black void returning once more, but he heard Edward’s voice behind him as he was being transferred back to Ypres. They were only a few words that he could make out before it went silent once more.

“End the nightmare”

Opening his eyes he was greeted to the same tent that Cyril had awoken prior, standing up he could see the little tag that was strung around his toe and knew exactly where he was, and if this was the same place then he knew the beast that killed him wouldn’t be too far behind. Grabbing his barbed shovel and clenching his revolver, he pushed aside the flap entrance and retraced his steps back to where he had previously been slain.

On the way there, Cyril wondered if he would actually see his own corpse, and the horse dining on what remained. Maybe he was now a phantom and could see things others couldn’t, like those small grayish-blue humanoid creatures by the gravestone. But it didn’t feel like he was dead, he could still hear his heart pumping blood throughout his body and the inhalation of oxygen through his nose, all traits of someone who was still alive and well.

Reaching back to the barrel he had found the wooden plank at, he could hear the familiar gnawing of flesh and teeth, peering over the cloth he could see the horse ravaging the same corpse it was eating earlier, but strangely enough, Cyril couldn’t see his body lying on the mud, maybe once his eyes slid shut his body was transported to that Hunter’s dream place. Whatever the case, he had a beast to kill and he wanted some revenge on it.

Tightening the grip on his shovel, Cyril gritted his teeth and motivated himself to go back and fight the horse, after several seconds he got up from his crouch and walked slowly back to the open to face the accursed creature. He wasn’t trying to sneak by it this time, there was no way he could pass it since the pathway was too narrow and the horse was blocking it, but the stomps on the mud notified the horse that he had company.

Turning its head again, Cyril saw its lifeless skull and dead eye sockets, as if peering into the depths of the night sky. The two stared at each other for a moment, Cyril thought the creature recognized him and was shocked to find he was back from the dead. Whatever the case, he moved first and swung downwards at the horse. The blade sliced through rotting flesh and bone with ease.

The horse howled in anger and tried to slash at Cyril, but unlike before, he hopped to the side and avoided the attack, now he went in for another flurry of swipes with his shovel, hitting the beast on the side of its decomposing body. Enraged further by this continued assault, the horse turned to its left and tried to bite Cyril in two with its bladed teeth. Avoiding the attack in time, he aimed the revolver with his right hand and fired a clean shot off at the horse’s skull.

With one yelp from the creature, it slumped dead onto the mud. His small victory was achieved, and now he had his comeback against the monster. Almost in bad sportsmanship, Cyril slashed at the horse’s decayed neck and saw a few liters of blood spill out, it was his way of satiating his anger against the equine.

Looking away from the horse, Cyril cleared his mind and calmed down after the brief encounter and collected his thoughts on what he had to do now. Edward said that he didn’t have any orders or places he had to go or achieve a specific goal outside of the vague “end the nightmare”. But that could be up to his own interpretation, it could mean killing every single monster in sight, or it could mean something else entirely. In fact, Cyril didn’t even know who, what or where these creatures came from. He didn’t hear Edward explaining an origin or catalyst for this grand disaster to occur. Only that it was he, who should discover the answer to this strange question.

Walking down a corridor of dilapidated white medical tents, Cyril began talking to himself and creating a list of goals in his mind to accomplish.

“Lieutenant Walker should be out there in this mess, so I should find him first. Wherever he may be.” He laughed quietly to himself, he was wanting to find his commanding officer but he didn’t have the slightest clue to start looking for. “Well isn’t this just grand.”

Lieutenant Walker could be in any number of places, he could be lying dead in the mud, he could be back home in the United Kingdom, he could’ve gone to one of the destroyed French villages, or caught a ship back home, the possibilities were endless. So that was currently on the backburner.

“Instead of looking for the Lieutenant, I should just look for anyone alive in general. Lower the standards.” Cyril muttered to himself. His chances of success on finding anyone in Ypres was low, but now he had to remember where in Ypres he was in specific. Due to the quagmire-like terrain it could be anywhere for all Cyril was concerned, the entire area looked like the same depressing landscape.

The corridor of tents ended with two sides in opposite directions. The right was blocked off by debris, the left was the only plausible way forward without having to climb through the rubble. Cyril didn’t want to create more noise than he had to, lest he attract unwanted attention to whatever is still roaming about in this medical labyrinth.

Turning towards the left he was surprised to see that the maze of tents ended with him seeing several trenches and dead trees pocketing the cratered surface of mud. He couldn’t see any motion above or in the trenches but Cyril didn’t want to be out in the open, not if he wanted to get shot by a sniper that was out there. So he moved forward into the closest trench and fell into it and landed on its wooden floor.

“Just like advancing through Hun trenches.”

He referred to the derogatory word he and countless others used to refer to German soldiers. There were a few other words, but Hun was the one Cyril used the most. It didn't make any difference what he called them, at the end of the day they were a foe that needed to be killed.

Usually when he would go in for a trench assault, he would bring out a shovel and use the sharpened edge of the spade, rather than using it as a blunt melee weapon. Cyril thought it was a versatile tool, it could be used to help dig in one moment, and be used to kill someone in close range. He wouldn’t be surprised by the next several decades, the shovel would be a staple in every soldier in all professional armies across the globe. However, for now it was used as a tool to slay beasts.

Still though, Cyril thought it was odd how he has not seen a single soul roaming about, the only form of contact he had in Ypres was that horse he had killed moments ago, he didn’t even want to imagine what the people here had to endure with rabid horses moving freely, consuming on the dead like a scavenger, but fighting with the ferocity of a predator. Maybe it was best to leave his imagination in the dark on this one.

However out of the blue, he heard what sounded like a short cough not too far ahead. Standing still on the duckboard that was half submerged into the mud, Cyril waited a few seconds to try and hear any more noise in the distance. With time, he could hear faint breathing, with intervals of light coughing. There was no chatter to be heard so maybe it was only one man, stepping up from the wooden walkway, he carefully inched forward and turned to the right trench junction and noticed a tall soldier wearing a tattered uniform with the straps looking like they could fall at any moment. The paint on his brodie helmet was rusting off and looked like it had been buried for centuries.

Cyril heeded the words of Edward and knew that the people left in the war torn areas are mad, but deep down he knew he could be wrong. However, something about the soldier’s unkempt look made Cyril know he was far from friendly. Rather than waiting to find out and possibly get killed trying to communicate with him, he started to slowly crouch-walk towards the soldier.

Luckily the soldier was too busy looking out in the distance of his trench and wasn’t paying attention behind him, which made Cyril’s job much easier. Getting up close, Cyril was about to strike him down, but the soldier quickly turned around and whacked him with a wooden plank. The blow hit Cyril square in the head, which caused him to sputter onto the duckboards and spit out some of his own blood.

However, he was quick to recover, as he grabbed his barbed shovel and swung a downward strike at the British soldier once, and another upwards which caused the crazed man to fall dead on the wooden floor. Cyril didn’t get a good look at the man when he attacked but he was now curious on what the man looked like, upon pushing the corpse over, he wished he hadn’t seen it. The man’s face was completely disfigured, his left eye looked as if a bullet grazed it and collided with his left jaw hinge, which itself looked almost decomposed and was only hanging on by a tendon. The rest of his skin looked to be damaged and scarred, like he was plunged into a forest of mustard gas.

Not wanting to look at the disfigured man, he softly kicked his lifeless body face down and moved on through walking the trenches. Cyril was honestly surprised he managed to beat this foe, compared to the horse. But the man must have been suffering many injuries, which crippled his ability to fight effectively, which wasn’t the thing that bothered him. What really weighed him down was how damaged his face was. Before, if soldiers suffered grievous injuries like that, they would be sent to the rear for treatment, they would have never been seen on the frontline.

“And certainly not with a broken jaw like that.” Cyril told himself. He was going to assume most people he’ll encounter will try and fight him. Which eased his mind a tad bit, then he wouldn’t have to be tied up with thoughts of trying to find a safe haven for displaced citizens or other soldiers like himself.

Continuing down the reserve trench, Cyril turned to his right to see a dugout with a drape covering the entrance. There was a small feeling deep within that Cyril thought he was going to step into a sleeping area filled with men like the jaw soldier, so he readied his Webley MK VI revolver and aimed it as he pushed the sheet aside.

What he saw was complete darkness, usually in dugouts like these there would be a lantern or candle to light the area. However there didn’t seem to be one around, so Cyril was going in blindly, cursing himself he wanted to run back out into the trench and step away from here, but he needed to find clues or a map, or any sort of help. Maybe it was his childish fear of the dark that told him to stop moving.

As a boy, he was always afraid of the hours past dusk, as he didn’t know what could be prowling out for a midnight meal. He always assumed there was a large ravenous dog out to try and eat him. His parents debunked that theory when he told him that they were far away from the coastal towns of Norfolk, so the likelihood of seeing such a dog was low. It also didn’t help that his little sister, Nora, would often spook him in the middle of the night pretending that there was a stray dog outside.

Unfortunately in a situation like this, he was going to have to build courage to make it through this small goal he had made for himself. Taking a couple of steps forward his foot on the third step landed on something that made a crumpled noise, as if it was a sheet of paper. Looking down he tried to grab it from the floor but found his hand was touching a wooden surface, rather than a piece of paper.

Feeling the texture of the table, Cyril brushed his hands across to try and latch onto any other familiar item he might come across. His hand passed several rifle shells and some silverware oddly enough. He assumed this was an officers lounge, but his hands felt a small metal box, which he assumed was a lighter.

He wasn’t one to smoke like the other soldiers, but he was glad to have found something that would light up the way. Picking up the small lighter, he flicked it open and tried to ignite it.

"Come on, hurry up." Cyril muttered quietly as he flicked the lighter several times, until sparks finally gave way to a small flame that lit the room.

Looking down, Cyril released his step on the sheet of paper and examined its contents. Carefully moving the lighter to various parts of it so he wouldn't accidentally burn it. But what his eyes saw was not only a map, but several notes written by different people, some in English some in French. The map was a well detailed view of the area not only around Ypres, but of Northern France, as well as Southern England. From the notes Cyril read, it seems that most of the people writing on this map are trying to reach the Somme river to make it to England. While others are heading to Amiens, Zeebrugge or Calais.

But upon further inspection, he looked at the finer details of the things that surround Ypres, some writing described trenches being controlled by “mindless brutes” and “reanimated horses” and some areas like Messines or Verdun were marked off as being “too dangerous”. Cyril didn’t even want to imagine what made someone scratch off those two areas, maybe it was infested with those unspeakable horrors Edward had been mentioning or the towns were completely obliterated.

He had to push the thought aside as he heard footsteps behind him, not hearing a rustle from the drapes, he put out the small flame on the lighter and went to hide behind the table on the opposite side of the entrance. Peeking under the gap, he could see the fabric being pushed aside and footsteps landing on the wet mud, sweat started to form on his forehead as he held his revolver in preparation to shoot at the intruder. Although as the footsteps wandered aimlessly throughout the room, he was wondering if this man was delusional and just walking at random, not even thinking clearly.

Cyril wanted to poke up and take a shot off, but he heard the footsteps stop abruptly, the tension made his heart sound like a locomotive, he tried to ease his breathing but he had a feeling that the person could actually hear him in the room. The footsteps soon went to one side of the room and the person swung at what Cyril assumed was a wooden box that sent small pieces all over the ground.

The man was most definitely insane like the previous one, he started muttering incoherent words that Cyril didn’t understand. It was as if the man was talking to an invisible friend of his about if he knew where his helmet was. Peaking up, Cyril saw the black outline of the man, and he indeed had no helmet on. As soon as the man pulled the drapes aside, Cyril fired off a quick shot of his revolver, but it only hit the man’s arm.

Jumping over the table, he lunged right towards the man and saw another distorted face. Cyril was pushed off of him and fell back into the officer’s room, now he saw the outline of a pickaxe being held by the crazed soldier who just stumbled slowly in the room. Quick on his feet, Cyril swung his barbed shovel twice at the soldier and with blood splattering onto the mud, the man fell cold onto the ground.

Now maybe, he could go back and look at the map in peace without any interruptions. Maybe Lieutenant Walker passed through here, but the people who wrote on the map didn’t seem to leave their names down, or maybe he didn’t pay close attention. Skimming through the paper he scoured the area surrounding Ypres, he saw writings of soldiers trying to reach the Kemmel hill, trying to meet up and form a small group. It was worth a shot since the other soldiers who scribbled notes down, Cyril assumed they went on their own.

Now his mission was set, to reach Kemmel hill and find help of any kind. Maybe they will have a better experience fighting these crazed soldiers. For now though, Cyril was still on his own. Stepping out of the officers dugout, he looked up into the sky and saw the clouds start to darken. Less white and more gray, which meant more rain was coming, and the mud would become hard to navigate.

Continuing down the rear line trench, Cyril could hear more footsteps up ahead. He turned to the dugout and hid in the small hole in the earth. Looking down he saw two small rats scurry by and away from him. Cringing at the sight of the rodents he quickly came to despise the small creatures. They pestered him and many other soldiers trying to sleep, and they would crawl in and out of rotten corpses left in No man’s land. In times of food shortages, he could remember moments of soldiers eating the rats for any sort of sustenance. The thought of it was enough to make him sick to his core, luckily, he never had to resort into doing such a thing.

The footsteps of the crazed soldiers drew closer and closer, until Cyril felt a shifting feeling on his left shoulder and noticed a small black rat sniffing him. He was startled for a moment and jolted further in the dugout, which caused the rat to fall onto the ground and scamper out of the dugout. The footsteps stopped for a split second before they continued again, this time more slowly.

Cyril thought the soldiers knew that something was off so they were probably going to pull a surprise attack on him. But Cyril wanted to be the one who held the advantage, muttering a curse under his breath he brought his revolver up and aimed it directly at one of the crazed soldiers, firing off a direct shot through the chest knocking the man dead onto the duckboards. The other soldier, this time wearing a French blue uniform, started to break into a staggered run and brought his rusty shovel down at Cyril, who quickly avoided the slow attack.

Moving forward Cyril moved his melee weapon and aimed it directly at the man’s scarred face and slashed cleanly at his neck. And turning a full three hundred sixty degree spin for an angled strike. But this time, his shovel extended forward which caught him by surprise. After the French soldier was dispatched, Cyril now carefully examined the barbed shovel’s new secondary form. The shaft that he used to hold onto the weapon had been extended well past the collar by a half a meter. This now gave him greater range options for dealing with those crazed soldiers, or perhaps more of those rabid horses if they pop up.

“Now how do I get you to collapse?” Cyril questioned himself.

He tried swinging the shovel to the right a couple of times but it didn’t seem to work, but he looked down to the duckboard and thought if he stepped it down like a cane that it would collapse. And with good fortune, it certainly did. He’ll have to try and figure out how to properly extend and retract the barbed shovel when he meets with Edward and the Doll again soon.

But that was for another time, he still needed to get through the trench system. Cyril knew that he had three rounds left in the chamber, checking the pocket in his pants he could feel two more moon clips carrying six rounds each. So he had fifteen bullets to use, luckily the enemies he was facing didn’t seem to have rifles, pistols or even Lewis guns. He was all too familiar with that machine gun. The peculiar drum magazine was quite interesting to see in action as it rotated and pushed each bullet into the gun as it fired.

Cyril never had the opportunity to train as a machine gunner, he was a basic rifleman with an SMLE MK III rifle that every British soldier was equipped with. Which suited him just fine, the rifle did just as good enough of a job at killing people as the Lewis gun did. But it was annoying having to pull back the bolt constantly for each shot. Which is why he had the luxury of being trained to use revolvers much like the one he held in his hand. It was good he didn’t pick that shotgun from earlier, the ease of handling the revolver made going in for melee swings much easier.

Passing into the support trench, Cyril looked to both sides of the trench to see if anyone was nearby, only seeing a lifeless body or two here and there, the bones of the skull visible on one of them. There were more dugouts on the rear line trench than there was in the support trench, which made Cyril think that there was a soldier hiding in one of them.

Which didn’t surprise him too much, he had to assume someone would hear the sounds of combat, maybe seize the opportunity to prepare an ambush for him. Turning to the left he walked down the trench with the skull corpse, staring at the body Cyril was fixated on the bloodied head. Not even noticing the sound of rustling to the left of him. In the last second he was met face to face with a soldier wearing a german gas mask and wielding a trench axe covered in barbed wire.

Narrowly avoiding a serious blow, all he got was a medium cut to the skin of his left arm. It stung for a moment but he dealt with much worse. Looking at the soldier, he realized that he was well over two and a quarter meters tall, towering over Cyril. But the tall soldier went in for another flurry of strikes with his axe, slamming them down into the duckboards and mud like a lunatic. Backing up to avoid the tantrum, Cyril aimed his revolver and fired off a shot at the man’s torso, but surprisingly enough he didn’t go down, rather it made him enraged and charged at him.

Cyril stepped back to avoid another swing from the towering man and countered an attack with his own series of strikes. But the man tanked the blows as if it was nothing, only screaming out in anger, as he went for yet another attack. Cyril rolled directly under the soldier’s legs and struck him in the back twice and once at the knee joints which caused the soldier to collapse to the ground and let out another cry before Cyril went in to stab the large man in the neck with his shovel blade.

Standing for a few seconds looking down at the imposing body, he was breathing rapidly once more, his heart ready to burst from his torso and sweat falling down his cheeks. He hoped that he wouldn’t have to face more like him, but Cyril only expected the worst when it came to what he was bound to encounter. Walking away from the body, Cyril turned to the left where the man must’ve been hiding in and was surprised to find a dead body.

But unlike the ones he had seen prior, this one wore a unique British soldier uniform unlike any he had seen before. The cuffs were more pronounced and large, and there was a rear cape. The corpse was also wearing a drab brodie helmet and a gas mask. It would certainly offer him a bit more protection than the casual clothes he wore now.

Taking a moment to try on the new clothes they were very similar to the outfit he wore in combat, right down to the exact gas mask and canteen he used. Before he put on the helmet and mask, there was an item in one of the pockets that he thought was peculiar, a syringe with reddish-yellow liquid inside it. Why this particular soldier was carrying it was beyond him, maybe Edward will know more about it, but he had to find one of those lamps he had spoke of, not wanting to turn back he took his chances on moving forward to find one, and maybe more answers as to where Lieutenant Walker is.

With that set in his mind, he place the helmet atop of his head, and place the gas mask on his face, looking almost identical to the man he was two years ago, but with a new sense of purpose rather than fighting for a few meters of insignificant land.

Chapter Text

It was the rare moment in the war he had gotten any sort of sleep. But then again, he and his platoon were given a respite and allowed a chance to rest at the rear trench lines. It wasn’t much but it was at least better than standing guard at the frontline trenches. Hearing the rasping breaths of his gas mask as he slept the man was more or less isolated in his own thoughts like he always wanted ever since the first year in the war.

He couldn’t see much of what he was dreaming about, only vague shapes that resembled houses and bridges. But something was off about them, he saw someone standing on one of the bridges, a woman from the looks of it given her figure. But he couldn’t make any sort of detail out about her, just her form. But he soon heard her voice call out his name, beckoning him to walk towards her. It was odd, he had never seen this woman before in his life and she knew his name. But before he could take a step forward, he heard another voice booming from the skies above.

“Cyril, hey wake up.”

Groggily moving away from his side and trying to sit straight up, Cyril heard the voice of his commanding officer Lieutenant Walker. Trying to rub his eyes, Cyril only felt the metal pieces of his mask. Not even noticing that he wore it when he slept, he pulled it up for a few seconds to clear his sight before putting it back on again.

“Up and at em’ Cyril, we’re back to the front again.”

Standing up, Cyril grabbed his green helmet and rifle before falling in line with the Lieutenant. Slowly putting the helmet on in a sleepy fashion, making it look like it was at a forty five degree angle.

“How long was I sleeping for Lieutenant?” Cyril asked, his voice not fully his own, as it sounded scratchy.

“Only an hour and a half. Which is more time than some others get.” The Lieutenant responded, politely shoving other British soldiers out of the way as the two of them moved through the tight confines of the trench.

“Then I guess I got lucky. Even in this condition” Cyril said as he gestured to the dirt trench the two were walking through.

Walker led them down to a junction and made a right before slightly tilting his face behind him to look at the blank expression Cyril’s mask gave off. “You know I’ve told you a dozen times that you don’t need to wear that when we’re heading to the front, right?”

“Yes, but you never know when the Huns will try and launch a surprise attack with that green fog.”

Cyril told only half true, he heard rumors from other soldiers in different platoons that the British have also tried using gas attacks, but the wind blew it right back at them and not towards the Germans. So it was an innate fear that he had developed ever since joining the frontlines. Even with the mask on, Cyril had been a distinction in his platoon as the weird kid who kept the mask on, sometimes even off duty.

But that fear weighed down on him heavily, he had experienced many assaults by the Germans who used chlorine gas and had to fight in the green smog. Seeing them come out of thin air before they were on top and ready to stab with their bayonets, they were spirits rising from the depths to attack them.

Cyril did his best to block out any memories from previous engagements, and tried to focus on what was happening now. However it wasn’t too important, it was just him and the Lieutenant heading back to the front trenches so he was free to daydream. Closing his eyelids to try and stay awake, he was now half paying attention to the path ahead of him, until his eyes were fixated on one of the dugouts he walked by, it looked like a lamp inside, but instead of the typical orange glow, it had a white color to it which caused his eyes to face right at it like a moth. He felt drawn to it before he heard a voice call out to him again.

He ignored it and only saw the flame and saw it dance in the glass cage it was imprisoned in, and saw the outline form into a figure he had seen before, it was that woman in his dream, still featureless in most parts but it looked like she wore a hood and her eyes were covered by her hair, she looked at him and the lips spoke words but no sound came off of them. Looking closer at them, he could make them out after staring for half a minute, “wake up”.

Snapping back to the present, Cyril looked at the land in front of him, it was the same trenches he had been traveling in for the past hour. He started to breathe heavily and wondered if that dream he had was real or fake. It certainly felt like it, he could hear Walker’s voice and feel the ground quake as his boots hit the wet mud. But the woman in the white flame couldn’t have happened in the past, it must’ve been part of his imagination.

Maybe it's caused by the new foes he's been fighting and his mind has been slowly going into a downward spiral, but if that's the case, would he become like those he's fighting?

Cyril had to put his mission of finding Walker on hold, he needed to find a lamp first and return to Edward and the Doll. They should be able to help out on what he saw.

Navigating the narrow trench pathways, Cyril hopped up on one of the shooting positions and looked out beyond to see if there were more. In the distance he could see a ravine up ahead that looked like the frontline trenches, which meant he still had a lot more walking to do.

"I'm not going out in the open. Not if there's a sniper out there or someone with a gun" Cyril spoke aloud.

He was rather surprised that he had not found anybody wielding rifles or pistols, only the brutish trench weapons like the one he held in his right hand. Which made him wonder if they had machine gun positions or artillery emplacements still set up, if so then navigating the lands will be treacherous and he'll need to be mindful of what was around him.

Above, Cyril could see a machine gun nest with sandbags surrounding the Vickers gun. The weapon itself looked inoperable due to the front of the barrel being blown off.

"Must've had a grenade thrown near it" Cyril commented.

Stepping over a few decayed corpses, Cyril made a turn to the right further along the trenches, where the duckboards ended, and the sound of mud returned. Stopping for a quick second he heard slow steps emanating ahead. No cover to hide, so he was going to have to make a quick surprise attack.

Getting a head start, Cyril started to sprint down the trench and saw who was making the slow shuffling noises, it was another soldier with deformities. This one had his eyes entirely bandaged, so he never saw what was coming. Cyril lunged into a tackle and saw the crazed soldier start frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog trying to retaliate.

With a clean stab to the neck ended the ravenous man's life in a near instant as he went numb and the struggle ceased. He would've had second thoughts on killing him, but the way he tried to fight back made him seem less human and more like a wild animal.

Which made him wonder how he would be able to tell the difference between a crazed soldier and a sane one. It would be likely that everyone here would have a disheveled look and no proper time to clean their uniforms given the circumstances, no access to running water to clean themselves or their clothes. Cyril was almost afraid he would confuse a regular soldier with an insane one. As of now, he didn’t have high hopes of finding a friendly soul out in this cratered wasteland. He was on his own for the foreseeable future.

But Cyril left the body of the man he had killed and continued onward. The further he navigated the trenches, the more rushed the construction appeared. Duckboards were few and far and there weren’t any wood barriers blocking out the earth. So the walls were nothing but dirt and mud. Similar to how the British trenches were made during the early months of the war, or so he heard from men who had fought since 1915. They weren’t as refurbished as the ones Cyril had lived in, well, as refurbished as a trench could get.

Nearing the frontline trench, Cyril almost wondered if he would see soldiers at their firing posts on lookout duty or ready to defend against an enemy attack. But what he was greeted with was not something he expected. Kilometers across both sides, not a single living soul was around at their post. Maybe these crazed soldiers lost the will to fight each other. He did remember fighting that large German man earlier, and Cyril had assumed this was a British trench, and there was the French soldier he had slain moments prior. So the war was well and truly over and this was a wasteland now.

Turning to the right, Cyril began to walk the endless stretch of the frontline trench. He almost wondered what happened to major cities like Paris, Versailles, Berlin or Vienna and what became of their citizens. Were they forced to immigrate to other countries that escaped the Great war, or were they all massacred by these inhuman soldiers. Maybe it was best to not dwell on what happened to them, it would be easier on his conscience. But on his neverending walk, Cyril noticed a strange object inside a dugout.

It looked as though it was a lantern with scrap metal haphazardly thrown on it, balancing on a small metal pole. The light emanating from it was a faint white glow, which Cyril instantly remembered his recent dream of the dancing woman. However he heard the words of Old general Edward echo in his ears that these lanterns were a pathway back to Hunter's dream. Remembering his burning question on who that woman was. However, Cyril looked at the lantern in confusion for a second and wondered when he would return.

“Alright, how does this work?”

Muttering to himself he fished out the lighter he had found previously and tried to ignite the oil inside to start a flame. But for some inexplicable reason, it didn’t work. So he tried motioning the glass to see if that would work, but nothing happened. In frustration, he sat down on the dirt and just stared at it, dumbfounded on what to do next.

He then started to fidget around with his hands and snapped his fingers at it as if trying to get a person's attention. This proved fruitful as the lantern glowed brighter which caught Cyril off guard.

"So snapping your fingers at it, is how it works." He motioned his hand forward and closed his eyes. Much like before, the travel between Ypres and Hunter’s dream was short and almost relaxing. No need to worry about a threat looming behind him, or a surprise attack from out of nowhere, he was truly safe here.

It was like being well rested, something he and the countless other men he fought alongside with haven't had in a very long time. At most he would have only four to five hours of decent sleep but a majority of the time it was only one or two hours, everytime he woke up he felt like he was disconnected from his body, as if an invisible puppeteer controlled his sleepy body when he woke up. But not now, he truly felt well rested.

Opening his eyes, he was greeted to the familiar site of the chateau overlooking the field of white flowers and the single house in the distance. Walking on the dirt path towards the house, he noticed that the door was opened, so he let himself in. Seeing that Edward and the Doll were near the fireplace, the old general was reading one of the many newspapers, and the Doll stood idly still.

Cyril took off his helmet and mask and cleared his throat to let the two of them know he was present. Upon hearing this, Edward turned his head to face the young man and simply smiled. Placing the newspaper on the small wooden table beside him he wheeled himself over to Cyril.

“Back so soon I see?” The general began, his voice a bit raspy as if he had not drank any water in several hours.

“Only with more questions, sir.” Cyril responded, almost forgetting to not call Edward General, he used sir as a replacement word. He didn’t know which topic to begin with, the woman in white, or the strange red syringe he found on the body. But he thought of talking about the most recent question that stirred in his mind. “I have been having these…dreams. I see a woman in them but I can’t make out the details of her.”

Edward leaned forward in his wheelchair to pay full attention to Cyril’s brief description. Where she appeared in the lantern in his dream, how her face was almost concealed by a hood, and how she danced inside the lantern's flame. He could’ve sworn it was from a dream since he had no recollection of seeing a white lantern like that before.

The old man relaxed back into his chair and started to think about what it could mean, tugging his ragged beard he could remember learning about a beast that was somewhat similar to the description Cyril laid out to him. However, the name was lost on him, unfortunately with what little information he was given, Edward couldn’t reach a definitive conclusion on what this dream meant.

“It could be just that, a dream. But, This may be the start of something much larger at work, and perhaps your dream is trying to hint at something.”

Cyril scoffed at the idea and crossed his arms “So my dreams could be a prelude to something worse that is to come?” he responded coldly. However, the general was not joking, he stared at him similar to soldiers who had experienced shell shock, as the men had called it.

“Alright, then what should I do about this woman in white, if she shows up in my dreams again?”

“Nothing, for now at least. I’m not entirely sure if this will turn out to endanger you or just be a byproduct of the stress.” Edward elaborated.

With this knowledge, Cyril just simply nodded. He’s now expecting to see her pop up more often, but it’s too early to know for certain. What bothered him, is that he couldn’t see any features on her face, similar to a mannequin figure. Maybe as time went on he would be able to see her face more clearly. But that shouldn’t be his main focus at the moment, now that he had the answer, or an educated guess.

“I also found this, maybe you could explain what this is?” Cyril fished a medical syringe out of his pocket and handed it to the old general. He swirled the needle around and watched the red liquid rise from one side to the other in a wave-like motion before handing it to the Doll.

“It is a blood needle, these are used to aid the hunter’s.” Edward spoke up.

With these words, Cyril wondered why he or the other hunters would use a needle full of blood. To throw at the soldiers and use it as a distraction to run? That sounded ridiculous, but the truth was much stranger, instead of Edward speaking, the Doll elaborated in her soft voice.

“They are essential to all hunter’s. It is used to help rejuvenate oneself after being struck by a bullet or slash from a claw.”

Cyril looked at the Doll and raised his eyebrow in a dumbfounded expression. The thought of ramming a needle filled with an unknown piece of blood into you, and it just magically heals you was inconceivable. However, he fought a giant undead horse and learned that the Great war was over, so learning about strange things has been almost a normality for him now.

“So I just put this on my arm or leg, and I can feel better in an instant?”

The Doll nodded quietly and handed the blood syringe back to him, and placed it inside his tunic pocket. He had a feeling he would need to find more of these as he progressed further into the wastes. Maybe more of the soldiers would have some on them, since he found one on a body.

Cyril thanked the both of them and soon exited the small house and headed for the gravestone to return to Ypres and find Lieutenant Walker. Kneeling down to the grave and stretching his right hand, he closed his eyes and awaited the moment he would return to the familiar muddy trenches that he had traveled through.

After several seconds had passed, he opened his eyes to see that he was inside the dugout that the lamp was situated in. Walking out of the small hole, Cyril cautiously looked both sides to see if there were any hostiles around, both narrow stretches of the trench looked clear so he began to walk toward the left.

The more he progressed through the trenches, the more rushed it looked, until the were no wooden walls or duckboards. Every step took more effort as the muck slowed him down. Cyril cursed under his breath and looked out into the distance. Contemplating whether or not treading slowly here would be better than taking his chances in the open. So far he hadn't seen any crazed soldier with firearms, only melee weapons from whatever they could find.

"Better up there, than navigating in a muddy maze."

Cyril placed the revolver in his pocket and climbed up through the mud to see the desolate wasteland before him. It was like the landscapes he had seen dozens of times before. An endless field of dirt and shell holes, corpses litter the field some submerged in the terrain and barbed wire scattered across. Remembering the attacks he partook in, trampling over the dead and trudging along the mud while his comrades were mowed down by machine gun fire.

Grabbing whatever cover he could find, Cyril would've usually taken shelter in a crater and shoot from a distance while the rest would charge on ahead. Some would call it cowardly, but he thought it was playing smart rather than needlessly throwing his life away. Until the order to withdraw, then that's when things got risky since he would be in a crater that was close to the German trenches, so he was more likely to get shot while retreating. Luckily, that never happened, or will happen for now.

Taking his first step on the land above. Cyril was almost expecting to hear a rifle go off, many who went up from the trenches to go on reconnaissance or retrieve the dead would've been immediately shot on the spot from snipers. But that wasn’t the case for when he stood up out in the open, not a single bullet passed by, nor a sound to accompany it. Only the deafness of silence was present, any normal person on the front with this absence of noise would immediately begin to question what was going on.

However, Cyril knew what likely happened, the Germans on the other side experienced the same thing as he did, the only thing he could hope for them is that they got a swift death at whatever creature mauled them down. Taking a few more steps Cyril began stepping away from the familiarity of the trench and carefully moved towards a mound of dirt for cover, just because there wasn’t a sniper prowling about doesn’t mean that no one could be out there. Not wanting to take risks he drew his revolver on his right hand and readied himself to fire the moment he got out of cover.

Breathing quietly for several seconds, Cyril composed himself and in an instant pointed his revolver out of cover and aimed at nothing, no soldier nor creature was in sight, only he was there. Climbing over the dirt he came to notice that the ground ahead of him was filled with shell craters of various sizes; a few up ahead could trap dozens of horses and vehicles.

Traversing no man's land and trying to be quiet was rather hard. Every step he took made an audible wet noise with small drops of water flying and mud staining his boots. He couldn't imagine how snipers could do this on a daily routine while being completely hidden. Thankfully, he didn’t have to worry about them now, as far as he was concerned. There were only a few dead trees pocketing the surface, but he could imagine that these sharpshooters would find ways to improvise in situations like this.

But roaming about in No man’s land was strange to him, Cyril had never seen it so quiet before in here, the only times he was ever in it was when his commanding officers ordered them to charge at the German positions, so he didn’t really pay attention to many of the minor details. The only things he ever saw from No man’s land were the uneven terrain, the greenish water that dotted the craters and filled low areas, and the fallen tree barks.

Had he not known this was the type of place where death was the regent of, and the people resting here as his unfortunate subjects, Cyril would’ve loved to visit a place like this. But the war changed his dream of visiting such a location, and now this newfound knowledge of the state of the world put hold on any plans he had, with the exception of finding Kemmel hill.

Looking up above the clouds started to darken in color, with the loud boom of thunder right behind him, a storm was going to be here any moment now. For now though it looked like a light gray had blanketed the sky, and the sun was nowhere to be seen. Vaulting over a dead tree trunk, Cyril almost slid down a large impact crater but quickly gripped onto one of its branches to hold himself in place while he could get a better bearing. Taking a moment to calm down, he climbed back over where he came from and went around to avoid falling in again.

Halfway through his detour, he could see the immense scale of the hole he almost fell in. It’s possible he could climb out of a crater that size, but the chance of succeeding was low given how difficult the task would be since there weren’t many hard surfaces to grab on. In the distance it looked like he could see a figure in the distance, but breathing in his mask fogged up his lens so he couldn’t see any details, or discern whether or not he was a mad man. For the first time in months he decided to remove his helmet in No man’s land, he wanted to get a clear view of whoever was in the distance, and the fog wasn’t making things easier.

However, the moment he removed it, the figure stood absolutely still, which Cyril took as a guess that he could see him. Now he could make out that the figure was a man holding a French rifle, Cyril was half tempted to draw his revolver if this man was going to fire on him. But he wasn’t too sure yet if it was a crazed soldier like before or if it was a regular one.

Making out more details, Cyril could see that the man wore a French blue uniform and had the kepi adorning his head. This soldier was French if it wasn’t obvious by the horizon blue color and the large rifle. But Cyril and the man stood like statues, almost afraid of making the first move, gathering some courage, Cyril made the first.

“Poilu!” Cyril used the slang term for a general French infantryman that he and the other British soldiers used to refer to their French allies, which meant ‘hairy’. Waiting for several seconds, the Frenchman stood still as usual, but Cyril broke his statue stance and was taking a gamble by starting to walk towards the man. If things went wrong, his barbed shovel was clipped to his belt behind him and he could use that, or his revolver to finish him off. But he wouldn’t have to think for long, like lighting, the French soldier brought his rifle and took a shot at Cyril, the sudden sound of gunfire caused him to go prone against the mud. Luckily from the quick reaction, the accuracy of the shot completely missed Cyril.

Placing his mask on he took out his revolver and was ready to try and take a shot at the man. But in the distance he could hear him screaming out words that he could barely understand. The only word Cyril could recognize is ‘passeront’, much like that term the French used in defending a location. The man was certainly more cognitive over the ones he killed, maybe he was truly sane and didn’t trust anyone. Edward was right, the people here have definitely changed for the worse.

Hearing another round go off on his improvised mud cover that he laid behind, Cyril brought his left hand up to fire blindly to distract the soldier while he got up from his position. Emptying half the rounds in his gun Cyril made a rush towards the Frenchman, tripping over a piece of buried wood, as another round flew by him. However the firing stopped there, taking a peak up Cyril saw the man desperately trying to reload his rifle, now was his chance. Getting up from his fall, he now sprinted towards the soldier and drew his barbed shovel, bringing into a diagonal swipe to cut right through the Frenchman’s torso, falling backwards towards the soft earth.

Blood now dripped down on the wire of his shovel, looking at the man Cyril felt sorry for having to kill him. This was the first person that spoke to him in a way and he killed him. However, in his mind he rationalized that the man shot first and knew what he was getting into, it’s not like Cyril could run away from one soldier in an open area with a rifle, he would’ve been killed if he tried. But, he looked down at the scruffy man, crouching down to look at his face, it wasn’t as hideously deformed as the other soldiers, so this one was acting on himself and not a beastial instinct. The man was long gone by that point, and Cyril simply shut his eyes to let the man rest peacefully.

A crackling of thunder soon roared the sky, and Cyril continued on with his mission to find Walker. It had only been a little over an hour and so much had happened in that time, killing an ally soldier that his fellows fought alongside with truly shook him up, but he couldn't dwell on it too long, he needed to stay focused on his destination. Setting off on the lunar-like landscape, Cyril Knew he had a long walk ahead of him.

Chapter Text

It returned to the eerie stillness much like before in the trenches. Taking his mask off for a split second, Cyril took a quick drink from his canteen before concealing his face once more. It had been half an hour since he began his walk towards Kemmel hill, and the clouds above roared thunder once more. A storm was inevitable at this point, which will hamper down on travel, rain and mud were an awful combination since slipping on the surface would be inevitable.

In the back of his mind Cyril wished he could search the dugout more thoroughly to find something like a compass or a smaller map to take with him. But the soldier that interrupted him must've broken his thoughts. It was pointless to try and walk back since he had been on his march for a little under half an hour, not to mention the trenches could be reinforced with more of those crazed soldiers like before.

It was surreal to now be walking in No man’s land in the afternoon, or at least he thought it was the afternoon. Normally if a soldier in his trench went up in between the opposing trenches to retrieve a corpse or scout ahead, they'd be shot on sight. Snipers would be the common way for one to be killed above the trenches, their accuracy was something that was feared in his company, as evidence to the fact that one of the new recruits fresh out of training was hit, peeking his head up. Cyril had forgotten who the guy was, but he had trouble remembering faces, especially new troops that arrived. The only face he ever bothered to remember was Walker's, with an unmistakable scar slicing through his cheek to his lower mouth. Shrapnel from a field gun impacted near him during an attack, it was a miracle he didn't die right then and there. It's not like he and Walker were friends, they just had a mutual respect for each other and remained strictly professional.

Now he ventured further into No man’s land, which must've stretched out for several dozen kilometers, he never remembered the trenches being so far apart from each other. It could've been the size of a city with the length he had already walked. However, there were no buildings in sight, only the carcasses of leafless trees, barbed wire and pocketed craters. At least the place he was in lived up to its name, Cyril had not seen a single soul once he entered No man’s land, save for the occasional rat. Which seemed to have grown in size substantially, on par with the scale of a dog. Imagining for a split second the thought of having to put up with rodents this size when the war was still ongoing.

Vaulting over a fallen tree bark, Cyril quickly noticed that he landed inside of a small trench that must've been dug out for cover, but by which side he wasn't sure. He took this opportunity to take a breather and rest. Despite the temperatures being a cool breeze, the constant breathing in his gas mask occasionally fogged his vision, and made it hot inside. Removing it for a moment, Cyril took in several gulps of fresh air and let his face rest to let the rain above cleanse him. Placing his knees close to his chest, he sat for a few moments and thought of which direction to go now. He now started to grow the idea that maybe he was truly lost, maybe he was just walking in circles. Or maybe Kemmel hill was somehow leveled to the ground and he had been on top of it all this time.

He couldn't give up now, he had come this far, and what else could he do? Go to shore and pray that a boat was left behind so he could find a more pleasant place to live? That would be cowardly in his eyes, and he couldn't abandon anyone here that just wanted to escape this hell. He would've guessed the high ranking officers must've fled at the first sign of these creatures, typical of them. Too scared to fight on the front and too scared to stay behind to make sure their troops got home.

"That butcher, Haig, better get what he deserved here."

Referring to the British Field Marshal in command of the British Expeditionary forces in the last two years of the war. Cyril had him to thank for the onslaught at Passchendaele, though other soldiers from the Somme said he was even worse there.

But he didn't want to open old wounds like that. Cyril could fabricate any type of story to believe that man had died and it wouldn't change anything about what was going on around him. Taking another quick sip of water from his canteen he got up, and donned his mask once more. With his body somewhat relieved from the constant walking, he resumed his course and decided to change up where he moved, rather than going constantly straight, he would turn a little to the left and hope he would have better luck there finding Kemmel hill.

Peeking his head carefully over the small trench he temporarily used, Cyril looked around to see if there were crazed soldiers or reanimated horses that evaded his eye. Luckily he couldn't spot any out in the distance, so he began to leave his spot and move on. It had been a long while since he last had to fight something, so Cyril kept his weapons holstered for the time being.

His mind soon wandered toward the blood needle, and soon enough held the single syringe in his hand. The fact that this random sample of blood can rejuvenate his injuries in a matter of seconds is no short of insanity. Swirling it around to watch the liquid rotate from one side to the other Cyril didn’t realize he stepped over something that gave off an audible crunch. Placing the needle away, he turned to face what he had stepped on and noticed it was only a skeletal hand, the muscle all but gone from whatever scavengers could feast on it. Paying it no mind, Cyril continued on forward.

“No telling how many bodies are buried here.” he spoke to himself. Cyril looked up ahead and saw that the terrain was starting to become uneven, and that craters were now more frequent. Seeing no easy way to combat this new challenge, he decided to continue forward and stop at the very edge of a 10 meter crater. Thinking to himself the amount of artillery shells that had to have detonated at this exact sport for a hole this large to be created.

He noticed at the other side that there was barbed wire directly facing him on the opposite side of the crater edge. It looked like whoever built it didn't want anyone traveling that way. However the wire didn't reach the left side, must've been cut or blown up by shrapnel.

“Worth a shot to try.” He mumbled quietly before carefully shuffling down the slope. One misstep and he'd fall in the small pond of sickly water. Upon a further glance he could see a horse corpse floating above, as Cyril neared the surface, he was hesitant on taking a second to pause and ready his weapons to see if it was truly dead. But at the same time, he didn't want to risk a confrontation here, if he did, escape would be impossible.

The slick mud would be a challenge to climb normally, but doing it while being assaulted by a rabid beast is another thing entirely. Easing his right hand that levitated over the grip of his shovel, Cyril simply chose to ignore the possible corpse. Walking through the edge that bordered between mud and water, Cyril saw that he was directly below the area he needed to be.

“Now comes the hassle of climbing up.” he grumbled. Taking out his shovel for support he slowly began his ascent and tried to find any foundation to use as stepping stones. He had to do this before in Ypres when the Germans attacked, took him several minutes to get the hang of it, but if he stayed any longer to try and practice it, he would've been killed since he heard an artillery shell fly into the exact shell hole he used for climbing out of. It was the closest thing he had experienced to a near death situation, though the incident with the horse before might've taken its place.

After several minutes of climbing, Cyril reached the summit, and was greeted by the continued jagged mud he had seen earlier with small hills and craters giving the land an almost alien feeling, like he was no longer on Earth and on some distant world separated from all familiarity. Though to the soldiers who have fought since the beginning of the war, this is more or less a normal sight to them.

The thought of not seeing any soul in sight started to unnerve Cyril, it had been a little over forty-five minutes since he left the trench line and he wondered if anyone was pocketing this area of land. Maybe the crazed soldiers have a fear of No man’s land, afraid of getting shot by an unseen foe. But that soon changed as he heard a shriek in the distance, Cyril’s first reaction was to crouch behind a dirt hill and avoid sight of whatever made that sound. Waiting several seconds he peeked his head up to see the perimeter to see who or what made it. The rain was starting to pick up in volume and it was now becoming increasingly difficult to see ahead of him.

But he could see the faint silhouette of a shadowy figure in the distance blocked by tree barks. The silhouette made another shriek before retreating away in the distance. Cyril was half tempted to take out his revolver and fire at the creature, but he didn’t want to make any rash decisions until he got a better visual at what that thing was. From the look of it, it was bipedal, but the face was elongated and not like a person. He had a feeling he would see that creature again in the future, whatever it was.

Taking a few seconds to relax, he gathered up his courage and hopped over the hill and into the unknown. Looking towards the trees that the creature had used for cover, before continuing on his journey. Turning to the left slightly to walk between two hills, he could see a faint white light ahead. Pausing on his stride abruptly, Cyril unclipped his barbed shovel and flicked to extend the range of the weapon. Remembering his dream about the woman in white, Cyril wondered if she was actually real and not a figment of his dreams. He wasn’t able to get a good view because the rain began to obscure his vision. Annoyed with the water droplets blocking his view, he hurriedly took off his mask to see what lay ahead.

Moving forward carefully he walked towards the white light and could see that distinct shape from his dream, the woman from his dreams, she wore the same white outfit he saw before, however this time he could see her features a little bit better. She actually had a face and wasn’t a featureless mannequin. Cyril could see the woman look up at him and smile faintly, Cyril could tell that the woman saw him judging by the smile, he wanted to speak up but there was something that couldn’t make him speak. It was like he was trapped in that black void and mute. The woman turned her head to the opposite direction and walked away into the rainy mist. Cyril put his gas mask on and was chasing after her without a clear thought. He needed to know who she was and why she was appearing in his dreams, Cyril didn’t know any woman who wore a plain white dress like that. But looking further, Cyril could see the features of her dress and saw that it didn’t touch the ground, but rather, it furled up like small flames.

Cyril was getting closer to the woman, but in a split second she vanished out of nowhere. Blinking twice, Cyril stopped in his tracks and just stared ahead without the slightest idea of what he just witnessed. First an unknown shrieking creature, now the woman from his dreams had materialized out of nowhere, only to disappear in an instant. He simply stared up into the darkened sky where water fell on his mask.

“Tell me Edward, this isn’t a byproduct of stress like you said. She is real.” He spoke quietly. Leaving the trail that crossed between the two muddy hills, he saw more mounds of dirt with corpses lining the ground and barbed wire. However there was a shape in the distance he didn’t recognize. The silhouette in the distance gave it a boxy appearance, as it remains trapped in a shell crater, half submerged in water.

Confused by the shape, Cyril stepped over several corpses carefully to get a better look at it and was surprised to see what it was. It looked like one of the British tanks he had seen once before in Ypres. The mechanical beast was nothing short but impressive to his eyes, the way it crosses the trenches with ease and destroys whole squads with one cannon shot was terrifying to behold. He only saw one, but it was in the distance when he was in the third battle of Ypres. Seeing one up close was strange, seeing the rivets placed in a perfect line and the side cannons that were so dangerous to any German unlucky enough to stare them down.

Walking towards the tank in its crater pond, Cyril marveled at the mechanical beast's beauty up close and simply placed a hand on the tank’s hull. He would’ve loved to see this vehicle in a more dignified state rather than lying destroyed in a muddy grave. Amidst the pouring rain, Cyril took his hand off of the wet metal and began to walk away from the tank until he heard the sound of metal grinding. Pausing for a moment to wonder what was going on, he turned around to see the tank had let out a puff of smoke, life was breathed into the metal animal once more out of nowhere, which made Cyril back away from the tank in confusion. He didn’t expect any crew to stay in the tank, unless he saw one of those crazed soldiers suddenly start up the tank. But he had not heard any footsteps collide with the mud or any noises inside the tank before. So why did the tank suddenly start up again?

His questions would soon be answered as the tank let out a deep blast of noise that made Cyril cover his ears. The sound was so deafening it was like listening to several hundred orchestras playing all at once. Once the sound had ended, Cyril didn’t feel safe around the tank and started to walk away from the tank until he heard the screech of metal being torn apart. Looking back once more, he could see the tank starting to rotate in his direction. This thing was alive, and it knew about him.

The sound of metal only continued to grow as the vehicle’s tracks struggled to move out of the water, Cyril unclipped his barbed shovel and drew his pistol in anticipation to foolishly face this behemoth. But that confidence was soon shattered as he saw the two tracks on each side tear itself apart from the main body of the tank, exposing an almost organic tissue that was rotting a sickly reddish-maroon. The next thing that appeared was several limbs puncturing the lower tracks that looked like human hands supporting the tanks weight, as well as taking a place in between the front facing machine gun. Finally the cannons seemed to have been looking directly at Cyril with their guns pointing directly at him, but upon further inspection, he noticed that they were actually eyes that stared down at him.

The beast simply let out a deep sound like before, which caused Cyril to step back and fully get a view of the new foe he was faced with. The creature soon rushed at him with a speed that caught Cyril off guard. The sheer muscle those hands must have while not only carrying, but moving the heavy tank forward was astounding as it was frightening. Firing its machine gun at him which Cyril narrowly avoided by rolling out of the way.

Cyril knew it would be pointless to swing wildly at the tank's armor or shoot at it. He just needed to buy time so he could go in for an opening at the exposed flesh. Running around to the read of the tanks he got off a swipe at the wall of muscle, before he could get a second one off he heard a rumbling from the track on his right, he quickly ducked out of the way and saw the track and main body connect together for a split second before returning to its previous position. The Crawling tank had a small defense in case something like this would happen, Cyril needed to be quick when attacking the gaps in the armor otherwise he'll be crushed.

Getting up as quickly as he could, he noticed the tank had begun to turn around to face him, he could see the right track and its hands up in the air as it was about to stomp him on the mud. Slipping a few times, he retreated from the impact zone and rolled out of the way, firing off two shots from his pistol as a distraction. The tank took the bait and started to charge at him again, swinging its vestigial hands in a blind fury. Cyril stood still and lined up his sights with the left joint and fired two more shots. This time landing direct hits at the tank's weakest, which caused it to howl, but this time it was slightly higher in pitch. Rather than continue its stampede, it let out another volley of machine gun fire, which caused Cyril to run away from the incoming fire and take cover behind a fallen tree.

Quickly peeking out to fire his two remaining shots, one landed on the right wall of flesh, however he was now out of rounds and had to fish through his pocket to find another. While this was happening, he could hear the tank starting to march over to Cyril’s position, almost a meter away. Luckily he managed to find a moon clip with all 6 bullets in it. Before he could reload it however, the tank with its sheer force crushed the tree he was using for cover. In a panic, Cyril got up as fast as he could and broke open the top of the revolver and let the shells eject. When he placed the new case of bullets in, the Crawling tank began to run towards Cyril and use one of its tracks as a weapon, attempting to fling him across. Luckily he rolled out of the way to avoid the attack, and went in for a swipe at the flesh.

The more he swung at the mound of gore, the tank’s cries became more frequent and deafening, however unlike the before when the tank tried to crush him. A new hand emerged from the flesh with its muscles a mottled red and gray. It took hold of Cyril’s neck and attempted to choke the life out of him with an unkept rage. Cyril was quick to break free, as he swung at the hand with his barbed shovel. Luckily the cut was easy since the hand was barely held together by tendons and blood.

However, the vestigial arms on the right grabbed hold of Cyril and swiped at his right shoulder, then knocked him back with its tracks, causing Cyril to fly back and land hard on the muck. It felt like he broke several ribs and lost some blood, which made him remember the blood needle. Getting up slowly he started to run in the opposite direction of the tank to shuffle through his belongings to find the blood needle. While this was happening, he could hear the bellowing of the Crawling tank grow louder behind him, it fired several machine gun bursts just shy of hitting his foot. Luckily Cyril found the needle and prayed that Edward and the Doll were right in that this would heal him. Cursing to himself he thrusted the needle in his thigh and threw it away after the injection.

In an instant, he felt rejuvenated. His ribs were repaired and his bleeding had stopped, he had to thank Edward later after he got out of this. Now he charged at the beast and ducked away from more machine gun fire, and rolled to the side. As he was about to turn towards the rear of the tank, he noticed that the side cannons were tracking his every move, almost locked on and unphased by the motion of the tank. He thought it would be prudent to shoot out the eyes of the beast and have it blind for his upcoming attacks. Aiming his revolver at the eye, he fired off a shot at the cannon eye but didn’t hear any howl or the tank stagger, it retreated inside which meant Cyril was going to have to get creative with this.

Running towards the tank as it slowly turned its way to face him, Cyril leapt up to take hold of the top of the tracks and crawl on top of the tank. Noticing the tank’s eyes couldn’t spot him up here, he took this as an opportunity to slash at the flesh several times before the shuddering of the beast caused him to fall over. Once he got up, he saw that the eye was now back to its original position. Which gave Cyril a chance to try and stab at the optics with his barbed shovel, however the reaction of the eye was much faster as it retreated in its hole once more. Then the idea struck in his head, the needle was the perfect solution for this predicament. As Cyril thought of this he had to roll out of the way from another attack by the Crawling tank’s tracks.

Luckily he wasn’t too far away from the needle he had thrown away, and grabbed it again. Holstering his revolver, he held the syringe in his left hand and made another rush towards the side cannon. The tank went in to try and crush Cyril with the weight of its tracks, but Cyril lept towards the mud to avoid it in time. However as he got back up, the tank turned quickly enough to fire off a few machine gun shots at Cyril at his thighs, causing him to fall back towards the mud. He screamed out internally at the pain and wanted to take a few seconds to get used to it, but those few seconds could make the difference between life and death.

Against his better judgment, Cyril stood tall and proud and operated on adrenaline to get himself through and ignore the sting in his legs that were crying out. Running towards the side of the tank again he leapt up and grabbed the metal once more and hauled himself up, positioning himself where he lied on the side box of the cannon, when he saw the eye show its sickly yellowed appearance, with all his might he thrust the needle directly at the socket. In seconds, the Crawling tank let out the loudest roar, airing out a booming cry of pain.

Now with the golden opportunity ahead of him, Cyril got atop of the tracks and held on as the tank struggled to remain upright, as it rocked back and forth. As he could see the mound of flesh once more he let out a flurry of slashes, not stopping for a single moment, he wanted this monster to be slain, soon becoming sore with the amount of swipes he laid on to the beast, he failed to hold onto the track and fell onto the wall of flesh.

In a primal fury, Cyril continuously stabbed at the flesh until his mask was drenched in blood and gore. The cries of pain from the tank were drowned out by the sounds of blood squelching and metal making contact with muscle and skin. It was the type of fury he had delivered onto German soldiers before when they murdered his comrades. He returned the same pain they inflicted on others, and Cyril gave out that pain to this creature.

When his arms were just about to give up on him Cyril noticed that the creature had fallen down on the mud, its shouts dying off quietly. Breathing heavily, Cyril soon brought himself up from the creature and strained himself to stand and look upon the Crawling tank, white mist soon surrounded the fallen beast and was followed by an eruption of blood that coated the sky. This caused Cyril to cover his eyes for a moment, and once opened he saw that the tank had vanished. The rain now mixed with blood momentarily Cyril, simply collapsed on the ground in relief that the ordeal had been over.

In all of his time in the war, he thought the hardest part was leaving the trench for an assault and charging the enemy head on. However, this was a challenge on a whole new level that he was not prepared for. He knew things would only get worse from here on out, so he just sat down on the mud and took a moment to comprehend what he had endured. After the blood had finally finished its quick shower, the normal rain had returned to wash it away, giving Cyril a moment to take off his mask and bathe his face in the cold water that fell on his face. It was a temporary relief, but it was one well deserved.

Chapter Text

Lying on the soft ground, Cyril was at peace. No assaulting trenches, no sentry duty, just relaxation as the rain poured down on him. At least until he heard the occasional shell exploding in the distance. It annoyed him how the officers can't go a day without firing a hundred shells. As long as they wear down the enemy, he guessed. Cyril’s rest was cut short as he could hear some voices above him. They weren't German, so he didn't have to worry about being killed in his sleep. Wanting to get some needed rest, he simply ignored it and tried to return to his slumber, but only two seconds later did he feel a hand motioning him to wake up.

"What is it?" He said in a drowsy voice. Cyril didn't recognize the two men that stood before him, maybe they were recent additions to Ypres, or maybe he already forgot who they were. The one on the right spoke up first.

"Are you, Lance Corporal Cyril White?" He looked like he was only three years younger than Cyril, he probably lied about his age to the recruitment officer and joined up as a teenager. Cyril begrudgingly stepped up from his position and brushed himself up to reply.

"Yes, and who am I speaking to?" He asked in a tired voice. The soldier who questioned him said that the Lieutenant is rotating the soldiers back to the reserve trenches. Which meant it would be lunch for the soldiers in his group and that another will take over from here. Cyril, sighing relief, grabbed his equipment and started to make his way to the back. As he grabbed the last of his belongings, he could see the reserve troopers starting to make their way back to the front, some loading their rifles, while others carried ammunition for the machine guns. Some of the soldiers on their march stared at Cyril’s expressionless mask and he assumed that he was preparing for a chemical attack.

Cyril paid no attention to their glares, only focusing on moving to the reserve trenches. The task was simple, but irritating since the trenches were rather narrow and allowed people to only walk in one direction. He guessed that it was because these were constructed with speed in mind, and not taking into account that men would be essentially living in these conditions. With speed in mind. Cyril heard about some of the soldiers who had been here since the early months of the war, they said that the war was meant to be over by Christmas. However, three years of the festive holiday had passed by, and there seemed to be no end in sight for the carnage that was ahead of them.

Passing through a column of soldiers, Cyril could see some of the men relaxing in the rear, most of them were either sleeping or conversing about tales from home. Though he did see one soldier smoking a rather decadent pipe, with markings etched onto the wood. Another soldier was petting a gray furred dog, Cyril was told that dogs were kept as guards or hunters to kill the rats infesting the trenches. While he appreciated that the rat problem was kept to a minimum in the rear, he still had a dislike of dogs around him.

Moving past that area, Cyril shuffled by another group of soldiers making their way to the front. Accidentally bumping into one of them, which caused the other to drop his remaining bread he was holding, onto the mud. Cyril apologized, but the soldier just kept on moving and pocketed out what looked like more bread pieces, at least he wasn't too angry. Taking a whiff of the smell in the air, Cyril could tell he was nearing the reserve trenches, as he could smell the food being cooked in the distance. As appetizing as it could be here in Ypres, there were moments when everyone barely had enough to eat for the whole day. It didn't help that they were so close to the Germans, that supplies felt like they were slowing to a crawl.

Cyril learned quickly to stop complaining about it, being in Ypres for a little over a year made him less optimistic about getting good food up here. He had heard that some soldiers were so desperate that they started eating the rats, a thought that he wanted to banish quickly, before an image materialized in his mind. However, he finally made it to the reserve trenches, always keeping an eye on the amount of soldiers lining up for food. If it was too long, he would just wait it out for a few minutes to see it thin out. And he was right, the line to the galley was near the entrance of the reserve trenches, he estimated that it would take half an hour before he would get to the front.

Cyril scoffed silently and tried to find a place to lie down again so he could catch up on his rest. Though before he could shut his eyes, he remembered something from several days ago. That white flame from before, he started to think about it again and wondered how it got there. He told Lieutenant Walker about it, but he said it was just a normal light that had an orange glow. Cyril wondered why he could only see it, perhaps being in the trenches had made him hallucinate. But he didn't want to think about it for long, he needed some sleep.

Shutting his eyes, as the sounds of artillery and chatter still filled his ears. He did his best to block out the sounds, and thought about the familiar noises from home. The crashing waves hitting against the rocks, the gentle breeze of the air flowing through the fields of grass, and the quiet cackling of the fireplace in a cold storm. The fake ambience that Cyril had conjured up in his mind made him doze off into sleep, perhaps the first time he had done so in a long time. Before he could fall asleep however, as he imagined the wind blowing through the grass, he heard a faint voice in the distance. Mesmerized by the quiet and sultry voice, Cyril wanted to listen to it closer, the voice calling to him like a siren who caught an unfortunate sailor. Walking through the plains, he could hear the voice clearly, but it confused him. All it said was two words: "Wake up."

Sliding his eyelids open, Cyril could see that the rain was still continuing its torrent, after that battle with the crawling tank he must’ve collapsed to the ground in exhaustion and simply fell asleep. He felt surprised that he made it out of the confrontation alive and intact, Cyril surely thought he would’ve fell easily to the tank, but somehow he persevered and bested the foe. One thing that he started to wonder about was if he had fallen asleep in the open field of mud, how come none of the crazed soldiers or horses tried to feast on him? Maybe they were scared of the tank, and that’s why No man’s land was empty.

Whatever the case may be, he was still alive and he had to continue on. Cyril started to get up from his little nap and placed the gas mask on his face once more. Now that he had used the blood needle on the Crawling tank, Cyril knew he would need to find more as he progressed further into the unknown. From now on, he had to be more thorough in his search for supplies, especially for ammunition. Diffing through his pocket for the remaining bullets left, Cyril discovered he had two full moon rings and whatever was already in his revolver. Hopefully he’ll be able to find plenty of ammunition for his particular weapon, though he’d have better luck finding Enfield rounds than revolver ammunition.

At least he didn’t have to worry about his barbed shovel, even after striking through mounds of flesh and cutting through crazed soldiers, the tool seemed like it could power through the toughest of foes. He knew he had picked the right weapon for the job, though Cyril wondered how he would fare with the other melee weapons he was offered to use. However, Cyril used a shovel for combat countless times in the past, so it was the weapon he had the most affinity with.

Now that he defeated the tank, he was weighing his options on where to walk next. He could probably continue walking forward and take his chances on finding more information on where Kemmel hill could be. Or he could walk in any direction and get the same results, since No man’s land could look remarkably similar, the choice was ultimately up to him. Taking several seconds to decide, Cyril chose to walk forward as he passed the shell crater where the Crawling tank rested before it awoke to face him.

Moving past the crater was the same type of terrain he had seen before, the only difference was that the ground was uneven and had a mound-like shape to it. Some of the mounds had body parts or corpses proding out of it, almost giving him the feeling that one would be reanimated once more and try to surprise Cyril. However, the decomposition on several of them cleared his thoughts about the bodies coming back to life, so he had nothing to worry about. He only had to worry about what was beyond the trenches. From what Edward had told him, the horrors were isolated mostly in Europe. However, he didn’t specify what they were when Cyril asked him, which was concerning. He had no idea what this greater foe was, or what its name was outside of Edward labeling it “the horrors”.

He could only imagine what Edward was saying. Even in the newspapers he's skimmed through, they didn't offer much insight as to what he was truly up against. This uncertainty bothered Cyril slightly, he couldn't fathom what these horrors would even look like if they devised a scheme to plunge half the world into madness. He had to save his curiosity for another time though,he approached a small hill of dirt with some wooden planks jutting out of it. Cyril guessed that this must've been a former trench that was hit by concentrated shell fire; a hand looked like it was also poking out. He felt sorry for the poor soul who was now trapped in his tomb of soil, just like some of the bodies trapped in the mounds previously. Cyril turned to either side and noticed that there was no way to walk around this hill, he had to start climbing. Keeping an eye on the hand, Cyril noticed it wasn't as decomposed as the others, perhaps this was a recent explosion that had killed him. He wanted to question who would fire an artillery shell too late after the war, but it felt irrelevant to the task at hand.

Cyril moved to the left and whipped out his barbed shovel to start his short climb, taking only half a minute before he reached the top. Dread began to seep its way into him once more, the ground before him was a labyrinth of trenches and shell craters. There could be more of those crazed soldiers or undead horses lying in wait, but what choice did he have? Cyril still needed more clues on the whereabouts of his Lieutenant, maybe down there will offer some answers, he could hardly see 10 meters ahead of him since the rain had intensified and clouded his vision, the trenches might be dangerous but it was better than wandering out in the open for so long with no cover. Taking his chances, Cyril walked towards the closest trench towards him and crouched down, aiming his revolver at both sides to see if anyone was there. All he had found was planks of wood and the occasional rotting corpse.

Shuffling down inside, Cyril landed on the wooden duckboards that were half submerged in the mud, this trench was in worse condition than the one he was in before. There was little in the way of protection in the walls, the parapets were the only thing that seemed up to date, whereas the trench walls and flooring were in need of repair. Not that it was going to get any in the foreseeable future. Cyril began his journey in the trench maze and opted to head to the left, stepping over the German corpse that he saw when he peered in for the first time, however, Cyril didn’t notice the small dugout before.

“It’s worth a look. Besides, there could be some supplies I could use.” he spoke quietly. Taking his first steps in, the first thing that he noticed were several rats scurrying out of the dugout away from Cyril. If rats were in here, then a corpse wouldn’t be hard to find. As luck would have it, there was another German corpse in the dugout, shifting through the body to find anything useful, Cyril was surprised by a thin cylindrical shape he had felt before. Grabbing out of the corpse’s coat pocket, he found another blood needle. A useful item he will surely need in the future, and he was surprised to see a regular German soldier holding onto it, but his outfit looked more custom tailored, as the coat was in a darker shade of gray than the standard field gray he had seen regular German soldiers wearing, plus his helmet had the old style of spike that he had seen in posters.

Taking one more forage into the man’s coat, all he found was a small amount of rifle ammunition. One thing Cyril didn’t take into account was the different types of ammo used from all the nations. With so many different calibers used, finding rounds for his revolver will be difficult for him. Unless he happened upon the body of a British officer, who usually carried Webley revolvers in the field, or if he was lucky enough to find a British depot and find a store of ammunition. But that was being optimistic at best, and something that would have to currently wait. Pocketing the blood needle, Cyril left the dugout and continued his way towards the left. Stepping over the German corpse from before, he could see that the small rats that fled the dugout had started gnawing on their new meal. However when Cyril moved over them again, they hurried back into the dark dugout from before.

Ignoring the rodents, he simply moved forward and brought out his barbed shovel in anticipation for whoever is still alive in here. Taking cover behind a dirt corner, Cyril peeked his head over to see that the ground was littered with more corpses, but something looked off about them. The limbs on some of them were hacked off. Revealing himself out in the trench opening, he walked over to the torn up bodies and noticed that they were deformed like the ones before. Cyril had a feeling that he wasn’t the only hunter around. Either that, or it could’ve been one of the horses from earlier. Whatever the case may be, he must remain vigilant, if whoever did this is still in the trenches, then Cyril would be no match for them. In the meantime, he might as well search through the bodies for anything useful. However, he was less fortunate than before, only rifle rounds and nothing of value to help him.

Leaving the dismembered remains behind, Cyril continued his walk through the trench and heard coughing up ahead. Freezing instantly, he knew it could only mean more crazed soldiers. His shovel was already gripped in his right hand, its length shortened so it would not clash into the trench walls, and crouching down to not make as much noise. Hugging the left side of the wall, he peeked around the corner to see a man that looked like he had lived in No man’s land for an entire year, his body was pale and scarred, however Cyril couldn’t see his face since it was obscured by a British gas mask like his own. Unlike others before, it looked like he was aware of someone being here in the trenches, and was looking back and forth in a drunken stupor.

As soon as the British soldier turned his head behind him, Cyril took his chance to rush towards him and bring his barbed shovel in a downward strike. The soldier didn’t even have time to react to the footsteps coming from behind him, when he felt the sharp pain on his back. Cyril saw the man fall to his knees, and decided to end it by slashing at the back of his neck. The attack didn’t cut his head off completely, but by the time he fell to the ground, there was no movement coming from him. Taking a quick search through his belongings, Cyril had some luck and found a few bullets for his revolver and another blood needle, placing them in different pockets, Cyril stepped over his fallen foe and continued on.

As he kept moving forward, he heard a faint sound from the distance, the noise reminded him of the artillery that he heard so often in the past. Were some of the crazed soldiers still fighting each other? Or was it from someone else? Cyril continued his slow walk until he heard another shell impact, this time slightly closer than before. If shells could be fired that fast, there had to be a group of people still here, and whoever it was they had to be a good distance away, perhaps if he could reach them, they would possibly know who Lieutenant Walker was and where he was.

“It’s a gamble though. I could be in the line of fire.” Cyril spoke to himself. The danger was there, perhaps the soldiers that fired those artillery shells weren’t in the mood for chatting and rather shoot anyone on sight.

Or perhaps it wasn’t survivors from the war, but more crazed soldiers firing off artillery shells without a care in the world. All were possible options, but Cyril wanted to believe the truth was mixed between the first ideas. Maybe the soldiers were survivors, but not trusting of anyone but themselves. What if they were soldiers from the Central powers, would they even be willing to help out a soldier from the Entente? All of these possibilities roam about in his mind, he would find out when he reached the position from where the shots originated.

After his little inner debate at what he should do, Cyril got on with his journey down the long stretch of mud and dilapidated wooden walls. The rain had calmed down on its furious downpour, now Cyril could see farther up ahead than before, which was helpful for him being in an area he assumed would be crawling with unknown dangers. Stepping up a slope that led up into No man’s land, Cyril heard a faint distinct noise through the pouring rain. It sounded like the growl of an animal, but he wasn’t sure which one, perhaps it was another reanimated horse like before. If so, he was now on edge, the first one he faced wasn’t too terrible once he had the barbed shovel. Maybe this one will be easier since it is an open area. However, he could see a small shape with thin legs. With the rain not hampering his vision, he could see the source of the growl more clearly.

It was a dog. Though this one was in worse shape than the ones he had seen in the trenches. Its body was skeletal in shape and bloodied, likely only surviving on the bare minimum of food. The eyes were almost like black sockets, with only a pinprick of color in the dark void. Cyril trembled at the sight of this mutilated canine, almost stumbling on the ground at the sight of it. His breathing quickened in pace, and he saw the dog had blood on his teeth. Cyril’s eyes gravitated towards the teeth and only imagined who the poor soul was to be killed by this creature. A brief standoff ensued and the dog began prowling to the right in anticipation for an attack. Cyril nervously kept his eyes on it and didn’t move a muscle as soon as he made eye contact with it. But once it got in his blindspot to his left, the dog made a loud bark and went in for the kill, frothing at the mouth.

Cyril turned his revolver quickly and unloaded half the rounds into the canine and was fortunate to see that the dog fell to the first two shots, the beast dead on his lunge fell limpless on the soft ground. Cyril gasped aloud and took several panicked breaths, his childhood fear of a dog trying to kill him had come true. Only this time, it couldn’t possibly be just one, there had to be more out there. The prospect of finding more of them made him quake with fear. Though in the distance it sounded like he could hear voices, it sounded like German barking out orders. The shots must have alerted some of the soldiers of his presence, he had to be quick with his movements, otherwise they would ensnare him into a trap.

Picking his pace up he hopped down into the closest trench, and moved quickly as he could. Behind him, the sounds of footsteps and shouting followed closely, he was now being chased. Cyril was wondering how many were behind him? Three, five, seven? He wanted to turn around to look but knew he had to keep his eyes on where he was running. Suddenly he heard a loud crack in the air, the sound of a rifle being shot put Cyril in a new predicament. Whoever was chasing him had the advantage of range, and numbers. He was going to have to face them eventually, his only hope was that the crazed soldiers would split up in different directions of the trench paths and he could pick them off one at a time. Seeing the first fork in the road, Cyril gambled his luck and ran left, gripping his weapons until his knuckles turned white.

On his run, he noticed a small dugout, it would be a perfect place to ambush some of the soldiers. Rather than just crouching, he decided to act dead and wait for his foes to drop their guard, and strike. Slumping down on the ground, he took the position of being stabbed while sitting, so he could still see the faces of his pursuers. Seconds passed by, and those turned into minutes, Cyril did his best to calm him breathing to make it appear he is dead, if the soldiers chasing him decide to inspect him and see his chest moving in and out, they would surely figure out he is still alive and kill him on the spot. He’ll put that theory to the test soon, since footsteps could be heard in the distance, Cyril slumped his head to the right to further sell the illusion and simply waited for his moment. It was a group of three crazed soldiers that appeared in his view, all brandishing crude melee weapons, however one had an SMLE that was slung to his back, more than likely the origin of the rifle shot. The one with the rifle stopped in his tracks and looked around aimlessly, to what Cyril assumed was double checking his surroundings, after a moment of pointless searching, the soldier started to walk to the left of his field of view until he was out of sight. This gave Cyril the opportunity to attack, in an instant he got on his feet and ran towards the rifle soldier and swung his shortened barbed shovel several times in the back until the soldier fell to the surprise attack. Quickly searching through his belongings he found two more blood needles and pocketed them quickly.

It might not have been the smartest idea to play dead, but he was surprised it actually worked. Cyril had to guess that no one heard the slashes since he didn’t hear shouting in any other direction. So he was in the clear. Hopefully the others that were searching for him would lose interest and wander about. Though he didn't hear any footsteps coming in his direction Cyril still needed to stay alert for a possible surprise attack, at least he could now begin searching for more clues on where Kemmel hill is located. Turning on another pathway, Cyril saw that the trench was covered in rubble and blocked his path, though this wouldn't stop him as he simply began climbing over the small mound of dirt, when he grasped on the mound with his left hand however, he felt the soft and rotting flesh of a soldier buried in the pile. Recoiling in a split second he looked at the almost mummified appearance of the man and stared for a few seconds, looking closer Cyril could see several maggots making their home on his face, which made him wipe his hand on the rear cape he wore.

Taking caution on where he placed his hands, Cyril slowly made his way up the moderate debris and could now get a sense of scale on how large the trenches were. They crisscrossed and ran about like several dozen earthworms, some collapsed on a mound like the one he was on, some had wooden bridges over them and he could spot several stone fortifications. Upon further inspection, Cyril noticed there were no machine guns in any of the ones he could see, perhaps they had been repositioned, or destroyed. What unnerved him, however, was that he could see more of those crazed soldiers walking in the open with their crude weapons. He watched their sluggish movements for a moment and kept an eye on one soldier in particular who wore a stahlhelm and gas mask combination, he turned his expressionless face at another soldier who looked like he was wearing a Brodie helmet. Speaking in German, the British soldier simply nodded and whistled to his left. Down in one of the various trenches, a dozen or more soldiers began to climb out, all brandishing their melee weapons and rifles, the British soldier issued an order which made it easy for Cyril to understand at least.

"We got ourselves a little rat that infested our home, let's snuff him out, why don't we?" The man shouted with his thick accent. With those words spoken, the large number of soldiers began scouring the trenches in pairs or three, some jumping into the maze, while others stayed above ground to get a clear view. He had to get a move on, with this many soldiers around on the prowl, he couldn't afford to attack in the open or go for prolonged fights. With this in mind, Cyril holstered his revolver and wanted to only rely on his shovel for any future engagements, until he was free from this labyrinth of trenches.

Passing through another corner, Cyril noticed there was another dugout, and decided to take his chances to search through it. Luckily it was a small one, however this came at the cost of limited items he would deem useful: such as a pair of revolver rounds. Pocketing them he turned back to gaze at the sight of a deformed man with bloodshot eyes and a ghastly grin, with only seconds to save himself from being discovered, Cyril placed his left hand directly into the soldier’s mouth and brought his shovel down on the man’s neck. All that could be heard was grunting from the soldier, but his thud on the ground was louder. When this happened he heard several voices in the distance, even through the pouring rain. Cyril had no time to dawdle, he started to quicken his pace, but did his best to keep it as silent as possible. Though when he was about to make a turn to the left, he heard voices above the trench and had to feign himself into being a corpse. Slumping down on the mud sideways, Cyril could see a pair of boots fall into the duckboards, from what he could tell it seemed like both of the men speaking were French soldiers, one held a SMLE rifle while the other carried a makeshift wooden plank with nails rammed on it. Though Cyril never officially studied French, he could make out a few words thanks to him fighting alongside a few of them in the past. However whenever he spoke French to them, they would reply with sentences of phrases he couldn’t understand. From the past two minutes he had been faking death, he could only make out the words; “The dead rot on the hill”.

The other simply replied with a grunt, before he stepped above the trench, followed by his partner seconds later. The last word meant he was getting closer, but he still needed to look around to be sure of it. Slowly, Cyril returned to his crouching position and resumed his turn left. Times like these, Cyril wished he could’ve had the opportunity to study another language before or even during the war, even in the reserve trenches he could learn French, German or even Russian to better understand friend and foe. But alas, he never had the opportunity to, not even back at home. Despite bordering Great Yarmouth and North Norfolk, it was hard for him to find a place to study languages or advanced lessons. Which is why for the most part he was homeschooled by his parents, primarily his mother. He wondered for a split second how his family was doing? Did they even know their son was still in Ypres, or had they been notified that he was dead? All questions he wouldn’t have the answer to, not that it would matter though. It wouldn’t help the situation he was in. Walking down the long narrow trench, Cyril stepped over the uneven path and felt his weight give way to whatever was buried under the earth. He stepped on something loud, which he assumed were bones of an entombed soldier. This caused him to stand completely still and look behind him and above to see if anyone heard him. Luckily, no one had shown up to attack him, perhaps the rain was muffling the noises, that could be a reason. Regardless, he should still be careful with the amount of sound he created.

“Could also work the other way around” Cyril muttered to himself. There was a hint of curiosity to peek above the trench and see if anyone was nearing him. However, rationality overcame his foolish thoughts and decided to stay concealed. Stepping over submerged duckboards, Cyril noticed another dugout but with a blanket simulating a door, much like the one he saw in the previous trench system. Similar to the dugout from before, it was pitch black with no lanterns or candles to be seen. Cyril had to search through his pockets to figure out where he stored the ornate lighter, finally discovering it in his right breast pocket, he’ll have to make a mental note of where he stores these items he finds. Flicking the lighter several times for it to ignite a flame, soon the room glowed a dim orange that revealed a few cots with no mattresses. The frames of the bed’s nearing collapse and the support structure in the dugout seemingly about to collapse any moment. If he wanted to search for anything, he had to do it quickly with the soldiers out on the hunt, and the stability of this room in question, hopefully there will be something useful in here.

Looking under the cots, he was unfortunate to find nothing of note, just poorly made melee weapons and the corpse of a British soldier with a gas mask identical to him, almost looking into a mirror. Perhaps if he wasn’t lucky enough to meet Edward, this could very well be him right now. Standing back up, he motioned the lighter to the right to see a cot with several papers on it, clipping his shovel to his belt, Cyril started to pick up the notes one by one to see if any had clues on how far Kemmel hill was, and if more survivors made it there. One note indicated a British soldier hoping his brother would find this note to meet in the Somme river to sail to Southern England, another was the ramblings of a soldier who was: “Seeing her majesty’s great knowledge”, perhaps this was a note from one of the crazed soldiers, especially since the handwriting is almost illegible. There were a few more notes like this, all speaking about some sort of “majesty” or “master of stars"

“Maybe they were the ones that caused all of this untold havoc and chaos?” Cyril spoke quietly. Flicking through more notes, some of nonsense, some of survivors telling others where they are, but one stood out to him, it was a small map showing the maze of trenches that he was standing in, there was a big circle outlying where he was, and a dozen or more kilometers away was Kemmel hill. Jolting up straight like a wind up toy, Cyril placed the map back down for any future survivors to see, and turned to exit the dugout.

“Finally. I’m on the right track.” Cyril quietly said. He did his best not to jump up in joy, to alert anyone nearby, but as he moved the blanket from his path out into the open, he stood still as a statue to see a soldier walking on his right, as Cyril saw the man in the eyes, they both stood still for what seemed like an eternity, unsure of what to do next, or who would make the first strike. Rain poured all around the two of them, Cyril staring at the man’s scarred hands, stained from chemical burns and barbed wire. The soldier gazed back at Cyril’s blank mask and he could only wonder if that man was scared behind it, or determined to kill like any other soldier that fought in these trenches.

The soldier made the first move and took out a rusty shovel and screamed at the top of his lungs, coughing up blood as he did. Cyril ran towards him and quickly unclipped his shovel, tackling the man to the ground. Frothing at the mouth, he sunk his teeth down on Cyril’s left arm causing him to break from his pin and back away. The soldier got up and simply shouted one word for the heavens to hear.

“Rat!” Yelling as high as he could with his hoarse voice through the onslaught of rain. Cyril watched as the soldier went in for a rush at him. Cyril rolled out of the way and quickly got back on his feet to swing at his back, and finally a downward strike right in between his neck and shoulder blade. With the soldier dead on his feet, Cyril didn’t have time to loot through him, as only seconds later, he could hear more voices echo that one word in the distance, it all targeted him out, a chorus of broken and damaged men crying aloud to break through the rain.

Cyril quickly fished through his pocket to administer a blood needle, jamming it into his leg. Feeling his arm regaining its strength. The shouting could now be heard in bursts, five or seven men would shout the word at once, only for another group to continue its warcry. Cyril was now prey in this maze, and he could only hope that he could reach Kemmel hill in time, and if anyone was willing to help him.

Chapter Text

The soldiers continued its song, the single word echoing past the rain for all to hear. All including its sole attendee in the theater; Cyril White. Beating himself up for not killing that soldier quick enough, his failure was the swarm of crazed men searching through mud and dugouts for him. His own flock of admirers in a construed way that he thought was horrible. So many people knowing about him didn’t sit right in Cyril’s mind, and now that there were dozens if not hundreds of soldiers knowing about him, clawing for an opportunity to kill, it frightened him to his core. All he could do now is just keep running away from them, perhaps the artillery he heard before would help him out? It wasn’t likely though, Cyril had to assume he was on his own so that his hopes wouldn’t be raised too high. But the fact that there could possibly be survivors at Kemmel hill didn’t kill the idea immediately, for now there was a sliver of optimism in his mind that he would be saved from this mess. Almost forgetting about his holstered revolver, Cyril quickly drew it out, in preparation for a quick shot off of any unlucky foe. The rain and sound of boots made an all too familiar ambience to him, another day in the frontlines, but this time an entire army’s worth of men was out for his blood.

“I’ve come too far, I’m not going to stop and give up now!” Cyril shouted to himself. For once, the sounds of the soldier’s chants were now being drowned out by the rain, which had amplified its strength. However, behind him, Cyril could hear the sound of men screaming at the top of their damaged lungs, all shouting the same word once and then letting out a battlecry that could’ve sent any conscript running. Looking behind him for a split second, he saw two, possibly three soldiers already chasing him down. Not bothering to get a good look at what they looked like, he only focused on what was ahead of him, however, the sound of a bullet crackling above the sound of the storm caused him to stumble for a moment. So his chasers had ranged weaponry available, he had to take them out now or else they would constantly harass him with more fire. However, the more time he spent fighting, the more soldiers would come and narrow down his location. Both options didn’t seem appealing, but of the two he had in mind, Cyril opted to go with the former and attack.

Turning around to face his pursuers, Cyril stood his ground and prepared for what was to come. They weren’t far behind, the one with the SMLE rifle fired another shot off, to which Cyril ducked in anticipation. The two with the melee weapons kept charging forward, one held a large wooden plank, the other a rusty shovel. The soldier with the shovel was easy to avoid, however the one with the large plank had too much range and knocked Cyril onto the ground with a thud.

The shovel soldier went in for the kill, however Cyril was quicker with his reflexes. Taking a precise strike at the masked soldier’s neck, blood slowly seeping down his torn uniform until he slowly choked to death. Whilst this happened, Cyril got back up as fast as he could and snapped off a shot at the rifleman. The shot unfortunately didn’t kill him though, only incapacitating him for a moment. Leaving just the long ranged melee soldier to him. Cyril went in for the offensive and made two swipes with his shovel at the man’s torso. The man still stood with what little strength he had left, dropping the plank and trying to grab Cyril’s throat. Only to fall face first on the mud. Cyril extended the barbed shovel to stab it in the spine of the scarred soldier, ending his miserable life.

Now the rifleman was all that remained, seeing that the man had collapsed onto the ground, clenching his bullet wound. Cyril looked into the man’s distorted eyes, blue and green mixed together like an artist’s combination of colors to create an ocean painting. Though there was something off about his eyes, they were bloodshot of course, however the iris seemed to have completely enveloped the pupil. Almost reminding him of how rabbits' eyes looked like. Like before, Cyril simply stabbed the downed soldier’s spine, quickly gathering any worthwhile supplies before quickly running off again.

Vaulting over a tree trunk that collapsed into the trench, Cyril could hear the voices in the distance. All shouting orders or status reports of where the "rat" was, some stating quiet, while others responded with no success in finding it. So far, less than five soldiers managed to discover him, and they were at least stupid enough to not shout their positions. Perhaps this is what it felt like to be behind enemy lines. Cyril never did partake in any special scouting missions, but he had heard that the men who did, received more money than most. The more dangerous the job, the more money you got paid as a result. Either it was the fear of death or the safety through numbers that kept him from enlisting to such dangerous tasks. Which suited him fine back in the day, he was contemptuous at being a regular rifleman.

But now he was being put through the shoes of a scouting party soldier, but without the benefits of extra pay. With limited supplies and only a vague amount of intelligence to go on, he delved into a hornets nest as a lone caterpillar. Stopping to see that both the trench paths to his left and right were destroyed, Cyril had no choice but to continue his trek in the open and exposed to fire.

“Dammit, it’s either that or get surrounded.” he muttered to himself. Leaping up and grabbing the soft terrain above, Cyril heaved himself up the mud and immediately began running. He could see figures in all directions, some closer, some only indistinguishable specks through the rain. The closest one heard the noises and began to run towards Cyril, bringing down a rusty hatchet on a downward strike. Fortunately, Cyril already outran the attack and slashed at the man’s deformed face, which turned so bloodied that it might as well been blown off by a grenade. Not even bothering to check the soldier for supplies, Cyril continued his pace and went about trying to find cover of any sort.

Through the rain, the voices still continued calling out and yelling the word rat. He wondered whether these deranged people would ever stop the hunt for him. Perhaps he could just pretend to lie dead in a crater for several minutes and maybe they would call off the search? But how long would they keep going for? It could be only for a few minutes, but Cyril thought it could also last for days. He didn’t want to find out, and just wanted to keep on running. The only way he would ever lie dead, is when there were too many soldiers around to fight and he wouldn’t have a chance to defeat them all. He almost wondered how long that tactic could last, perhaps they would wisen up and start bayonetting the dead to make sure they stayed that way?

Cyril hopped into a crater and took a moment to look back at the shapes behind him. Apparently some of the crazed soldiers managed to find the man he had killed seconds ago. The ones that found him looked like they brought along dogs, which wasn’t a good sight. Dealing with one was frightful enough, but it looked like there were more than four of them back there. It was too risky to make a run for it right now, the dogs would outrun him in seconds, so he held his ground for a moment and waited for them to pass. However, they didn’t move, they only stood there motionlessly. The only thing he could see were the dogs walking around the area, keeping a close eye on their handlers. But the two in question just stared at the corpse as if dumbfounded by what happened. Cyril just watched for the slightest hint of animation from the two, until the one with what Cyril assumed was an ax, swung it down on the corpse and started cutting away. The dogs didn’t pay any mind to the noise, and still continued their prowl, Cyril however, couldn’t look away at what was happening. The soldier was just chopping down the man’s limbs, to him it looked like these soldiers were a part of some cult.

Cyril wasn’t able to see much of what the soldiers do, aside from wandering about and staring endlessly in the distance. But this was the closest thing he saw to men committing to something so vile and depraved that he sunk back into the crater to gather his thoughts. Never had Cyril thought in his time as a British soldier had he ever seen something like that on the battlefield, he wondered if humanity could ever find a new low to sink in, and he found his answer.

From this little scene, Cyril looked away from the horror and started to get up as quietly as he could to escape from these two. Leaving the crater, he resumed his course forward, every step he took he felt like he would reach the base of the hill. But as he passed through the torrent of water and the fog, he was still nowhere closer to it than he was before. His sense of direction wasn’t anything to be impressed by, especially here and now. All around him looked the same dreary mud and trenches he had seen before. The only standout locations he had seen in recent memory, was the giant crater with the lake of foul water, and the medical camp he had awoken from where it all began.

Discounting the Hunter’s dream with Edward and the Doll, he wanted to leave out peculiar dream worlds. But now he wondered whether or not the Hunter’s dream was an actual location in the world, or a place in his dream. What if Cyril was already dead and he was imagining a horrific fantasy of being trapped in the trenches but with hell coming in, to scar the land and leave few to survive. Such as himself. But it could all just be in his head, maybe he was overthinking it, whatever the case he still needed to keep going. In the distance, Cyril heard the small whisper of an artillery shell far off. Perhaps the folks from before were shooting down some of these crazed soldiers and war horses. Of all the foes he has seen, Cyril was surprised he still had not seen many war horses. Maybe these men had cleared the beasts away from their area of living, if you could even call these trenches living.

Vaulting over a sandbag emplacement, Cyril could hear loud thuds on the ground, passing through the pour or rain, as if an ancient golem had been awoken from its slumber. Slowing down his sprint, Cyril readied his weapons and prepared to face a potential new threat. Though it would help a lot if he could actually see who or what made the noise. Checking his back every now and again, he pointed his revolver outwards and extended his barbed shovel for the extra range, looking around all sides for wherever the enemy would strike out. Perhaps it was fear starting to swell up within him that caused him to cautiously look around so often. Normally he wouldn’t have to worry about a situation like this since the Hun would always be on the other side, but this isn’t like the Hun, the enemy could be all around him for all Cyril knew.

Until another thud sounded on the wet mud which caused Cyril to turn forwards and point his gun high, no figure appeared before him, but the looming threat only seemed to grow with each step he took. On his right, Cyril heard more noises but this time those being faster footsteps, probably more crazed soldiers scouring through to look for him, followed by the voices of a man speaking French. They were getting closer to him, yet they didn’t realize he was a few meters away.

Turning around again, he heard more footsteps. This time so close that he could hear the ragged breathing of the soldiers, and the rattling of loose equipment they were carrying. There was no time to make any sort of movements, the soldiers would know he was standing here and then he would have to fight his way out again. No, right now, Cyril's only help was the storm that masked him from view and the soldiers themselves with a possibility of them having poor eyesight. The number was originally four men, but it grew to seven, twelve, until Cyril could finally see fifteen human outlines in the rain, all gathered in one area. There was one that walked backwards to him, completely oblivious to him. Cyril could only hold his breath and just prayed that the man was deaf and blind. But the possibility of someone having both of those disabilities was incredibly low, so he had to take his chance and stand still as a statue. The man that was close to him muttered something in French that Cyril couldn’t translate, but he had to assume the soldier was cursing at something given his tone.

He soon heard the voice of a soldier in the crowd, this time a British soldier that Cyril could comprehend: “Head West and search through Augustus trench.” The steps and clattering of weapons grew distant and Cyril sighed in relief. He didn’t have time to process the fact that he was unknowingly standing next to a search party of soldiers. Not wanting to think hard about it, he slowly started walking backwards, to keep an eye on the shapes, until the soldiers were barely visible in the distance. However, he soon forgot about the large sounds behind him.

Turning sharply Cyril could see the outline of what made the loud noises. From the fog and rain, he could see a hulking giant, no shorter than two and a half meters yet it hunched over, giving it a distinct human shape. However, one of its arms looked to be severed off and all that remained was a bandaged nub. The arm that remained held onto a conical object that Cyril couldn’t make a good look at. Its shoulders were broad and the muscles on the remaining arm were gray like the sky above. The face of the giant before him was scarred and wrapped in many bandages until only small pinpricks were poking out that Cyril could see to be its eyes. This giant was once a man, but now it looked nothing more than a monstrosity.

It slowly trudged towards Cyril, it groaned at first, but it soon made an angered cry. Swinging its odd choice of weapon. When Cyril saw the creature attack, it looked like he was holding an artillery shell. This giant had to be truly mad to use this as a weapon, one wrong move and the shell could detonate, killing the both of them. The man was slow with his movements, as if he was hampered down by injuries on his arm. Perhaps the arm distracted him from using his full potential. Even despite his injuries, the giant looked intimidating up close, hunched down; he still towered over him and lumbered his artillery shell, swinging at every chance that he approached Cyril. But he was faster and smaller, he had an advantage in mobility, the time for observation was over. Cyril extended his barbed shovel and swung it upwards to slash the giant at the chest, which only seemed to stagger him slightly. Extending the shovel gave him a little breathing room to keep away from that shell, if it was still armed. The giant brought up his arm and slammed the shell on the ground to crush Cyril, who dodged it quickly, panicked by the fear of an explosion. However, there wasn’t one that followed, perhaps the shell was a dummy round and used as a blunt instrument to this giant.

The towering man recovered from the slow attack and began to march towards Cyril again. But it was only a feign, the giant then broke into a run. The sudden burst of speed caught Cyril off guard and with only seconds to make a decision, he drew his revolver and let out a couple of shots to slow it down. But the giant was undeterred and once again brought the artillery shell down towards him. Cyril quickly swung his shovel at the giant’s hand, which let out a cry of pain as he dropped the shell onto the mud. Now defenseless, he performed a downward strike onto the giant’s torso again which knocked him back once more. However, the giant quickly recovered and broke into another stubborn tackle. Cyril swung out once in a diagonal strike and then upwards. With these last attacks, the giant submitted defeat and fell down dead on the ground, his hand loosely attached after the slash from before. Despite this victory, Cyril couldn’t stay for long, he had shot his gun and knew every soldier would be closing in on him soon, and as he thought that, he looked behind him to see two soldiers carrying rifles through the rain. Without warning, both fired at Cyril who managed to duck from the first shot, but was unfortunate enough to get struck in his upper left leg. The sharp sting of a bullet piercing through flesh was brief, but it was soon replaced by a lingering pain that would follow unless he administered it with a blood needle. He didn’t have time to take one out and only fired his remaining shots off at the riflemen.

Not looking to see whether he hit either of the two, he began running as best as he could. Behind him, he could hear the soldier call out to his comrades that he discovered the rat, and Cyril’s plans for getting through this quietly were slowly falling apart. There was no cover to protect him, it was only an open field of trenches and what looked like poorly constructed crucifixes. Taking a chance to glance behind him, he could see that only one of the riflemen remained, he was surprised his blind shots managed to knock down one of them. Fishing for a moon ring, he broke open the revolver and reloaded it, turning around to fire one shot at his pursuer. The shot hit him in the chest and knocked him back on the mud, not wasting a moment, he quickly took a blood needle and felt the pain subside. Now that he was back to full strength, Cyril began his run through the wastes, skipping over decomposed bodies, vaulting over fallen trees, and encountering two more patrols.

Luckily these patrols had been easier to dispatch, seeing as how their attacks were slow and predictable. But even with all of these kills Cyril had achieved he still was nowhere near his end goal. Fighting all the crazed soldiers and trying to avoid large pockets of them distracted his main objective, but luckily it seems the cries of the enemy were kilometers away from him.

“Maybe now, I can move unimpeded.” Cyril rasped from his tired voice. He never noticed that in the past twenty minutes, the rain had calmed down and he could see much farther away, which was a blessing and curse. Rubbing the eye pieces of his gas mask, Cyril cleared the rain drops that had accumulated on it and finally got to see where he was, another crater filled landscape with water at the base of each of them. Small trenches lined the area in segments far away from each other, and barbed wire littered the land.

“The same old scenery.” Cyril mumbled to himself, he shouldn’t have expected a change in landscape at this point. All he could do was just try and navigate it with as little issue as possible.

He started with walking through one of the many fields of barbed wire that had been laid out probably by these madmen. Taking his time to find the narrow path that was given to the soldiers to pass through it, Cyril occasionally got his sleeves caught in the wire and carefully did his best to untangle himself from the snare. Luckily it seemed to go smoothly since the parts that got caught were only a small piece. The only downside of having to navigate this, was that it took time to safely pass through, however, if he didn’t mind a few cuts on his outfit he could always rush through it, but he wanted to play it safe until he made it to the hill. After several minutes of careful navigation, he passed one of the many barbed wire paths, now he had to continue walking through the same dead landscape he was so familiar with.

Only this time it looked as if there were far more corpses than he had seen before. Some decomposed beyond recognizing who they once were, while others were only a few days old. This area had to have been a place where these soldiers had fought over something, and with only a tilt of his head up, Cyril found his answer. Kemmel hill, he had to blink his eyes to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating, but it was finally there. Judging by the distance it looked like it would take half an hour at most to make it to the base of the hill, and possibly fifteen minutes to reach its peak. With a sudden burst of energy, Cyril began to run towards his goal, hopefully there would be someone there that could help him out.

Reaching one of the small trenches he tried to look at the hill and observe any distinctions it had. Taking his mask off, he looked to see that there looked to be an artillery cannon of an unknown type. The hill also looked to be devoid of any flora as to be expected with the surrounding area, however that was all he could make out. Until he got closer he wouldn’t be able to tell whether anyone is currently using that hill as a shelter. However, one thing Cyril failed to notice earlier were the pockets of crazed soldiers roaming above the trenches, some carrying rifles, while most carried crude melee weapons. He couldn’t catch a break with these people, Cyril thought to himself. In the distance he could hear a trio shout out something in French, until they shot something in the trench, after the bullets sang out, a howl of pain cried out. It was similar to that horse he had seen back in the hospital. He could only draw one conclusion and it wasn’t something that boded well going forward, but what choice did he have? He was finally here, and foes like these couldn’t be what kept him from accomplishing it.

“No matter the challenge, I will reach that hill.” Cyril told himself, to boost his own self confidence. Not that he needed to after seeing the hill for the first time in person.

Hopping down into the narrow trench Cyril moved as quietly as he could. Swiftness was another thing he wanted to do, but he couldn’t afford to slip up and fail after coming all this way, slow and careful is what will get him through this obstacle. With how small these trenches were, he surmised that these were only recently constructed given how there were so few wooden planks and walls, the piles of bodies also furthered his theory as to why the trenches were poorly maintained. Up above he heard the same type of howl as before, but with more panicked screams following after. Another one of those horse’s seemed to have been discovered, but unlike the first, this one might have killed the soldiers. Taking a peek up, Cyril could see the Frenchmen being mauled by the creature, its teeth tearing through flesh and bone, devouring the inside with ease. Only moments later did the sound of a machine gun tore through the horse in a matter of minutes. Looking to see where the shots came from, it was a British soldier holding a Lewis gun.

This now complicated things, if he so much as went up from the trenches, the machine gunner could shoot him down in seconds. He only hoped his aim was anything to be desired, so far from his surveillance, Cyril could only see two soldiers wielding machine guns. If he had to make a break for it above, he needed to be quick with his movements and find cover as soon as possible. Until then, he still kept moving on in the trench.

With each passing minute, Cyril approached closer towards the base of the hill. From his current distance, he could see a person moving by the sandbags with a rifle in hand. Praying that it was a survivor and not some deranged maniac, he got distracted for a split second and heard the low growl of one of the horses. Hugging a mound of dirt and debris, Cyril unholstered his revolver and held it up at the ready. The loud footsteps of the horse squelched through the wet mud, its rasping breath was audible for all to listen in the vicinity, though only Cyril was the one that could hear it. Tensing his triggerfinger, he waited the moment the beast would even poke its head out to him, but a small part of Cyril almost wanted the horse to just pass by. Time seemed to slow, as the horse just stayed in its position, until it made a sniffing sound in the air, causing Cyril to stiffen straight. Another footstep could be heard, and then the cracking of bones, as the horse let out a howl for the world to witness. Above, various voices sounded from the distance, and with no other choice left to him. Cyril knew he had to move now.

Breaking out of cover, he fired three shots of his revolver and the horse and watched it stumble into a dugout, giving it no time to recover from its stumble, Cyril went in for two slashes around the beast’s downed body, as it gave up in defeat. The sounds of the gunshots could be heard from kilometers and Cyril knew he was going to be chased down again. Jumping out of the trenches, he could see that he was only a few minutes away from the hill’s base. However, the soldiers behind him caught sight and began to run towards him. Seeing no time to waste on fighting, Cyril blitzed through the surface with all of his energy, jumping over trenches, vaulting over sandbag emplacements, maneuvering through ditches and corpses. Occasional gunfire whirred by him as a group of a dozen and a half soldiers began to chase after their prey. As he was about to hop over another trench, an arm grabbed his left leg and dragged him down into the narrow line. A British soldier with long, thin limbs and a bandaged eye went in to attack with a sluggish swing. With only seconds to make a decision, Cyril kicked the soldier away from him, and stumbled back to his feet, using his shovel to slash the man with speed, finishing him off with a strike at the neck. Shifting through the man’s corpse he found that he was carrying a small grenade with him. Pocketing it, Cyril leaped up from his line, and could see the group had swelled to twenty six soldiers, all of whom were deformed and mad with a bloodlust for him.

Reaching up to climb the trench, Cyril could see the base of the hill was dead ahead. Now that he finally made it, he knew the hard part would be climbing up the unsteady ground. It was possible, but the mud would have to slow his movements, and the crowd of soldiers behind him didn’t help any matters. All he could do now was start climbing, his energy had been all but spent from the running and the encounter with the large soldier. With several labored steps, he started his way up the hill, looking behind him to see that the soldiers were only moments away from him, rifle fire sounded out and one shot pierced his lower right arm. Moving quickly as he could, he dug out two things from his pocket, the grenade from earlier and a blood needle. Using his damaged arm to pull the pin he threw the grenade down the hill and turned back to keep moving. An explosion caught several of the men down below, but Cyril didn’t have time to look at how many he got, he was busy administering the blood needle. More shots sounded out, as Cyril ducked his head to avoid one. Turning around he could see that the soldiers were starting to begin their climb up, from the look of it, the ones with the melee weapons were going ,while the riflemen stood at the base.

Annoyed by the guns, Cyril fired his remaining rounds at one of the soldiers wielding a rifle. From this distance the accuracy of his gun wouldn’t do much, but one of the shots seemed to hit him at least, even if it was a momentary stun. Not bothering to reload, Cyril simply holstered his gun and kept on trudging up the slope. One of the soldiers behind managed to get close enough to swing his shovel. Losing his patience, Cyril simply dodged the attack and shoved the man down the hill, eliminating all of his progress. As he rolled down, another soldier got caught in his path and suffered the same fate as him. Letting out a quiet chuckle, Cyril turned his direction to the peak, which he could see. From his pace it looked like it was only a ten minute slog. If someone was up there, they had to have heard the noises coming from the hill. He almost wanted to shout if anyone was up there, but quickly forgot the idea as another soldier went in for several slashes which Cyril didn’t pay attention to as his back was struck by multiple hits from a rusted shovel. Falling down on his knees, he could only feel the pain from the attack, and heard the soldier go in for another one. Before Cyril could be killed, he used all the strength he had to stand up and swing his barbed shovel at his assailant, with a diagonal strike, then went in for another attack as the man fell dead on the slope, his corpse came tumbling down.

Fishing through his supplies, he discovered he only had a few blood needles left. With a quick injection, the pain was nullified mostly, but there was a small lingering itch in his back that felt like the wounds hadn’t fully been recovered. He was so close to his goal, that he had stopped being careful and started to run up the hill, risking himself to fall. He didn’t care for the danger at this point he could see the machine gun emplacements and sandbag defenses. As he was only meters away he could see rifles emerging from cover aiming down the slope. Raising his hands out in an attempt to get them to put down their rifles.

“Don’t shoot!” Was all that came out of him, he couldn’t think of what next to say as the adrenaline had preoccupied his words. However he didn’t have to think long as the guns shouted out their synchronous fire behind him at the horde of crazed soldiers. Some fell in seconds, while others were only grazed by the bullets. Another wave of shots were heard and more died in the second. The remainder didn’t bother to continue their pursuit and retreated back to the base. Cyril turned his head to see a German soldier with his rifle peek his head up, soon after several more soldiers climbed atop their perimeter and cautiously aimed their guns at Cyril. It was a mixed group of German, British, French, Austrian, and even a Belgian soldier. All in unique uniforms, all worn down, had an officer been here to inspect them, he would’ve been appalled by the display. But Cyril wasn’t one to judge, these men looked to have been here a while.

“Englander.” One of the German soldiers called out from the back. What followed were two officers, one being French, while the other was British. Cyril looked at the two and his eyes were filled with relief as he finally saw him. Lieutenant Walker was alive, he looked the same as before, with the exception that he isn’t wearing breaches anymore, but rather regular brown pants with what look like wrappings around his knees. His trench coat was still with him, but it looked like he added a shoulder cape to it. Both of the officers stood behind the sandbag defenses, Cyril placed his hands down and took a step forward to salute them. Walker only smirked, gesturing his right hand to the German soldier’s rifle to stand down.

“Easy there gents’, this one is one of mine. Welcome back Lance Corporal.” Walker calmly stated.

Chapter Text

Easing their aim, the soldiers stood down and let the newcomer through. Cyril walked over the sandbag defense and hopped down on the peak of the hill. Walker was quick to extend his hand and he shook it earnestly. After that, Cyril extended his hand toward the French officer who came alongside Walker. His face was more rugged than his, a fancy mustache rested above his lips and he wore a faded blue trench coat. He shook the Frenchman's hand and saluted afterwards to which the officer only nodded, walking away to look below the hill with the other survivors. Confused by the lack of words the French officer said was strange to say the least.

"Forgive him, Florent isn't one for chatting." Walker chimed in. He gestured to Cyril to follow him, the young man took his lead and noticed the state of the place. The hill looked ad hoc, only designed to house mortars and howitzers. There wasn’t much in the way of personal amenities, aside from a few trenches with several dugouts for a small living space.

Cyril glanced around to see how many people were living here, when he arrived he could only see nine soldiers guarding the sandbags where he was saved. However there seemed to be several more small groups of soldiers, one group lounging on a destroyed howitzer smoking cigarettes or pipes. A British soldier cleaning his rifle and wiping the mud off the magazine chamber. Seeing it reminded Cyril of having to clean his own rifle, all the small pieces used to keep the gun together annoyed him when he had to disassemble it. That was the primary reason why he took training on handling revolvers, they lasted much longer in the mud and didn’t need as much cleaning as the rifles or machine guns. Resting his hand on his revolver holster, thankful that he chose it over the shotgun from Edward. Even through all of this hardship and the amount of monstrous foes he had fought, his revolver had still not jammed once.

Continuing on the walk, Cyril also noticed a group of soldiers modifying their weapons. A German soldier used bandages on his rifle to wrap a sharp fragment of metal to the bottom, giving it a poleaxe look to it. While a French soldier had what looked like a metal gauntlet with wooden stakes hastily applied, giving it an almost frightful appearance. Cyril could understand why these men would have to make these adjustments to their tools and weapons. Simply firing at the oncoming hordes wouldn’t be enough, say for instance a war horse pounced. A rifle bayonet would be insufficient for the task. Even a regular shovel would probably only dent it, which is probably why Cyril also gravitated to his primary weapon of choice. It looked to be the most efficient of the trio. To him, a sickle would be a foolish choice for a melee weapon, whereas the bark mace would probably break off since it's made from wood. In total, Cyril assumed there was around thirteen to sixteen men holed up in this one location, far more than he initially expected.

"Still hiding your face I see?" Walker said, breaking the silence between the two. Cyril simply nodded, he didn't know why he was still wearing the gas mask now. He hadn't seen any poisonous clouds recently, which was a relief for once.

"How did you manage to survive for this long?" He asked.

"I'll tell you once we reach my quarters. We can rest there, it looks like you've seen quite a lot."

The trip didn't take long, he led Cyril to a trench that had a small dugout with a bed. The Lieutenant sat down on the makeshift cot and Cyril took a seat on the trench firestep, taking off his helmet and mask. Reaching to his back he grabbed his canteen and drank a few sips from it, before he put it away, he gestured to the Lieutenant if he would like some, which he politely declined, shaking his head.

“It’s going to be quite a bit to take in, given how long it’s been since we last spoke. Where would you like to start?” Walker asked.

“Start from the beginning. I woke up just to learn that two years have passed and that there are half dead people out and about No man’s land.”

Walker scratched his chin and took a moment before he could think of a good way to begin. “Well, let’s start with what happened to you. We were driving off the Hun’s in the later months of 1918, on one of the charges, I was informed you got hit with an artillery shell a meter away, the sergeant dragged you back to the line when he noticed you were still breathing.”

The revelation of being saved from death was a shock to him. But it didn’t impact him as much, since he found out prior that he had already been killed by a horse after he woke up.

“When I returned to the trench to check up on the boys, you didn’t seem to wake up, yet you were still breathing. Not even shooting a bullet in the air seemed to get you up. So you were just kept in the reserve trenches.” Walker continued.

Cyril immediately had a question to bring up after that explanation. He remembered waking up with a tag on his toe, as if he was declared dead. After Walker took a break from speaking, Cyril brought it up and it looked like the Lieutenant wasn’t surprised by the response.

“That’s what the doctors did, I kept them and the other soldiers from getting rid of you because you were still more or less alive. You can thank me for the reason you’re not sleeping under a pile of earth and bones.” Walker answered. With that, Cyril slumped back onto the mud and felt distraught at the fact that he was knocked out of the fight for so long, that others wanted to simply discard him as another statistic. He was thankful to the Lieutenant for holding out hope that he was alive.

“How long did the war continue to go on for? From what I saw in newspaper scraps I found in the trenches, it lasted another year.” Cyril only told a half truth, he didn’t want to mention the Old General Edward to him just yet, he wanted to learn about Walker’s perspective of the war first before revealing to him about the enigmatic old man.

“Oh it went on for another year, alright. When you were knocked out, the Americans joined up in the squabble of Europe, a month after you were out of the fight. We underestimated the Germans, and they wanted to fight to the end rather than surrender to us. Those stormtroops you’ve heard about? Became one of the biggest threats to us as they raided our supplies and took them back to their trenches. More tanks were used as the months dragged on, and battles between opposing ones became more common. Then, we got a little creative.” When Walker uttered the word creative he lowered his voice before resuming. “A sort of metal skeleton was made, a slow but durable machine. The boys called them Copperheads because of the color. They went along with the tanks and acted as a sort of body guard to them in case any of those krauts got sneaky. Their claws could crush bones if they got close to you, I saw one do it to the enemy and his ribs were broken in a matter of seconds. I could go on, but so much happened in the span of a year and I couldn’t remember every little detail.” Walker explained.

Metal men walking amongst the living, with no heart or mind of their own? Cyril really did miss out on a lot of the war if marvels such as those were created. Though he had to wonder what those machines were doing right now, and how many were made.

“What about these creatures? Where did they come from, and why are most soldiers resorting to barbarism?” Cyril asked, taking another sip from his canteen before returning it to his belt.

“That’s the thing, we don’t even know where it originated from. It just…happened.” Walker said.

The answer was almost what Cyril expected, he had a feeling Walker wouldn’t know where it started from, he could assume it had to begin somewhere in the warring nations. Perhaps France, Austria or even the Colonies in Africa. He only wished Edward was more specific on how and where to ‘End this nightmare’.

“Then how about when you first noticed that something was off.” Cyril asked, thinking that maybe getting Walker to remember, he could get a rough idea of when the so-called creatures started to appear. Scratching his cheek for a moment, Walker continued on.

“I was in the reserve trenches when we heard word of mouth spreading. The Hun’s were running from their trenches, no weapons in hand. It’s not one or two of them, it was a company's worth of men just running towards us, frightened like little girls, shrieking and shouting to the heavens. I couldn’t understand what they were saying but I heard some waving their hands in the air trying to get our boys not to shoot.” Walker stated.

Cycil didn't interrupt his commanding officer, he placed both hands below his chin and leaned forward to pay further attention.

"By the time they started to come down the trenches, I made it to the front and saw what was going on. They were speechless, quaking in terror and jittering back and forth to see if whatever they were running from followed them back. What little those men spoke about didn’t offer many clues. Spouting about their own soldiers turning against each other, acting like madmen. However, we didn’t see any attacks from these “madmen”, at least not for a fortnight. But on that day, it was pure chaos. Soldiers clad in uniforms of varying nations rushed out into No man's land with no regard for their own lives, bandaged and scarred as if they walked straight out of the medical camps.”

“A coordinated attack? The ones I fought usually stuck to themselves or in small groups. Or did until I was discovered, then you know what happened.” Cyril said dryly, to which Walker nodded quietly.

“After the first wave came the cavalry. Though it was more or less a horde of stampeding dead horses that tore us apart one by one. What little there was of us left only saw one thing on the third wave. A…creature of some kind, unlike any animal I’ve ever seen.” Walker took a moment to pause and compose himself, his hands started to shake as soon as he started to remember what he saw in the past. Cyril was concerned, he had never seen the Lieutenant show any type of fear before, he always remained cool under pressure.

“It was faceless, I think it was at least, it had a pale grayish-blue color to it and walked like a man. It was massive, however, towering over buildings had it been near any. The sound it made was deep but loud.” The eyes of Walker were dilated and he started to stare at the ground just at the thought of remembering the thing. Cyril came in close to offer the man his canteen again, this time he so graciously accepted and took a gulp of water before calming down.

“The rest of what happened after was a blur, from what I could remember I was on my own for a few months before meeting with the fellows up here.” He gestured to the soldiers all around on the hill. “There was only the Captain over there and maybe four others here at the time I first arrived, we didn’t care what side you were on, we took any and all we could.”

“After two years you managed to find a little under sixteen people?” Cyril asked, hunched over.

“We had twenty two at one point, but we were attacked by those madmen and their beasts. We lost four on the attack, and two who went out searching for our weekly supply run.” Walker stated.

Cyril couldn’t imagine how these people here had managed to live off of the bare necessities, no clean source of water or supply chain giving them food. They had to scavenge like graverobbers just to survive. Though with how long he’s been holed up here, he had to be an expert at fighting these crazed soldiers now. Out of the corner of his eye, Cyril noticed something right behind the Lieutenant that looked vaguely like a SMLE rifle. Tilting his head, he pointed at the object right behind Walker.

“That? Oh, that’s my rifle. I made a few changes to it when I got here.” Turning around to grab his rifle from the mud wall it hung on, Cyril noticed a large protrusion from below the grip of the rifle. From the look of it, it seemed to be a serrated blade with sharp teeth and a metal casing over it. He wasn’t quite sure what type of object Walker had placed on his rifle, until he noticed a crank at the side of the protective metal casing. Still confused as to what it did Cyril simply watched as Walker held the rifle with both hands.

“It’s a saw blade, if anyone gets too close I use this rather than a shovel. However, if there’s a particularly stronger foe.” He demonstrated the weapon by pulling the crank, in doing so the noise that followed was what could only be described as thousands of tiny insects screaming in unison as the blade rotated around. Covering his ears at the sudden burst of noise, Cyril was fascinated by the blade moving in such a smooth way, almost reminding him of some of the tools that his father had described at the harbor. Pushing the crank forward, the Lieutenant ceased the blade's wails and placed the rifle on his lap. “Made this from some tools I scavenged before coming up here.”

“It’s unlike any I’ve seen before, sir. Is it the same rifle you had when those crazed soldiers attacked?” Cyril asked. Walker nodded once before returning the rifle to its spot in his quarters.

“Humor me then, how did you get back up from your deep sleep, I wonder?” Walker asked inquisitively, placing his hand on his chin in deep thought. Cyril leaned forward and started from the beginning on what he saw before waking up, little creatures swarming him as he was powerless to move them away from him. The horse that was half dead and how he was brought back to life inexplicably. Though when he mentioned waking up in a dream world, Walker didn’t seem phased by this revelation, he just nodded once. Confused by this, Cyril stopped explaining and asked one thing.

“Do you know of an old General, bound to a wheelchair?” As he finished the sentence, Walker leaned in closer and whispered to his ear.

“I do indeed.”

His eyes opened wide at this knowledge, all this time Edward knew about the Lieutenant and he had been a fool for not bothering to ask. Though with how Edward was, he would’ve responded with ‘He’s probably dead’ or ‘Don’t bother looking for him, he won’t help you now’. Though he was wrong about one thing, there are still people here with their senses and trapped on this hellscape. Then how did Walker meet the old general? Was he revived like him, or did he just happen to find one of the lamps? He asked this to his Lieutenant, hoping for a clear answer.

“It’s been so long, I don’t remember how I got there. I just remember meeting that old general and his marionette companion. I remember the castle in the distance and the small house. It’s where I built my rifle saw behind me.” Walker once again pointed behind him to his rifle. Cyril slouched a bit disappointed with the lack of an answer.

“So, what did you do as a hunter? Did you try to find other people?” Cyril asked.

“I did at first. Going back to the trenches where we were slaughtered to see if anyone made it out of that. There were none, just mounds of bodies in disfigurement. It was the same for the secondary and reserve trenches. After that I just wanted to find that creature that I thought orchestrated this. I spent almost four months trying to find it, killing all sorts of mad men and deformed animals. But, I eventually found it in a place called Hazebrouck.”

Walker paused before continuing. Cyril could see that even remembering the creature didn’t do him any favors at staying coherent.

"It was just perched up on a cathedral. Looming over the town, it just stood still. But, what was strange is that some of the buildings looked like they were hastily repaired by poor carpenters. As if this creature tried to put it back together with its giant hands."

Cyril vaguely remembered marching through a bombed out village in his early days in the war, so much rubble and debris, whole buildings obliterated by one heavy shell, while the ones that remained were nothing more than half demolished or in a skeletal brick state. He couldn't remember the name of the town he had passed through on that day but he knew it was like that for dozens of other places along Ypres. Though much of his time was spent on the trenches, he had fought in a few battles in destroyed villages. But what the Lieutenant described was nothing short of perplexing.

“The moment it saw me, the thing jumped from its tower and I fought it. I can’t remember much of what happened other than I’m still standing and it’s not. The only thing I did remember was that after I defeated it, the creature sort of vanished in a bright light and let out an explosion of deep crimson blood.”

Similar to how Cyril had slain the crawling tank, perhaps challenging foes like these two will result in the same grandiose death. He looked at the Lieutenant and noticed how pale he looked. Getting up from the firestep, Cyril looked around for the place where they kept the food, if they had any to begin with. All he could see was the damaged howitzer, the sandbag emplacement, several stools and a half dozen trenches including the one he was in.

“Lieutenant, do you know where the food storage is?” He asked politely.

“See if you can find Oliver, he has access to the storage. It's not hard to find him, he's Belgian.” Pointing above to a blonde haired man with a green adrian helmet. Cyril looked up to see that he was poking his head above one of the trenches looking in the distance. Hopping out of the trench, he made his way to the Belgian who quickly noticed him approaching.

“Hey, you’re that new guy. Sorry for pointing that rifle at you earlier, when I heard the gunshots I thought we were going to be attacked.” Oliver chimed in.

Cyril stood still and looked at the young man, from the look of it he was around Cyril’s age, maybe a year or two younger. His hands were covered in dirt and mud, there were a few cuts on his face but he didn’t seem bothered by them.

“The Lieutenant said you’re in charge of the food storage?” he asked. Oliver beckoned Cyril to come down into the trench to check the wares.

Jumping down, he could see the Belgian head into a dugout. Moving the curtain aside, he could see that Olive had cultivated a small farm. There were only four or six plants growing from the soil, being warmed up by a few lanterns above, giving off a warm yellow glow. On the right, Cyril could see Oliver motioning him to come look. He was rummaging through two crates and Cyril saw there were several cans of food, the labels all worn out, the color faded making it hard to tell which was what. Oliver handed Cyril one of the small flat cans that he could only assume was a type of minnow. The Belgian gave him a second can, but Cyril shook his head.

"Not hungry, you sure about that? Looked like you could get something to eat." Oliver suggested.

For some peculiar reason, Cyril had no appetite. Sure he was parched every now and then, but that was due to the amount of walking he had to do without seeing another lantern. Which made him wonder when he would see the next lantern, it had been a few hours since he last saw one at the area he fought the Crawling tank.

Before leaving the impromptu store house, Cyril moved the cloth out of the way only to be greeted by Florent from earlier. He moved out of the way and let the officer, after exiting, he could hear Oliver talking with Florent, though he didn’t make any reply to the conversation he walked in on. Perhaps Florent suffered an injury to his neck and he can’t speak? Or maybe he prefers to stay quiet after seeing the horrors from the trenches. Maybe the Lieutenant would know more when he returned to his quarters. The trip was uneventful, Cyril hopped down and tossed Walker the can of rations. When he opened it, he was right in assuming it was filled with a sort of small fish. The Lieutenant took the first fish and immediately gorged on it, after less than 10 seconds it was gone, though the following ones he took his time to eat. He waited a minute for Walker to relax, the color of his skin was starting to return to normal.

“Lieutenant, is Florent mute? Or did he suffer an injury?” Cyril asked quietly. Walker stopped eating and placed his food on his lap before responding.

“The latter. One of the original soldiers of the hill who served with him said that shrapnel from a grenade centimeters away ravaged his throat. Frankly it’s a miracle he made it out of that alive. Though if he tries to speak it would more or less come out like a raspy whisper of one or a few words.”

Cyril thought back to what Walker said about surviving the artillery shell and only suffering a blackout. Meanwhile Florent seemed to have it worse. He more or less lost the ability to speak. Though he had seen soldiers who had suffered far worse injuries in the field hospitals, for an officer to lose his voice would make issuing orders hard to give and understand.

Out of the blue though, he remembered about the Woman in white, how he kept seeing her in his dreams and when he was traveling through No man’s land. He asked Walker about seeing someone like that back in the war, but the Lieutenant always brushed it off as him going a little mad. However, with Cyril finally seeing her in person made him confident in talking about it again.

“Lieutenant. I’m sure you remember when I mentioned some woman I keep seeing, right?” Cyril began. Walker looked up with an exacerbated expression, sighing before nodding his head. “I saw her again, sir. In the mist, she smiled at me.” The words coming out of Cyril’s lips almost made him sound insane, Walker gave off another sigh.

“With all that has happened, I shouldn’t be too surprised you’re starting to see her again. Why is it that you see her in the first place? Is she your girl waiting back home?” Walker teased a little.

Cyril shook his head. He wasn’t sure where she had come from to begin with, other than she just appears at random with no rhyme or reason. He wanted to know why she kept showing up to him, but from what he can remember of the past when he did see her before meeting Edward and the Doll. Whenever she would appear, an arduous task would come soon. Either assaulting No man’s land to tank the German trenches, or a horde of the enemy would attempt a breakthrough. Sometimes it would be inconsistent though, she would appear on some assaults or defenses, other times she wouldn’t. Then out of nowhere, several of the soldiers let out curses and started rummaging through their equipment.

Cyril and Walker both stood up to see the commotion, but instead of looking at the soldiers, Cyril could see a flare light up the dull gray sky. He could hear Walker muttering to himself before he grabbed his rifle saw. Everyone seemed to stop their relaxation and started to mobilize for an incoming attack. Some of the men started to carry out boxes full of machine gun ammunition, while others pulled out a Stokes mortar with a box full of mortar rounds.

Leaving the small trench he started to walk towards the sandbag emplacement and see the situation first hand. Half of the soldiers were already preparing for an attack and loading or sharpening their weapons. Then another flare fired out from below. Cyril didn’t notice at first but a thick fog seemed to have formed from below, obscuring any signs of those crazed soldiers or any other creature from the trenches. Looking at Walker who stood by his side, they both knew this wouldn’t be like any other defense the two of them had ever faced before. No, this was a fight for survival, a fight against little more than animals in human clothing. Not the battle hardened Germans they had fought time and time again.

Cyril had noticed that the Woman in white had not shown up to be a sort of warning about this oncoming assault. No matter, she didn’t appear every time an attack or defense was imminent, and he knew he had to focus on what was coming. All he could do now was wait, and the first thing he did was put his gas mask and helmet on.

Chapter Text

The flare shot towards the sky in the murky gray clouds, illuminating the afternoon storm onto the lunar landscape below. The yellowish-white light almost blinded him at first with its radiance, his eyes were so used to the dark sky out that he stopped from his run and took cover behind a fallen tree. Rubbing the droplets of water off of his mask Cyril took a moment for his eyes to return from their daze. When his sight briefly returned he briefly checked how much ammunition was in his rifle, pulling the bolt back he could see a few rounds loaded in. Pushing the bolt back he got out of cover and fired off a few rounds through the mist and fog to lay out covering fire for his comrades. After discharging the last bullet, he went back down and loaded another stripper clip into the gun before continuing his fire.

He could see other soldiers around him charging into the unknown ahead of him, enveloped into the fog and rain. Praying that none of his shots hit them, he only focused on a small area where he saw no one was running in. Before he could come up with a theory as to why, a soldier ran towards his sightline and was quickly shot down in a matter of seconds. Ducking down to avoid the bullets, Cyril thought it would be wise to find new cover to get a better angle to shoot those entrenched German’s. He was paying too much attention to the German trench that he accidentally bumped into a running Lieutenant, the two crashed down onto the mud. Cursing, the officer shoved Cyril out of the way before getting back up.

“Come on Corporal, it’s too early to fumble about!” The voice of the officer was familiar and Cyril saw it was Lieutenant Walker, who helped him back up on his feet.

He followed Walker for several paces before he heard the familiar rhythm of a machine gun mowing through rows of soldiers, yelling to get down. Cyril lunged down and dragged Walker with him. The stream of fire continued for several more seconds before ceasing.

“Could you not do that, Cyril! I could’ve ducked on my own.” Walker yelled over the bullets.

Apologizing seemed like a waste of time at this moment, taking out the machine gun trench was more important than small talk. The two of them crawled forward to keep a low profile, some of the other soldiers followed suit in their snails pace advance. It wasn’t glamorous, and cleaning the mud off would take a while but if it means staying alive, then an inconvenience like this is not important.

“Sir, do you have any of those grenades?” Cyril shouted aloud. Halting his crawl, Walker dug around his many pockets to try and find one. Luckily enough, he found one in his lower pocket.

“Once we reach the wire, I’ll toss it over.” Walker replied quickly.

The trudge through the mud went on, as bullets hailed above them shooting down any soldier foolish to run out in the open. The ones alive were either taking cover in debris of all shapes, or crawling towards the source of the fire. One soldier crawling got up from being prone to go into a crouch to fire his rifle. The flash from the gun instantly gave himself away in the rain and fog. He was shot through the lens of his gas mask for his grave mistake, collapsing onto the mud as yet another casualty for Ypres to claim. Behind them, the covering fire of the British guns continued their melody, though from their uniform sound, came the discord of a Lewis machine gun from one of the soldiers. A constant stream of bullets came directly over Cyril’s head as the machine gunner continued to fire his solo, before pausing to reload and continue his instrument of death.

Reaching the barbed wire thanks to the suppressive fire, Cyril could see one of the soldiers in the group drag out a pair of wire cutters to start chipping away at them. The Huns were unaware of this little raid that was going on secretly in front of their doorsteps. As the barbed wire was cut enough to allow ease of passage. Cyril slung his SMLE on his back and brought out his shovel for what was to come. His trusty melee tool, used in trench assaults to hack through any German unfortunate to be on the receiving end. Turning to face Walker, he could see that he had pulled the pin on the grenade and lobbed it over the wire and into the trench. Several seconds passed before an explosion sounded overhead, sending one of the Germans flying above the trench.

Standing up from crouching, Cyril without hesitation jumped into the trench to attack the bewildered German’s. Walker yelled out behind him to charge, after the order was given, a large war cry was heard from the pouring rain. Cyril didn’t focus too much on it, he grabbed the shoulder of an unaware German and brought the shovel blade down behind his neck, killing him in an instant. The one besides him immediately noticed his friend falling to the ground and turned to fire a rushed shot that luckily missed Cyril several centimeters. Tackling the man, he began cutting down the unlucky German, the last thing his victim could see was the lifeless face of a gas mask. Void of any emotion on the surface, but behind it, Cyril clenched his teeth as he swung each time, until the man stopped moving. Blood dropped from the shovel blade as Cyril looked back up to his next closest target. Though what he saw ahead was most of the British soldiers from the crawl towards the trench getting up and taking their pickings for the slaughter. Now the trench was starting to become a crowded mess of bodies and brawls, rifles were a hindrance in these confined spaces. Knives, bayonets, clubs, and shovels like Cyril’s were being used as tools of war down here. It was almost barbaric with how the soldiers fought inside the trenches, much like what Cyril recently had done. As the trench began to thin down and more soldiers fell to the floor dead. Cyril started to walk down the trench for his next victim.

Cyril shook his head, not realizing he had been standing still for a little over a minute while Walker kept motioning his shoulder, trying to get his attention. He hadn’t noticed that Walker was actually speaking to him, almost as if to break him out of a trance. Blinking his eyes, Cyril could finally hear what his commanding officer was trying to say.

“You’re spacing out again.”

“Sorry, Lieutenant. Just remembered one of those assaults we made on a Kraut trench.” Cyril responded with a quiet tone. Though this was a defense they were now planning, he should have reminisced about one of the various trenches he and the Lieutenant have held in Ypres rather than an attack.

He looked at all of the commotion going around him. Soldiers scrambling for their weapons, ammunition being brought to the machine guns, fortifications being erected as quickly as possible. A blast sounded in the sky, Cyril saw that it was another flare lighting up the gloomy atmosphere. Walker grimaced and hurried to one of the trenches, Cyril followed closely behind him, almost contemplating on asking what he should do to prepare. Once the two of them reached the trench, he saw Walker go into a small dug out with several weapons and a few crates of various ammunition types. Rummaging through different calibers until he grabbed a handful of stripper clips that he passed to Cyril. Upon inspection, he noticed they were the exact clips used for the standard rifle he was issued, only a few seconds after realizing this did the Lieutenant walk out with a rifle, though unlike his SMLE rifle he had used countless times in battle, this one had a sawn off stock.

He simply looked at the butchered rifle contemplating on what he should ultimately do with it, the lack of a stock means that the knockback would be an issue from long range. Cyril must’ve guessed this was used for assaulting trenches in close range, or one of the soldiers here decided to cut the stock off.

"This is the only weapon we have that I know you have used before." Walker commented before giving him an extra clip of ammunition.

Out of the corner of his eye, Cyril saw a large rifle in the back with its stock still attached, Walker saw him staring and just gave him a look of doubt.

"If you'd rather load in each bullet individually, be my guest."

"You make a good point sir." Cyril responded, before pocketing all the ammunition in one of his coat pockets. He separated them away from his revolver moon rings so that he wouldn't grab one by mistake in the discord of combat.

As he could see a British and Austrian carrying a box of machine gun rounds, he saw Oliver trail behind them, stopping to turn and face Cyril with a childlike smile, running towards him. He noticed that the Belgian was carrying a wine bottle, before he could wonder how he managed to find it, Oliver presented the bottle to him.

"Would you like to take a sip? It’s a tradition that any new face is allowed a drink from the private wine collection." He asked politely.

Cyril held the wine bottle and looked at the beautifully written font of the bottle. Though he didn't have any clue as to what type of wine it could be.

"You wouldn't happen to know what type it is, would you?" Cyril questioned.

He had the pleasure of trying a bottle of wine before, though from what one of the sergeants said, the wine he had was Sauvignon Blanc. Sadly he couldn't remember the taste, other than liking it much more than the watered down tea he had back then. Though he shouldn't sell that tea too short, it was a nice reprieve when he wasn't being shot at from two different angles.

"Merlot, it has a nice taste to it that I fancy myself. I'm sure you'll enjoy it." Oliver answered with another soft smile.

He gave Cyril a cup and poured a small amount of the wine inside. Knowing that there was an assault coming, he didn't want to spend too long on the wine. Taking three sips from the metal cup to try and taste the wine. Giving off notes of plums and vanilla. Something he enjoyed as individual foods, but never realizing how wonderful the two tasted together in a wine. Handing the cup back to Oliver, he simply smiled and gave his thumbs up.

The young man smiled and let Cyril carry on with his preparations. Though there wasn't really much he could do to help out. The soldiers here seemed to be ahead of him setting up the defense. Though he did see the same British and Austrian hauling another large box of machine gun rounds. Running over, he decided to be useful and lend an extra hand to help carry it towards the gun. From glancing at the container, he had to guess at least two or three hundred bullets were in there.

Dropping the crate, Cyril turned to face down the hill he climbed up earlier and could only imagine how many would make their trek to the top. He could see their disfigured outlines through the light shower of rain. They weren't actually congregating below, but through his thoughts he could picture how the attack would play out. It would be easy shooting as they come up, however the trouble arises when Cyril and the others had to reload. Or god forbid they breach the top of the hill, then he would rely on his revolver and barbed shovel. From behind, Cyril could feel a head touch his left shoulder and saw Walker giving off a concerned look

“You alright? This is the second time it's happened.”

“I’m fine sir, really. Just thinking of how this will end up.” Cyril responded.

“Just shoot straight, and don't give them any reprieve.” Walker replied while nodding his head. Cyril just looked on as the Lieutenant stood by Captain Florent who looked through a pair of binoculars. The two exchanged some words but Cyril didn't bother to eavesdrop.

He thought about seeing if anyone needed help setting up. But it looked like all the soldiers were done with their preparations and doing final touch-ups on their weapons. Sharpening, cleaning, reloading. Cyril gave a quick look at the sawn off SMLE and noticed how well maintained the metal barrel was. Pulling the bolt he inserted a stripper clip into the rifle and put his gas mask and helmet on. Selecting an area behind the sandbags, he crouched down and rested the odd rifle down and waited.

It wasn’t the silence that bothered him, it was the anticipation. The unknown that lay shrouded in the light fog below. Cyril could vaguely see some figures from the depths, but couldn’t make out finer details. He had to shake his head to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating like before, but the people still remained. They were here. Though the soldiers below were little more than pinpricks in the distance, the fact that he could see some of them unnerved him. Taking a look to his left, Cyril could see one of the French soldiers manning a machine gun emplacement, while the loader patiently held up the rounds of ammunition, waiting for the gun to be fed its meal.

He could feel his hand itching towards the trigger, wanting to fire at the shapes right now. However, Cyril needed to hold it in, he assumed the reason everyone had not started firing right away, was for the soldiers to make it up the hill and at a better range. Which is much more sound than firing from such a long distance. The walk up the hill would take a decent amount of time, that much Cyril knew from experience. Hard to believe it was only a half hour ago that he made it to the top of the hill and met with Walker, and now they were fighting side by side again. Almost as if the war wasn’t done with the men of the hill just yet.

From the fog, Cyril could hear the wet squish of footprints on the mud. It was faint so the soldiers were already making their way up the hill slowly. He trained his rifle on the gray abyss and waited for the moment to fire. There was a lingering fear clouding at the back of his thoughts, it always showed up in any sort of battle, whether it be offense or defense. But this one was different, something was out there among the crowd of madmen. It could be another one of those Crawling tanks from before, but the lack of people around its general vicinity meant that it was too powerful for these soldiers to even consider taming that beast. Maybe he was overthinking it, maybe it was him being overly cautious. But Cyril knew deep down that this would be unlike any defense he had fought before. This wouldn’t be like the German’s breaking through the barbed wire, or the constant shelling of artillery. This would be a blind furious rampage of animals hungry for food. Animals without mercy, compassion or common sense.

And just like that, Cyril heard the familiar sound in the air. The sound he had personified as the high pitched squeal from a banshee that called out for death. The trench whistle. Not one though, Cyril could hear three all around him. He tensed shoulders and his heartbeat started to throb, he could hear it pounding, wanting to break free and run from the terror ahead. Cyril wouldn’t allow it, he wouldn’t run from this. After all he had done, the meters he had walked, the foes he had faced. He would stand and fight with these survivors, and his Lieutenant.

Soon the battlecries of the crazed soldiers shortly followed after the whistles ended their song. The silhouettes became more defined, their ragged clothing the same as the ones Cyril had slain before, the scars on their bodies either from slashes or chemical weapons all too familiar. And the eyes of raving lunatics, the mix of blues, greens and browns all in a glossy marble color, their pupils blending in with the iris, it was unlike anything he had seen before. He glanced back at Lieutenant Walker, who was listening in to an order that Captain Florent gave to him by whisper. The time has come, with one shout the Lieutenant shouted to the heavens to fire at will, and the simultaneous fire of different weapons sounded off through the rain, as if thunder had sounded off.

Cyril fired his rifle and noticed that even with the stock sawn off, the accuracy was semi decent. His first round hit the thigh of a crazed soldier that tripped him up and fell face down into the mud. After the first volley of fire, half a dozen soldiers were killed, however the machine guns opened up their rhythmic assault. In the span of seconds, anyone within a ten meter range was gunned down. Cyril couldn’t count how many were dead now, it had to have been in the low twenty range. Though it was only the very start, more soon took their place, trudging up the hill slope.

Cyril pulled back the bolt and allowed another bullet to arm, aiming down to find the closest target, a British madman with a large gash across his face. Taking the shot his round only grazed his arm, cursing quietly he loaded another round and fired at the same target. This time the bullet hit the center mass, dropping the man dead. He only had two more bullets left until he had to reload, normally the rifle could hold twice the amount but Cyril only loaded one clip to save time on trying to fish two stripper clips out of his pocket.

The stampede continued with more soldiers charging blindly up the hill, the machine guns slowing their rate of fire, conserving as much ammunition as possible, or until a soldier reached the five meter range to kill anyone fortunate enough to make it that far. The rain started to pick up in its descent as the mud became a wet quagmire that made the attackers struggle to move up. Cyril looked down again on the rifle and tried to pick a target, spending far too long though since the first two he spotted were shot down within seconds by another fellow. Though the third one was making his way up, this one was different since he was firing behind cover from a dirt mound. Cyril trained it on his head and squeezed the trigger, the shot unfortunately hit the mud a few centimeters below the head. The bald soldier took notice and hid behind his soft wall. Crouching down, Cyril loaded his last bullet before poking up to fire at the mound one last time, not even trying to hit the man this time, but keeping him pinned to that location.

Pulling the bolt back, he fed a stripper clip on top of the rifle and pushed the bullets down into the magazine before pushing the bolt back into place. The bald soldier poked his head up, but was shot in the left eye by a German soldier crouching beside Cyril. Three kills taken from him was no big deal, as long as the foe was killed it was good enough. The German beside him shouted through his gas mask and motioned at Cyril to look to the left, half a dozen soldiers were already within the ten meter range. The machine gun to the left of him took down two of them but stopped firing suddenly. Cyril assumed the fun was jammed, the loader took out his pistol and fired at the four remaining soldiers, Florent ran over and fired his long Lebel rifle to cover the pair in repairing the machine gun, Cyril and the German beside him opened up with a few rounds and got two of the crazed soldiers in the process. Florent finished the last two off as they abandoned their cover and made a futile attempt to rush the defenses. They were shot with brutal efficiency but the Captain, no hesitation as if he had rehearsed this dozens of times already. The man didn’t utter a word to Cyril and already he was shown to be more than capable at holding his own.

Out afar, Cyril could see one one of the lumbering giants from before. Easily being twice the size of a normal man, it dragged a brass shell that Cyril immediately recognized. The giant smashed one of the soldiers out of its path and began to hurl the shell. Tossing the brass arrow with next to no grace, he braced himself for the explosion that was to follow, but the shell only landed five meters away, a deafening roar clouded his ears as a high pitched whine was all that remained for several seconds. Before Cyril could finally hear the rhythm of rain and bullets. He pointed his rifle at the giant and landed a bullet through his distorted face. However it didn’t seem to kill the creature, only staggering it momentarily. He fired another shot and it went thumping on the ground.

Another giant came into view not long after, this time carrying a giant slab of metal. Cyril assumed he tore it off the hull of a tank. Aiming at the exposed head, he pulled the trigger but was shocked to see the giant soldier reacting by tilting the metal shield up on his upper torso, blocking incoming rifle fire. Florent was quick to notice the lumbering menace and pointed at the machine gun crew to fire at the exposed legs. Luckily the weapon had been fixed from its jamming issue, and was quick to return fire on the large soldier. Bullets ripped through the fabric and skin, causing him to fall down on the mud, where the defenders could get a clear shot and fire at the head.

The assault continued for several minutes, more of the same mad charges and occasional cover from the crazed soldiers. Bullets flying through the air hitting their mark or impacting on the ground. Bodies were now starting to pile over each other. In total, a little over fifty men had been killed in the span of a half hour. Cyril breathed a sigh of relief and loaded in another stripper clip before hearing the same whistle again from the distance. It was far from over, and he should've expected that. Even during the war there would be multiple waves attacking a key position, and this was no different.

To his right, he could see Walker passing out a clip of ammunition to a British soldier and popped up to fire another shot into the tidal wave of madness. Cyril followed suit and fired a few more shots before having to take cover. Before he could resume though, he heard a whirlwind of bullets fly over him, three of the soldiers to his right were instantly mowed down in less than five seconds. However he could see one of the French soldiers was still alive, clutching his chest tightly. The German soldier to Cyril's left stopped firing and grabbed something unexpected, he jammed a blood needle to the man's chest. The tool miraculously healing the man's injury, saving him from an agonizing death.

Cyril was shocked to find another hunter out here, perhaps some of the soldiers here were hunters while others are simply regular people. He assumed Florent could also be a hunter given his skill, but someone like Oliver had to be ruled out given his young age. Though to be fair, Cyril wasn't exactly a grizzled old veteran, most of the men here had to be in their early to mid twenties.

His thoughts were quickly stored away as another burst of fire came overhead that he narrowly avoided. Peaking up, he could see two or three soldiers in a prone position wielding a French machine gun. They had to pause in intervals to load a long clip of bullets into the gun, before they could fire. Without wasting any time, Cyril and a couple of others, including Walker, fired on the crew, Cyril shot the spotter while the gunner and loader were dealt with just as quickly. Though the distraction of the machine gun crew allowed the crazed soldiers to cover more ground.

The machine gunners were now having to spend more ammunition as they reached the five meter range. More bodies started to pole higher, a few making some level of protection for the crazed soldiers to use as cover. Cyril loaded another clip into his rifle before running over to Walker's position on the defensive line. He noticed that he spent half of his ammunition already and was down to three more clips, not counting the one already loaded into his SMLE.

"We're going to be overrun at this rate! Do we have any sort of explosive like dynamite or grenades?" He shouted above the chaos and rain as it poured down in a torrent.

"We only have a limited amount! We can't just throw them all out now!" Walker responded.

Before Cyril could respond, an explosion rippled through the defensive line and caught three of the soldiers in the blast. The sandbags were completely destroyed, and the barbed wire had a breach. Walker tossed him the five grenades, ordering him to pass it along to some of the soldiers for them to throw at different positions. Cyril slung his sawn off rifle to his back and started passing the five grenades to a defender. He didn't bother keeping one of the grenades for him to throw, he was never good at throwing them at intended distances, better to let someone else more experienced do the task.

Cyril could see in the distance the cause of the explosion that destroyed part of the defensive line. Several soldiers were pushing a field gun up the slope with all their strength. The mud hindering their progress, causing the massive weapon to sink slightly before two of the men heaved the three inch cannon with ropes miraculously continued to wheel it up. Cyril handed the last grenade to Florent on the right flank of the line, the gunner that he was helping earlier also noticed the field gun and started firing on the glorified pack mules carrying it. Though it wasn't for long, as the last of his ammunition was spent.

Cyril grabbed the man’s pistol and handed it to the gunner as he soon crouched down to fire at the field gun crew. Several shots rang out in the rain and struck the spotter, the other soldiers were quickly dealt with. But the damage was done, the crazed soldiers had made a dent in the defensive line and were advancing in droves. Florent threw the grenade that Cyril had given him earlier, managing to lob it over a mound and catch eight soldiers in the blast. The other grenades were quick to follow as more men were blasted into the air, and limbs were torn off from bones. The fighting started to become fierce as some of the crazed soldiers managed to break through the trenches and utilize their crude melee weapons. Cyril went to return to his position on the line, firing off one remaining shot from his clip before a crazed soldier tackled him to the ground, landing a punch square in his face. Keeping the mad man at bay with his rifle, Cyril kicked the man up away from him, landing on the sandbags. Though with no bullets loaded in he had to draw his shovel to finish him off, before he could manage to unclip it, a shot from the right finished him off, and Cyril noticed it was Oliver who had fired.

For several more minutes the onslaught of men kept coming with no end in sight. The last machine gun on the right flank expended all of its ammunition, as they kept coming closer. Cyril thought it was time to break out his primary weapons. His rifle only had seven bullets left, and was useless in melee combat. Slinging it to his back, he took out his revolver and barbed shovel and prepared for the hordes to come. Some of the other soldiers switched to melee weapons as well, ax blades on rifles, swords with segmented pieces to form a whip, bark maces attached with chains, even a spear with handles that could be disassembled into two javelins. All varied in some shape or form that Cyril had never seen together in one place, they were more refined than the crude melee weapons used by the crazed soldiers, and soon they would all get to use them once more. A third whistle sounded above, and with it, the demented war cry of what felt like two hundred men frothing at the mouth for a fight. Cyril took a look around and noticed that the strength of the defenders was around twenty men left. It was more than he was originally expecting, but still, another assault was coming and this time. It will be hand to hand.

The rabid soldiers came over the hill, brandishing their crude weapons, proud to have a chance to use them. Cyril gripped the handle of his shovel so tightly his knuckles turned white. The tidal wave of men didn’t seem to end, until it finally crashed into the sandbags. One by one, soldiers were clawing their way to the defenders with murderous intent. The sight was unlike any assault he had ever seen. Before he could have time to react, one of the crazed soldiers lunged his bark mace at Cyril. Narrowly avoiding the bludgeon, he brought his shovel down onto the man’s back, before bringing it in for another strike at the nape of the man’s neck. Falling down on the ground, Cyril turned to see another soldier running towards him, this time however, he fired a revolver round at the soldier’s chest, stopping him instantly.

Only seconds later, a third one was upon him, a gas masked soldier holding a sort of poleax, swinging the crudely assembled weapon down, Cyril suffered a strike on his leg, feeling the blood slowly leak out, he was knocked down on the ground. Seeing the soldier walk forwards, as if the grim reaper had finally come to take him to the afterlife, Cyril quickly fired at the soldier just as he was about to land the final blow. The two bullets made contact with the man’s temple and forehead, before he was knocked dead. Looking through his pockets, Cyril grabbed a blood needle and jammed it into his leg, glad that the momentary pain subsided. As he struggled back up on his feet, he heard the howling cry of a soldier charging with his bayonet. Extending his barbed shovel, he brought the weapon through a winding slash that cut the man directly through the stomach. With him quivering below, Cyril put the creature out of his miserable existence by stabbing through the neck.

All around him, small fights broke out the same way, soldiers like himself outnumbered four to one, holding their own with exotic weapons. For every twenty soldiers that were killed, one of their own would fall. All things considered, it was going much smoother than he had thought. Had this been several years ago in the trenches, it would’ve been a different tale. However, Cyril soon heard the barking of dogs from his right, the crazed soldiers probably unleashed their entire group of the ghoulish canines for the assault. His shoulders tensed as he could hear their panting coming closer to him, when in a split second, one pounced on top of him. Weaving through the menagerie of melee.

The snarling beast drooled a mixture of saliva and blood, going in for a bite at his neck, however Cyril grabbed its jaws, his hands desperately holding onto its teeth to keep it from sinking into him. The force of the dog’s jaws was starting to overwhelm him, however, the sound of metal grinding together could be heard, the dog yelped in pain and blood drained from his back. Cyril could see that Walker used his saw blade on the dog, before Cyril could get up, Walker turned to fire a single shot from his rifle, causing another of the crazed soldiers to slump dead.

Now with his bearings, Cyril grabbed his weapons from the ground and began to put them to use once more. Though it all soon became the same routine, slashing, firing off the occasional revolver round, or being attacked by a group of crazed soldiers. Every once and a while though, he could hear the scream of another of the defenders cry out as he was mauled by a squad of the mad men. One though, was higher than the rest, and Cyril felt his heart skip a beat. A few meters ahead, he could see Oliver being swarmed by a trio of soldiers, he was on the ground as they hacked away with their rusted blades. Cyril went in to try and stop the butchers, but a bullet hit his arm. Momentarily distracted, he fired off a trio of shots at the soldier who got his attention, but the damage was done and he was too late. The screams died out, and Oliver was stopped moving, the trio left their prey to rot and soon focused on Cyril, striding menacingly over to him with their weapons at the ready. Cyril extended his barbed shovel and winced as a sharp pain ran up through his right arm. He could afford to waste another blood needle right this second, so he had to suffice with it for now.

The first two ran together clutching their hatchets, as they went in for a downward thrust. THe move was easy to dodge, which Cyril followed up with a strike from his shovel that connected to one of the soldiers stomach. The man clutched at his lower body trying to keep his intestines from falling out, but Cyril knew he was more or less dead, he focused on the second hatchet soldier who went in for a flurry of swings, backing up slightly he avoided the attack and went in for two sweeps that knocked the soldier off the ground and onto his back, a third strike quickly ended his pathetic existence. The third one began to run forward, without any regard for his own safety, screaming incoherent words that Cyril blocked out with the sounds of rain falling around him. Leveling his revolver, he emptied two shots which caused the man to lie still. Angered at the madmen who killed such a young man with no remorse, he fired his last bullet at the corpse of the third one out of pure anger.

The one time he was starting to grow attached to someone, and he was taken too quickly. Just like the rest during the war. Turning from the body, he could see a towering giant striding over to Cyril, carrying another artillery shell, though he didn’t have to formulate a plan of attack, as a bullet ran through the shell, causing it to explode on the giant’s hand, enveloping him in a ball of white light. To his left he could see the origin of the shot, as one of the Austrian and British machine gunners from earlier earned another kill to their extensive tally. Though another followed behind his bloodied comrade, this time wielding a large metal slab, Cyril ran in on the second giant, and swung his shovel in an upward swing, but the attack didn’t stagger the giant, as he brought down his patchwork weapon down and slammed Cyril away from him.

He flew back two meters and landed on a wooden crate, the impact almost cracking the frame of the box. His eyes were lost in a spiral of shapes, undefined figures running about in an all out brawl. His right arm had penetrated a piece of the crate and several splinters of wood had lodged onto his arm, while his legs felt numb. Time seemed to slow down, his blinking became slow, and sound started to dull. Though one thought persisted in his mind that he didn’t realize he was echoing on his lips.

“Get the blood needle.”

He remembered he had some left over, with a slow motion of his left arm, he started to grab the wooden shards out of his wound, and could feel the sharp bite of pain latching on. Gritting his teeth he removed the second and last shard out and dropped it before moving slowly to his pocket. His vision was starting to return to normal, as he could see one of the three remaining blood needles in his possession, before jamming it into his leg. It was like a warm blanket fell all over him, his nerves starting to return, and he could finally stand up. The grievous wound that would’ve required amputation had it been left out long enough was gone, though part of his outfit had two small holes and blood stains where the splinters had made their mark. He grabbed his weapons on the floor and saw the same giant, however it was taken care of by a team up of Walker and Florent. In almost perfect unison they fired on the giant’s legs, crippling it to the ground before both went in for the head.

The battle was starting to come to an end, only a few crazed soldiers remained and they were quickly being dealt with. Cyril almost felt like collapsing to the ground in exhaustion, his job finished, and he could relax his strength.

However a shrieking howl in the distance put those ideas away. He had heard it before, the same horse and wolf cry he heard all the way in the trenches. His eyes were wide open, he ran towards Walker, panicked that something else was coming, the Lieutenant could see the movement in Cyril’s run, as the young man almost tripped twice to reach him. The remaining soldiers, only numbering around twelve all heard the howl, they looked down to see whether or not another wave was approaching, some with rifles raised while others held their melee weapons.

Cyril was only a meter away before another howl sounded above the rain, closer than before. He could finally see an outline from the fog, below. It was exactly as he had feared, the same shape as the one he had seen before. But one more thing was clear about it, he could see the eyes. Venomous green dots that looked like spirits in the rain, but those eyes didn’t stay for long, as the figure leaped in the air with such grace that Cyril took several steps back. The creature soon landed on the outer perimeter of the trench, and details could finally be made out.

A gray german coat flapped back in the rain and wind that started to pick up. The tattered remains of clothes hung on the creature’s lower body, as if it was once trying to cling onto its humanity. The limbs were thin but at the end of the legs and hands, stood large claws, dripping a green liquid from the creature’s hands. But the face was the most disturbing, a skeletal horse with a grin stretching out throughout its face, teeth sharp as wolves with the same green liquid dripping down on the mud below, and a pickelhaube crowning its head.

The best let out another roar before training its eyes on the beleaguered defenders, Cyril simply gripped his weapons and prepared to face the worst that was to come. This monster had come to end the assault personally.

Chapter Text

The air stilled with a deafening silence after the howl of the creature ended. The remaining survivors stood motionless, gripping their weapons in anticipation for who would make the first move. Cyril Fully expected the monster to attack first the moment it laid eyes on them, but it was looking around at them, perhaps judging which one was the easiest prey and who would be the most challenging. For a beast this hideous to be able to pick targets like that was nothing short of impressive, but horrifying. The green eyes on its bone head darted back and forth to each person, sometimes it would stare directly at Cyril. The lifeless sockets and the venomous dots piercing him down with murderous intent, before moving its gaze upon another person.

Then it started to move with an unexpected burst of speed, the awkward way its legs moved made audible cracks as each joint strained. However the massive arms were more prominent with them pounding the ground. The monster moved like a feral animal, and Cyril thought it was just that, an animal in human clothing. It was as if the Kaiser himself had sent his personal hound after them. He dubbed it the Kaiser’s marauder in his mind.

Cyril watched as the marauder swung its claws down onto the closest soldier, who narrowly avoided the impact and started to swing at his hand with his weapon. The beast took note of it and was about to bring his free claw down, before a shot to the torso got his attention. Walker fired twice into the Kaiser’s marauder with his rifle, which got its attention to notice him. Cyril took this as a chance to go in for an attack while it was distracted, running towards the beast as it trudged towards the Lieutenant. With his shovel extended he went in for several sweeps at the creature’s back legs. The unexpected pain caused the marauder to screech quickly before turning his attention to Cyril and the others. He went in for another strike before running back to avoid a swipe from the beast.

One of the soldiers took this opportunity to mimic Cyril’s attack and went in with his bark mace, swinging the flail onto the creature and getting the beast's attention. While Captain Florent went in with his spear to pin the marauder’s foot down on the ground. The sound of the monster shriek started to ring in Cyril’s ears, almost as if it was louder than artillery striking their targets. This however, was something much more sinister. Its distorted mix of wolf and horse droned out, as the soldiers went to attack, the Marauder swept its hand aside to knock all of them, including Cyril, away from him. The beast then grabbed the spear that Florent had planted with its massive claws, tearing it from its decayed flesh and hurled it back at the fallen defenders. Nearly impaling the last Austrian soldier.

Cyril was quick to recover however and rushed the marauder, firing a trio of shots from his revolver to get its attention. Turning to face the one who provoked him, the marauder shifted to rush Cyril, before lunging both of its claws on the ground, only moments before he dodged back to avoid the attack. His window now opened, he and two of the other hunters moved in for several strikes before retreating back again.

However one wasn't so lucky, the German soldier was sliced horizontally by the nails of the marauder. Dropping his weapons and trying to close the wounds, it was futile though. He slumped down and died a slow agonizing death as small amounts of green fluid fell from his exposed chest wound. Cyril took this as a note that the beast had poison on its claws, so he would have to heal up quickly if he got struck by them.

Moving in again Cyril lunged in with his extended shovel and took a swing at the creature's skull, creating a thin gash across the mouth. Cyril was taking a couple of steps back to prepare for another attack before the marauder grabbed him with its long fingers. Hurling him back towards the sandbags he took cover behind. Ribs felt like they were broken and blood started to come up his mouth as Cyril coughed once to get it out of him. The metal-like taste stuck with him even as he struggled back up to his feet. He lost track of how many blood needles he had remaining and was almost hesitating to dig into his pocket to find the answer.

Though he had to do it eventually as the other men were struggling to fight the titanic monster. It was a back and forth of soldiers going in for swings and slashes whilst dodging the sweeps of the marauder’s claws and lethal poison. Cyril went through his pocket and prayed he had enough to last the engagement. He was blessed with good fortune as he felt three needles. Quickly taking one out he punched it into his leg and felt relieved, only having a minor pain in his chest after the rejuvenation was over. Now he was back in the fight once more. Running back into the fray of combat, the marauder swung his claws at both sides to keep the attacks at bay. Though there were a few sporadic shots of gunfire that even the marauder couldn’t avoid. Each shot hitting a limb or his disproportionate torso causing it to shriek to the heavens. Cyril responded in kind with a single shot of his own to get the beast’s attention.

With the focus set solely on him, he could see that Walker and Florent were coming up from behind ready to strike. As the marauder readied his swipe, the sharp pain of a serrated blade ran up the monster’s lower leg, and the spears once again impaled the same foot as before, creating new holes in the gray flesh. The equine head turned towards the sudden attack, which allowed Cyril and two more soldiers to attack at what he assumed was the creature’s ribs, though they were so malnourished that he could see the bones protruding from the skin. With only a few attacks in, the men quickly dispersed from the Kaiser’s marauder before it could take another life. Slamming at the ground with its fists before madly thrashing them in a vain attempt to hit someone.

Cyril saw the beast hop back, which took him and the others completely off guard as it brought its left hand up and down over on top of him. Throwing himself to the muck and avoiding the impact, he got up slowly only to see the marauder swiping its hand that it used to create a noticeable hole on the ground. This however, was something Cyril couldn’t avoid, as he and the German soldier he had fought side by side with only moments ago were flung back onto the ground. He coughed heavily before struggling to get back up. As he got up, the newly paved mud his body had slid in was already turning into a small vertical pond that Cyril bypassed to avoid falling in, as the rain grew heavier in its torrent. His comrade was quicker on his feet however, using his Gewehr axe as support as the man began his sprint back to the battle.

The marauder continued using his claws to create a distance between himself and the soldiers attacking. Every once and a while, it would stop swinging, allowing one of the soldiers an opportunity to attack from the side or behind. Walker kept up support fire with his rifle whilst Florent went in to attack at close range along with another soldier. Cyril and the other German soldier returned to the battle. Both of them fired two shots at the beast’s torso as green blood seeped from its body. The Kaiser’s marauder turned its head to face the trio, as it did, it failed to notice that Florent drove his spear at the creature’s leg, causing it to stagger down onto the wet earth. Cyril ran forward to the monster’s skull and readied his right hand to swing hard on the face. Once he was only a meter away from the marauder he could see the hollow eyes and green dot of an eye looking at him, though he didn’t hesitate. He swung his shovel upward and created a large crack on the right side of the marauder’s face, before it could recover, he went in a three hundred sixty degree motion and brought his shovel up again to hit the same part of the face.

The marauder quickly got up from its beating and went in to take revenge on the scarring it received from Cyril. It brought its left arm up and smashed the ground, grazing him enough to where he wasn’t crushed but where he still felt the force hitting him. One of the other British soldiers behind the beast took some of the pressure off of Cyril and bought him some time to escape from being finished off. Though the marauder soon found a new prey, as it brought its claws to bear and pummeled the soldier to the ground and stabbed him. Tearing flesh and bone off of the man before refocusing his attention back on Cyril. Leaping with its long limbs forward, it went in for a pair of strikes at the ground, each attack made him dodge backwards only moments before being crushed. The third one he instead rolled forward directly below the monster’s torso and swung at its exposed ribs once before rolling away, dodging another clawed hand.

Walker and one of the soldiers went in to fire two shots at the beast while Cyril got up, which prompted his superior to go in for an attack of his own. However, the beast swept Walker away towards the sandbag emplacements before he could even get a chance to attack, landing on the ground almost at the same place Cyril slid moments ago. Running over to help, he fired off his last round before loading another set of bullets into his revolver, however the marauder wasn’t bothered by the shot as it missed him entirely, he focused on a duo of soldiers in the meantime. As Cyril knelt by the Lieutenant, he could see his breathing was shallow and made the decision to use one of his remaining blood needles to save his friend’s life. Doing that now left him with two needles, if he wanted to make it through this in the long run, he would have to be careful on his attacks. Walker soon returned to full strength as he quickly got up from his fall.

“Even when we distract it, that monster still won’t fall.” Walker rasped as he got up. Even with less than ten men remaining, this was turning into a battle of attrition. Even with the noticeable gain that Cyril made striking the marauder’s head, it seems unperturbed by it, only doubling its efforts to kill and maim. However, an idea struck in his mind.

“Attack the legs simultaneously, that should ground him.” Cyril responded quickly.

Walker only nodded in response, and the two of them were sprinting back to the chaos. One of the soldiers was torn in two as his upper torso was flung to the left, and the legs thrown at another soldier to halt his fire. Retracting his shovel into a short handed grip, Cyril went for the left leg as Walker revved his saw and turned to the beast’s right. In unison the pair attacked the joints, slashing through flesh and tendons. The Kaiser’s marauder howled with a deafening pitch and turned its body to swing at the pair once more. Their attack was interrupted as the beast’s movement seemed unimpeded and it swept Cyril and Walker away. Not even a coordinated strike on its legs phased it.

As Cyril tumbled on the ground, he slowly got back up to his feet and noticed the venomous eyes staring directly at him with an unbridled fury and hatred. He was prepared to go at him again, he and Walker were prepared to try again, but noticed the marauder screech in agony as it stumbled on its uneven body. Florent was on its back stabbing the monster with his disassembled spears. However this respite was short lived as the pair were not quick to follow up on the advantage. The marauder grabbed the captain from his back and slammed him on the ground. With Florent knocked out, Cyril went in to help save the captain, though he felt a sharp pain in his legs, looking down he didn’t even notice that they were clawed from the marauder. He failed to notice the attack since he was preoccupied in saving another life, soon he was punched back from the elongated hand and landed back on the ground.

HIs vision was starting to become blurry, time slowed once more as he could see faint images of the marauder pounding the ground repeatedly as it fended off attacks from the soldiers. A claw impaled one of the soldiers and threw his lifeless body in the opposite direction of Cyril. With just enough strength to move his arm, he went towards his pocket and grabbed one of his remaining blood needles and thrust it in his leg again. His vision soon cleared and he could see Walker running towards him.

“Come on, we’re not done yet!” He yelled above the rain.

Cyril followed him once more back into hell. Both fired one shot from their guns to grab the marauder’s attention. As they were a few meters away from it, Cyril could see what was left of Captain Florent. Reduced to a bloody crater with legs and a single arm that was left to remind him that it had once been a person that walked among the living. The marauder screeched at the challenge and raised its left claw in the air as it smashed it down on the mud. Both Cyril and Walker rolled away from the attack as they fired a pair of shots, the remaining soldiers soon joined in on the assault.

Each taking a side, Cyril took the right flank and swung once to get the marauder’s attention. Being successful in this endeavor, Walker slashed at the unprotected leg on the left, drawing attention towards him. Blood and shards of bone flying off the fresh wounds from the legs as more blood curdling screams filled the air. More and more men joined in on the opportunity, slashing the decayed flesh and torn cape it wore. The Kaiser’s marauder attempted to fight back on the swarm of smaller prey, but it was becoming exhausted from the constant strikes. Death from a thousand cuts, Cyril thought. Much like the defense on the trenches, there was a sense of cohesion and unity despite the horrendous casualties they were close to victory. A hurl of bullets from a shotgun by one soldier, to the precise fire of a Gewehr axe. The flurry of the bark mace, and elegant sweeps of the scythe staff. Weapons of different varieties and strengths working in tandem together to defeat a common foe. The coordination of each swing and bullet impact being a small impact all for a greater purpose of striking down a titan of hell.

Cyril swung his shovel twice in an upward swing and then a downward strike. He could see the beast’s eyes once more and it’s devilish grin still unbroken, despite the grievous wounds it has endured, even with death close on the cusp, he still smiled back at the smaller foes. Cyril wanted to crush that smile and finish this drawn out battle.

Walker fired with his rifle and quickly followed up with his saw blade, causing the marauder to stumble back down on the mud. Every remaining soldier went in with their melee weapons and guns, cutting and hacking away at the monster like an overgrown livestock being prepared for a large feast, Cyril went at its decayed ribs and drove his shortened shovel down onto the flesh. The cloak it wore was now bloodied and torn up extensively, riddled with bullet holes. Each strike was similar to the final blows on the Crawling tank that he had fought, which felt like it occurred days ago with how much he had been out here. Time seemed to speed up with the strikes at the wounded monster. The marauder pushed away all of the soldiers and bellowed out one cry of pain before Walker and Cyril quickly ran towards the hurt beast. Aiming their weapons at the beast’s skull as they ran, one shot from each gun stunned the Kaiser’s marauder, causing it to stagger once more unto the ground. Drawing their melee weapons, the two comrades in arms drove the barbed shovel and SMLE saw into the skull of the creature. The smile still grinning even with its death, the green eyes still piercing even the most strong willed of people.

But with that last strike, the Kaiser’s marauder let out one more death cry before going limp. Both men panting heavily and stepping away from the giant’s corpse, weapons drenched in blood and their clothes torn up from the abuse they endured. The other eight remaining soldiers all looked as torn up as Cyril and Walker, it was hard to believe that only hours before there were three times as many men here, but in just one assault and a duel with the marauder quickly diminished the number. Deep down he was saddened that so many had died for what felt like another pointless battle not at all dissimilar to the Great war, but here it felt worse now that the war was over.

Noticing a familiar white glow from the body, Cyril turned to see the Kaiser’s marauder glow a blinding white light, before quickly erupting in an explosion of blood that mingled with the rain above. Coating the mud with an unusual mixture of clear water and red blood, though it confused Cyril at first since he remembered the marauder bleed green. Perhaps it was the human blood it had drawn out in its battle today? No matter, the dance of water and blood ended as quickly as it had started, and he simply slacked his shoulders at another challenging beast vanquished. Though the moment he finds a lantern, he has several questions for the Old General on saying that all the men left in the affected areas are mad. He was wrong, and he wanted answers for it.

Chapter Text

The last drop of rain hit the already wet surface of the hill. The texture looking like icing on a chocolate cake, but not nearly as edible or decadent. For once the storm had stopped and the gloomy clouds above were becoming more of a light grayish white. It stopped too late to offer any help though, burying the dead was hampered by the rain. Water dampening the clothes and weighing their bodies down. Most had torn limbs from their bodies, the lucky ones only had a few bullet and scratch marks on their skin. Cyril hated burying the dead, he had done it before a dozen or so times in the past and it was an awful and tiring endeavor. Trying not to look at the lifeless faces as he placed them in the shallow makeshift graves, he could never form meaningful connections to any of the soldiers back in the war because this would end up their fate. A single pawn on a gargantuan chess board. But this chess board served no purpose unlike the game before. The moment he attempted to try and form a bond with someone else, and they were snuffed out in one fell swoop.

The last clump of dirt and mud was dropped on the final grave, each one having a simple wooden cross of two wooden planks nailed together in a rushed fashion. Names were inscribed on all of them, and Cyril knew where Oliver and Florent’s lie at. He had already seen what happened to both of them, and blocked it out of his memory. Much like in the Great war, he had become so desensitized to the creative ways people can think of to simply kill another man. Though when he saw those three soldiers butchering Oliver, it was the rare moment he snapped at losing a fellow comrade.

The survivors including Cyril all had their helmets and gas masks removed in a moment of silence. No speeches were necessary to remember them, it dragged on the mourning longer than it needed to be, but two minutes of silence was all that was needed to honor their memory, not only as soldiers, but as people too. Cyril took a single sip from his canteen before returning it to his belt, but only after that did everyone walk away from the graves and sound finally returned from everyone. One half heading to the sandbags to fix the defenses, another heading back to relax, Cyril and Walker being a part of the latter group.

Cyril went to bring up his barbed shovel and notice that the wire surrounding the shovel was becoming loose, and the shovel blade had become slightly dull over time. He had been using it for so long he had forgotten an important rule in weapons, proper maintenance. Though he knew that for his ranged fire arm, giving his revolver a cleaning after the battle, he neglected to use the same care on his melee weapon. Though his revolver was clean, that wasn’t going to come in handy when he was low on ammunition. Going through his pocket he only found one moon ring left, and whatever was already loaded into the gun. Making an annoyed grunt, he walked over to the storage trench that was far from the action and looked through the remaining weapons that were left over. He could see Florent’s spear, or at least half of the component of it, the other half must’ve been flung down the hill. Oliver’s was a clunky design of a rifle and what he assumed was a spear attachment, though the front of the rifle was badly damaged.

Both weren’t in good condition to use, and would require extensive care to bring back to full operation. Something Cyril didn’t want to worry about when his own weapon was already not in a good condition. Out of the available weapons, only one caught his eye that looked easy to operate, and was in a decent condition. A saw blade attached parallel to a decently sized stick, the way it was configured, he guessed that it was similar to his barbed shovel and had a second option. Grabbing it, he hoisted the blade up with his right hand to get a good feel for handling it. Cyril had no clue who it belonged to, but he wanted to at least honor whoever used it and carry on in wielding it.

Fidgeting around with the cleaver, he noticed that by swinging the blade downward diagonally, he extended the blade in a much longer length. He harkened back to his first memory of trying to lengthen his shovel blade, cutting down on one of the first crazed soldiers he killed. Though at least this time, he could safely test out how to use it rather than figure it out in the moment. Retracting the weapon to its smaller state, Cyril could see the Lieutenant walking over to him, his hat already returned to his short black hair.

“So, I take it you aren’t staying?”

Cyril simply shook his head in response. Looking down at the weapon once before back at Walker.

“No worries in taking it, better a weapon be used than gather up muck and water out here.”

He only smiled and shook his head, chuckling a bit.

“Well until I can get my shovel fixed this will do for now. I don’t know where I’ll be heading from here on out. All I have is a vague goal of ‘ending this nightmare’.” Cyril responded. Walker only placed his hand under his chin.

“The old man told you that I’m guessing? Cryptic as ever.”

Cyril nodded in response, giving off a face of annoyance at the idea that Edward rarely gave him exact instructions on what to do or where to go. He was thrown out into a hay bale to find a single needle. Walker finally stopped his pondering and offered a solution.

“Mons” he blurted out, Cyril heard the name before, but didn’t know where it was specifically. “It’s where the Expeditionary force first engaged the Hun in the early months of the War. Maybe since it's the start of where we fought, it could be the start of where those…things came from.”

“But where is Mons specifically?” He was starting to regret not taking that map with him from early on, he couldn’t believe he had already forgotten an important location of Britain’s first battle in the war.

Walker went down into the storage trench and pulled out one of the wooden crates from the dugouts. Lifting it open, he revealed a worn down piece of parchment, a small map compared to the ones Cyril had seen prior. He saw Mons, and he groaned aloud. Farther to the east, it looked to be a little under a hundred kilometers from where he was standing. The time it would take for him to simply walk there would probably take several days, and that’s assuming he doesn’t encounter many obstacles to hinder his progress.

“Well how do I make it there without having to march through dozens of trenches with their own complement of madmen?” Cyril asked in annoyance. Walker folded the map back to its original state before returning it to the crate.

“I have something that might expedite that.” he responded. Beckoning Cyril to follow him, exiting the trench and leading him away from the others.

Walking down the rear of the hill, Cyril could see mounds and rolling hills twice as small as Kemmel hill, save for a single dirt path that ran straight for several dozen kilometers until it curved slightly and was consumed by the hills. No trenches could be seen throughout the landscape, and strangely no bodies were decomposing. Perhaps the crazed soldiers didn’t bother to make camp here, or were too stupid to simply go around and flank from behind. Whatever the case, it didn’t matter. Reaching the bottom of the hill took only a few minutes, compared to trying to trudge up a steep hill. Though with the wet terrain, they were still being cautious with each step.

At the base of the hill Walker led him to a large entrance dug into the hill, reminding him of a mineshaft that Cyril had seen in a few locations in the war. The interior was small though, only wide enough to accommodate two horses, some tools and benches were scattered about, but one object was large and covered with a tarp. The Lieutenant wasted no time in hiding what was below, and dragged the covers away in one swoop, revealing a motorcycle. Cyril had seen plenty of these ferrying messages from command, or carrying small cages of pigeons to the frontline. Marveling at the small vehicle, Cyril could feel the amount of work the factory craftsman spent to make this piece of engineering, a sense of childlike wonder returned to him that he had not felt in a long time.

“This might help you out for a while, though I’m not sure how much petroleum she has in her.” Walker commented.

“You’re bluffing, sir.” Cyril couldn’t think of a response without stammering his enthusiasm.

“A thank you would be the start. You ever used one of these?”

“No, but I rode a bike to and from school.”

“Then this shouldn’t be too advanced to learn.” Walker responded by circling around to the left side of the motorcycle. Cyril moseyed his way over to the seat, noticing that the handles were further towards the rider in the seat as opposed to away from it. The Lieutenant folded back the kickstand before returning to the side of the motorcycle. “Now you don’t use pedals for locomotion, you just rest your feet on them and the engine does all the work for you. See this crank right below your foot?”

Pointing at the bottom, Cyril could see what Walker was referring to.

“You’re going to want to step down on this crank and it’ll start the engine.”

He pressed down on the device with his right foot and heard the animal like rumbling come to life. It was so surreal to be using this vehicle after being so used to his simple bike as a child. It felt so advanced. Above the noise, Walker spoke up giving him some final advice on how to throttle, brake, and other minor details. Donning his helmet and mask once more, he turned to notice the Lieutenant placed his hand on his shoulder.

“I should be thanking you for helping us out in this battle. Without you we probably would’ve all been killed.”

“Sir, I should be thanking you.”

“Why is that?”

“You’re all the proof I need to realize that there are more people stuck in this hell hole trying to survive. That not all of them are rabid madmen wanting to kill.” Cyril responded. Walker chuckled and adjusted his hat.

“Well, just stay alive out there, Cyril. Don’t know if we’ll see each other again.”

He motioned his hand out to which Cyril accepted with one last handshake, as well as a salute before looking forwards to the dirt path ahead. After a slow start, the motorcycle soon gained speed and was starting its long journey away from Kemmel hill. Cyril almost thought about looking back one last time for a wave, but quickly decided not to, his attention should be on where he was moving, for fear of crashing the vehicle into the muddy hills.

Riding the motorcycle felt easier compared to using his bike. Not having to move his legs to get the vehicle forward is a great relief, it allowed him to ease his muscles after fighting that horrid marauder. For the first time he felt peaceful, no madmen to fight, no creatures trying to maul him, no hordes to flee from. It was a simple, calm ride. The occasional corpse and trenches did take Cyril away from his stupor and reminded him this is reality, not a fantasy he was living in. Perhaps when this is all over he could become a delivery man using a motorcycle to ferry mail and packages. It was a simple enough idea, far more efficient to use than walking long distances to the post office a long way from places too remote.

Were he not aware of the location he was in, and the amount of carnage had been wrought upon it for several years, Cyril would’ve found the ride to be enjoyable. Leaning back on his ride, he passed through the rolling hills of dirt and mud, the largest of which being Kemmel hill. Noticing that the path ahead was straight for a kilometer, Cyril afforded a glance back for a split second, he hoped Walker and the others would fare well enough without him. Though if he had stayed behind to help, he could’ve abandoned his mission of ending the nightmare that Edward had given to him, and his revival back from the grave would’ve been for nothing. He wanted to end whatever this chaos is, but it would’ve been helpful if Edward had given him clues rather than riddles for him to solve on his own. It was one of the few things he didn’t enjoy when talking with him.

The hills soon became sporadic, spread one or two kilometers apart, Cyril having to take sharp turns around one of them to avoid wasting time just trying to climb it. The scenery was the same as before, though with fewer trenches and more bodies, so many of which it was impossible to count all of them. Cyril had to veer out of the path as a decomposing corpse was blocking the way, though in doing so he wound up getting the front wheel stuck in the mud. Hurled forward a bit by the sudden force, he stopped the motorcycle before he flew off the seat.

“Well it’s never a simple journey.” He muttered to himself. Stopping the engine, Cyril held the vehicle up by using one hand to grab onto the handle, and the other below the seat.

Using all of his strength, he lifted it up out of the mud. The amount of parts used for the engine easily doubles the weight of the motorcycle compared to any old bike, but it was preferable to using said bike to travel such a long distance. As he placed it back on the path, he brushed away the filthy residue that had accumulated on the tire’s spokes before activating the engine again and continuing on to his destination. Now if only he had put that much care into maintaining his shovel, he wouldn’t need to use another weapon. In an ideal world, he would just use the barbed shovel and keep it as his primary weapon until he died. But Cyril soon realized he needed to adapt with new weapons while his regular ones were either damaged or running low on ammunition. Perhaps he could make that a strategy for the future when he acquired new weapons.

Cyril could already get a decent idea of some of the weapons he could foresee himself using. Since he wasn’t a brawny man, he could already rule out hammers and large axes. Unless they had a secondary option where it was a smaller one handed weapon like his shovel, he couldn’t imagine himself swinging a massive hammer. Weapons like this new medical cleaver were a bit more to his preference, perhaps it would serve him as faithfully as the barbed shovel. Though that remains to be seen.

The ride had soon reached its half hour mark, and Cyril was starting to lose focus on the dirt road ahead. His eyes turned to the leafless trees that dotted the surface, waiting for the time they could blossom their full head of green hair. The occasional truck trapped in a quagmire, unable to deliver its vital supplies to the front. Or the host of crows feasting on the remains of a war horse that had fallen from the simplest bullet injuries. There was no end of sights to be distracted by as he drove on. Mons was too far away, his best hope would be to find any sort of town, or village or city that possessed a train that he could use to transport him to the final objective. He could’ve asked Walker if he could lend him a map as well for his travels, but he had assumed that the map they had there was the only one available, and didn’t want to deprive them of that important item for Cyril’s own goal.

Soon the skeletal remains of a stone building towering a little under nine meters, which he assumed was a church judging by the gap in one of the walls and broken shards of glass. As he looked by each window, he could see the various states of damage in each one, jagged teeth surrounding the edges giving off the appearance of a gaping maw of a monster. There was only one with the most amount of glass shards that looked the most intact, however he saw something in the window, it was a figure of some sorts but from the distance he couldn’t see who or what it was. Blinking twice his heart almost leapt to his throat as Cyril saw her, that mysterious woman in white. The distance between him and the church was only a hundred meters away, but it felt like he could see her clearly even with the distance. With each appearance, it felt like Cyril could make out more features of her, this time noticing her curvy frame that gave off the appearance she was wearing a dress a size too tight, but what stood out was that the lowest area where the dress would meet the ground, were actually small white flames flowing in the direction the wind was in.

It seemed like he was staring at her for ten minutes, as if something enthralled him with her astral appearance. It had been a long time since she last appeared to him, she hadn’t shown up before the climactic battle on the hill. In the distance her lips moved as if trying to say something, but no noise came out from the other end, but a second later he heard her.

"Rook." It was all she said, before giving off a faint smile.

Cyril didn't have too long to think, he was too mesmerized by her that he didn't pay attention to the road, his front wheel hit a small hole that caused him to fly forward from his seat, impacting on the soft ground. The motorcycle continued moving forward for two more seconds before tipping over and landing on its left side on the dirt path. Cyril got up from his crash and looked back at the destroyed church to still see her there, though this time she was sitting down on one of the windows rather than standing. He walked over to his motorcycle to shut it off, and then started his sprint towards the building. Coughing on the way and hopping over small puddles and holes. With the distance between them closing, she got up from her spot and leapt down inside the building, giving Cyril a sheepish smile before being obscured by the stone. With that action, he bolted towards the church as if he was running towards an enemy trench. He had a feeling she wouldn’t stay to ask any questions as to who she was or why she was appearing to him

Once he finally barged through the broken doors, his theory was correct. As if she had vanished from the face of the Earth, all that remained of her presence was a white mist that blanketed the floor of the church. Cyril cursed at her disappearance and elusiveness, though before he was going to strike the floor in anger, he saw a familiar sight. A lantern only a meter away, the first one in what felt like an eternity. Snapping his fingers, he activated the lantern and watched the white light glow. The same type that the Woman in white had, he had to wonder if she is the one placing these lanterns all throughout, he remembered the first time she showed up was in a lantern similar to this, though it was well before beasts roamed the land. Despite that, Cyril was relieved to finally find a lantern, he had a few questions for the old general. Felt like every time he returned to the Hunter’s dream, it was just to pester him with more questions, though all he would get in return was half answers that left him yearning for more. Cyril knelt down on the lantern and outstretched his hand towards it, closing his eyes as he let his mind and muscles rest.

When he lifted them up, he was back to the tranquil but queer scenery of the gardens of white flowers. The towering chateau looming like an impenetrable fortress that stood for centuries, though it’s only defense was a simple iron gate. Even with the fog obscuring most of the detail he still marveled at the building’s magnificence. He soon stopped gawking and got up from crouching to see the old general and his marionette companion tending to the garden near the workstation. When the first footsteps made contact with the dirt road, Cyril could see the doll turning her head to face him, halting her task of watering the plants and walking over to greet him. She moved too much like a real person which unnerved him, as she got closer he soon noticed that she wasn’t breathing.

“Welcome home good hunter, was your trip successful?” The Doll asked gently, not breaking her emotionless glare. Cyril hesitated before speaking.

“Yes it was, for the most part. May I speak with Edward?”

The Doll bowed her head and gestured her hand towards the wheel bound man. Cyril took the offer and was standing behind Edward as he observed the flowers with his magnifying glass, gently caressing his frail aged hands on the delicate white petals.

“You’re back I see.” Edward began, not looking away from his observations.

“You were wrong Edward.”

This response got his full attention as he paused his massage of the flower, creaking his neck back to the younger man.

“I found out there are people out there like me. They’re not all mindless savages like you said.”

Edward only sighed in response, placing the glass down on his lap as he moved his hands to the wheels as he rotated towards Cyril.

“I know I lied to you, I didn’t want your expectations to be high if you found any survivors. Yes, there are people out there like you, some trying to survive, but they are only a decimal compared to the amount of crazed soldiers and beasts throughout the land.” He held back a cough with the last few words, beating his chest to hold it back from escaping.

An explanation was better than none, Cyril had to admit, but the least he could do was say it from the beginning rather than keep it in the dark from him.

“I did not intend to keep this information from you out of malice, but as a way for you to be focused on the goal at the end. We can’t waste time saving every single life we come across, no matter how many people there are.”

“I know about Walker.” Cyril shot back at him. “I fought with him when a poisonous monster attacked the both of us and a group of other survivors.” The old general simply chuckled.

“Yes, he was a hunter like you. But he wasn’t one for ending the nightmare. He only wanted revenge for the beast that massacred the trench he was in. He gave up as soon as his personal vendetta was complete.”

Cyril let out an audible exhale from his gas mask, a grunt in frustration at this decrepit old relic slandering the Lieutenant, a man he could show a respect for compared to the likes of high up officers sitting in the back as the common soldier died on the front. But deep down, Cyril knew that arguing won’t solve issues with Edward, only complicate matters. Letting out a drawn out breath, he relaxed and eased his temper.

“Apologies.” Cyril said, Edward smiling wolfishly.

“That was in the past, and is not important for the present.” He soon glanced over Cyril and could see his barbed shovel. “I see the weapon I gave you is getting a lot of use.”

Cyril unclipped his shovel and held the worn out weapon in his hand. Edward only gestured at the doll who was back to watering the flowers. He walked over to the marionette again and stopped behind her, unsure of how to get her attention, he took another step to stand beside her as she took care of the plants. Cyril had to admit the flowers were beautiful, much like the chateau in the distance. There was something about the pure white color of them that calmed his mind, and made him more relaxed.

“Do you like flowers, hunter?” the Doll asked in her gentle voice. Cyril looked at her with his face concealed behind the mask. She stopped watering and turned to face him.

“I would describe them as majestic.” Cyril could remember his sister Nora being interested in plants, taking care of a bluebell flower by the window sill of their kitchen. Sometimes bees would visit to help pollinate her floral pet. Seeing her cheer up as the bees came by was a wonderful sight, her and Cyril’s youngest sibling Arthur would always shout at him and his parents to come look at the bees. Chuckling to himself he looked back at the Doll. “My sister would love to have seen this place.”

“Perhaps another time we can share more?” The Doll asked, tilting her head slightly. Cyril nodded, it was a start at least for getting to know the Doll.

He held out his hand that was gripping onto the shovel, the Doll placed her water can down and held the weapon with both of her hands.

“Do you have another weapon you can use?”

Cyril patted the medical cleaver on the right side of his belt.

“The repairs will take some time. If that will suffice?” Cyril nodded as the Doll held the weapon down and returned to the shop. “I will work with swiftness, good Hunter. I pray for your safety.” She responded in her emotionless tone, before shutting the door of the workshop. Cyril turned back to face the old general who was wheeling towards him.

“I’m going to be heading to Mons. To see if that is the source of this blight.”

“Mons.” Edward let out a rough cough before continuing “That is a place I know a little bit about at least.” For once Cyril was finally going to get some sort of idea of what he was going into. “It is surrounded by a fog of chlorine, several tanks litter the area, the grass turned to gray and the town is much like all others, bombarded to oblivion. The mask you wear will certainly come in handy for it.”

“Thank you Edward.” Cyril soon turned away from the general and began his walk back towards the gravestone. In the back of his mind, Mons wouldn’t be the beginning of where the calamity had begun, but it was worth a shot to at least try and find answers of any kind.

Kneeling down on the stone, Cyril outstretched his hand and closed his eyes as he was transported away from Hunter’s dream and back to the real world. Standing up in the dilapidated church where he had seen the Woman in white, he quickly exited his resting place and walked back to where his motorcycle had crashed. Heaving it back up he soon went through the process of starting the engine back up. Cleaning off any residual mud that had accumulated on the wheels and important parts, he felt confident enough to continue riding it.

He revved the handlebar and was resuming his journey to Mons. Still though, there was the issue of getting there, even with the motorcycle it would take him an entire day and a half of nonstop driving. Cyril had a feeling this motorcycle wouldn’t have enough fuel to get him all the way there, so he knew he was going to have to take a stop to resupply. Hopefully a town will be nearby to aid in this. Though the town actually aiding him is a bit of a stretch, more like, he would have to go in and fend off the soldiers inhabiting it, or the beasts that made it their home. Whatever it may be, it wouldn’t stop him. Cyril was going to get to Mons one way or another.

Chapter Text

Swerving his motorcycle past the carcass of a British tank, Cyril could feel the rain starting to return with tiny pinpoints becoming small beams of water. The slide from away from the tank created a surge of muddy liquid that stained a part of his lower cape. He would've been annoyed at first, but knew that once the rain picked up in intensity that it would do the work of cleaning for him. Trenches half filled with a pool of a greenish yellow water pocketed the surrounding landscape, while several remains of bunkers and tanks were spread out fifty meters apart from each other. Cyril half expected the tanki he swerved by would start coming to life, and start firing its weapons at him. Thankfully, that wasn’t the case.

It had been three hours since he left Kemmel hill and began his long trek towards Mons, though he wasn’t going to Mons directly, he was looking for a town or city with a railroad that could ferry him there faster than a motorcycle could. During the journey, Cyril had come across derelict villages blasted to their foundations. Some crazed soldiers would be wandering around these villages, either scavenging or making improvised trenches. Cyril would take a break from driving and make visits to the villages that were on the way for necessary supplies. The soldiers were becoming more and more predictable as he became skilled, though the larger soldiers and lumbering giants proved to be more than a match as he had not faced nearly as many in the past. One of the others though contained only the war horse’s that he had seen early on. Still remembering their jagged grin. It was a trio that inhabited the ruins, the corpses only consisted of bones and small morsels of flesh from their meals. Fighting one was challenging enough, but three, it was a battle he was not expecting at all. At first it was only one, but the other two had startled him from the houses. He had to spend half of his revolver’s remaining ammunition on the duo that surprised him.

Out of the four destroyed villages he had cleared out, only one had useful supplies, that being four blood needles and two clips of SMLE ammunition for his sawn off rifle. Cyril decided to keep the weapon with him since his revolver ammo was running dangerously low, though he hadn’t found any moonrings for it since leaving Kemmel hill, he knew how important finding that ammunition type would be in the long run. But in the meantime, while his shovel is being repaired, and his revolver is being sidelined, he will have to make do with the medical cleaver stored where his barbed shovel would normally be situated.

Cyril only hoped by the time he found the next lantern, the Doll would have completed her repairs on her shovel. He held a close bond to that weapon, next time he would take better care of it.

“Now what to do about keeping you in top shape?” Cyril spoke aloud as he tilted his head down towards his motorcycle.

He hadn’t expected such a generous gift from the Lieutenant, but now that it belonged to him, the least he could do was take care of it. Though fuel will become an issue down the line, he hadn’t seen many fuel cans and the ones he found were all empty. If he was lucky enough, maybe the next village will have some. But that’s being optimistic at best, it will probably be like all the other villages prior; either defended by crazed soldiers or erased from the map. Whatever the case may be, Cyril hoped he could find the proper equipment and supplies to keep the motorcycle from breaking down on him. Though if it did, he couldn’t waste time on fixing it if it was broken, he still had to focus on Mons, or at the very least finding a faster way to get there.

Cyril drove over a wooden bridge that lay above a three meter trench, taking a brief glance down, it was half filled with water. Remembering the awful spring and summer months in Ypres where the trenches would flood, leaving both sides to sit out the downtime above. It was a miserable experience, half of the time it would happen when he would be trying to get some sleep, as a soldier would nudge him awake to warn him that the trench was about to flood. Whenever that happened he didn’t bother trying to sleep on the mud, his calm slumber replaced with an irate mood as he stared out in the rain peering at the German trenches. Sometimes he could see the ghost like figures of the Huns over in the distance, hunched over on logs or sitting on the malleable ground. Looking just just as exhausted as he was.

If there was one thing he was thankful about having to be a hunter is not feeling fatigued each time he used the lanterns. For some inexplicable reason, Cyril felt refreshed and invigorated each time he went to and from the Hunter’s dream, it truly was a safe haven where he could rest. More so than he could in the haphazard dugouts he called home, during the war. He shrugged the thought off as he crossed several more bridges over the linear moats, Cyril noticing that some of them had the rotting carcasses of soldiers that had died months, or perhaps years ago. A grisly fate that he shuddered to think about.

Crossing over the final bridge, Cyril could see wooden beams jutting high above the ground, spaced out apart from each other. The land became more flat and barren, no defenses, bodies or husks of vehicles in sight, as if the area was void of combat. Wiring soon scattered the side of the road, and he knew he was coming close to a city of some sort. A flood of thoughts washed over his mind, what if there were people alive and could help him, was the city still intact? Were the people under siege by the crazed soldiers? These were optimistic ideas at best, more likely whatever city he was about to see was a bombed out ruin only inhabited by the depraved. Looking to his left and right Cyril scanned the area to see if there was a sign post to indicate where he was currently, though he shouldn't have bothered, every other village he had seen had no visible posts to identify the location, and after two minutes of darting back and forth he found no such luck. Though to the side it looked like good fortune was about to smile on him, Cyril could see a tipped over carriage with two wooden boxes splayed out on the mud.

Halting his motorcycle and stepping off from his seat, he noticed a dead horse was lying a meter away from the cargo, so he unclipped his medical cleaver in anticipation of it being a war horse feigning its death. The rain had continued its rhythmic white noise that Cyril was so accustomed to, though it would be difficult to hear if anyone was truly behind the carriage. Taking a short breath, he calmly walked over to the boxes, confident that the horse was already dead. As he stepped towards the corpse, Cyril took a moment to check from a distance to see if it was still breathing. Though unlike most of the war horses he had seen, this one didn’t have its flesh rotting off its head, which was a common trait for all the war horses’ Cyril had fought in the past. Poking the body with the extended cleaver, no motion was being registered. His assumption was correct, and his fear evaporated.

Using his cleaver as a pry for the crates, Cyril used all of his might to break open the seals that protected the supplies inside. With great force, he jerked the weapon forward and the top of the box flew freely in two pieces. Though his prize was lackluster, a few scraps of vegetables that had gone bad and a carton of milk that had a hue bordering on yellowish green. Opening the other crate though proved to be easier than the first, and the contents were more useful than before; a clip of SMLE ammunition leftover along with rifle components. Though he had no need for the metal bits of the gun inside, he certainly took the stripper clip and placed it in his ammunition pocket, if Cyril remembered correctly he had a little under twenty bullets in total for his sawn off rifle, he’d have to use it sparingly though since it was a bolt action weapon that took time for each shot. Heading back to his motorcycle, he went over the startup sequence again and followed the path of the wooden poles. The drive didn’t take long though, and he soon saw a small hill that rose from the ground like an irregular circle. Finishing his ride over the flat terrain lined out like an impromptu road, Cyril soon climbed up a small hill to see a sight that would’ve made any architect break down to tears.

In the distance was a city much like he thought, but this one was vast, almost reaching over two and a half kilometers, hundreds of buildings packed tightly together like honeycombs in a beehive. Though a good portion of the buildings were demolished by what Cyril assumed was artillery and fighting inside the city. Several cathedrals towered over the smaller buildings like the lords of the city, some grander than others due to the rubble surrounding them. There was no telling what sort of supplies, foes or secrets lie in that ruin, but Cyril was going to find out since it was too good an opportunity to pass on searching for blood needles and revolver rounds. But in the back of his mind, as he drove down the hill, there was something gnawing at him that a terrifying presence radiated from that city, a dread that he had not felt since the charges he had done before an assault. Something more frightening than that Crawling tank, or the hordes of crazed soldiers hunting after him, no, this was something else. However that quaking fear that was building in the back of Cyril’s mind was being suppressed as best as can be, though the shadow loomed in the deep recesses of his mind, and felt like it could manifest at any moment.

He drove by the outer perimeter of the city, and could feel that looming threat as he got closer to the buildings. His hands starting to tremble as he eased his grip on the handlebars, was he more frightened because he didn’t have his usual weapon? Or was it because he was entering a city and he wasn't prepared for what unspeakable things these madmen and beasts did to the denizens. Whatever the case may be, he found a road that gave him an opening into the outskirts of small houses that pocketed the area.

“You’re not gonna be needed for this” Cyril told his motorcycle, perching it near a remarkably intact house. Taking a deep breath, he took his first steps into the city, ready to face this unknowing dread and find any sort of materials he needed.

Cyril glanced around at the wooden homes, taking a second on whether he should search each one or only go into a small amount of buildings. Doing that could take an entire day, he thought to himself, better to go in for a few and leave the rest as is. The heart of the city would have more valuable items than the frontier homes would anyway, that’s at least what he assumed, given where he lived. Though this city was unlike any he had been to before, in the distance was the towering baroque architecture of the cathedrals and main business areas, whereas the outlying sectors were less ornate in their design and served a more utilitarian look with the uniform shape and lack of colors. The road was marked with rubble and a few craters from where artillery shells made their mark, livestock that was left behind were either devoured by the beasts that had found them, or still in the stages of decomposition. A small tank that Cyril hadn’t recognized before, with a single turret on the top of the vehicle was lying front first in a crater, unable to free itself from the artillery impact.

On the walls of the homes, Cyril could peer inside to see what sort of damaged state they were in. Roofs caved in, while some had no furnishings to add life to the dreary design. Every once and a while he'd see illegible handwriting marked the walls, most in French but a few in German. None in English so he had a hard time decrypting what it meant, probably a warning to steer clear of the city. Though Cyril had learned a few French words, he couldn't see many of the ones he recognized, he stopped bothering to read the writings and moved on.

Cyril decided to test his luck with one of the intact houses to search for anything of value. Choosing one on the left side, he stepped over some rubble and unclipped his medical cleaver as well as taking out his rifle. The door to the home was already busted open, so the chances of him finding anything have been lowered. Steadying his breath, he hoisted his sawn off SMLE up in the air aiming down the sights with the ungainly weapon. Outside of the singular window illuminating the house with a grayish white light, it was darker than he expected. Taking his first steps, Cyril’s foot made an audible crunch as it collided with the wood floor. Tilting down to see that it was broken glass from the small door window, he wasn’t surprised, but took extra care in how much noise he made. The fact he hadn’t seen any living soul around made the hairs on the nape of his neck stand at attention. Lowering his rifle, Cyril scoured the perimeter and checked every corner of the house. One room contained a stove with a broken table, which he assumed was the kitchen, searching the room yielded no results as to be expected. If there had been any food still around, it all probably would’ve been eaten by rats or filled with mold.

Another room contained a bedroom with a locked chest, the mattress to the bed had been stolen so all that remained was a metal frame. Looking at the chest Cyril assumed that the key had been taken with the owner when he fled, so he decided to use the butt of his medical cleaver to attempt to break the lock open, when that didn’t succeed, he turned to his rifle and lined up a single shot on the iron lock. The shot created a loud reverberation that made Cyril’s ears ring, but it was worth it since the lock was all but destroyed. Lifting the ornate looking chest open, he found a sheet of paper yellowed with age, unraveling it yielded the best kind of results he could imagine. It was a torn piece of a map, a well detailed one listing off a building named Hotel de Ville. Though the map didn’t give out a detailed area of where specifically he was, or how far he had traveled from Kemmel hill, it had to have been a while. Folding the torn piece of paper into a small square, he stored it in his pocket and shifted through the remaining contents of the chest, which contained a tailored French soldier uniform with a gas mask and helmet. This must’ve been a soldier who was on leave at the time, it was the only assumption he could make at the time, though it didn’t matter in the end, the important thing is that he had a piece of a map, and a larger piece had to be out there somewhere. Maybe not to the original in question, but if Cyril could find a more intact map he could cross reference it with the portion he had.

“It’s not much, but it is a start.” Cyril told himself, as he left the house.

Even now, the outside was still as quiet as before. No crazed soldiers crawling out of the woodworks, no beasts to ambush him, it all unnerved him. Perhaps a greater foe had cleared out the city and Cyril was the sole sane man in the entirety of the city. Taking his chances, he decided to walk over to one of the houses reduced to rubble to see if there’s anything of note. All that remained of this home was a lower corner of a wall with faded paint that had a green hue to it. Bricks of white and gray scattered the floor; some items were buried in between them, but they were of little use, nothing more than kitchen utensils and the armrest of a chair. His assumption was right, and the house proved to be nothing more than a waste of time. The ones that were still standing should be prioritized, perhaps Cyril would find another piece to the map.

Walking deeper into the city, the amount of wreckage and destroyed buildings began to increase. Before, he noticed that one in every eight buildings were little more than piles of debris, now that frequency doubled. The inner city must’ve gotten the worst of the bombardment, Cyril mused. As he delved away from the outskirts, his visits inside the derelict homes increased, though with little success. Most homes had various trinkets and family heirlooms that Cyril didn’t bother taking, but one house had a blood needle which made him relieved. Exiting one of the stone houses, he wiped away the water that was starting to accumulate on his gas mask lens. The rain was back to its steady pace of liquid bullets crashing down onto the ground. Continuing his walk down the street, he looked down on the road and noticed a steady line of red flowing beside him.

Taking a moment to stop out of the perplexing color, Cyril looked to see if he had somehow gotten an injury during his search, perhaps a cut from a broken wooden support beam?

“No, I would’ve felt it earlier.” he said to himself. When he saw that no injuries were present, he looked down to the red streak and noticed it was coming from ahead. Snaking its way past rocks and bricks, the point of origin was a man.

Cyril shook his head once to see if he was hallucinating, almost forty minutes had passed since he had entered the city and this was the first body he had seen since then. The corpse lay on a wall that belonged to a small hotel, with a light peach color, crouching beside it, Cyril noticed that the body wasn’t here for a long time. The flesh was pale, however the insects and crows had not feasted on it at all, which means this must’ve been relatively recent. The clothes on the body didn’t tell whether or not this man was a soldier or just a citizen, all he wore was a white vest and gray pants. His eyes were glossy and lacked any sort of emotion. Whoever killed him could still be here, so Cyril unclipped his medical cleaver in preparation for any sort of surprise. When none came, he eased his shoulders, but he didn’t lower his guard at the slightest. It could be a hunter like himself, but Cyril had to assume that not all hunters were amiable, if that French soldier he had encountered early on said anything, he should be wary of any unfamiliar face. However, he couldn’t rule out the possibility that whoever is here could be a survivor, and that they were hiding from something. That lingering fear began to creep its way back, it could very well be another creature that was skulking in the alleyways, an ever looming threat that could jump out and maul him like the War horses from before.

He walked down the quiet road, the scribbles becoming increasingly more common as he passed through the buildings, much like before they were either in French or German, however as he glanced at one of the writings he saw a word that caused him to stop in his tracks. On a bleak gray house, two stories up, as if prophesied by the woman in white, was the word rook. Followed by several words that Cyril couldn’t decipher other than the fact he knew it was German for…something. His eyes widened and his fear started to grow, was it fate that led him to this city? Did that woman want him to find this place? The more Cyril ventured into the city the more questions and terror shadowed over him. He wanted to question the meaning behind the word but he had no clues to base his theory on, asking Edward would be pointless now since the lantern was so far away. He had already ventured past the city limits and was getting closer to the densest areas, too much progress had been made to simply walk out for a question.

Thunder boomed above like a howitzer cannon firing its devastating shells With that sudden burst of sound, Cyril thought he heard rocks falling from a dilapidated house at first he thought his mind was playing tricks with him. However a few meters ahead, he could see several rocks tumbling down out onto the road, rolling and occasionally bouncing if they fell from a greater height. He gripped his medical cleaver until his knuckles turned a pale white color, hoisting his rifle up into the air and pointing at the direction the rocks fell. Seconds passed, and soon a full minute went by, as Cyril stood motionless, waiting for whatever lurked behind the walls to come out. When half a minute went by with no change, he took his first steps forward, breathing becoming less steady with each step, rain drops continuously falling on his lens, not bothering to wipe them away and lose his focus. Inching ever so closer to the wall, he decided to gamble his luck and with a burst of speed ran toward the wall, ready to put down any madman that decided to jump at him. However the alley way he was looking down was empty, no indication that a person or creature had been here. Cyril lowered his rifle, but didn’t let his guard down a bit, whatever was lurking around the corner could still be here. It could just be moving faster than any creature he had seen before.

Stepping away from the alley, Cyril decided to continue on the desolate street, darting his head from left to right to check all of the corners. He almost wanted to see something there, at least then he wouldn’t have to keep guessing on what was hiding from him, then he could have peace of mind when whatever was following him would be dead. Exhaling heavily from his mask he took in his surroundings again, more destroyed buildings and several intact ones, all of which were two stories high, so he had to have been in the main city by now instead of the outskirts. The roads were still pocketed with crater impacts, however Cyril could see some sand bags in the distance, and the remains of a machine gun nest. However, unlike the outskirts, Cyril did see corpses.

“So all the fighting happened closer to the core of the city.” Cyril spoke aloud.

Walking by the small barricade, Cyril could see that a portion of the road was cleared out to make for a trench that protected this particular area. There were primarily French bodies littered inside, numbering no more than seven, but there was one German soldier, but this one wore a more florid uniform than other Germans he had fought, this one sporting a small cape and black coat unlike the field gray that he had seen on virtually all German soldiers. He wore a black steel helmet with a white iron cross. He was reminded of another soldier that had a custom tailored uniform, putting two and two together he had to assume the pair was part of a group. Much like the previous one, Cyril searched through the soldier for any useful items, noticing that his satchel had contained two blood needles, and a few pieces of paper.

Before he opened the first piece, another crash of thunder broke out and filled his ears, as well as an ear piercing shriek. When the thunder finished its loud roar, the noise in the back of Cyril’s head still continued, that scream being masked out by the thunder was still there. And whatever that shrieking was, it was rapidly approaching. Stuffing the papers in his pockets with his ammunition. Cyril hoisted himself up from the trench and started to scramble away from the noise. His mind could only assume it was a bird-like screech given its higher pitch, but it was different from any type of bird he had heard before. Almost warped and grating like metal scraping against each other. Being out in the open would’ve made him an easier target, so he decided to turn into one of the many alleyways. Hoping to lose whatever creature was chasing him into the myriad of tight passages.

However trying to lose the creature would become a challenge since each of his footsteps created an audible splash. Daring not to look back for fear of falling on an object, he wasn't sure how close the creature was but every once and a while, it would let out its ear piercing and grating scream to startle him. Cyril could've stood his ground and fought the creature, but fear overruled his senses and all he could think of now was escaping the beast. The alley stretched on for another few meters before Cyril took a turn towards the right, vaulting over a series of crates and almost tripping on several bottles on the ground. Had he fallen just then, the creature chasing him probably would’ve caught up to him in no time. However, Cyril kept running, exiting the maze-like labyrinth and out onto the street again, up ahead was another series of buildings with another alleyway, the creature was gaining on him and Cyril went in.

Though unlike before, he decided to barge through a door to one of the intact buildings. Entering the room looked like it was a series of stairs leading up two stories, there was a set of doors to the right of him, and one on the front. Cyril took the stairs and hid behind the railings, his breathing almost erratic and his heartbeat tapping his chest wildly. Daring to peek his head from behind, he waited in anticipation for what exactly was chasing him, his medical cleaver was unclipped held on one hand, his sawn off rifle on the other. All that followed though was the familiar tune of rain, and the occasional chorus of thunder. No sight of what was truly chasing him. Two minutes passed with no sight or sound outside of the drops of water from the outside. When Cyril thought it was safe, he stood back up and took a long breath, thankful that the ordeal was over.

Deciding to keep his weapons out, Cyril took this chance to explore the building he entered. His best guess was that it was a hotel of some kind. Though this was much more elaborate than the ones he had heard about. When he reached the door to the second floor hall, Cyril opened the door, which made an audible creaking noise that was all too similar to his house’s front door. When he entered the room, he took a moment to take in its beauty. Wood having a varnish finish giving it a sense of age and beauty, faded colors of sky blue where the paint had still stayed gave him the feeling of a clear sky on a cool autumn day. The interior wasn’t without its damage though; some of the floor had holes where the hall down below could be seen, windows destroyed for soldiers to fire from, and plenty of destroyed paintings. His daydream soon ended when he heard one of the door knobs in the distance make a noise, his rifle was swayed upward and pointed down the hall. Cyril wondered which of the doors it was that made the noise, could it have been that creature from before? Was it now inside this hotel? If it was, Cyril wasn’t going to run away like last time, he would stand his ground and fight back.

Taking one step at a time, he turned toward each room on opposite sides and listened for the slightest sound emanating from the rooms. Opening the first two were as quiet and empty as No man’s land, both of them in various states of disrepair. The third one he didn’t bother listening to since the room was caved in with debris, it was the only room with the door wide open. Cyril took a moment to listen in on the fourth before opening, spending half a minute looking and listening in, drowning out the noise of rain colliding with the building. When he was satisfied, he moved on. However, one of the doors on the left was slightly open, a gleaming light peering on the other end before being abruptly extinguished as the door shut.

The moment of truth was upon him, Cyril rushed to the door with a quick burst of speed, slamming the door open with all the strength he had, the wooden barrier swung open with ease. Weapons poised for an ambush, fear replaced with fury and his breathing audible through his mask, Cyril was ready to face his chaser and put an end to him. However there was no retaliation to follow, no warcry to challenge him, or ghoulish opponent to face down on. Cyril’s adrenaline laxed and his breath steadied, looking around the hotel room for who was watching him he saw a figure hiding behind a desk.

Unlike the gruesome image he had in his head, this was the exact opposite. It was a child, a small, frail little girl looking no older than eight. Eyes glinting like sapphires through the light in the window, and hair that was blonde but had a curly shape to it. She clutched a small stuffed bear in between her blue and white dress. The girl cowered behind the table, fearing for her life at the man suddenly bursting through the room with an energy to kill. Tears started to rim her eyes, holding tightly to her precious animal and shifting her head down to no look at him.

Cyril was taken aback by the situation he had entered. Here he was in a desolate city with not a soul in sight, the only thing he had encountered was a creature chasing him through the streets and alleys. Now, he was face to face with a lost child in quite possibly the worst place to be in. The first thing he did was put his weapons away, clipping his medical cleaver on the belt, and shouldering the SMLE. Motioning his hands, up he crouched down in an attempt to show the kid he meant no harm to her. This did little to ease the little girl as she was still hiding behind the table, not budging one bit to Cyril’s coercion. She started speaking quietly to herself, it had to have been French given her accent. That meant talking to her would be much harder, of all the days he had to remember his French vocabulary it had to have been now, he at least had to soothe her with something.

“Calm down, I’m not gonna hurt you.” Cyril cooed gently. Even through the mask his voice was clear as day.

The girl heard him speak and poked her head out a smidge, before darting back to her wooden sanctuary. Repeating the sentence again, Cyril took a step closer, trying his best to gain a small amount of distance. The girl this time didn’t pop out and stayed still. Sighing, Cyril quickly took off his helmet and gas mask, disliking the idea of taking it off in the middle of a dangerous area. Perhaps the little girl thought he was a crazed soldier, seeing his face might help relax her.

“Look at me, I’m no different than you are right now. I’m scared here too.” Cyril admitted.

He sat down on the wood floor and waved his hand towards him. Beckoning the little girl to come out of hiding. Peeking out her head at first Cyril saw the scraggy blonde hair lull as her head tilted to the left, before returning to cover. Disappointed at first by the shyness of the little girl, he was surprised when seconds later she started to walk out from the desk and into view. The gray light from the window hotel illuminating her, as if giving her the center stage. Her shrill voice spoke a sentence in French, however Cyril quickly shook his head using what little French he knew to convey that his primary language was English and that he would have a hard time understanding French.

“English? I know.” She spoke up a little bit before glancing back down on the floor.

“How much do you know?” Cyril asked, crossing his legs.

“Little, little. Not good speaking.”

Her broken English was a little cute to hear, reminding him of the time some soldiers would try their best to show off their linguistic skills in front of others. Whether it be by mocking what the German’s said over the trenches, or showing genuine interest in learning how to speak fluently. Though that was from another time, he had a few more pressing questions to inquire about the child.

“Do you have a name?”

The girl shook her head before eloquently saying in French her name was Rosie, then asking what his name was. Before she tried to translate it to him in English, Cyril held up his hand to stop her.

“That is one of the few sentences I do know. My name is Cyril White.” Trying to warm her up, he spoke it in French to try and see if that would get through. Her nodding twice gave him the impression it worked, even if his French was far from perfect. “Where are your parents? Mom and dad?”

Rosie looked down and Cyril could’ve guessed what happened to them, a few tears started to create a steady line down her cheeks. She didn’t need to answer him, Cyril already knew they were dead. Rosie instead of letting loose a stream of tears, simply brushed them away with her sleeve. Sniffling a short response in her broken English.

“Your mom, your dad?”

The words gave him pause. Cyril Didn’t know how to bring up his parents, or even Nora and Arthur. Undoubtedly they were still at home, but they still didn’t know about their son, their eldest off in a distant battlefield. He desperately wanted to see them again, even for a split second. His only answer of their whereabouts was when he asked Edward if the madness ever reached the U.K. Luckily it didn’t so he knew they were safe, for now. But the response from the little girl made him stare out to the wall behind Rosie, filling his insides with a deep depression that felt like it bound him to the earth. It’s weight enough for him to sink down in his thoughts and dwell on what if’s and other possibilities.

Before he knew it, Rosie was tugging at his upper arm, trying to get Cyril’s attention. Almost as if he had dozed off from another of his odd dreams. But this time, there was no woman in white to wake him up, only the innocent eyes of a child that was afraid of the world around her.

“Cyril sick?” She asked.

Shaking his head once before grabbing his helmet and mask from behind him, he looked back towards Rosie.

“I’m fine, just…spacing out.” Cyril responded before shielding his face with the mask. Rosie took a step back as he placed the mask over his face, almost as if afraid by the sight of it. He never would’ve thought someone could view the gas mask as unnerving. Or perhaps she was still thinking back of the time she first saw him barge through the wooden door. “It’s ok, I’m not going to slam through doors again like that.”

Putting the helmet atop his brown hair, he started to make his way out of the room but noticed that there weren’t any footsteps following him. Rosie was still standing at the exact same spot. Sighing Cyril turned around and crouched down on the floor.

“Rosie, I know I look scary with this on. However, there are much more frightening things out there. I promise I won’t let any harm come to you, but you must trust me.”

She turned back at the table once before moving her head back to face him. Running forward as far as her little legs could go, she stopped a meter in front of Cyril. Ruffling up her hair, he was smiling behind the mask. Leading her down back the hall he came in, the two left the hotel, ready to venture out back into the abandoned city.

Chapter Text

Leaving the baroque hotel took a little longer than he expected. Cyril had to usher his newest companion forward a bit to get her to follow him. She's just scared and taking caution on whatever is to come, Cyril thought to himself. It was smart for a little girl such as Rosie to be wary of her surroundings, but it did hamper his movement because now he had to wait for her to catch up to him. It also didn't help that she was very small, if he had to guess, Cyril assumed that Rosie was a little over one hundred twenty-four centimeters. Hopefully he wouldn’t need to carry her around on his shoulders if trouble were to be found. So far there was none to be seen, a few minutes had passed since the two first met and they hadn't spoken a word when they left the hotel alley. Whether it was out of shyness or a need to be quiet, Cyril couldn’t tell. It was surreal to see a kid alive out here in this city, he would’ve assumed she would be evacuated. Though here she was, the innocent child juxtaposed to the hellish landscape and creatures prowling in the shadows. How Rosie managed to sustain herself this long was beyond him.

The two of them had yet to encounter anyone else as of yet. All that was there were desolate streets and empty buildings. He went in several of them and searched all around for a more complete map than the one he had, though with no luck.

“Rosie, you wouldn’t happen to know what this city’s name is?” Cyril asked. He stopped walking to allow her to catch up.

“Arras.” She spoke quietly.

The name wasn’t familiar to him, he never fought in a city like it or even within the vicinity. Only seeing action in Ypres and the never-ending tug of war that played through the trenches for months. Though a battle inside a city shouldn't be any different, given the entrenched positions scattered throughout, the machine gun nests, the major difference compared to the open muddy fields was that the buildings offered more protection. Not to mention they could become their own battleground. Their little stroll through the streets had lasted a little over twenty minutes, passing through alleys, businesses, and even more houses than before. The roads were strewn with rubble and the occasional body here and there, this place was surprisingly empty of dead soldiers. Deep down in his thoughts, he could only imagine that the thing that was chasing him could’ve simply dragged the corpses away and feasted on them in a secluded area. Cyril had a feeling it was unlike any other beast he had seen, the fact it hadn’t continued the hunt for him further emphasized his point, it had to be savoring the hunt rather than mindlessly chasing him at every waking moment. It gave him respite but at the same time, a sense of dread.

Cyril took this moment to catch a break and rest their legs. He was starting to get sore from all the walking and the sudden running from before. Rosie made her way to him momentarily and sat down on her knees. The two of them sat beside one of the many buildings that populated the sides of the streets, a stone column had fallen onto the street and provided the two of them a little shade from the light rain. Cyril wasn’t starving for food or desperate for water at the moment, so he decided to take out his canteen, remove the cap and give it to Rosie who looked like she could use it. The little girl cupped the container in both of her hands and proceeded to gulp the entire thing down in a span of seven seconds. With a gasp for air, Rosie returned the canteen to its rightful owner, he placed it on the ground so that some rain could fall inside to replenish it.

"No water for you?" Rosie spoke out of the blue.

"You needed it more than me. Besides, the rain can fill it up in a few minutes." He responded.

His words were prophesied, little by little the canteen slowly filled up with clear water. Rosie was fixated on the water welling up on the inside, but Cyril only looked to his side and around the buildings. Most of the ones here sported autumn colors of orange, tan, cream or brown. Bullet holes marked the paint and created ugly blemishes on the warm colors, creating an unsavory sight for any artist. But those were the lucky ones. One of the buildings was nothing more but debris, its interior long since collapsed under the weight of the building. Burying any possessions that were left behind with it. He almost wondered if anyone was unfortunate enough to be buried under the rubble, either being crushed by the impact, or dying a slow agonizing death by lack of food or water. It reminded him of seeing bodies on both sides half submerged with the earth, the only indication you can tell it was a person was when you could see a portion of their body breached up like a whale. Shuddering at the thought he turned back towards his canteen and could see it was nearly full, so he brought the cap back in and twisted it into place.

Cyril got up from his spot and took out his medical cleaver and rifle, beckoning Rosie to keep close to him. Which proved to be easier than he thought, the little girl clung onto him and didn't wander off in any random direction like a child distracted by devilish sweets in a store. He had to assume that she was starving and only staying alive by scavenging for scraps or stealing. Though he doubted any sane man would be staying here if there was a creature on the hunt. His current goal now was to find a shop that had food that hadn't been pilfered or contaminated. Though Cyril knew he had to lower his standards when it came to searching for something edible and nutritious near the front. Though it was better to at least try than to let Rosie starve. The duo continued their walk through the streets, a curious sight caught Cyril's attention, as a raven fluttered down, and made its landing on a skeletal arch. The corvid darted its head in erratic ways that he paid no attention to. Whenever the ravens and crows were around, usually the bodies of soldiers wouldn't be too far behind. Cyril lost many hours of sleep when those birds showed up to feast on the dead out in No man’s land. Rosie followed close behind and held tightly to Cyril's wasn't cape, the sudden tug from behind made him stop in his tracks, only to be reassured that it was her.

"Don't like those birds." Rosie spoke quietly. Her puppy eyes looked at the corvid on the arch, and in response it made its signature laugh.

"I can't blame you for disliking them."

"You hate the bird too?"

Cyril nodded in silence, the raven continued its mocking for another twenty seconds as the two walked, before it flapped its wings and took to the gray sky. The rain did little to impede its flight.

The duo ignored the bird and continued their journey onwards. Cyril rounded a corner from the building the raven was perched on and saw a destroyed tank, another one of those turret designs rather than the box one’s he’d seen. A flak gun was not far behind, with sandbags offering a bit of cover for it. Though unlike before it this area had more corpses than prior locations he had seen so far. Even from a distance, Cyril could tell they were crazed soldiers due to their poorly tailored clothes and scarred appearance. Though in the distance, he could hear a wet squishing noise, Cyril had no clue whether it could be chewing, or just steps on the wet road. He motioned Rosie to stay low and follow closely, he had a sneaking suspicion that something was nearby. Perhaps it was that creature that Cyril was chased by earlier? He wasn’t taking any chances, especially with escorting her.

Using the tank as cover, Cyril halted Rosie to stay still, taking a few moments to hear the sounds in the distance through the rain. Though it wasn’t a torrent like many times before, the sound of water falling down did mask the noise in the distance, he could’ve missed it entirely if he wasn’t on alert. After several seconds, Cyril had to surmise it was an animal feasting on the innards of the corpses, it was too frequent to be footsteps. If it was that creature, at least Cyril would have the element of surprise. Then he realized, if it was the creature, would it come after Rosie since she's more vulnerable than him? Cyril couldn't risk that happening, turning behind he crouched down to reach her height.

"Rosie, I need you to stay right here for me. Got it?" Cyril's voice sounded like a concerned parent, which he had to double check in his mind to remember that it was him speaking.

Rosie nodded, and clutched her bear for comfort. With a last glance backward, Cyril slowly crept his way out from the protection of the tank.

His footfalls were deftly quiet, taking extra care to not step on any puddles forming on the ground. Luckily there weren't many to begin with. The only concern were the occasional piles of rocks and gravel that collapsed under his boot. Once he first stepped on one, he paused his skulking and waited to hear any differences of sound. There was a monetary silence, but the chewing resumed after several seconds, giving Cyril the opportunity to press forward. The slow advance continued on for another minute. Cyril narrowly dodged another pile of debris and crouched behind the sandbags, the artillery gun looming overhead dripping cold water. Mere meters away from the noise of chewing, he gripped his medical cleaver and braced for the monstrosity he was about to face. For some odd reason, fear wasn’t lingering with him unlike before. Perhaps he mustered more courage than he had thought. Exhaling once, he moved with swiftness and vaulted over the sandbags to face whatever lay ahead.

Cyril was met with the foul odor of decay and human flesh, a creature the size of a dog was gorging at the intestines of a corpse. Though Cyril was taken aback by the shape of the creature. It was raven-like, with black feathers around its body; he couldn’t tell any features on the head since it was facing away from him. How is it that he could find a normal raven in one moment, and the next he found a grotesque version of one only moments later? Perhaps it was something similar to the war horses, where it defies any form of logic on how a beast with an exposed skull could live as if it was a normal part of life. He only dwelled on it for a few seconds before the raven perched its head up, halting its meal as if disturbed by an unwanted observer. Cyril interrupted its ghoulish feast, wasting no time he brought his cleaver in for a swipe at the bird before it could turn around fully, landing a clean strike on its back. A part of its wing severed from the strike.

He could see the face of the raven as it slumped dead on the ground. Unlike the war horse with its exposed skull, the scavenger’s head was still intact. The only difference between this and a regular raven head was the glossy pearl eyes that almost mimicked the sky above. Its beak was covered in blood from its meal, Cyril refused to stare at the contents any longer, only walking away from the bodies to where Rosie was waiting. With a single wave to follow, Cyril saw her scampering towards him, eager to return to her protector. He did his best to shield Rosie’s eyes from the display the raven had made, but curiosity consumed her as she peaked a glance behind his back, but only for her to look away in fear.

“It’s never pretty.” Speaking softly. “I’m sure you’ve seen plenty already.”

Rosie nodded slowly, as if not wanting to reawaken repressed thoughts. Cyril should’ve chosen his words carefully, he felt foolish for saying something that could bring back horrible memories.

Their path led them to a junction, several buildings reduced to ruins in the center. The right side of the junction was toppled over by a three-meter-high wall of brick and wood, making travel impossible. However, a few on the left had arches with a roof shielding them from the rain, and a path for them to continue. Rosie took this chance to scruffle her hair from all the water that had drenched it. Cyril, though, took a few steps forward, leaning closely to the wall behind him, peeking his head out to scout what was beyond. Only for a split second, as he could see more of those oversized ravens ahead, cursing to himself he extended the medical cleaver to its full length. Rosie heard the faint sound of metal clanking as the blade was flipped downward, she walked closer towards him.

“Stay here, yes?”

Cyril nodded in affirmation twice. Another breath out as he faced the corvids ahead. Breaking cover, he started to sprint towards the quartet of ravens. All of whom were fully aware of the footsteps and started to shuffle their way over to him, one however, chose to walk towards him.

Wings fully splayed out; Cyril fired off a shot from his sawn off rifle trying to keep them from flying. The shot grazed the side of the second to middle raven on the neck, as blood started to slowly drip to the ground. Only meters away, Cyril could see the one he shot at, and his leftmost partner swooped up two meters from the ground, bellowing a horrid mix of a raven’s call and a gurgling that bordered on having a monstrous grating to it. Using their talons to claw at him, Cyril avoided the bloodied one he shot earlier, but his friend was more fortunate as the bird clawed at his arm and a part of his chest. Stepping back to avoid more of the raven’s furry. He swung his cleaver downward directly on his attacker and hit the mark square on the skull, before returning for another upward slash to finish him off.

Pulling back the bolt of his rifle as he continued his slow retreat, he loaded in another bullet and fired another shot at the ravens. The same one he had shot earlier, this time a more fatal shot through the bird’s lower beak, penetrating through the neck. The remaining two ravens, swooped up for an attack similar as with before, but Cyril was quick to avoid it as he hopped back. Bringing his medical cleaver for a horizontal slash that caught both of the birds in its path, staggering them for a moment. Not wasting a moment, Cyril followed up with another horizontal strike that finished them off. Their dying gurgles the only thing remaining from the corvids as their life faded. Cyril’s breathing was haggard as he pulled one of the blood needles from his pocket and punctured it into his leg, the wound healing in an instant as his breath stabilized. Turning away from the carnage he had created, he called out to Rosie that it was safe to come out.

The little girl poked her head out slowly out of the wall and hurried over to him. However, a loud crash sounded off in the distance that caused the two of them to freeze. It was as if glass was shattering and wood splintering apart. What followed next sent his adrenaline into overdrive, as a familiar screech echoed through the sky, drowning out the sound of rain. Panic soon settled in as Cyril ran towards Rosie, placing his cleaver on his belt and slinging the rifle on his back, as he grabbed a hold of her free hand and started running down the streets away from that familiar threat. Jumping over the defeated ravens, Cyril ran down the center of the street much like before, only it felt like he was hindered by having to drag the girl’s arm. The sound of destruction and shrieking was getting closer, Cyril risked a glance back to the origin of the noise and saw a lanky arm strike down near the wall where Rosie was hiding earlier. Not wasting another second to look, he scooped Rosie into both of his hands and bolted further down the road, looking for any signs of an alley to slow that monster down. His luck wasn’t as fortunate, the first one was blocked by a brick wall, while the second was covered in rubble. Jumping over a trench, Cyril nearly tripped on a pile of debris, his grip almost loosened on holding Rosie. However, his second step saved him from falling face first onto the stone road.

Rosie clutched her bear and hung onto Cyril like a scared cat as another series of trenches were ahead, one he crossed over, using a wooden bridge whilst the second he had to jump again, this time being careful where he landed. This did little to keep the creature from gaining on them, Cyril heard the screeching continue as it created a path of destruction by tossing rubble and rocks aside its path. He risked another glance and could now finally see the features of his pursuer. It’s limbs were thin as bones, barbed wire and pieces of wood were stuck to its upper and lower legs. Claws that jutted out sharpened nails like the Kaiser’s marauder, only they were black. A large mouth surrounded by rows of razor-like teeth, stained with old blood, above and below it was what looked like the beak of a bird. Cyril couldn’t risk any second longer as he returned his focus to escaping this monstrous bird. After vaulting over a fallen arch, Cyril finally found an alley that was clear to run through. Taking a left, he carried Rosie down into the alley and hoped it would be narrow enough to slow that creature down. This proved to be false as the bird-like monster squeezed through the passageway and started its path towards them similar to a dog hunting a trespasser. Turning from left to right in seconds, the creature felt like it was right behind them, Cyril managed to find a door on the right side of an alley, barging through it like before. Unlike last time, the creature smashed through the entrance with its larger frame and attempted to swipe them with its long claws. The attack was nowhere near them, but it caused Cyril to double his efforts of escaping.

Barging through another door yielded an unfavorable outcome, they were now back in the open streets. Rosie tugged at Cyril’s gas mask tube and pointed him to look back, as the beast brute forced it’s way out of the building by smashing through the brick and glass. Arches and walls started to crumble behind it as the creature continued its ear piercing screech. Not even walls can stop it? Cyril thought to himself. Crossing over more broken terrain, hopping over small trenches, the streets were starting to all look the same, it felt like they were never going to shake this beast off of them. Though Cyril needed to get in a more narrow space rather than out in the open again. Taking his chances Cyril decided to barge through one of the many buildings, which the creature quickly followed through on, by smashing through the weakened door, as part of the house frame collapsed. Trapping it in brick and wood, giving the both of them an opportunity to bolt out of the building, by kicking the rear door that led through to yet another alley. Cyril’s heart rate was beating exponentially, his lungs burning through his chest, and his legs aching, it was as if he was going to give in to exhaustion. The creature made a desperate attempt to break through the rubble, it’s screeches muffled through the layers of wood and brick as it tried to claw its way free from the tomb it created. Cyril ran to the nearest door and slammed the wood frame open before turning clockwise to shut it quickly. Placing Rosie down on the floor, he noticed that there was a stairway up to a second floor, and he pointed her to head up. Cyril took out his weapons in anticipation for an attack, slowly taking steps backwards on the stairs, the muffled screams soon silenced and all that remained was the ambient rain that had always followed them.

Seconds felt like an eternity as he waited for the silence to end, however nothing followed afterwards. His breathing returned to normal and his heart slowed down to a regular rhythm. Perhaps the bird’s impulsive crash through the building ended up killing him? Or did it just simply find a way out and left the chase for another time? Whatever the case, Cyril let out a long sigh as he collapsed onto the stairs in exhaustion. Rosie took careful steps down to see if Cyril was alright.

“I’m fine, don’t worry.” He said, gasping for air.

The sentence caused Rosie to hesitate for a little, before stepping away to give Cyril some space to breathe. Unclipping his canteen, Cyril heaved himself up, removed his gas mask and took a large gulp of water before returning it to his belt. The clean taste of rain water was a reprieve from the grueling chase he had to marathon. A minute had passed of recuperation before standing up and deciding to have a search of the building they were in. Much like most of the buildings he had seen in the city, it was two stories high, though unlike where he found Rosie, the walls in this building were more of a ginger orange color rather than blue. The steps and floor were in a dark mahogany, while lamps above remained still and dark. There was plenty of illumination however, as tall glass windows unaffected by vandalism or bombardment occupied the front of the house and even the second floor. Rosie was already scouring the first floor, Cyril decided to join her to help widen the search.

Shifting through drawers that contained quills, and parchment. Most of them were ink sketches of plants and fruits, though there was the occasional animal here and there. One however caused him to stop glancing and stare with confusion. It was a symbol, circles and angled lines arrayed in an odd fashion that made Cyril wonder what the artist was even thinking of, the only real defined shape in it, was the skull of a bird in the top looming over the unknown glyph. His curiosity got the better of him, as he decided to place it in one of his pockets, he was surprised that he had forgotten about the piece of paper he had grabbed from the dead German earlier. Unfolding the yellowed paper, the words were eloquently written and in German. Deciphering it would prove to be next to impossible given his limited vocabulary, however one word in the paper froze him as still as a statue.

Rook.

Cyril's eyes widened at the sight of it. His mind soon fluttered with questions about its meaning, as he quickly folded it back into his pocket. Cyril’s legs soon trembled as he could hear the seductive voice of the Woman in white whisper the words in his ears as he turned back to catch if there was a glimpse of her. There was no one of course, just the stillness of an abandoned building. He tried to take steady breaths, to try and calm him down. There was no voice that came to startle him, only himself and his thoughts. Rosie walked into the room where Cyril was in a cold sweat, his eyes darting towards her in a split second before relaxing at a familiar face.

“You ill?” She questioned quietly. Slowly walking towards the other side of the room.

“No, just a little startled.” His heartbeat returned to its steady pace and he felt at ease again, wiping the sweat off from his forehead.

The two of them soon found themselves in a small venue, stocks of food were displayed on shelves and wooden baskets. The walls were painted white paint while the floor was dark wood. It was a produce shop, hopefully there was some sort of edible piece of fruit or vegetable here. Resting his helmet and mask on one of the tables near the back he started to shift through the various baskets and shelves. A majority of it was either taken or rotten, flies buzzing about the shelves that still had anything of value remaining. Doubling back he decided to look behind the table where he placed his belongings, miraculously he found a small box containing two apples and a few grapes scattered in it. Cyril soon called Rosie over, placing one of the red fruits in his palm, handing it to her as she approached.

She stopped at the sight of the delectable fruit and grasped it with both hands. Nodding passionately with a great smile across her cheeks. Cyril would’ve thought no one would be capable of smiling in this hellscape, but seeing her lift the apple to her face with the largest grin imaginable, made him feel content. She soon started gnawing on the red fruit in the first few seconds but soon slowed down after a while. Cyril on the other hand sat down and took small bites, savoring the crisp taste and trying to make the meal last as long as it could. Periodically, he and Rosie would chew on the grapes and take a break from eating the apples, before returning to them. Fresh fruit like this was a luxury to find near the front, and Cyril was fortunate enough to even get two grapes to himself, he didn’t want to dwell on the watered down soup he was served. Those memories would not ruin this moment.

Rosie was first to finish the apple, leaving only a thin core with next to nothing remaining for the pests to clean up. Cyril on the other hand, had a small percentage left, deciding it was time to take a large bite. He knew he was not going to eat something as pristine as this for a very long time. Their little respite was soon over, Cyril managed to find some food. However he still needed some more supplies for himself in the journey ahead. A few blood needles and some scraps of paper wouldn't be enough for the future. Hopefully he could find a large cache of ammunition and a stockpile of blood needles for the future.

Cyril was the first to stand up, placing his mask over his face once more to the expressionless void he was so used to showing off on others. He motioned Rosie over to come along, and she obeyed without question. Both of them soon exited the venue and returned to the empty streets as before. The same as all the others they had seen, but there were more ravens than usual. Not the oversized ones that stuck to the ground, but regular ones that perched on posts, walls and rubble. From what he could see, Cyril counted at least six of them being visible, a few calling outcomes each other in their avian tongue. He paid no mind to them, however Rosie stuck close by and latched onto his waist cape. Not bothering to look back this time, Cyril simply continued forward while he was followed closely by his little companion.

The amount of ravens soon doubled as they passed a corner, with a few more trenches scattered on the roads. Unaware of his path, Cyril almost stepped on one of the ravens, which responded by pecking at his boot. Waving his medical cleaver gently at the bird caused it to flutter away, Cyril didn't bother attacking these corvids since they were ordinary ravens and crows, not the oversized and land bound ones that attacked him earlier. There were no bodies to be seen, and no foul odor that permeated with them which made Cyril grateful, either the scavengers already ate the remains or someone decided to bury them. It had to have been the latter since there were a few bloodied marks on the road and one on the wall of a building.

The jeering from several of the ravens drowned out the light rain that had been peppering the two with water. Cyril was used to hearing them in the void of No man's land, though back then it was less frequent, they simply left the soldiers of both lines alone and kept to themselves. Only when the artillery and whistles sounded off did they abandon their meals. There were no indications of a battle taking place, so the ravens made their nests on the ruins of the city, like vigilante guards. Hopping over a trench, Cyril turned back, placing his weapon on his belt and outstretched his arms to grab Rosie and heft her over. However, in the last second Cyril saw the glossy eyes of one of the oversized corvids silently waiting for prey. Its large beak opened up with meat and tendons still attached from whatever it once ate. The bird wretched its body upwards to take a bite out of Rosie, but only managed to gulp down air as Cyril reeled her away from the hideous beast.

His balance was lost as he made that maneuver, as Cyril took the brunt of the fall on his backside. A sharp pain jabbed at his back as he landed on small rocks, motioning Rosie away from him. Cyril turned to his right to grab the medical cleaver clipped to his belt, wincing at a jolt stabbing at his back from the fall as he stood up. He could see the grotesque corvid trying to climb its way up from the trench, its wings fruitlessly trying to grab the stone and dirt. Deciding to end this as quickly as possible, Cyril sprinted back to the trench and went in for a single swipe at the raven’s wings. Slicing the thin bone that held the feathers, the raven collapsed back into its filthy home. The incessant cawing, still defiant in trying to kill Cyril, he was sick of the noise and ended the creature’s life by swinging downward onto its head. Silence soon followed as the rain returned its soothing sound.

In a split second, Cyril hauled himself out of the trench and returned to Rosie, who was huddled behind a pile of rubble, clutching tightly to her stuffed bear. Returning his cleaver to the belt, Cyril held out his hand to Rosie, their journey now undisturbed. Soon it became a routine, traveling down desolate streets, fighting the occasional carrion raven, and searching through the buildings. It was as monotonous as being on the frontline trench that Cyril was so used to. No signs of a larger map to help navigate, however Cyril managed to find five blood needles in one house. When Rosie came over to ask what they were he simply described it as medicine for adults, not the most elegant way he could’ve described blood needles, but it satiated her wonder for what they were.

Leaving the three story building they had found the blood needles in, their journey soon took them to a vast open square that looked like a gathering place for many people, only a small crater was tucked in the far corner the opposite side of where the two were standing. The buildings surrounding them were in the same autumn colors as the buildings before. Several of their top floors were caved in, a section of the buildings were blown off where Cyril could see the skeletal remains of wood floors and walls scorched and torn to pieces. A single turreted tank lay dead ahead of them while the arched buildings were on the left side, debris and rocks were laying below the overhang. Opposite of that was a grand building, stone hastily applied to certain sections of the wall, and a tall, imposing tower with a conical point jutting to pierce the murky clouds above. The whole building had this foreboding atmosphere that Cyril couldn’t place his finger on, it also looked like it had survived an artillery shell and was hurriedly rebuilt by poor craftsmanship.

For some reason there were well over two dozen ravens perched up on windows or arches, flapping their wings to find another place to rest or squabbling over each other for some insignificant piece of food. They were gathered closely to the tower, almost like they were guarding a giant nest. Cyril paid no attention to it and simply walked over towards the downed tank, ushering Rosie to follow him. The open square did give him a sense of dread, that same feeling he had since entering the city, the hairs on the nape of his neck started to perch up and Cyril was darting back to the buildings. Rosie took notice of this and stood still for a moment, noticing that Cyril had stopped moving. His breathing picked up in pace, and panic soon started to take hold, the moment he turned back to Rosie he heard a sound reverberate through the wind.

A bullet flew in between the two and Cyril instinctively ran towards the tank, diving for cover behind its tracks as another shot soon impacted the stone behind him. His hands were on top of his helmet as if he was trying to keep his head safe from artillery, staying on the ground for several more seconds before going into a crouch. It only took him a second to realize he had forgotten Rosie. Cyril was so obsessed with his self preservation he didn’t take the little girl into account. He looked back to see that she had run back to the wall they had come from, she kept her knees close to her chest and had her hands on both ears. Cyril knew she was panicking as badly as he was, though before he could think of a plan to do something, two more shots soon sounded out, one impacting the tank, the other on the road. He had to distract the sharpshooter, but he didn’t have a clue where the shots came from. Then he remembered the defense on the hill, the one who had the highest elevation usually had the advantage. The tower was the only place he could think of where the sharpshooter would be perched in. Cyril remembered a trick that soldiers would do in the trenches, sticking their helmets up on a rifle or stick and see where the enemy was located. Taking his dish shaped helmet off, his brown hair finally exposed after an hour of being holed up inside the helmet. Cyril knew his rifle didn’t have the length on the barrel to poke it up without showing his arm, so he only levitated it just above the tank tracks, gently moving it back and forth for a few seconds. Anticipating the shot that was bound to happen, Cyril was surprised that it took so long for the sharpshooter to make the mistake and shoot the helmet. Or perhaps he had seen this trick before and was smart enough to know it was a ruse.

Looking back at Rosie, she was still in the same position as before, but she gave a look at Cyril with tears welling at the edges of her eyes. Placing the helmet on the top of his head again, Cyril knew he was gonna have to draw the sharpshooter’s attention away from her, and focus all the effort on him. Placing his helmet back onto his head, he turned his attention to Rosie.

“When I fire this, I want you to run to me. Ok?” He spoke to her in his calm voice. Though deep down, his heart was beating exponentially, fearful that the sharpshooter would instead shoot on the girl rather than him. Rosie moved her hands away from her ears looking back towards the masked man, another shot soon rang out and impacted the rubble in the open space between them. “I need you to trust me.”

Through the tears that began a small stream down her cheeks she got up from her spot, clutching her bear in both hands. Cyril clipped his medical cleaver onto his belt and held his rifle with both hands. Nodding at Rosie before quickly turning to fire off a bullet at the tower. She started to hurry onto the tank before another bullet was fired from Cyril’s rifle. One from the sharpshooter turned his attention on Rosie and shot a little bit in front of her, in a panic she dove down and covered her head in a similar way to Cyril. That same panic soon took over Cyril as he got out of cover to fire another shot at the tower to grab hold of Rosie’s arm and move her towards the tank. As he made his way back, the sharpshooter finally landed a hit on Cyril’s left leg, causing him to collapse on the ground, grunting in pain as the sharp bullet pierced through tissue and bone. He was lucky enough to fall down near the safety of the tank, where the only thing that was exposed was a small portion of his boot. He quickly took one of the blood needles he found from the houses and jammed it into the spot the bullet impacted. Soon enough the wound was healed, though there was a small ache inside that he knew wouldn’t be gone for a while. The more important thing was that Rosie was safe, for the time being.

Checking the amount of bullets he had available, he needed to load in another clip, as he fished out for a stripper clip, loading it into the rifle and finally slamming the bolt forward. The path to get them away from the square must’ve been five meters away from their current position. Only this time, Cyril thought about running towards the overhang where the stone arches gave them a tiny bit of protection when they could run

“Alright, we’re going to do the same thing again, only this time I’m going out with you, and we will be running towards the area over there” Cyril told her as he pointed towards the overhang

“But, you will get hurt.” she responded, wiping her tears away.

“I’m drawing him out so that he will shoot at me. I’ll be fine.” He didn’t know that for certain, Cyril was just trying to reassure her. “Ready?”

Rosie nodded once before clutching tightly to her stuffed animal. Soon Cyril rushed away from the safety of the steel beast and fired off two rounds in quick succession at the building. Yelling at Rosie to move forward, she ran as fast as her little legs could carry her. Cyril was quick to follow but had to duck his head as a shot grazed the top of his helmet, scratching the green paint off and leaving a small silver line. Another bullet soon followed from the sharpshooter as it fired in front of Rosie again, however she didn’t make the mistake of diving to the path again, only staggering at the surprise of a bullet hitting so close to her, before continuing her run. Cyril fired off another round at the building to get the sharpshooter to focus on him, and lucky enough it worked, as another bullet soon impacted a window that he had run by, as shards of glass soon collapsed onto the ground. Through the arches, Cyril fired off another shot to keep the sharpshooter focused on him, they were a little over three quarters of the way there, he wasn’t going to let Rosie get killed by that man. One bullet hit the stone of a failing arch, and Cyril had to roll forward to get away from the crumbling overhang behind him, narrowly being crushed by the intense weight of stone and wood.

Firing off his last bullet from his clip he saw that Rosie had made it safely to the other side of the wall, hopping over rubble as another shot was close up on his tail, he rolled forward in time to avoid another one. His adrenaline had kept him through this endeavor, and he was grateful that both he and Roise had made it out of that situation. With that sharpshooter’s aim, he couldn’t have been any crazed soldier, that had to have been a hunter like him. He wondered who was even shooting at him, until he heard from a distance shouting, judging by the language it had to have been German, with the ferocity of the man’s voice. At least he knew who was trying to kill them, however he couldn’t ponder the reason why, as Cyril looked back to see two figures clad in the same gray uniform as the German soldier he had looted earlier. Then another soon joined them from behind, and a fourth turned the corner from the square. All of them had the same type of weapons he had seen on Kemmel hill. Though he couldn’t make out any detail to each of them given they were far away. Cyril’s only thought was replaced with survival now, as he soon grabbed Rosie’s arm, slinging his rifle on his back and running in the opposite direction of those Germans. The rain began to increase in its volume of water, and the chase began, only this time not with a ravenous monster, but by the tenacity and cunningness of hunters.

Chapter Text

The strike of lightning masked the sudden flare of a bullet being fired right behind him. Cyril instinctively ducked his head downwards, as he had done so many times whenever a bullet soared past him. Those near misses made him feel like death was looming over his shoulders placing his frigid hands on the uniform he wore. That same feeling had always followed him ever since he stepped foot into battle, and ever since he awoke to this hellish landscape. Glancing a quick look back, the hunters that were on his trail looked to have split up, only one of them was currently chasing down him and Rosie. He had to keep her close in one hand, which limited him to one weapon on the other hand, that being the medical cleaver. Cyril chose not to wield the sawn off SMLE due to needing to pull back the bolt with his other hand, it was more important to keep Rosie close to him than to just use that rifle.

The menagerie of buildings continued much as before, however unlike the outskirts, the area was blasted almost to the foundations, only a few buildings stood defiant amongst the scattered carcasses of its brethren. The rest were either stones or skeletal frames of wood jutting from the rubble. Looking back again Cyril could see only one German chasing after him, losing sight of the other three, who were no doubt stalking through the dilapidated buildings. He tilted down to usher Rosie forward, telling her that he will deal with their pursuer while she could find a place to hide. With a single nod, she clutched her bear and scampered forward while Cyril turned his attention to the cloaked soldier charging towards him. His features were veiled by a black hood and short cape, however his uniform was that of countless German soldiers he had fought numerous times. The only indication of difference was the ornate looking gloves had a gold trim, wielding a saw toothed bayonet fashioned on a metal pipe.

Taking out his sawn off SMLE, Cyril anticipated the impending attacks from his opponent. Since he was using a longer halted weapon, Cyril expected the opponent to attack in a similar fashion to how he wields the medical cleaver, or use two hands with it. He would find his answer sooner than later as the German clasped the weapon in two hands as he brought it down on a slam towards Cyril, narrowly avoiding the attack by rolling. The second attack he wasn't as fortunate to dodge, as the blade slashed in his lower abdomen, causing Cyril to stagger back as he could feel a small amount of blood starting to seep into the ground. He didn't have time to grab a blood needle, as the hooded stalker came in for a series of sweeps and lunges with his saw toothed staff. Blocking the attacks with his melee weapon would be counterproductive, Cyril's blade probably couldn't handle the impact from the longer range weapon, it would snap the blade from the handle leaving him defenseless in close range. Instead he would try and go for the offensive and make for a sweep at his legs, catching the soldier off guard who fell onto the ground. Before going in for the final blow with his cleaver, the German rolled his entire body out of the way of the attack that would’ve struck his upper chest.

The quick recovery took Cyril by surprise, he had to have guessed these hunter’s had exceptional skill at fighting others like him. Though with his legs weakened, he tried to get up from his roll, and found it harder to do, as Cyril had sliced at the ankles earlier, causing the hooded man to fumble. Cyril wasted no more time in drawing out the fight and simply aimed his rifle at the man before pulling the trigger. A hole ripped straight through the man’s chest, his breathing soon became haggard and he dropped to the floor, losing grip on his weapon and clawing for desperate gulps of air, not unlike a fish flailing for water. If this was during the war, Cyril would’ve felt pity for the man slowly dying before him. However, he was one of the people that were trying to harm him and Rosie, and for that any semblance of compassion soon evaporated, as he delivered the killing blow, by slashing at the man’s head. The blade shearing through the thin black cloak with ease. Taking a long breath, he soon looked back to see that Rosie was carefully perching her head above a pile of rocks, with the threat eliminated, Cyril made his way back to her, clutching the wound in his abdomen that was slowly seeping blood. Before reaching out for another blood needle, a sharp jolt pierced above the wound, followed by the loud reverberation of a rifle sounding off from the rain.

The pain was unlike any other he had felt before. Never in his time in the front had he been shot, it might’ve come down to luck or the poor aim of the enemy, but he was always fortunate to live another day. In that very moment he screamed his entire lungs out as the bullet that had impacted him was making another wound directly above his old one. He tried his best to run towards Rosie, who had cowered behind the debris, trying not to make herself a target out in the open. Cyril was surprised that the shooter hadn’t fired off another shot at him, perhaps he was taking careful consideration with his shots unlike before, if it even was the same man from the tower. Soon enough though, another shot boomed through, as loud as thunder, whirring by Cyril only by a few centimeters before impacting the road beneath him.

Finally he had made it to the cover where Rosie was, still clutching his wounds with his right arm, he noticed the grip of his medical cleaver was in the same crimson color as his blood. He dropped it and soon reached into his pocket for a blood needle, Rosie watched the entirety with a horrified glimpse, before digging her head between her knees. As the blood needle regenerated his tissue and flesh, Cyril risked a glance up from the safety of the rubble. The second shot was different than the first, it was much louder than the first one, so it had to have been a different rifle. He soon found out, as the same thunder of the rifle made another near miss, as it impacted the debris they were using as cover. In the distance he could hear the loud chastising of one of the hunters, probably berating him on how he could’ve missed such an easy headshot. Cyril at least got a look at the nest the two Germans were hunkered down in. One of the three story buildings with its roof collapsed on the highest floor. Bringing his rifle to bear he turned around and glanced back at Rosie.

"Like before, when I shoot this, I want you to run." Rosie revealed her tear stricken face and only nodded as a response, wiping the streams of water away from her eyes. "Now go!"

With one shout, Rosie made a sprint to the nearest cover while Cyril fired off two shots. After that he picked up his medical cleaver and started to follow after his little companion. The shots of rifle fire soon followed suit as one impacted the scorched body of an automobile whilst the others missed, including the louder rifle that only grazed a pile of debris. Motioning Rosie to keep going with his cleaver hand, Cyril fired off a haphazard shot of his SMLE with one hand in the nest. Though the next shots didn't come from the same spot, as they were now a floor lower and in a different building.

Ducking down instinctively, Cyril ran past more of the rubble piles and could see Rosie running towards the corner of an alley. Following close behind, he bobbed and weaved past more fire from the elevated position before he made his destination. With one more thunderous shot of the larger rifle failing to find its mark. Adrenaline ran high in the two of them, though for Cyril, this was equivalent to charging a German trench, never had he been out in the open in an urban environment being shot from afar by sharpshooters. All of this must've been extremely stressful for Rosie however as the girl was nervously looking back and forth for any surprise that might lurk in the confines of the alleyway.

He couldn't hear any of the squabbling from the two sharpshooters. Perhaps they were trying to catch up with the two of them. Cyril wasted no time to find out and hurried along Rosie down the passage. It gave him that familiar sense of dread as being chased by that creature before, only this time the German soldiers were more cunning and disciplined than that monstrosity. They could've easily adapted to the situation and waited until he and Rosie were out in the open again. Which meant for now, Cyril had to be careful in traversing the city, enclosed areas and tight corridors were ideal in dealing with these experts.

The only real hindrance as of now, was the sight of two ravens on the ledges glaring down at the duo below them. Their annoying caws unnerved him, as it could easily give their position away to those hunters. Then a third soon fluttered onto a ledge and joined the pair that had spotted them. Cyril wasted no more time staying in the alley, holstering his rifle as he grabbed Rosie's hand and ran down the narrow pathways.

Before long, he could hear faint footsteps trailing close to them. The rain almost masking the sound out, with the exception of splashes in scattered puddles. Risking a glance behind him, he could see another hunter. Shrouded in the small fog that crept behind them. His features were shrouded in the mist. The ravens increased their caws, soon becoming a sort of beacon for where he was. Rosie slowed down and scooped up a pebble on the ground, proceeding to throw it at one of the corvids who dodged the attack by fluttering above the projectile. The intensity of splashes increased, as it became a sprint, the hunter was beginning to chase them in the narrow alley. Up above. A series of bricks and rocks fell from the roofs of the buildings, followed by several more ravens circling around the figure shrouded in black. It was as if Cyril and Rosie were mice, and the hunters were birds of prey, ready to swoop in for the kill.

A shot rang out from the mist above. Impacting centimeters away from Cyril as it made its mark on a wooden barrel, shattering the rotund container into several planks of wood. A volley of bullets soon followed from behind, as the hunter in the alley fired off what Cyril assumed was a pistol. Most of them missed entirely but one managed to hit his torso. The shattered rib felt like it was going to rip right out of his chest, he had to find a place to take care of these two before he could move on. He had to draw them inside one of the buildings. Turning to Rosie he pointed at one of the doors to the left that was an entrance to one of the homes. Another shot from the rifle above shattered the window before Cyril managed to get inside with his small companion and shut the door on his pursuers.

Cyril and Rosie soon entered an orange kitchen with most of its appliances broken beyond repair, and the walls covered in bullet holes. Rosie quickly scampered to one of the rooms, presumably to hide for now, whilst Cyril sat behind the wall. He couldn't afford wasting anymore of his blood needles, he was down to five of them. Cyril decided that this would be the only exception for the time being. He rammed the needle on his skin and felt the soothing, warm relief of respite from the sharp bone fragment. Now down to only four, he had to conserve them only for near death, or until he could find more. Though searching for supplies while the two of them are being chased was ill advised. For now however, he had to assume the two hunters outside were going to breach the house any second now. The anticipation and adrenaline soon combined to form dread at how the fight will go down. Maybe he will have the advantage? Or will these Germans have experience in confined areas such as these, and he was inviting them in for an easy kill.

Moving away from the kitchen, he went into the small common room of the house and hugged the wall, hiding behind one of the wooden shelves that gave the room some decor. Peeking ever so slightly to the kitchen door to see which one would come in first, the one with the ravens, or the pistol wielder. An audible bang came through as Cyril assumed one of the hunters kicked open the wooden door that he had shut earlier. Calming his breath he braced himself for the close quarters fighting that he would have to experience, the closest he could relate to it was whenever he had to assault the trenches, and his rifle would be too cumbersome for the skirmish inside. Though unlike his old one, this sawn off rifle would come in handy in the confines of the house. Footfalls soon collided with shattered glass and wooden splinters, as the German hunter methodically surveyed the rear entrance. Cyril halted his breathing and eagerly anticipated the moment a weapon or a face would poke over the corner of the wall. Quieting his breathing proved to be an issue with his gas mask on, it gave off a distinct rasping noise with every exhale. He only hoped that the soldier that entered was partially deaf, otherwise his location would be given away easily. More steps soon followed, as the man carefully stepped away from the dilapidated kitchen and into the living quarters, just as Cyril hoped for. A pistol was raised up, ready to fire at the sight of movement, and soon a figure clad in a dark gray and black uniform entered the room, completely unaware of the threat that lurked in the corner.

His opportunity had arrived, Cyril lunged out of his laminate sanctuary and quickly snapped a shot off of his rifle into the man’s gut. Despite being shot in the lower torso, the hunter swiftly turned around to swing his melee weapon, a trench pickaxe that narrowly missed him. Unexpectedly, the hunter charged at Cyril and pinned him back to the wooden shelves, destroying the furniture in the process. A tussle soon ensued, where he and the hunter held each other's melee weapons back in a tense clash of steel. Cyril tried to bring up his sawn off rifle but had to hold on it, as the hunter doubled his efforts in pinning Cyril to the ground. Even with a shot near the stomach, as if he was almost unphased by his injury.

The sound of a bottle breaking soon interrupted their quarrel, Cyril was amazed to see that Rosie had grabbed a bottle presumably in the kitchen and smashed it on the hunter. Though he was distracted for a few seconds glaring at the small French girl in annoyance, Cyril took this chance to strike back. Retaliating by stabbing the man’s shoulder blade as he was preoccupied, the sudden attack from behind caused him to turn back once more to return the kindness with his own, as he turned his trench pickaxe into a single blade, striking Cyril’s upper torso, narrowly avoiding a stab into his neck by a split second. Rosie smashed the same bottle on the rear of the German’s leg, causing him to collapse onto the ground in pain. He desperately tried to grab his weapon that had cluttered onto the floor to his right, however Cyril stomped on his hand to prevent him from doing so, before ending the hunter’s life with a slash on the man’s back that cut through cloth and skin.

He heaved out a lungful of air and winced the sharpness that cut into his skin at the fresh wound. He looked to Rosie who had been standing still, completely speechless at what she had done, her eyes darting around in a panic, before Cyril walked over and patted her on the shoulder.

“Come on, we gotta keep going.”

Rosie shook her head to remove herself from the fear of being so close to a killer. Quickly remembering that had she done nothing, Cyril would’ve been dead. Dropping the bottle, she nodded at him and followed behind the masked man.

Cyril led her outside of the building and into another open street. Not ideal, but the hunter from before would’ve been waiting outside on the other entrance had they went there, he thought to himself. He almost expected another hunter to come out from one of the houses and ambush them. Taking a few steps away from the house, nothing came luckily, perhaps they were regrouping for another attack? Or could it have been something else entirely, maybe giving them a head start before resuming their hunt. Whatever it may be, the silence didn’t exactly ease his mind, only adding to the suspense of what’s to come. Ten minutes of wandering passed by and Cyril gripped both of his weapons until his knuckles turned white the stress of waiting for those hunters choosing to draw out the chase bothered him. The sky above turned to a darker shade of gray, as a bolt of lightning cascaded from the sky to break up the stillness of the streets. Rosie jolted her head up in surprise as did Cyril, the sudden burst of sound spooked the two of them, and took them out of their trance of aimlessly walking through the street.

However, it only served to offer them a warning, to be vigilant for the roads ahead, as Cyril perched his head up and heard a distinct screech through the rain, enough for him to look back instinctively. That thing was out looking for them as well. Without a second thought, Cyril turned to holster his rifle and grab Rosie’s hand, she took it in an instant, unfortunately he saw the silhouette of the creature in question, its disfigured bird face staring directly into the featureless lens of Cyril’s gas mask. Turning quickly to the opposite direction he dragged Rosie along in another chase through the city, as the creature behind them let out another ear shattering screech to let its presence be known to the residents that still call this place home. Looking back to the road, Cyril bolted forward and didn’t take another chance to look back at the hideous creature. Vaulting over sandbags and hopping over small trenches, there was a part of him that almost wished it was a German hunter rather than that thing. At least then he could tell Rosie to hide or stay back, however, this abomination would never offer such luxury, only seeing them both as equal opportunities to maim apart their skin. Images of the thought briefly flashed in his eyes, and Cyril could only shake them away with his head, as long as he drew breath, he would prevent that from happening to him and the child.

The creature howled again and quickened its pace, the jaw snapping once every minute in anticipation for its prey. Cyril turned to a truck and was relieved to see another alleyway, this one narrow enough that the creature would have to find an alternative to pass it. Ushering Rosie inside the corridor, he could hear the swipe of sharpened claws grate through the stone and created an unpleasant noise that grated through like a blade dragged across bricks. The alley was only a few meters long and only sent them to another street that looked almost identical to the one they were on. The creature halted its pursuit and Cyril had a feeling it was going to come around at the closest junction and resume its chase. Hurrying down the labyrinth that was called Arras, he gestured to Rosie to keep up, but he knew it had to be hurting her arm being dragged like this. It was something Cyril was ashamed of doing, but the alternative would be for her to fall behind and worse case scenario, she trips on the rubble. That didn’t mean it could still happen.

Clipping the medical cleaver to his belt, Cyril scooped Rosie up with his hands and carried her as if she was a heavy cat. She clung tightly to his chest and neck, grasping at her bear all the while. Unfortunately, the scream of the beast was close behind, as it finished its detour and returned for unfinished business. She was the first to see it and immediately closed her eyes at the sight of that creature. Cyril only doubled his resolve and sprinted faster down the street, turning to a fork in the road, deciding to turn to the right and ran past more defense networks and hopping over another trench. The creature behind him only shrieked in response and was running so fast that it skidded on the road and crashed into the building ahead, giving Cyril ample time to put more distance from the thing. It took the beast several seconds to get out of its stupor before resuming its target. He couldn’t keep this up forever, eventually his legs would give in, and he would be easy pickings for the abomination behind him.

However, a thought came to mind. A bold strategy that he just needed more distance from that creature to put into effect. A distraction or feigning a direction to run towards? Anything to get this thing away from him.

His theories on how to evade this creature soon provided an answer he never expected. The sound of a bullet firing through the storm, whistling to the road, he and Rosie ducked their heads in an instant and knew that it was another German hunter, perhaps he was using this beast as an opportunity for an easy kill? He couldn’t chance a look as to where the shot came from, bu it was just what Cyril needed. The hunter fired another shot, however it fell behind and nearly hit the creature tailing them. Hearing the sound of claws halting for a moment, his diversion was now in play, though not before he had to dodge another bullet that hit the glass of a store near them. However, it was all behind him as he entered another alleyway, knowing that the beast would have to find another alternate route to chase them, and that the hunter had a new target to worry about. What followed was something he could only ever remember in the trenches, the panicked shots of a man that was fearful for his life. Any semblance of professionalism that hunter had quickly evaporated, as Cyril and Rosie could only hear the desperate pleas for help and screaming that soon followed. The sound was all too familiar to him, in the chaotic brawls of a defense from the unending hordes of soldiers, every now and then Cyril could hear the begging of a man, be it friend or foe, doing everything they can for the attacker to show mercy and spare them. Usually there was no mercy, and certainly none that could be found in a monstrosity that was a warped bird, whose only thought was to kill. He had no plans to come to his rescue, Cyril left that hunter to his fate the moment he had fired on him and Rosie, he served his purpose and he wasn’t going to squander his chance.

Making haste he hurried down the alley and found himself on another column of houses and buildings, looking for which one would suit him. Rosie looked around similar to a cat eyeing a moving squirrel, and was confused as to what Cyril was glancing around so frantically.

“Why are you looking at houses?” She asked innocently.

Cyril couldn’t offer a response as explaining would distract him. His eyes scattered across the buildings in various states of disrepair, looking for which one would suit him fine. Running past the most structurally sound ones, the further down he ran the more the houses looked as if they were subjected to artillery fire. This suited him just fine, however he had to find the right one.

The buildings he immediately crossed off were the ones little more than a skeletal husk. The screeching from the creature sounded through the rain, and Cyril's time was running out. However he found one. A building that was three stories high with only two support beams holding it in place, looking as if it would fall so much as a breeze pushed it. The building had to have been two or three dozen meters, sandwiched in between two intact houses so perhaps this could also benefit in his idea. He placed Rosie down on her feet.

"I want you to run to the far edge of that alley, I'm going to draw that thing out." Rosie nervously looked behind her then back to his savior in a confused manor. "Don't worry I'll be right behind you."

With that Rosie ran down as far as her little legs could carry. With her in a safer distance, Cyril began to look through the stone pillar holding the building up and brushed it with his hand, wondering if either his weapons could break it. Wielding both of them he gently tapped the stone with the butt of his medical cleaver, noticing that even with the smallest touch it moved a centimeter.

"Perfect." he smirked behind his concealed mask. All he had to do now was to wait for that hideous thing to show its face.

The one thing he always hated whenever something fearsome approached was the downtime in between. The anticipation, and fear of what could possibly happen lurched into the rear of his thoughts. Shutting them away, he would not be ruled by them, his mind would be fortified from the intrusive thoughts of dread and terror. The sound of scurrying steps from the beast soon grew closer, as Cyril readied himself, his hands gripping tightly on both of his weapons, gently moving his right hand so as to not have it drenched in sweat. When he returned to a firm grip, he saw the beast skid past the loose rubble on the road. Its front claws outstretched forward, and the face contorting to what could only be described as a gaping maw of jagged teeth. Hesitating no more, Cyril bolted for the unstable pillar and smashed the loose brick from its placement with the butt of his medical cleaver.

As if Atlas himself had failed to keep the heavens from crashing down, the weight of the building soon began to falter. Shards of glass and splinters of wood were the preliminary signs of disaster, as Cyril knew very well it was time for the hardest part of his plan. Simply surviving. Turning around quickly he made a sprint for the alley as the building began its collapse as wood flooring gave way and brick walls tumbled to the ground. The beast behind was unphased by this destruction and made a dash towards him, now growing weary of the chase, it simply wanted to feast on Cyril. The building would have other plans however, as the second and third stories began its landslide down onto the alley, burying all was unfortunate enough to be caught in the midst. The beast was unperturbed by the destruction all around him and only continued its bolt towards Cyril. The apocalyptic destruction soon carried over to the left most building as a large stone slab collided with that of the building, causing the wall to give way and begin another chain reaction of a cave in.

The resulting destruction caused Cyril to run faster than he had before, compared to assaulting the German trenches out in the open he felt like none of the offensives he took part in compared to what he was running through. Though instead of running towards certain death, he was running away from it. Rubble soon toppled over his path as Cyril vaulted and jumped over pieces of the wall that fell onto the road, the beast behind him simply blitzed through them as if they were not there. The continuous pattern of running and avoiding falling debris would soon catch up as more physically demanding than carrying Rosie in his arms. His legs were about to give in as he started to become fatigued, the constant threat of being hunted by either this thing or the German hunters were about to take its toll on him. If this trap couldn’t even stop this creature then what would? Another prolonged fight with it like he had faced with the Crawling tank or the Kaiser’s marauder?

However, Cyril’s gambit soon paid off as a large column of stone toppled down onto the wall of the opposite building. It tumbled down with the force to splatter several men, and thankfully the creature was in the vicinity as it was crushed under the immense weight of stone. The cataclysmic devastation wasn’t over though, as Cyril hopped over another fallen wood panel and weaved out of the way from a few sets of furniture, not even noticing that a teacup had impacted and shattered above his helmet. The crescendo of wood, stone and glass soon reached its climax as the two buildings caught in the disaster collapsed entirely, as Cyril made one last jump over a fallen piano and made a clean roll towards the edge of the road, looking back at the destruction he was the architect of.

His breathing haggard, sweat dripping down his skin and his muscles screamed for rest. Cyril exhaled aloud and stood up with both weapons in hand. There was a small fog of dust and soot surrounding the area of the collapsed buildings, somewhere under all that wreckage is that monstrosity. Since he had affectionately given names to all the toughest creatures he had fought that had no real definite name to describe them, in the bowels of his mind, he called it the Messenger of the Sky. An elegant name for a grotesque creature, he chuckled to himself at the thought of it. If anything it served as a way to remember the specific horrors that not even the war could hope to match up with. Content with the devastation he had caused, Cyril circled around to find Rosie peeking her head behind the wall of a building, before scurrying back to her protector.

“Bird dead?”

“Yes, it is.” Cyril said with one last look behind his shoulder. Giving them a rotation as he turned back to her. “It’s one problem taken care of, but the other still persists.”

“The bad men” she mumbled to herself, looking away nervously. Cyril went down on one knee, he knew it was foolish but he felt like he had to keep her spirits up.

“Hey, I know it’s frightening, I’m scared just as much as you are. Know that I won’t let so much as a scrape touch you from those hunters. Alright?”

She looked up from her sidelong glance and nodded quickly, a faint smile creased on the side of her cheek. A rarity for him, Cyril couldn’t help but smile back through his mask as he stood back up. Stretching out his arm he grasped Rosie’s lithe hand as they exited the alleyway. Their trip outside onto the streets proved to be calmer than expected, no ambushes immediately followed after they left the tight corridor, nor the oversized crows coming to shuffle in for a surprise. Several minutes of walking down the cratered street put Cyril’s mind on edge, the silence is always what bothered him the most. Whether it was during the inevitable assault, or wading through No man’s land. The only sound that could be found were footsteps and the rain that entered its gentle melody. He had to get used to the lack of artillery shells being fired as it was so common that the environment was strange without the distant thunder of steel colliding with mud. Rosie stuck closely behind Cyril as she hopped over a pothole, every now and then he’d look back to see if she was keeping the pace, and most of the time she was. With this being the exception as she almost gingerly hopped over small holes as if it were a game. Thankfully she wasn’t slowing down, otherwise he’d have to rebuke her.

Every now and then a stray pebble or rock would fall from the cracked walls of the buildings beside them, though with how frequent it became, Cyril had to assume it was another hunter. He tensed up and gripped his weapons fiercely, as he motioned for Rosie to stop. With the two of them standing still, he waited for the next sight of debris that would fall to the ground. Darting his eyes back and forth, Cyril eagerly anticipated any type of noise, or motion but all that came was the sight of a raven fluttering to the roof, tilting its head inquisitively. Annoyed at the sight of the corvid he turned around towards Rosie and moved his left hand clutching his sawn off SMLE to head for the pile of wooden barrels nearest him. She obediently ran towards the rotund containers and sat down. With her safe for now, Cyril took a cautious step forward, thinking that whoever the hunter was, could possibly slip up and make more noise, perhaps in trying to get a better firing angle? He took a big risk standing out in the open, practically inviting himself to be fired upon, his common sense chastising him for this irrational decision, but he knew that if the hunter could draw his fire to him instead of Rosie, it would be worth it.

The patter of pebbles came from the left side, on a two story building in cream. Seeing a figure move in the shadows of the broken windows, Cyril swung his rifle and fired instinctively. The shot hit the wooden frame, as the hunter bailed out of the house by hurling himself towards the ground in a roll that must’ve taken a lot of skill to pull off, doubly so as he recovered quickly with a pair of pistol rounds aiming at him. Luckily they were fired off so fast that they completely missed the mark as the two soon came in close to strike. The blade of this helmeted hunter was almost the size of a pocket knife, though it was warped looking one at that, perfect for quick stabs. Cyril came in with an upward strike, though the bare faced hunter was quicker to evade, rolling away from the attack, before Cyril swung again in a horizontal slash. Like before, the man was quick to avoid it. Annoyed at this speed, Cyril retracted the medical cleaver’s blade into a shorter frame, in an attempt to gain a faster swing speed to catch up.

Watching this spectacle from above was the corvids slowly gathering one at a time, watching the exhausted man go up against a nimbler opponent, hopelessly outmatched. Cyril took a stab into his lower torso, his sight now becoming a blur as the rain started to hamper his vision in the eye lens of his gas mask. The German hunter moved as if he was a revenant that came to claim Cyril. Swingly to his left in a sluggish manner, he had to break open his pocket for one of the remaining four blood needles as his eyes were struggling to stay focused. His stamina had all been spent in the endeavor with the Messenger of the Sky that he had no strength left to keep fighting. Ramming the blood needle into his thigh rejuvenated his wounds, though he still was outmatched for the faster opponent. Though at this point, the hunter stopped dodging and weaving, only taunting Cyril by playing a trick with his warped knife. Irritated at the thought of being toyed with, he swung his cleaver in a series of strikes and sweeps that were in vain as the hunter chuckled to himself at the sight of Cyril’s bumbling attacks. Though he was quick to silence his mouth, as Cyril brough the medical cleaver down and struck the hunter’s left leg, causing the man to burst out screaming as he fell down to clutch his leg. With what felt like his lungs burning through his ribs, his heart pounding erratically and legs overwhelmed, Cyril slowly let the hunter cling to his last few seconds of life in fear, as Cyril pulled back the bolt of his rifle before bringing the medical cleaver down on the helpless hunter. The look of terror being eerily similar to those of the German soldiers he had fought against in countless assaults, Though he took no pride in the killing of a fellow man, this one almost proved to be an exception with his irritating duel. Delivering the killing blow simply by stabbing the hunter square in the chest, as his pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears.

With the cleaver soaked in blood, the cawing of crows soon overwhelmed the gentle rhythm of rain. Cyril soon looked back to see the place where Rosie was hiding behind. The barrels looking as if they were knocked over, he turned his head around to find where Rosie had run off to, though with a second glance back to the center. A figure clad in gray and black, the colors of the German hunters that he had fended off from. Though this one was obscured by a mask of some sort, what kind he couldn’t tell from the sky turning a darker shade of gray that he assumed was close to becoming night. His helmet was like that of most German soldiers, however, this one donned a spike that pointed towards the rear at a forty-five degree angle. Several ravens crowded around the man as Cyril’s heart sank as the man held Rosie hostage, tilting a rifle with an axe blade directly at her neck as tears streaked from her cheeks to the sharpened blade. Despite his fatigue almost taking hold of him, a sudden surge of energy returned to him at the sight of Rosie being threatened, drawing his rifle up on one hand.

“You piece of shit, let her go!” His words echoing over the silent streets.

The hunter only inched the blade closer to Rosie’s neck in response before easing it. Holding the rifle’s grip in one hand before moving Rosie with a forceful shove to the ground, allowing him to caress the rifle axe in both hands. A flash of lighting soon revealed the mask he wore under his steel spiked helmet, reminiscent to that of plague doctors in older times, in a jet black color. Through his featureless beak, he whispered a few words that he couldn’t understand, not even resembling German, save one that he was all too familiar with, one that set his brain into a panic

"Rook"

Pointing with his left hand at Cyril. Before he had time to think, the swarm of ravens were upon him. His last image was that of the beak faced hunter hauling up Rosie before his vision faded.

Chapter Text

There was no noise to be found. No water trickling down the angled slopes of roofs, the crumbling of pebbles as they’re crushed under the force of columns of stone. Not even the faintest trace of an insect buzzing out in the world to make its presence known to all. Just the stillness of the void. His eyes opened up momentarily in the absence of sound, slowly, but soon with a sense of panic that overwhelmed him. The flesh on his hands and face were smooth and featureless, no gashes or scars to be shown, as if his skin was fully healed. Then it dawned on him. The void, the lack of sound, the emptiness of it all, he had died again. Inexplicably he had cheated death once more, was he now immortal? Was he chosen by a higher being that he was too important to simply die from a murder? He still had questions that needed to be answered, and people to save, or attempt to. Deep down he had failed in his promise to that little girl, the one he vowed no one would harm. What good was it, if he couldn't keep a promise to a frightened little girl? Lying down the man simply let his eyes rest once more. As the faintest sights of those distorted creatures returned, but only for a brief glimpse before his eyes slid shut, returning to the bleakness of shadows.

In an instant, he was returned to the calm but perplexing world that had existed beyond where he was. Cyril heaved himself up from the stone road and cracked his back to release a sore pain from the muscles. As if he had woken up from a long nap in the heat of a quilted blanket, he took his time carefully stepping up from the floor before looking out to the ethereal plains. Very briefly he started to remember the events of the past hour, the chase through the city streets with the Messenger of the Stars, the German hunters tracking him down and that man that took her. Rosie.

Cyril wanted to punch the ground at his failure to protect her. At his most vulnerable state, with no energy left he was helpless to save her from that masked hunter. Recalling the excruciating pain of a dozen murderous ravens clawing and stabbing him with their talons and beaks. His outfit turned from a light beige to a deep crimson in a moment. His hands unable to grab either his medical cleaver or sawn off rifle as the fingers were either sliced or torn off by the corvids. Definitely a more gruesome end compared to when he encountered the first War horse from the tents. At least that was quick, this one however was a slower more agonizing death. Cyril brushed those unsettling events in the bowels of his mind as he walked to the serene garden of white flowers and gentle grass brushing in the wind, performing a unique ballet of flora in the wind.

Surprisingly he was relieved to see a familiar face after so long, the Doll holding one of the flowers gently in her porcelain hands as Cyril crept his way closer to the workshop. More of a humble building compared to the gargantuan fortress that was the chateau in the distance, Cyril couldn’t help but feel a whiff of nostalgia each time he returned to the workshop, almost as if he was returning home. The Doll got up from her examinations of the floral pets and turned to face Cyril.

“Welcome home good hunter. It has been quite some time.” spoken with her calm and soothing voice. The last sentence made him raise an eyebrow. It couldn’t have already been that long since he had been away from here, maybe two or three hours at most. “Your tool has been fully repaired if you were wondering. It is on the workbench.”

“Thank you ma’am. I assume Edward is in there?”

Nodding once, she motioned her hand towards the wooden door, opening it to reveal the old general simply browsing one of the various newspapers whilst by the fireplace. The aging creak of the door alerted the general of Cyril’s presence, as he put the paper down and tilted his weary bones towards the young man.

“I see you’re finally back after so long. Does your journey bear much fruit?” The general’s use of colorful words always perplexed him, but Cyril noticed that even he mentioned that he was gone for a long time. That couldn’t be true, could it?

“I’ve been gone for only a few hours though?” he questioned with a tilt of his head, as Cyril removed his gas mask and helmet to reveal his clean face.

Shaking his head like a disappointed parent, Edward stared down at the floor before looking up to meet Cyril’s eyes. “Oh no, I guess you aren’t aware that a full day has passed.”

That was impossible though. He had only been out there for what felt like ten maybe fourteen hours at most, not an entire day had passed. This wasn’t the first time he was dumbstruck at such a revelation, perhaps Edward was just a master at surprising him. At first Cyril would’ve called his bluster by saying how ridiculous that pretense was, but usually he would look like a fool doing so, as Cyril had no way to back up his claim. Moreover, Edward was more familiar with the knowledge of hunters and this peculiar place.

“So you’re telling me it is the eighth of June now?” Cyril asked. The old general nodded in response. “Would it be because I was killed?”

A look of clarity fell on the old man as his sunken features lit up in understanding. Instead of the general responding, it was the Doll that spoke up from the trio.

“This is a commonality amongst all hunters. It takes time for the Messengers to search through the voids to find those who still dream.” she spoke in her calm voice. Cyril only nodded, content with the answer he was given, as strange as it was.

“So I can return from the grave no matter what?”

“Only if you still dream” The old general finally spoke with his aged vocal chords. Trying to think of various ways to interpret Edward’s meaning behind his answer until after a minute of self thought he finally got it.

“So in other words, if I am still a hunter I can cheat death?”

“Precisely my friend.”

“However, it is possible to be stuck in the void for longer than a day. I have seen hunter’s not returning for a month.” The Doll spoke gently. With this knowledge, Cyril would have to be careful about getting himself into trouble. Though even after being revived and brought to this mystical place, he always treaded carefully, treating every encounter with determination. No sense of recklessness or a foolish sense of indestructible strength.

His mind soon dwelled on Rosie, thinking of what happened to her during this lost time, was she still alive? Was she killed after Cyril was left for the birds? He must know, some form of clarity was needed, be it good or bad. Looking down to his weapons and checking his pockets for the amount of spare ammunition left for his rifle, a decent amount left for the time being. To his other pocket, he could see the four remaining blood needles that he had conserved for emergencies. Whether it was because of foresight, or he couldn’t grab them in time from the ravens earlier, he was glad that there was a decent amount left. A newfound sense of determination swelled within him, he would get Rosie back from that masked hunter, no matter how many times he would fall, no matter how many ravens swarm him, he would get her back.

“I’m on my way back, I’ll return soon.” Was all Cyril responded with. No need to drag out a conversation, he walked towards the workbench where his shovel lay. The blades sharpened enough to slice through limbs and the barbed wire strung in tight for the most sturdy of foes. He would return for it after he freed Rosie, he was growing quite fond of this medical cleaver. Though he doubted it would ever replace his trusted tool of death. With a single nod to both Edward and the Doll he exited the building, walking towards the gravestone that stood in the path leading to the blocked off Chateau. Kneeling down as his eyes slid shut, letting his mind at peace and gathering all the determination he had for his new goal.

The first thing he noticed before opening his eyes was the familiar drop of rain, a small but noticeable stream of water that soon dotted his outfit. His sight now open, Cyril noticed he was back at the destroyed building he saw that Woman in white. Recognizing the exact window that she sat on before vanishing into the misty afternoon. Though unlike before where it was a light and medium gray that covered the sky, it was now a dark gray. The main difference being the golden halo of the sun peaking above the clouds giving the caked landscape a reprieve from the torrential downpour with its radiant warmth. Something Cyril wondered where it was all this time. So often in the months, the sky was a monochromatic color that lacked any sort of variety, as if an artist forgot to paint the sky and never returned to his work.

For once, he came back with a beautiful array of yellows and oranges. However Cyril couldn’t gawk at the scenery, his mind needed to be honed and focused on the task he set out for himself.

The journey was agony. That’s all Cyril could remember about long marches during the war. A monotonous walk through God knows where, in land that looks like the cratered surface of the moon. Briefly taking his gas mask off he swung out his canteen and proceeded to drink half of the contents inside before pocketing it back on his belt. Despite the sun shining down through the darkened clouds, Cyril still felt the cold that washed throughout the land, as if an unseen force had decided to mess with the seasons and lower the temperature. At least the light above offered some bit of warmth. He traversed through a slew of wooden bridges atop trenches, they were familiar to him, as he soon discovered the familiar wooden beams high above the ruined land. Arras was near at last.

With a new sense of invigorated spirit, Cyril rushed past the wood pylons and trudged up the familiar hill with only a few minutes' time and his eyes soon gazed upon the city once more in the distance. Wasting no time to bask in its scale, Cyril simply rushed down on the cliff and past the pockets of shell craters that marked the hill down. That nagging dread he had felt must have been a combination of the Messenger of the Stars and that hunter, with one out of the equation he felt no fear. The fear of the unknown was lost, and their advantage over him was useless as he now knew the threat that lay in its stone walls. Running with a reckless abandon, Cyril quickly made his way down the hill in only two minutes, reaching the outskirts of the city in a short time. He couldn’t afford to waste time in navigating the labyrinth of houses and businesses, reaching the frontier houses that lay out of reach from the grip of the stone overlords in the center.

“It was a spotless house, was it not?” He mused to himself.

Holstering his weapons in their respective places, Cyril started to look through the various houses in the warm glow of the orange sun above. Feeling the sense of being observed from afar with the mood above being painted down on the land below, his thoughts briefly reminded him of his youth of being called back inside when he was once an only child, playing out in the front yard. Before he grew introspective and almost reclusive in some cases. With the small delving of thoughts, Cyril soon rediscovered his motorcycle. The gift from Walker might’ve been soaked in rain droplets, but wiping the seat away was as good as he needed. Going through the increasingly familiar startup sequence, he heard the rumble of the tiny engine exhume a small cloud of smoke, as Cyril made his way into the labyrinthian city once more. He wasted no time in exploring the other buildings, weaving through the streets and rubble of the roads, Cyril made his way past all manner of insignificant obstacles. Taking turns on junctions where there was debris blocking the path. Though the rain had finally ceased for once, the chill Cyril had soon gained as time passed by wondering if Rosie was still alive, soon seeped its way in, clinging to him like a shadow. He wanted to brush the thoughts away, but it persisted, what if she was killed after the crows mauled him? All Cyril could do was pray that she was alright, praying for her safety in the clutches of that masked hunter.

Several moments of travel ensued through the leveled areas, he quickly recognized it as the area where he was shot from the pair of sharpshooters. If he wanted to, Cyril could probably find the boulder where he used the blood needle after being shot. Though something so pointless was washed away as he neared his final destination. The open town square of Arras, the towering crows nest in the far back looming over like a tyrant watching over the lesser buildings. The orange glow of the sun created a sharp shadow over the square as it was eclipsed by the tower itself. Stopping his motorcycle, Cyril placed one foot on the ground as he stared at the holy monolith, as he silenced the engine and stepped off from his vehicle. Placing the motorcycle on the wall of a ruined building that bore one of the many bullets that narrowly avoided him, Cyril brandished his weapons and took slow steps towards the building in the center.

It didn't take long before he could see the shadowy figure of a man perched atop a ledge on the building. With a graceful leap the man landed onto the ground like a flock of black wings that covered him like a cloak. Even in the distance, Cyril could recognize the face of that bird masked hunter. The one that uttered out an incomprehensible language, ordering his Cadre of feathered minions to finish off Cyril. With his landing, the hunter had gathered a small following of ravens and crows, hopping in different directions or standing idly with tilted heads. Seems that wherever this man walked, his army of feathered followers were not far behind. It easily explained why there were so many ravens in the vicinity of this square. The two stopped with only three meters of space separated between them. Both of their features were obscured by the gas masks they wore. The hunter first spoke in German but with Cyril's shaking, he switched to a quiet voice.

"So you've come back." Chuckling to himself "I figured you would. You risked your life more than once for that small child, and it's only natural to come to her aid."

The hunter spoke in a honeyed voice that sent chills down the nape of Cyril's neck. Almost as if the man was right beside his ear whispering to him.

“Where is she?” Cyril blurted out with hatred lacing his words. The Hunter waved a hand out from behind without turning in the direction.

In the debris of buildings, Rosie shuffled out of the building, no one seemed to be trailing behind her. Had he actually killed this hunter’s accomplices, or was this all a ploy to draw him out in an open space for an easy execution. With her eyes dawning on her savior, Rosie beamed up with life and almost ran towards him, yelling out Cyril’s name before being stopped by the sight of the Hunter’s weapon. A large Gewehr rifle with an ax blade attached to the side of the gun, firing the rifle directly in her running path before she managed to cross it, narrowly avoiding an injury to her leg. The callousness this man displayed absolutely disgusted him.

“A challenge, before you are reunited. Best me, and you two can walk away.” The brief demand took Cyril by surprise so much that he didn’t have time to respond to it. “No entourage, just between us.”

With those words spoken, he could feel the proverbial target lose its color behind his back as what felt like five or eight other German hunters eased their weapons on him and only observed from their perches. Though in the edge of his sight, Cyril could see one masked hunter lazily dangling his feet over a ruined window sill.

“That’s it then?” He finally replied, to which the German nodded quietly. “Fine, but leave her out of it.”

The Hunter nodded and jerked his beaked head at the little girl to beat it. She scampered to a pile of rubble that was a meter away and peaked her head above to see Cyril. The two locked contact, eyes piercing through the lens of his mask. One determined to win, the other cheering him from the side silently.

“If you know my name then it’s fair I should know yours.”

“Albrecht” The Hunter replied in a velvety voice, before configuring his Gewehr ax where the blade covered the barrel of the gun.

The two took steps back to allow themselves a bit of distance. Cyril only heard of stories that this was the sort of rule given out by two who dulled, whether it be through pistol or saber. Though he held contempt for Albrecht, he knew very well if he were to dishonor this tradition. Albrecht more than likely would've shot him right then and there, if Cyril tried any sort of underhanded trick. Better just to play along. Both stared each other down, gazes piercing through the lens of their masks. Albrechts gang of corvids swooped around the city square, creating a large group of spectators cheering for their ruler. The German gave off a feeling of dread and fear as several ravens scurried around him like obedient pets, he exuded a sort of aura that commanded these birds to follow him, it frightened Cyril. Tightening the grips of their weapons. Cyril could feel sweat starting to form underneath his palm, as he held on tight to the medical cleaver. Anticipating for who would make the first move.

It was the German who did. Breaking out in a sprint as he held his Gewehr ax in both hands. Cyril ran towards him as well, wasting no breath on a war cry as he charged this heinous foe. Their meetup began a few seconds later as the force of the ax was the first to make a move. Bringing the full weight of the weapon downward as Cyril dodged to the right and went for a quick strike. Unfortunately it was easily intercepted by a bend to the arm as Albrecht blocked it with ease. Despite the size of the weapon, the German sharpshooter made it seem this was no lighter than a dueling sword on the hip. He must've practiced quite a bit with it, if that was the case. With haste, Cyril extended the medical cleaver to its full length to get equal range. Bringing it down and then sweeping it low to the ground. The first was effortlessly avoided by Albrecht, but the second he got caught and fell towards the stone ground.

Cyril went in and fired a shot with his rifle, but the sharpshooter was quick on his reflexes, as he rolled away from the bullet that only resulted in a blemished brick. Now back on his feet, the two went in for a series of swings that could've been a blur of metal and wood as near misses became commonplace. Both had been seasoned through the horrors that lurked in the lands outside of Arras, Cyril had been tested many times through the trenches, Kemmel hill and even here. He was not about to fail again. The furious onslaught ended as Cyril shuffled back to pull back the bolt of his sawn off rifle, firing again which landed on the lower abdomen of Albrecht, he made no grunt of pain and looked like he shrugged it off.

All the hunter did in response to the attack was make a chuckle quietly that filtered out of his mask. He held no fear of death, no sense of terror looming over him. As if Albrecht had nothing left to lose. He charged back at Cyril with a series of wide sweeps with his ax, Cyril might’ve had the advantage in maneuverability, but he was no match for the sheer strength that Albrecht wielded with his weapon. As the hunter brought his ax back in preparation for another swing, Cyril shortened his medical cleaver and charged him. Shoulder tackling the German back onto the ground and bringing his cleaver down on a slash at the man’s chest. The diagonal slash clipped through the hunter’s coat and sliced a thin line through his upper chest. Any attack like this would’ve killed a normal man, but Albrecht kicked Cyril away as if he was a clingy animal that wouldn’t go away. Being launched onto the stone road Cyril could see Rosie dip her head back into the rubble, fearful that Cyril would be finished. He was quick on his feet, as he got back up, simultaneously as Albrecht rose from the ground like an animated doll. Cracking a joint in his shoulder, completely oblivious to the slash in his torso. This man, it's like he is immune to pain. Or at least he doesn’t have any sort of pain system in his body. The fact he can just dust off a mortal wound like this is nothing short of macabre.

Pulling back the bolt of his rifle, Cyril fired off a single shot which Albrecht ducked in an unnatural way where his body was so low to the ground, he looked as if he could crawl. Even with a hefty weapon like that ax in his hand, he moved with such unnatural grace that Cyril understood that the dread wasn’t from that creature. No, this man was far more terrifying than any creature he had seen so far. The scariest things were not the beasts that hide in the shadows, or skulk the trenches. It was man.

Pulling back the bolt to load in another bullet, he kept it at the ready as Cyril rushed at the German again, extending his cleaver in a vertical sweep in the direction of the hunter. With great speed, Albrecht rolled away from the swing and stood to his full height in only the span of a few seconds, bringing his own weapon in a pair of heavy swings. The first of which caught Cyril’s leg, as it tore a small part of flesh from his body and blood soon splattered the gray floor. The second he narrowly avoided with a sluggish roll. Despite the wound, Cyril bit back his teeth to not release a scream of pain, as the feeling in his right leg started to take hold. Slashing and swinging a series of attacks that were either dodged with ease, or blocked with Albrecht’s ax. Panting, he raised his rifle and was fortunate enough to be at a close range not to miss, firing at his torso. Causing him to stumble a few steps back. This gave Cyril ample time to fish out a blood needle as he jammed it on his leg. The alleviation was a welcome relief as he quickly moved forward to follow up on his assault. Albrecht however changed up his strategy by removing the ax head and placing it on the side of the rifle, firing off a shot at the charging Cyril. The bullet grazed his lower torso as he was still charging, bringing his cleaver into a downward strike. Albrecht caught it with the length of his weapon, pushing him back with an unexpected force, jabbing his elbow at Cyril’s lungs, causing air to leave from his body. Tumbling to the ground gasping for oxygen, though he heard Rosie scream out in the distance, calling out his name. Against his lungs wishes, he gulped up a quick breath and rolled away from a downward slam of Albrecht’s ax.

Now standing up, he started to return his breathing to a normal and steady pace. Or at least as normal as one would get under a combat situation. Sweat dripped deep inside his mask as he was starting to exhaust himself from the physical tolls he endured. At least the warm glow from the sun and the cool temperature around them was enough for him to not feel entirely overwhelmed. Up in the windows above, Cyril could see the other hunters, masked or not quietly spectating from their vantage points. The ravens that followed Albrecht around were now starting to draw closer to him, as their jeering intensified. With a single finger pointed at Cyril, he uttered his inhuman words, his command to the ravens to feast on him.

In an instant, the flock of corvids swooped from the ground or the air at him. Though unlike before Cyril would not falter. His cleaver now shortened, he began swinging at the horde of ravens that started to swarm all over him. Their monstrous cries of food meant nothing to Cyril, they would be sorely disappointed, he would not be the prey that just stood still and accepted his death. Feathers and brittle bones were hacked apart as Cyril was a whirlwind of death, the ravens stood no chance unlike before, the attack that might’ve been a finishing move earlier, now only proved to be a distraction for him. Like a phantom, Cyril turned a second too late to meet the gaze of the beaked mask staring down on him. With an iron grip, Albrecht hefted Cyril up by grasping on his neck, squeezing tightly as he did so. His throat being blocked by the grip of Albrecht, he struggled to breathe, desperately gasping for air. The venomous glare of the emotionless lens of the bird mask was all Cyril could look at, until he was violently thrusted away from his grip and hurled to the ground. The force of which felt like he ruptured something inside, whatever it was he wasn’t sure what. All Cyril could do was cough and struggle to breath for two seconds before getting back up.

A thrust from Albrecht’s ax was soon to follow as he slammed it on the spot Cyril lay only second ago, before rolling away from the attack. With another ragged cough he punched his chest once to clear his throat and tried to ease his breath. Though that was all for nothing as a bullet tore through his shoulder blade abruptly, causing Cyril to let out a scream of pain escape from him. Turning around Cyril could see the masked hunter running readying to swing his blade once more, though Cyril was quick to hoist up his rifle, taking a potshot at Albrecht before going for a low kick to knock him down. Using this as an opportunity to jam another blood needle into him to repair his shoulder. The reprieve was short lived as Albrecht was quick to rise from the ground in his unnatural movement. Tilting his head at an odd angle before sticking the blade attachment back onto the barrel of his rifle.

The sun soon began to be covered by the towering building behind them. Visibility was dropping by the second, whether this would prove to be a benefit or disadvantage to Cyril was unknown. He had to assume Albrecht would hold the advantage given his darker outfit. The spectators from above would probably have an easy time spotting him from their seats on the ledges and windows. Cyril worried for Rosie, she was the closest to the duel and the most vulnerable to any stray bullets. Risking a glance back to the rubble she hid seven meters away, he was relieved to see her head pop out, unharmed by any glancing shots. Though it quickly peeked down as soon as her head ascended.

The two opposing hunters were at a stalemate, much like the tug of war in the battles they had fought. Cyril's attacks felt like they were just being absorbed by Albrecht, whereas any attack Albrecht dealt to him would be repaired with a blood needle. Though his supply of healing provisions was running low, Cyril had no clue how long he could endure before he was worn down through attrition. He brushed his concerns away, as the two ran back into their whirlwind of blades. Strikes, thrusts, leaps and rolls ensued as the two hunters dealt many clashes, all being intercepted by either the wooden stock of the ax, or being dodged by the swiftness of Cyril. Even as he fought, Albrecht showed few signs of exhaustion, though as it progressed, his movements became more erratic and contorted. His head tilted regularly at a forty-five degree angle, while his dodges became more exaggerated as he bent low to the ground, or tilted his torso backwards. His marionette movements unnerved him even more than the Doll. She displayed some sort of humanity, even if it was reserved demeanor. But Albrecht? His lack of empathy towards even a child already made Cyril hate him, the distorted movements made him question if he was even human under that mask.

A single clash of their bladed weapons followed as the two made contact through their lens. Deep down, Cyril could feel the cold void of the hunter staring down at him, piercing his very soul. With great speed, Cyril lunged his shoulder forward at the opposing duelist, pinning him onto the ground before hacking twice onto the downed man. Before a third one could be followed up, Albrecht brought his boot up to Cyril and kicked him away from his body. Though he was knocked back, it looked as if those two actually did something to the supposed impervious man. The strikes that Cyril made were starting to seep a dark crimson, Albrecht clutched the wound once, looking down at his gloved hand before returning his grip to the ax. With his bloodied hand, he commanded his army of ravens to distract Cyril once more. Their numbers dwindled down to half after the first assault as Cyril obliged them into their demise. The first two died instantly with a single horizontal strike, whilst three more were swiped away with another. Much like before this only proved to be a distraction, as Albrecht was quick to bolt into Cyril’s unprotected rear. However, he felt the gust of wind that followed, and he fired off a shot with his rifle. This only proved to stagger the hunter, unbeknownst to Cyril, he had taken off the blade attachment, firing off a shot from his rifle. Though Cyril was quick on his feets as he rolled away from the shot, pulling the bolt back before firing off another shot that landed on Albrecht’s lower leg.

An uncharacteristic sound soon enveloped the town square, a cackling laughter that escaped Albrecht’s lungs as he madly dashed towards Cyril with a bestial manner as shadows soon trailed behind the man. The hunter leapt straight into the air as he brought his bladed ax down onto the ground with inhuman strength, only a split second too late and Cyril would’ve been on the receiving end of the attack. Though he failed to notice a quick blast from a bullet, as it soon impacted Cyril’s torso, causing him to stagger onto the ground. Blinking soon proved to be a terrible decision as his eyes soon found themselves looking at the soulless lens of the bird mask. A great stream of pain soon followed as Albrecht stabbed his ax blade at Cyril’s stomach, before shoving him back with the strength of two men. Fishing for another blood needle before his senses faded he jammed it quickly before having to roll away from a pair of horizontal strikes from the fury of Albrecht. His wounds healed, though he had to now contend with a foe that could appear right behind him in a moment's notice. Cyril’s only choice was to go on the offensive.

The sky turned to dusk, the silent crowd above continued to watch their entertainment below, and Cyril ran head first into danger once more. Bringing his shortened medical cleaver into a diagonal strike that was avoided by the unnatural movement of Albrecht contorting his body away from the attack, almost as if an afterimage of him was all that remained. Cyril could hear the sound of a bolt being pulled back as he dodged out of the way from another bullet, impacting harmlessly on the ground. Though the attack wasn’t over, as Albrecht ran forward and dragged his weapon on the ground so hard, pieces of stone started to come loose from their cemented prison, flying freely as the German brought his ax at an upward strike. When that was avoided, he tried again by leaping half a meter off the ground to slam his weapon at the ground once more. Cyril was getting better at anticipating his attacks, though that came at the cost of him losing more supplies and his foe letting loose his secrets. Was he holding back for this moment? Was he toying with Cyril earlier? Maybe it was a test to see if he was worthy enough to use his full strength on him. He only wondered briefly why this sick hunter wouldn’t have just used these inhuman tricks on him earlier? Whatever the case may be, it didn’t matter. The only priority was killing this deranged sharpshooter. Cyril could only risk a passing glance at the rubble Rosie was hiding behind. His goal was clear, his mind sound, this was a fight he will not lose.

Attempting to match Albrecht’s newfound speed, he rushed forward in a series of attacks that only served to connect with shadows. First one, then another as afterimages faded to black. The third however, Cyril could see in the left corner of his eye for a moment. Extending his cleaver to strike out at the man’s chest, causing him to stagger back. Though he was quick on the recovery as Cyril swung too late to follow up, another after image was all that remained. A succession of sweeping blows Albrecht’s ax soon followed as Cyril could only avoid them moments before they impacted. Shattering masonry into small fragments of brick. Rolling away from another downward strike. He found an opening to counter him, as Cyril swung once at Albrecht’s side. The Hunter jerked his head back unnervingly before sweeping his ax horizontally, in an attempt to cleave Cyril in two. Luckily he was quick on his feet as he rolled once more to attack with the same method. Albrecht would try his luck again with his chopping motion, but would be disappointed to see no blood or a severed body would be found.

After shortening his cleaver, Cyril went in for several close up strikes. One found its mark on Albrecht’s back as it cut through a few swathes of his coat. However, the second one only found air as the shadowed presence was breathing back down his neck. He was quick to retaliate in another pair of slashes, though the German was quick to dodge them, bending his body backwards so much that it looked as if the puppeteer above cut his strings for a moment. Only for them to be woven back so quickly that he countered with a heavy swing of his ax. Sidestepping to avoid the brunt of the force, Cyril fired off his last bullet the cartridge contained in his SMLE, as it left the shortened barrel and impacted at the now bloodied chest that stained the German’s uniform. Pulling the bolt back as he pocketed out a fresh cartridge and slotted it into his rifle only seconds before the beaked hunter moved forward with a mirage of shadows trailing behind him.

Rolling away to avoid a leap from the hunter, Cyril fired off another round, but was unfortunate to find that it only impacted the stone on one of the buildings beyond their arena. The hunter responded in kind by briefly removing his ax blade, firing off a single round before returning the blade to its position. The shot came so fast that Cyril didn’t have time to react as it hit his upper left arm, as blood started to soak the beige color of his outfit. Albrecht quickly dragged his ax along the ground in an upward strike to follow up, but was a second too late as Cyril dashed backwards to avoid it as well as a follow up. Attempting to catch up to the lost distance, Albrecht moved forward with his darkened apparition. Cyril had enough of this man’s tricks and extended his medical cleaver for one last gamble.

Rolling forwards towards what looked like the avian equivalent to the grim reaper, Cyril could see the physical form of Albrecht materialize at the moment he hoped for. Bringing his medical cleaver in an upward diagonal slash at the man’s neck moments before he made an attack with his ax.

Blood soon started to seep from the so-called man’s neck as he lost his footing. Stumbling back two steps before dropping his prized rifle. Clutching his hand on his throat once, before looking back at the battered opponent he had fought, the German simply chuckled once before falling on his back with a single thud to the brick ground. The crowd in the buildings were silent at the unexpected victory of the outsider.

Cyril could only let out a haggard breath as he was shocked at his risk succeeding. Looking down at the slowly dying hunter as blood soon surrounded the man’s body, Albrecht only let out a few incomprehensible words that didn’t sound like German. Before briefly switching to English.

“Well done”

Those were the last words echoed out of the beaked hunter as his head fell limp on the ground. Cyril swiftly walked away from the hunter and back towards the rubble that Rosie was hiding from. He fully expected the hunter’s above would dishonor the rules of this engagement by attacking him now, at the death of their comrade. Though he had heard of stranger truces happening in the war, deciding not to overstay his welcome he watched as Rosie popped her head up again and was relieved to see her savior had come out victorious. Running into his arms clutching her stuffed bear for a quick embrace. His trial was over as he beckoned her to follow him quickly. Moving to his motorcycle he started up the sequence to activate the engine. Hearing the thrum of the machinery between his feet, Cyril ordered Rosie to hold on tight as she clutched his torso. There was no point in looking back at the arena he faced in, he was just surprised that the spectators had decided not to shoot him down. Whatever it may be, it didn’t really matter to him. Albrecht was defeated, and Rosie was saved, to Cyril that was all he needed to care about.

Chapter Text

Bloodborne WW1 Chapter 15

It was calm for once. No shells lobbed off in the distance, no pleas for mercy, nor gunfire. Just the quiet ambience of the war’s effects. The only noise was the sound of a motorcycle rolling by the dirt path. Cyril barely paid a glance to the passing motorist before rubbing his eyes, fighting to stay awake after suffering through a restless sleep. The Germans decided to launch an artillery barrage in the middle of the night which caused him to lose any hope of a peaceful slumber, despite being in the reserve he was at the ready for any attack. Going so far as wearing his gas mask, which he would almost never do in reserve. Giving other soldiers a chance to peer at the young man’s youthful face. Cyril’s hair had grown out to a more frizzled look. One soldier had joked that Zeus hurled a thunderbolt at him from the previous storm. A joke that he chuckled at, a little humor never hurt, it was definitely needed here.

Cyril watched the motorcycle swerve by off into the distance, his task probably to an officer somewhere beyond Ypres. What that may be he may never know, he only finished his daily routine of shaving his face. He had seen some of the soldiers sport mustaches in varying qualities, Cyril opted to remain smooth not wanting to worry about maintaining it, not to mention he couldn’t imagine himself ever wearing one. The mental image in his head made him suppress a laugh that he covered with his mouth.

“Something amusing?” A voice called from his right, looking to see it was the Lieutenant. Dusting off a stray piece of dirt that chiseled his coat as he walked up to where Cyril was sitting.

Taking a rest as he eased his way to the wooden stool, blocked off by the remnants of a small stone wall only two meters high.

“Not at all, sir. Just a little musing.” Cyril replied with a soft smile. Grabbing a tin cup, he took a small sip of water as the two watched the path as a few soldiers marched through.

“Looks like they’re being transferred here to help us out.” the older man chimed in at the sight of the passing soldiers.

“Feel sorry for them, they have to suffer through this deluge with us.”

“Well I heard it’s worse in other areas. Though I could be wrong.”

Cyril could only shrug at the thought and took another sip of water. From his perspective this front was far worse than any he had heard from other offensives. The mud swallowed men in the blink of an eye. No cry for help, just the sudden disappearance of a comrade, enveloped by the earth. There was the ever looming fear of chlorine gas that stretched for kilometers. Where only a thick green haze was all that could be seen a few meters ahead. He always pitied any man that was transferred to this hellhole, at least then the soldiers couldn't experience the worst that Humanity could lash out amongst each other.

Looking out into the path again as he saw the soldiers making their ways to the reserve trenches, he could see another motorcycle buzzing along the road. Cyril looked at the driver and noticed his satchel that carried pieces of parchment and envelopes. Another courier perhaps? To deliver important messages from high command to officers on the field? Or was it for the troops, whose loved ones write back messages to their sons, fathers or other siblings. When he stopped his vehicle, he shuffled through his belongings and straightened his helmet before making his way over to the two of them.

The courier scavenged through his bag and dug up a piece of yellowed paper, handing it to Walker. Cyril observed him skimming through the message and watched as the Lieutenant's face furrowed and soon became one of annoyance.

"Are they serious?"

"Unfortunately so sir. Reinforcements are needed up on the western side." The messenger relayed in a calm voice, no doubt used to hearing the livid reactions of field officers.

"Fucking lunatics. As if we hadn't been through enough in a few days."

"Shall I send a message back?"

Exasperated, Walker slumped his shoulder and folded the message in his pocket "No, don't bother. It will fall on deaf ears either way."

Cyril didn't need an order to be told what to do next, he quickly grabbed his Headwear and rifle as the messenger returned to his motorcycle. The thrum of the motorcycle soon grew fainter and fainter as it drove away on the cratered land. Donning his mask, Cyril took one last look at the messenger before having to make it up to the front once more.

The gentle buzz of the motor was one of the many noises he heard over the desolate plains of the land. Out in the night, there wasn't much to see. The same craters, the same trenches, the same wooden paths. The only standouts were the occasional tank carcass or the husk of a leafless tree. His only illumination from the blackened sky was the forward mounted light of his motorcycle, and the calming glow of the moon. Despite its distance, it still gave off a small bit of visibility that the surrounding sky gave off a cobalt black color with the presence of the moon. It might not be much, but it certainly came in handy for traversing through rough terrain.

It had been a little over half an hour since Cyril and Rosie left Arras, there was no reason to stick around, he had found enough blood needles for the moment, hopefully enough for Mons he thought to himself. Sadly his Sawn off SMLE was running low on ammunition, only three stripper clips left, plus whatever was in the rifle itself. He should've tried harder to find ammunition, but it would've been a fruitless task in a French city, when all of his weapons used different calibers from the men in blue. Hopefully further down the line, he'll be able to find more ammunition and blood needles, preferably in small villages and not large cities. Combing through those buildings proved to be a hassle for Cyril. However, there was a bright spot in doing so, he wouldn't have found Rosie otherwise.

The little girl sat on his lap as Cyril had driven over the rough terrain. He couldn't let her cling to his back, fearful that she might slip her fingers and fall unnoticed. Though it wasn't as pleasant, at least she was small enough not to block his view. Rosie only rested her head on his right arm, as they traveled the gloomy scenery. There were the husks of trees clinging to their roots, leafless as always, though it looked to be woods. Or what was left of one at least. Cyril could barely recall seeing a tree with leaves still on it near the frontline. A majority have been uprooted and created barriers and cover for him and others to use. The ones that still stood, did so alone. So seeing a large group of trees surprised him. He could only hope that someday, nature would reclaim this land, and the pleasant greens would replace the dull browns.

Passing over a wooden bridge that stretched for four meters over a trench, the rumblings stirred Rosie away from Cyril's hand, as she clutched onto her bear with both hands.

"Startled you?" He chuckled.

Rosie only nodded before resting on Cyril's other arm. He would've patted her head, but Cyril needed to pay attention to driving. She tried to fall back asleep but found it difficult after being rumbled awake from the sudden wood bridge.

Cyril only focused on the road for now, not affording any more distractions unlike before. Soon passing over a narrow bridge that was above a crater of water. He had no idea how deep that pool went, fearing the smallest slip could cause him and Rosie to plummet into the abyss of filth. Thankfully, the bridge was sturdier than it looked, the only annoyance was the many bumps that followed after passing a single plank of wood. He could see many forms of rubble and detritus, but what unnerved him the most was the sight of a floating body face down in the pool, inching up and down ever so slightly whenever the wind gently nudged it. Cyril had to look away from it so he wouldn't imagine the fate of that man who had perished in a frightening manner. He could've drowned down there with all of his equipment. Only surfacing when he was too late, and his body was deprived of oxygen.

Passing over the bridge only took a few minutes more, with some slower paced driving due to not wanting to fall down that filthy abyss. Thankfully the path ahead was smoothed out somewhat for vehicles to pass. Mounds of dirt and mud walled off the sides, allowing no mechanical might to pass their earth walls. Outside of a few standout objects in the scenery, it soon became the same homogenous scenery that he had gazed on countless times before he even became a hunter. Soon he lost track of time and noticed that they had left the dirt walls that were sandwiched between the road. At least now Cyril had a better visual of where the path took him; Overlooking a lunar terrain meters above on a hill, were several mounds and trees from what little he could see. The moon could only illuminate so much, and he couldn’t see the finer details of the road, whether there be bodies that might’ve fallen, or worse the possibility of something being out there.

Despite the thrum of the engine, Cyril couldn’t make out any peculiar sounds in the distance. Only the eerie silence of No man’s land. No scavengers to feast on the remains that lay unattended, no sounds of gunfire, not even the faintest steps in the mud. It was as if all the soldiers left their posts. It always unnerved him, the silence, Cyril never forgot the days of supposed attacks from the German’s. Waiting for the whistles to blow out their orders, for the war cries of hundreds of soldiers charging forward, to the panic that would set in after. He always tried his best to stay calm and collected during situations like those, though deep down he was panicking at the oncoming death that approached them. At least with that he could see what made him scared. With this lingering silence, it was an unconditional fear born out of the time he started as a hunter. Whatever lay beyond those trenches, the clouds or the shadows is what feared him the most now.

Thankfully there hadn't been a threat like that since leaving Arras, so far it had been a quiet and eventful ride to Mons. Or where Cyril assumed Mons was. The lack of a map started to annoy him. Sooner or later he had to find one eventually, if the nightmare originated from there, he had to make haste and not dawdle around. Though with the excursion in Arras it was a necessary side track given his low supplies. Deep down Cyril almost hoped that he could find another small town to forage supplies from, at least it would give him something to do. Rather than sitting on the motorcycle for what felt like hours on a neverending drive through No man's land.

Leaving the wall of mud behind Cyril dozed off and was half paying attention to the surroundings. He was getting drowsy. That altercation with Albrecht had exhausted him, and he had been driving for what felt like hours. If he could just find a place to rest for a bit, or find another of those lanterns. Continuing his focus down the road, Cyril didn’t notice Rosie tugging his arm. Shaken up by the unexpected motion, he tilted his head down. She looked disturbed by something, her eyes fearful of something, she clutched around Cyril and pointed from his lap.

“Shadow men.” she spoke quietly. Urging him to look in the distance.

Perhaps it was his sleep deprivation, but Cyril hadn’t seen anything that far out. All that was there were barbed wire, a few craters and a small sap trench. Blinking a few times, he tried his best to make out what Rosie was referring to. She had to have been imagining things, perhaps the stress of her situation was getting to her. However Cyril had seen horrors no man should have in only a few days, so he took her words more seriously. Slowing his speed down a bit, he shook his head to regain some focus. There was still nothing out in the direction. Only the sound of silence that permeated No man’s land. Regaining his normal speed, Cyril continued on and tried to brush it off as best as he could.

“Sorry, I couldn’t see anything out there. Can you tell me what you saw?” Cyril spoke up from the quiet. Rosie looked up with her puppy-dog eyes.

“They look like you. But…were scary.” she responded in her broken English.

With no way to respond to that description, Cyril could only assume it was a few crazed soldiers. But why would they not attack him? Did they not see him? It couldn’t have been that because the sound of the engine would draw attention to him. There could’ve been dozens of possibilities as to why that person Rosie saw wouldn’t attack them. Whatever it may be, Cyril was just glad he wasn’t being shot at from a distance. All he could do was just drive and try not to pass out from exhaustion.

Cracking his neck, Cyril looked from right to left to loosen his joints. He wanted to rub his eyes, but the mask was on, and his hands needed to be on the handlebars. Another hour had passed of continuous driving. Rosie had stumbled into sleep and rested her head on Cyril’s right arm, clutching her stuffed bear tightly to her chest. A small shower that started to fall down on him. Briefly recalling the time he had to sleep in the open rain a few times, completely soaked. Cyril had stopped paying attention to the minor details of the land around him. Only paying attention to notable icons like if there was the ruins of a former village or the hill of an operating base. There was no sight of the ‘shadow men’, the land was still as the forest in the moonlight, or a decimated forest would be more fitting. They had passed an area of leafless woods, where no greenery was present. Even if there was a small pocket of life amongst the ruined wood, it would've been shrouded by the night.

Breaking up the void of silence was a mechanical sputter, followed by a small puff of exhaust. The speed of the motorcycle began to drop steadily, the sudden noise woke Rosie from her slumber. Annoyed, Cyril could only mutter out a curse in his mind as the motorcycle dropped its speed to the single digits, until it stood still in the dirt path.

"Ride over?" Rosie groggily said in her tired stupor.

"Unfortunately so."

Cyril gave Rosie a minute to become fully awake. Before hoisting her off of his lap and onto the ground. Walking to Mons was something he accounted for the moment he left Arras, there couldn't have been much fuel left, but he was surprised the motorcycle lasted as long as it did. Though he would be foolish to carelessly discard a vehicle like this. All he needed was to find another city, and perhaps there would be enough fuel for him to rise across Europe.

Though he had to shelve those ambitions away for now, they were past the leafless woods and still countless kilometers away from Mons. Stepping off the motorcycle he ushered Rosie to follow along on the journey by foot. The moon being their illumination in the darkened field of death and decay.

Cyril had lost track of how long the trek was going on for. Half an hour? Forty-five minutes? Two hours? However long it was, he felt like he was at his limit. Exhaustion had almost completely taken hold of him, and the steady lull of sleep was demanding his attention. If he could find a place to rest that didn't require putting him or Rosie in danger, it would be appreciated. The two had passed through a set of train tracks, however they were damaged. More than likely from the barrage of shells. Though it wouldn't serve them any purpose, there was no sign of any train, not even a destroyed one. Maybe Cyril will be lucky and find one, that would certainly help out in this venture.

While he was trudging through the worst of it with fatigue, Rosie was handling it moderately better. Probably thanks to the rest she had on the motorcycle, though from what Cyril could see, she looked like her legs were starting to lose strength. She fell behind a few times, and had to wait for her to catch up. Waddling on back to the taller man, as the two would continue the journey in silence.

Though a strange sight stole both of their attention, one that Cyril would never have expected to see far out here. Juxtaposed to the dreary landscape was a train, gargantuan in scale, with the glistening scarlet shimmering from the cabins in the moonlight, as opposed to the black that glossed on the train and its coal car. A man seemed to be outside near the front, working on one of the wheels. Even from this distance Cyril could tell he was no crazed soldier, that had to have been the owner of this train. In his mind, Cyril was paralyzed at first. Surprised by his seemingly impossible wish to come true, laid bare on the muck covered wastes. If he could convince the man down there to take a trip to Mons, it would speed up the quest tenfold, and give his legs a break from the long walk.

"Come on, Rosie. We've found alternate transportation." He pointed to the large vehicle and Rosie was elated at the sight of it.

With their fatigue almost a distant memory, the two started to make their way to the locomotive as fast as they could. Cyril still hauling his motorcycle, not entertaining the idea of abandoning it for a moment. Mere meters away the sounds of their steps alerted the man as he stopped his work and gathered a glance towards the two newcomers.

While Rosie was busy marveling at the mechanical beauty of the locomotive, Cyril slowed his pace and walked towards the man. There was still a sense of wariness in the corner of his mind, at any moment he would be prepared to bring out his weapons in case of any surprise. But, the man showed no signs of threat, only a calm and collected air to his presence. Cyril had to guess the man was in his late thirties early forties given the lines around his face. Even despite that he was handsome for his age, with short black hair sporting a blue coat and hat. Reminding him of some of the outfits he would see whenever his father would take him to show his work and the citizens passed by in their fancy suits. It was like this man, and perhaps this train for that matter just stepped out of that era into the present.

The man was the first to start the conversation, however just from the first word alone Cyril knew he was French. Rosie stopped her gawking and immediately tilted her head towards the blue coated man. Speaking out a sentence that Cyril couldn't understand, though the man simply nodded at the little girl, clearing his throat before trying again.

"Apologies, my friend. I should've guessed by your attire that you couldn't speak French."

"I only know a few words, and I'm glad I have a little interpreter here to help."

The coated man waved off the notion. "Not to worry, English is my second language, thanks to some studying. But that's besides the point, I'm surprised to see two people out here in the middle of No man's land."

"We're just traveling by it, and thankfully there doesn't seem to be anyone out hunting us." Cyril told as he looked from side to side, scouting the perimeter of the train.

"Quiet as can be out here. Why is that, were you being chased?" The man asked in an inquisitive tone. "No, we were heading away from one of the cities until my motorcycle ran out of fuel." Cyril gently patted the handlebar before looking back up.

"Well I don't have any on me unfortunately. Unless it can run on old fashioned coal, you're out of luck." He chuckled as he grabbed one of the tools from a case and worked on one of the many wheels.

"Care to have some help?" Cyril chimed. The man nodded and spoke out a few words of gratitude in French.

From what Cyril could see, something must've jammed itself on parts of the frame and wheels. Bashing with remarkable strength as he knocked a piece of debris from one of the wheels before moving onto the next. Cyril leaned his motorcycle on the side and drew his barbed shovel, standing side by side with the gentleman. The two soon began bludgeoning their tools, or in Cyril's case a weapon, against the detritus that confined the wheels in their configuration. Some were easy enough to give a gentle push with the hand, but most required his shovel as he used the tip of the spade to force the rock out of the way. One was removed after a minute of work. Looking through the train wheels only a few remained. Trying not to think of how many are on the other side.

"How many are left out of curiosity?"

"Only a few more on this side." The man said after swinging his wrench at a cracked boulder. The force of the swing weakened the stone's armor further, on the cusp of breaking. "The left wheels are clear, I would've done it yesterday but that's when the things came out."

So there were people out here. Perhaps this was an off day that they weren't out roaming. Though he could refer to creatures instead of men. But at this point, the line between man and beast was starting to blur with how ferocious these crazed soldiers are. Another crash from the wrench and the boulder crumbled to the ground, whereas Cyril fit his hands through to get two smaller rocks out of the way. The Gentleman spoke to Rosie in a polite tone, the two started conversing as he continued his work. The only word Cyril could decipher was Arras.

"Surprised that anyone made it out of that place alive. I crossed that area off on my map because of those German bird lovers."

"A map?"

"Yes, I travel back and forth between civilization to trade and barter. Though several areas are too risky for me to travel without getting some fire as a welcoming gift."

He's been to more locations? His mind started to flutter, maybe he could actually get him to Mons, perhaps it was one of the safer locations. With surprising force, Cyril crushed the last remaining boulder on his side at the excitement of this news. "There are more out there? I mean, people that won't harm me and her?"

"That’s correct, Paris and Brussels are the most bustling places I’ve been to so far. Smaller places like Soissons and Le Cateau have some small communities. Even as far out as Przemzyl, there’s a town of people living in that fortress" the man replied

“You think you could give us a ride to Mons?”

The man’s face became grim in a split second. The joy in his face almost sucked completely dry at the word alone. “I can, but not deep in. There’s not much outside of those madmen and whatever manner of creature lurks there.”

Cyril almost expected that to be the case, though with the little information Edward had given him a while ago. He would be surprised if anyone lived in that mire. Whatever it may be, he was given a ride to his destination. “I never got your name, sorry but it slipped through my mind.”

“Philipe, and I’m the conductor of this train.” He offered his hand out to shake it, which Cyril did whilst giving his own name in return. “Let me see if I can get that bike inside, then we’ll be off”

The event to get the motorcycle inside the train proved to be a hassle given the train’s height from the ground. Several minutes were spent on trying to figure out a way to hoist it up inside the caboose. Philipe would bring it in, while Cyril would push it towards him. It wasn’t the greatest idea but given the lack of equipment to bring it up, it was the best they had to work with. All of his strength would be needed to hold the bike up as Philipe tried his best to pull it towards him. Muscles started to ache and crack, Cyril felt like his arms were about to be snapped like twigs if he pushed too hard. He wasn’t that physically strong to begin with, only having the blessing of being decent at running from cover to cover. Or more recently, performing rolls to get away from attacks from a weapon swinging at him. He had improved a great deal in just a short amount of time, though to him, it felt like an eternity. Three terrifying foes had placed him through trials that he hadn’t expected to face before, but he had bested all of them. From the Crawling tank, to the Kaiser’s Marauder and recently Albrecht.

In the distance, Cyril could hear Rosie cheering them on, rocking her fists in excitement as the two were closer to getting the motorcycle inside. It gave him a little more motivation to push harder, or in this case shove it. The sudden force surprised Philipe and he hurled it inside the caboose. The two men now exhausted with sweat beading their faces, or behind a mask. Cyril’s arms felt like they were nothing more than thin tubes of skin that, if given the right wind, would blow freely at the slightest breeze.

“Alright, now we can set off.” Philipe commented, closing the caboose door as Cyril assumed he was on his way to the front car. With him gone, Cyril ushered Rosie to follow him, she was quick to respond by scampering her way towards him. Making it up to the front carriage the height they had to climb up was a bit much for Rosie, but could easily be scaled by him. The door opened with Philipe extending a hand downwards from the carriage, Cyril first hoisted Rosie up with his two hands before being assisted up with a strong grip from the conductor. Even with the distance from the ground and the carriage door, it didn't take long to be lifted.

Lifting up his helmet and removing his gas mask, Cyril's face was covered in sweat, and loosened his cuff to let off some steam. Though with the small respite of cold air, he didn't realize that they were now in a surprisingly luxurious interior. The floors are lined with a crimson carpet and the walls coated in dark wood. Soft yellow lights illuminated the room with large seats occupying the wide walkway. Cyril wondered how this single conductor had a train kept in pristine condition not only in the exterior but inside as well.

"Please, take a seat." Philipe gestured at one of the couches.

Taking up on that offer for a moment. Cyril placed his headgear on one of the spaces and removed his weapons. Clumping them together in a small pile for himself. Rosie scuttled to one of the other couches and started to rub the soft texture of the cushions. With her occupied, Cyril went up from his spot to walk over to the conductor, speaking up before he was out of the carriage door.

"Since you're a trader. Would you have anything that would be of interest to me?"

The sentence caused the conductor to grin softly. Turning around to pat Cyril's shoulder as he escorted him to the opposite side of the carriage. "That, and a few surprise items."

The two left the compartment. Cyril glancing back at Rosie who returned in kind. He didn't felt comfortable leaving her there, but it was better here than in the cruel wastes of No man’s land. Philipe opened the second carriage door and revealed a treasure trove of equipment, supplies, food and more. He tossed Cyril a small piece of fresh bread, stumbling at first before catching it moments before it fell.

"By your weapons and attire, you're no ordinary traveler. You're something else?"

The statement made Cyril feel uneasy at first, why drag him in this room if he was going to probe him with a question like that. Though he had offered to help in his travel to Mons, he'd play along with this inquiry for now. "Perhaps. Why is that?"

"That look in your eye, the glancing back and forth you've been doing. You've fought those creatures out there, probably more than I've seen with my own eyes. You must be a hunter."

"What if I am?"

"Then that'll make these weapons and supplies far more useful to me. Not to mention, I have a stockpile of these." Philipe rustled through a large cabinet and opened the two doors, inside were rows of crimson colored vials, stretching back to the far corners of the cabinet, and reaching all the way to the bottom as well.

How has this man accumulated so much of them? Was he another hunter? He plucked ten needles from their housings and passed them to Cyril.

"For helping me with my train. If you need ammunition there's a few I'm willing to give. However, after this, you'll have to purchase them from me."

With what? He thought to himself. As far as he knows there's not much of an economy left for hundreds of kilometers.

"Turn your right arm around, and remove the vambrace."

Confused by this, Cyril took off the decorative arm piece and saw his pale bare skin, nothing was out of the ordinary with it. Surely he jest with this odd request, that somehow his arm was a secret compartment for a currency he was unaware with?

"Just be patient. In time you will see markings on your arm appear with several numbers. They're the amount of Blood echoes you have."

"You have to be making this up. I don't have a magical dollar in me with a silly name like that?"

However Philipe lowered his smile and held the arm closer to Cyril, trying for him to open his mind to what was right in front of him. Though a fluttering feeling soon nudged the sides of his vision, as if invisible brushes swept through his skin like canvas. A number appeared gradually, one digit at a time before ceasing at a series of four numerals; 6198.

"So is this how much I have to spend with you?" He responded quizzically.

"Not just for spending, but to improve oneself. There are individuals that are capable of doing this. Like the Doll of yours in that dream land."

The mention of the Doll from Hunter’s dream froze him momentarily, however he was quick to recover from the sudden surprise since Walker was a former hunter, perhaps Philipe was no different? "Then I take it you've seen her, and the Old general?"

"Yes I have, but I quit the hunt long before I could get into any real progress. That's no way to live a life out here. Always killing horrid beasts, you eventually lose oneself to it. Go mad with the lust for blood spilt."

Cyril was never one to relish in battle, none of the soldiers he fought alongside, or talked to never enjoyed it. Honestly he could understand the decision to leave the hunt in some instances. Though for him, the reassurances that the foul beasts hadn’t made landfall to his home, was the motivation he needed to continue this unenviable task. With the last sentence, Cyril could correlate it with Albrecht from earlier, though he wasn’t sure he was employed as a hunter, who had left. Or was just a man keeping a hold of a small part of the world for him and his flock of followers. Whatever the case may be, he’ll never find out. Returning the vambrace to his arm, he noticed Philipe had gestured a motion to him. Cyril followed the conductor down to the edge of the compartment where a small tarp covered something beneath.

“I’ve kept this on board in case hunter’s like you come by.” Wasting no time to reveal it, Philipe revealed the contents below. Cyril was astounded to see an archaic lantern below it, the lamp inside cold and lifeless from the lack of use.

“How did you get this in here? I thought they were scattered throughout at random?”

“This is just a set of scraps I cobbled together to make one. Though this was after I had left, I might as well keep it. You’re welcome to use it anytime.”

Unsure of it even working, Cyril walked towards the rusted lantern and flicked his fingers in the familiar motion. Seeing the light start to glow a faint bluish-white color before shimmering gently afterwards. The color he noticed soon enveloped the compartment, replacing the lanterns installed on the train to the similar color of the one below. Creating a calming but eerie atmosphere. With a gentle pat on the shoulder, Philipe began his journey to the opposite direction of the train car.

“We’ll be on our way in a little bit, so you might want to freshen up before it gets turbulent.”

With the conductor leaving the hall, Cyril was left alone in the ghostly compartment of supplies and weapons. A part of him thought to return back to the Hunter’s dream, but he had nothing to bring up to the Old general, other than he was making more progress. Perhaps when he was finished with business in Mons, would he return. Maybe even talk to the Doll about how to use these Blood echoes properly. For now however, he took up Philipe’s advice and tried to find a room to clean himself up, something to clean himself up after the perilous journey he has been through so far. He earned that much.

Chapter Text

A small thud stumbled Cyril awake, rubbing his sleep deprived eyes, he started to reposition himself to sit on the spacious couch that occupied the vast compartment. It was the best rest he had experienced in the years he had fought, lying in the cold and rough earth. This however, was what it was like to lie on clouds. He couldn’t tell how long he had slept for, but it felt longer than the normal amount he would in the frontline.The only annoyance here was the occasional bump on the rails, but it was something Cyril could live with as opposed to constant shelling. How he had managed to sleep at all during the war was well beyond him. Though here he was, in the lap of luxury in a train destined to the beginning for his country's involvement in the war. Directly across from him, Cyril could see the little companion slumbering soundly, with a blanket covering her as she peacefully snoozed through the noises.

Attempting to brush his hair with his hands, Cyril tried his best to tidy himself up after his well deserved sleep. Bending his arms and legs until he heard the faint readjustment of bones as his joints became less stiff. His mask and helmet still remained close by, though he hadn’t worn it whilst he slept, he needed to take it off every now and then. Usually that would be the rare time any of the soldiers would see his face, the moment he woke up and fell asleep is when they would see the youthful, boyish face of Cyril White.

Thankfully those days are mostly a thing of the past. Even though returning to Hunter’s dream would give him the feeling of having some rest, it was nice to get proper sleep, without having to go back and forth to feel well rested. It was the same for eating or using the latrine, though with the ladder he was glad not having to do that anymore. Shuddering the thoughts before they would reveal their ugly heads, he turned his attention to the windows, giving a clear view of outside. It had to have been early to mid morning judging by how bright it was outside. Though much like most of the recent days, the sky above was in a mottled color of grays. He didn’t expect to see it change anytime soon, though the less it would rain the better, as it would get him through this journey faster.

He scantily remembered his first journey towards the war. A cloudy day similar to this. Boarding a train to leave his home, and then one more once he arrived in France. It wasn't nearly as luxurious as this ride, with soldiers as you as him crowded like sardines with barely any room. One of the most uncomfortable moments in his life, until he stepped foot into his new "home". Though that train ride to the battle was the calmest thing in the entire war he's experienced.

However, a blemish appeared in the landscape. The blocky carcass of a tank, followed by another shortly after, then two more. He vaguely remembered the words that Edward had told him, Mons had tanks surrounding the area. What surprised him however, were a few remains of a metal man. Cyril couldn’t make out many of its details, although he could see the head was square in shape. Perhaps these were the “Copperheads” that Lieutenant Walker mentioned. If any of them were still alive however, he had a feeling they wouldn't be amicable to him or others. Another thing he mentioned was the thick layer of chlorine gas surrounding the area. They must still be in the outskirts of the city, since only a slight tinge of green covered the sky. It was going into places like this that Cyril was glad he always had his gas mask.

Looking away from the heaps of metal beasts lying still in the mud, he returned to the couch putting his boots back on, as well as the other remaining attire such as his tan jacket and vambraces. Before that he might've looked like he was wearing his old uniform in the war. Even he admitted the more customized look he had was growing on him. Far more colors than his old uniform. Even the waist cape was something he liked, deep down he thought it was a little silly, but Cyril developed a fondness for it.

Making the final adjustments to his outfit he could hear the door to the train car slide open, and the conductor Phillipe entered with a mask of his own. Before quickly closing the door behind him, lest he let in the poisonous chemicals inside.

"We should be arriving near the outskirts soon.” saying it as he took off his gas mask. “I can’t risk dropping you off near the city, it’s still inhabited by those crazed men.”

“I expected as much” Cyril sighed in annoyance. “Anything else you know about this place?”

“Outside of the Chlorine, the lunatics, and some of those rabid horses. That is all I can remember seeing.” I’ve only passed by it once and I can remember some of those soldiers coming out of the houses to fire any weapons they had at me.”

“I saw some strange looking metal corpses. I think they were called Copperheads. Are any of them still here?”

“Only saw one in the distance when my train was under fire. I couldn’t get a good look, so I expect a few are up. Those things, they’re Copper drones, I have only heard of a few accounts of their usage during the war, I only chalked them up as a myth.”

Those bodies lying in the mud tell a clear picture. They were true and some must still be around. Behind, Cyril could hear the rustling of a blanket as Rosie soon awoke from her peaceful sleep. Hair ruffled from tossing and turning, she looked up at the two men speaking, Cyril first grabbed his two weapons before walking over as he heard the sounds.

“Hey, I’m going out there and I need you to stay here, alright?

“Why?” She asked in a drowsy voice.

“The air is dangerous to breathe in, and even if there was a mask to fit on you, I wouldn’t risk bringing you out there. Men that would tear you and I apart, the first chance they get.”

With those words she nodded multiple times, her tangled hair shaking up and down as a result. There was no argument with the child, thankfully. The last thing he needed was a kid that wouldn’t take no for an answer. Though given all that Rosie has experienced, I doubt she’d be frothing at the chance to go out in the uncertainty of what lies ahead. Placing a hand on her hair, Cyril ruffled it up playfully which was returned with a playful giggle, before returning to Philippe.

“Keep her safe and don’t let anything happen to her.”

“I wouldn’t plan on it, good luck out there kid.” With a pat on the shoulder. Cyril smiled softly before putting on his second face, only taking one last look at the two before opening the door to the hellish landscape that lay ahead.

Dropping down onto the lunar shaped surface of outer Mons, Cyril could see the devastation as per usual. Trenches, shell craters, the bodies. Though unlike before, there was a large percentage of tanks and those Copperheads, or Copper drones. Cyril preferred the ladder name as opposed to the former. Walking away from the train, he could see the air had become thick with the green haze of chlorine. Recalling the few times it was used against him in the trenches. Soldiers clawing for their masks as they started to choke on their own blood and mucus. It must’ve been something a few of these soldiers had to endure, whenever this battle must’ve taken place. It was something he would never forget seeing.

Soon he was further away from the train until a faint outline was visible from the clouds or green. Briefly reminded of being chased by the crazed soldiers on his way to Kemmel hill. Though thankfully there wasn't a shroud of life to be seen for kilometers. It eased him but at the same time unnerved him. The stillness of the land and absolute silence all around was deafening. Nothing could survive in this haze of death, right? Though Cyril had been proven wrong time and again, even the most logical of conclusions were proven to be false when it came to this terror.

Past one of the MK IV tanks, he could see the remains of a destroyed Copper drone. He could see the rough outline of rectangular limbs, though both of the arms were severed, the lower legs were larger as opposed to their thighs. The head was completely destroyed however, a mess of wiring and metal that had ceased any activity. Even through the most intact parts, Cyril could tell that this particular drone had seen a lot of action. The scratches across its chest and dented armor from possibly a grenade. The ricochet marks of bullets failing to penetrate its armor. It must’ve been a similar story to all of the ones that lie motionless in the mud. Sufficed with his examination of the new technological marvel, Cyril stepped away from the metal skeleton and resumed his path towards Mons. The frequency of derelict tanks had increased twofold as he moved further and further away from his safe haven. The MK IV and V tanks, the smaller FT tanks and even a few tanks bearing the Iron cross. Though Cyril had not seen many of Germany's boxy tanks they had, only spotting one or two of them, drenched in a shallow crater.

A part of him was fearful, walking past the cemetery of tanks, perhaps one would come alive like before and hinder his objective. Or maybe he was overthinking it. He liked to believe it was the ladder, but deep down he couldn't shuffle the anxiety away in the cellars of his mind. Walking through a makeshift dirt path with hills on either side, the number of tanks seemed to die down as it went from four every kilometer to just one. Perhaps he was getting closer to the city, the number of dead infantry seemed to suggest that, as their numbers increased three-fold.

Passing the ravine of mud, Cyril saw the outline of a square building. Looking remarkably intact from the distance of the green fog. Lowering his guard for a rare moment, he focused his stride on the rare point of civilization. His footfalls passed through the normal porridge texture of muck, though every now and then he would step on something of a different sound that would cause Cyril to halt his progress and look down. His right foot had unintentionally stepped on the decaying corpse of a horse, the face already stripped away of flesh and muscle, and the torso and upper legs were in the middle stages of decomposition.

Quickly removing his foot from the carcass with a quiet gag from his breath. At first Cytil thought of wiping away the stains of rotting tissue from his boot. However at that point the boot was going to get filthy the moment he took another step. Wasting little time, he wriggled his right foot to get the stain off of him, and it flew off into the void of chlorine. With a sigh of annoyance, Cyril moved on, carefully avoiding his steps on any of the corpses.

It didn't take long to reach the building. As the fog cleared around his lens, Cyril could see a stained white house with only a single shell hole that impacted the roof. He didn't expect the house to be protected from the chlorine, but a shell hole through the roof was not on the top list of things he expected. The few windows it had were cracked and a few sporting holes, a wooden door was closed off to the outside. Nothing a simple brute force couldn't handle however, as Cyril bashed through the weakened frame. Inside were the bare amenities for a house on the outskirts, a small room for the toilet, an old stove and a rickety bed that lost its mattress, though in the center was another of those lanterns. Thankful for finding two in such short notice, he snapped his fingers once, and the familiar pale glow of white light permeated the room, drowning out the depressing hue of green. Cyril crouched down and outstretched his hand to feel the warm glow of the newly lit lantern, shutting his eyes in the process.

His eyes parted away to see the familiar, but esoteric landscape of Hunter’s dream. The moon still shining bright in the opulent sky of blue and black. Though one detail Cyril had recently noticed upon examination was that the clouds never obscured the moon in any way. Rather, they seem to go behind the lunar object, to not disturb its luminous gaze on the strange landscape. In the countless nights, he had seen the moon pass through the clouds countless times, dimming the world around him ever so slightly. However, this was unsettling to him. Thankfully he hadn't seen it occur in the real world. If it was a phenomena that pertained there, he couldn't imagine having to travel with the sun uninterrupted by clouds.

Cyril ended his paralyzed gaze and turned towards the workshop on his left. Even through the fog he could see the familiar outline of the Doll, only this time she wasn't tending the garden, simply looking down at the results. The footfalls on grass alerted her that Cyril had returned, ending her hold on the gentle flower, and onto her feet. Even if Cyril was trying to be quiet, he had to imagine the Doll would hear him coming. Nothing ever got by that woman.

"Welcome home, good hunter. Your weapon has been restored while you were away." The Doll whispered in her silky voice.

"Thank you, ma'am." He replied before looking around the garden, then to the house. "The old general isn't here to greet me?"

She spoke her head slowly before opening her eyes. "The general is maintaining the chateau, he has told me not to be disturbed."

Turning away from the marionette, Cyril focused his gaze on the looming chateau behind him, with its clean walls and pointed tower, trying to reach into the star speckled sky above. The fact Edward had never mentioned the building before, confused him at the very least. He couldn’t imagine what lay beyond stone walls and inside the vast halls of the chateau. “You haven’t been inside there?”

“Not once. I have been ordered to never enter the chateau.” She softly answered. “However, when the general does enter the building. The air stills, and the sound of leaves fall silent. Even I am confused by this phenomena.”

With this statement, he only just noticed how strangely quiet it was. Very rarely in his travels had the area around him fell to such a silence that deafened the world. It unnerved him.

“How long does he usually stay there?”

“For an hour at most, then he returns to the workshop. I’ve never inquired as to what happens inside, it’s not my place to question him.”

The dull almost emotionless response from the Doll seemed to confuse him, Cyril had to assume these two had known each other for many years, the fact she doesn’t know what happens inside is cause for concern. Though it’s best not to bring it up to him, lest he get suspicious. The doll moved away for a moment. And entered the workshop to return Cyril's shovel, holding the weapon in her porcelain hands. Clean and shiny compared to the rugged and well worn barbed shovel that had cut and cleaved so much in so little time. Hefting his old companion with one arm, he turned to his belt and unclipped the medical cleaver.

"Would it be alright if I leave this and any future weapons I find here?"

"Of course, good hunter. This workshop has plenty of space for it and more." She held the cleaver with both of her hands and delicately moved it inside the workshop.

Cyril walked inside for a moment to see her placing the weapon on the wall, two hooks holding it in place before it was settled. He walked towards the Doll, who in turn shifted her head immediately to his direction.

"What we discussed, can you keep it hidden from Edward?"

"I can, good hunter. I won't reveal this secret you have trusted" she responded while nodding twice.

With only a small sigh of relief, Cyril waved off the Doll and was on his way back to the headstone. He was thankful the Doll trusted him with this knowledge, one day he would confront Edward about that chateau, but it would be better for later. Kneeling by the gravestone he outstretched his hand, shutting his eyes as his vision faded to black, only seeing a faint glow of white before the lids sealed to darkness.

Cyril soon opened his eyes, as he was back into the same worn down house as before. The cold feeling of isolation returned, and the hues of green seeped through the holes of the roof of the house. Glancing from his left, he failed to notice a wooden chest beside the stove. Walking towards it, Cyril was glad it wasn't locked like the previous one he had seen in Arras. Lifting the cover open revealed a welcomed sight. A supply of moonrings with plenty of ammunition. He could count five, maybe eight of them. Scooping them all up, he placed them in one of his many pockets and was ecstatic to use his neglected revolver. Who sat idle, waiting for the chance to fire its six bullets at the madmen that inhabit the land.

With his revolver having plenty of ammunition, Cyril thought it would be time to put the sawn off rifle in storage, quickly returning to the lamp to drop the trusty weapon given to him by Walker, before returning again to the house. Opening the door once more unto the unforgiving landscape, Cyril continued towards the outskirts of Mons. The tanks became less frequent, as time went on from exploring, going from four every kilometer, to two. Perhaps the tanks all fought outside of the town as opposed to inside it. The houses appeared more often in the fog, all in various states of disrepair, some little more than a wall and a window. There were more bodies that lined the cratered surface, a majority of them being soldiers, but there were a few that looked to be civilians, judging by the clothes they wore. All the soldiers wore gas masks, some of the lenses were cracked which gave Cyril an idea as to how they died, the others probably had gunshot wounds somewhere on them, where it could remain a mystery, as the corpses were drenched in water and grime.

What unnerved him however, was the face of one man, he looked to be a farmer given his clothes, but the hollow eyes and pale skin haunted him. One of his arms appeared to be torn off completely, as if hacked off by a crude blade. Cyril couldn’t tell if the wound was recent or not, given the rotting nature of the body, but he couldn’t brush the idea away. Wherever there is a large town, there will always be signs of life, whether they be friendly or not.

As if right on cue, the sounds of footsteps in the distance gave Cyril his answer. Finding the closest bit of cover, he carefully crept his way to the blasted out remains of a house where only two walls remained standing. Peering over the corner, he couldn’t see anything from the distance, only the disgusting sound of mud giving way to weighted boots. An outline soon appeared from the distance, vaguely human in shape, brandishing a club, and looking as if he was missing an arm. The man shuffled over to the houses and the bodies slowly, taking great effort to exert himself upwards, to Cyril, he looked as if he was about to fall down at any moment. As the man walked towards the bodies in the mud, his features became clear. This was a crazed soldier of some kind, his clothes tattered and worn down, the exposed skin blistering and cracked from constant exposure to the elements and chemicals above, and a mask that was cut below the nose, showing off his lower jaw that sported yellowed teeth.

The crazed soldier was alone, and used his club to mutilate the bodies below, bashing his ruined weapon on the body of a dead soldier. Cyril had no need to wait around if this person was alone, he simply ran towards the mutilated man and swung his barbed shovel with a surprising grace. An upwards strike cut deep into the soldier’s dark blue uniform. Though he didn’t go down in the first strike, drunkenly swinging his club downwards only once, before Cyril sidestepped and retaliated with another attack. This one more fatal as it struck the back of the crazed soldier’s neck, causing all function to cease as the man dropped dead amongst the body he had defiled.

Swinging his weapon once to wipe the stained blood off, Cyril walked away from the gruesome display and moved on. The mutilated remains of noncombatants unsettled him, helpless to either the rifle fire or god forbid the chlorine gas permeating the air. At that point it was a mercy to be shot, rather than suffer slowly. Cyril didn't glance back to the remains and only kept his thoughts on what was ahead.

That being a cluster of one and two story buildings and paved roads. Unlike in Arras, Mons was merely a crumb compared to the sheer scale of the French town. Bombed out ruins and trenches circles the town, with a small wall of sandbags offering protection for whoever peaked above. The town was surrounded by a sea of grey and brown earth, a bridge directly over a river of refuse and foul water. On the left was a forest of decaying degrees, leafless and desperately waiting for the sun to nourish them. With the constant presence of the green smog, Cyril could only describe it as a chlorinated hell.

Cyril had to assume there were more of those crazed soldiers inside. Perhaps even new foes he had yet to encounter. Outside of the German hunters, he had not seen many unfamiliar threats. It had largely remained the same. Either disfigured men little more than beasts, rabid dogs, malformed horses, giants or rogue hunters. No matter what lies inside that town, Cyril will more than likely be surprised. Sliding down the small mound toward the ground, he broke into a sprint towards the bridge. Though his visibility was limited because of the gas, he was only hoping no one would be near it.

As his sight increased, the worst outcome was true. Ghostly figures shimmered into view, Cyril rolled towards a stack of crates for cover. From his guess, there had to have been four soldiers, one of those giants and a rabid dog. Cyril tensed his muscles at the sight of the canines outline and clutched his weapons closely. He couldn't falter at the sight of them, as much as he wanted to stay exactly where he was. He had a mission to achieve. Taking one last exhale Cyril gripped his revolver as tightly as he could and prayed he was still good at shooting with it.

In an instant he broke from cover and towards the perimeter of the bridge, his arm poised to take the first shot as his sights lie towards the dog. With a metallic clap, the bullet raced towards the four legged animal and judging by the yelp, his aim was true. The soldiers and the artillery troll turned their attention to the sound, running or stumbling towards Cyril, only one staying back, which Cyril could see held a rifle. That was his first target.

Running past the attackers, he avoided a clumsy swing from the giant's artillery shell, and a swipe from one of the soldiers. The rifleman fired a shot, which Cyril responded by dashing to his side, before the marksman could pull back the bolt, however, his opponent was upon him. The shovel at its shortened length, Cyril swung the weapon once, twice, thrice. Making sure the rifleman was no more of a threat, as his body stumbled to the ground. The ranged threat eliminated, Cyril quickly turned to the melee users, as one of the soldiers, whose face looked more like muscle and bone as opposed to scarred flesh, swung quickly at him.

Cyril responded by a rushed swing before stepping back, the attack not connecting, but was meant to deter his foe. Another soldier joined his comrade in the attack, Cyril extended his barbed shovel and swung as wide as he could in an arcing sweep that caught both of the deformed men. It might have stopped them, but they were not out of it. The Artillery troll lumbered forward with his brass shell, Cyril sidestepped backwards before the giant smashed it on the ground.

Though the unexpected happened as an explosion tore through the artillery troll and eviscerated his body and the two soldiers standing nearest to him. Cyril had avoided most of the explosion but a small piece of shrapnel found its home inside his chest. The pain struck him fast as he wanted to cough up blood, he wanted to remove his mask to gasp for air, but doing that would only speed up his demise. He had to grab a blood needle. Fishing through his pockets, he found one and jammed it into his leg. In an instant, his lungs were no longer overflowing with blood and were reforming to its original state. Cyril only coughed once before groggily turning his attention to the last soldier, a man wearing a poorly minted gas mask who looked as if he was entering death's doorstep.

The man at first raised his weapon, though he raised his other arm towards his mouth. Followed by a high pitched whistle from his decrepit face. Cyril heard the briefest of growls before the rabid dog returned to its feet to pounce on him. Eyes hollow, and fur tangled with blood and mud, the dog was trying to bite at Cyril's neck. The only thing keeping him safe was the handle of his barbed shovel offering protection. He brought his revolver up to the dog's stomach and shot twice before the grotesque pet was finally put down. Crouching back up, Cyril could see the dog owner running towards him in a fit of anger. Faster than he expected so far from this crazed soldier, guess he was saving his energy for the right time. He returned the gesture by meeting him face to face, as Cyril swung his shovel horizontally before bringing it down in a vertical strike. Connecting to the head of the deranged man, as he soon slumped back and lied motionless on the ground.

His breathing heavy after the admittedly short encounter, rustled his right arm to ease the sore pain it had endured from the lengths his arm had to move and contort. After half a minute of rotating his arm to subsidize the ache, he was ready to venture forward past the bridge.

It returned to the silence he was used to as his steps collided with metal. The frame of the bridge had a trapezoid shape with multiple X patterns on the sides and the top. Cyril was surprised a bridge like this was built so far away from civilization. He'd have expected it to be made of wood or stone. Though he had to remember this land was once beautiful and full of life. Now the picturesque scenery had vanished in only a few months.

Reaching the other side, Cyril could see the town on the horizon. The only indication in this dreary hellscape that people once lived here. Through the miasma of decay, Cyril could see more faint specters, some closer than others. All of them staggering or standing still. There wasn't much cover to avoid them, outside of the craters that dented the ground. All he could do was pray that their eyesight had deteriorated in this gas, so they wouldn't see him. Taking his first steps he started slowly to the closest crater, a small one no deeper than two meters, but plenty of cover to avoid detection.

Poking up he could see more details on the crazed soldiers. They were clearly victims of the cloud as their skin, like the men he encountered before, was scarred and in unhealthy hues. Gas masks loosely applied, some not wearing any at all, one of the crazed soldiers started to vomit whatever contents he ate onto the mud. A pair of those artillery trolls strode through, one with a large brick, the other with another artillery shell. Though the object in the center froze his thoughts. A cross scraped together with two sharpened wooden planks, surrounded by barbed wire. Held up in the center was the body of a long decayed corpse, the face more or less a skull with tendons and muscle. It had to have been a ceremonial gathering, an offering to whatever twisted deity these things worship.

Far too many to pick off one by one, from what he could see Cyril counted fifteen to nineteen enemies. The two giants counted among them. Stealth was all he could do in this situation. All he could hope is for his footfalls to be deafly silent and for his luck to come into play. Taking a moment to breath, Cyril started his quiet trudge through the craters, taking great care to make as little noise as possible. Easier said than done, as each movement made the wet earth squelch in a repulsive sound. Though looking back up from the crater he could see none of them even noticed the sounds. Not questioning as to why, he continued his careful trek, out of the first crater and hiding behind a small mound of mud. His heart rate started to increase as a rhythmic thumping sounded through the edges of his ears. A few more seconds to ease the panic in his mind, Cyril resumed his skulking. Another crater, a smaller one was coming into view. Though a small rustling was heard on his right, taking a split second glance to see what it was, Cyril’s sight landed on nothing, outside of a few corpses. Thinking nothing of it, he took two more steps before another noise from the right once more was heard, this time Cyril stopped moving and turned his full head towards the right. His mind had to have been playing tricks on him, there was still nothing of note. The same bodies lying still. His heart elevated back to where it once was, he was starting to get antsy now. Looking slowly away from the bodies, the same rustling happened, though this time it was different.

A tugging at his lower right leg, He looked down to see a ghoulish creature. A decayed body wearing a tattered German uniform and helmet, his face rotting and bone protruding his lower jaw as it hinged open slowly. The sudden sight of the reanimated corpse, caused Cyril to slip on the wet surface and slid down the base of the crater. The trench crawler clung onto him as he fell. Cyril brought his shovel at a downward angle and struck the body at the back of his neck with. Brought down with enough force that it nearly cleaved the head off of the thin skin. There was no mistaking that he had made more noise in that moment than all of his steps combined into one.

He could hear the footfalls of one, perhaps two of the crazed soldiers walking over to check the disturbance. With only seconds to think of a course of action, Cyril lay as still as he could in the spot he landed in. Contorting his right leg in an awkward way to appear as any other corpse. His head staring in the direction of the crazed soldiers. Holding his breath to further solidify his ruse, he now waited to see if this would work. Soon enough, a duo of deformed men, one wielding a rifle peered down into the crater, passing his hollow eyes onto Cyril once before looking to his left away from him. Presumably over to the trench crawler that had hung onto Cyril for a moment.

Any second now, he waited for the impact of a bullet to hit him. Two seconds. Five. Twenty. It never came, after a minute the two soldiers soon walked away from the crater, mumbling about something that Cyril couldn’t decipher. When they were far enough away, he stood up and crouched down, slowly making his way out of the small crater. Out of the lip, he moved to a third one, larger than the previous two, he stuck close to the perimeter and used it to trudge through the crazed soldiers above. Taking extra care to watch his step and his surroundings for more surprises like before. Reaching the other half of the crater proved easier than the other two, though he had to make a short climb through the soft earth, though with enough time and patience he made it up and out of the hole.

However, another sound came from his right, causing Cyril to halt his climb. A thunderclap of a step sounded through the haze of chlorine. A sound like none other that Cyril had heard in his life. It sounded powerful, metallic, heavy. The originator of the sound came into view as Cyril finally saw the advancement humanity had created whilst he was in his slumber. The boxy frame of a humanoid shape took form, the head cubical in shape, with a single black horizontal slit running across the face. Two claws on arms extended a little past its waist. Legs in a rectangular shape with rivets and bullet dents. A copper drone.

With the heavy footfalls of the metal man alerting the crazed soldiers from their altar of worship. Cyril ducked his upper torso back down into the crater to keep himself hidden. Though the sound of the copper drone’s steps increasing as it broke into a brisk walk could be heard. A gutteral metallic sound boomed out as it greeted the crazed soldiers with the sound of broken limbs and blood. Sounds of screaming could be heard, gunfire soon followed before being silenced in a single moment.

Cyril took this opportunity to make a break for Mons. Even as the haunting screams of the madmen grew distant. The copper drone massacred half of them by the time Cyril had begun his run. It had to contend with those two artillery trolls however. He wouldn’t stay to see the matchup. Mons was more important, he had a feeling that this drone won’t be the only one he sees in the future. Perhaps he’ll have the misfortune of running into one in the town? He shuddered the thought and only focused on the clumped mass of buildings in the foggy distance, with one goal in mind. Learn about the nightmare.

Chapter Text

Through the mist of chlorine, Cyril emerged. Parting the poisonous gas with every step. Turning around in a circle to look behind him before returning to his direction of walking. After the encounter with the Copper drone, he had to be sure it didn’t follow him. That display of power, the durability of its armor, frightened him that in just a year, autonomous robots could slaughter a dozen or so crazed soldiers and not falter in the slightest. He had always tried to be aware of his surroundings, but now, Cyril had to take extra care on the slightest metallic sound. He could be overreacting with this precaution, though with seeing that thing effortlessly kill so many people, it was reason enough to be scared of it.

The sounds of those crazed soldiers' screams had died out long ago, a half hour? Forty five minutes? He couldn’t remember, he had been running and walking to Mons for so long that he had lost track. The only indication of any change was the weather. The green clouds above intermingled with the various dark gray clouds, creating a sickly hue in the sky. Another storm was coming, how bad it would be, Cyril could only wait to find out. Maybe the strong winds would blow the chlorine away?

“If it were that simple” he chuckled to himself. “Then this place wouldn’t have been covered by kilometers of that fog.”

If only there was no chlorine, if only there weren't any crazed soldiers, if only there were no beasts beyond comprehension. Cyril had to get it through his mind that it will never be as simple. All the areas he had traveled through offered some kind of threat or opponent to fight and he might as well expect that for almost every place he visited. It would make the anticipation of surprises less shocking.

Passing through a pair of dilapidated houses, he could see the remains of what he assumed were the townsfolk that didn’t get out in time. Their bodies decomposing with maggots and flies scavenging the remains for their corpus meal. One however stopped him in his tracks, a small child in a fetal position. The details of the body were a mystery, outside of the thread like hair remaining on his head, his face obscured by his scarred arms and marks of blood. He turned away from the grotesque sight and moved on. He had seen a similar mass of bodies early on, the one with the crazed soldier mutilating a body with his weapon. Though this was the first time he had ever seen a child dead. He had seen countless dead before, mostly men of both sides in the war, but very few were women and he had never seen a child dead in the streets of bombed out ruins. Perhaps all the children in the villages and towns he had battled in were lucky enough to escape the carnage. However, it seemed that boy wasn’t as fortunate, sadly.

A flicker of a thought that Rosie could’ve very well been in that situation had he not come to Arras. Cyril shuddered for a second, before rustling his head back and forth. Thinking of the possible outcomes wouldn’t matter. She was safe with Phillipe, outside of this dreary land.

The town grew closer and closer as time passed on, his destination was near. The trek through the refuse and decay would be over, then he would have to deal with the urban destruction and rubble as opposed to the land surrounding Mons. Honestly searching through the towns and cities was preferable than being out there. At least here, each step didn’t slick through the mud, or the foul stench of the dead permeated around him. At least with these formerly inhabited areas, the roads and buildings were a relief to travel. The only downside was that it was easier to get lost in the maze, much like in Arras. Thankfully Mons didn’t seem to be as big as the former French city, so narrowing down what he would need to find should be easier.

Whatever it may be. Cyril had no ideas on what to even expect in this town. Would he realistically even find the source of this devastation? Or would it just be another clue to finding said source.

“Nothing is ever as easy, it has to be the ladder.” Cyril mused to himself as he vaulted over a series of sandbags.

The closer he got to the town, more and more defenses he was so used to seeing popped up like small trenches and sandbags. Though unlike the ones he lived in, these were poorly constructed. Nothing more than dirt and earth offering only a meter and a half of protection if you duck down. Any sensible officer would be appalled by these defenses. Hopping over them, Cyril could finally see the outer perimeter of the town through the chlorine gas, a series of one story houses and a few stone walls, all marred with holes from the largest of artillery shells, to the smallest of firearms. Buildings on opposite sides in various conditions, bordered by a single road, strewn with debris, sandbags and the odd corpse here and there. With his destination finally reached, Cyril unclipped his barbed shovel and grabbed his MK VI revolver and began his journey inside Mons.

Perhaps getting a closer look to some of the houses would provide some hints as to what happened? Though like in Arras, he would only stick to buildings that were relatively intact, as opposed to ones that were husks of stone and wood. No sense sifting through rubble in search of answers when there probably wouldn’t be any buried down there. Similar to Arras, he could see a few destroyed houses with nothing more than a single wall or chimney standing to remind the world that this used to be a sanctuary from the elements. No more. As he passed through the destroyed wall that used to be a home on the left, his eyes followed on a house set to the right. Paint peeled off the wooden skin, as if it was shedding like a snake. The door was hinged open slightly offering a glimpse inside. Cyril pressed his left hand forward, as the door parted to give him access inside.

Much like the house before with the lantern, it was devoid of light. The only illumination being the hole in the roof above, allowing the elements, including the chlorine entrance. The floor was a wreck of wood and shrapnel. A small hole in the center of the living quarters surrounded the room, a destroyed couch and table was any sign that people used to live here. Anything else of value was taken away presumably by the owner, or scavengers.

Hearing the crack of glass as his boot stepped into the room, Cyril stood still and soon heard the flutter of wings in the next room. He knew it had to be one of those ravens from Arras. Not wasting time to be subtle with this small threat, he strode into the room and eyes with the corvid, it swiveled its deformed head at him before trying to flap its wings up to claw him with its talons. Cyril was quick with the response as a pair of diagonal strikes from his shortened shovel ended the miserable creature's life.

As the lifeless body stumbled to the floor, Cyril only realized he entered some sort of a library. The shelves of scarred wood, with rows caving in itself as books lie scattered about on the floor. Most of them were damaged through water or missing a majority of their pages. He was confused as to why some of the books even had torn pages to begin with, it looked as if two people were fighting over all of them.

Picking one of the ruined books with its main body torn from its spine, he perused the remaining sheets of paper to gather a clue as to what lay inside. Most of the words were sadly in Dutch so translating them would be impossible. However, one of the pages that miraculously remained on the spine of the book perplexed him. A drawing of some sort. Curved lines, a circle in the middle, ink scribbled out of the drawing as if it was a sort of energy coming from the odd shape. There were figures of some kind at the bottom of the page, though the language wasn't Dutch anymore, it was that same writing he had seen in Arras.

A feeling of dread soon washed over him. His skin felt cold, even through his clothes, as a single sweat beading dripped through his head. His eyes began to struggle looking at the words and drawings. He had to close his eyes, but why? Why did he get this sudden pain? Closing his eyes proved to be a mistake as a blur of images presented itself through his closed eyelids. Creatures of esoteric design roamed a landscape of jagged rocks and poison puddles. Islands of stone pillars where the sky above was the ocean. The last one however was an array of beings of unique shapes. All in different proportions and shapes that Cyril couldn't comprehend in such a short span of time.

Reeling from the sudden flash of images,

That book in the shop. It couldn't have been a coincidence, could it?

He had to save it for Edward and the Doll. Fortunately the book was small enough to be stuffed into one of his pockets. Cyril would be annoyed with having to place it where his ammunition would normally be, but this potential clue might be more important than small irritants like that. He scoured through the remaining books to find more evidence, sadly a majority were indecipherable, due to the rain water or the ripped pages. Though there were a few pages scattered about, miraculously untouched by the elements. Scavenging them from the ground, he opened the torn book in his pocket and tried to organize them as best as he could in the leather skin. After a few seconds, he had gathered at least two dozen pages. A sufficient amount for now.

Cyril glanced through each one for a few seconds, only seeing Dutch or that peculiar writing. One however, proved to be invaluable, a sort of translation for the markings and language with some sort of alphabet, or terms frequently used in pages. He’ll have to thoroughly search through the pages later. Perhaps there was more to Mons that still lay hidden. Exiting the repository of unusual knowledge, his sight returned to the chlorine dense fog that permeated the streets. One story houses stood on each side of the road with decent space between them. Above, the sound of thunder boomed throughout the land, the telltale signs that rain was approaching soon.

“Right on cue” He joked to himself, this place was missing one thing to make it absolutely miserable and it was that damn rain.

Thankfully there isn't any sight of mud, so no use worrying about sinking in it. Though he couldn't let his guard down for a moment, heading the words of Philipe that there were still people in here. Though the only sign of life he had seen was a carrion crow in the building previously. At least they were relatively easy to take down, as opposed to the war horses. At least the conductor told him that some were spotted in the town, so Cyril wouldn't be surprised with their sudden appearance.

His thoughts mused on other animals that might have been affected by this enigmatic force. Would there be animals that feature more grotesque appearances than the ones seen now? Cyril had to assume so with the more destroyed areas. Though all around him, everything looked destroyed so it would be hard to tell which place was more affected than others. He continued his pondering as he entered another house, in search for more clues. Opening the door revealed a large amount of dust and fog in the air, a single corpse lying still on the ground. One of his arms torn completely off and his gas mask tattered, leaving the face exposed to the toxic chemicals.

Cyril took no chances and shortened his barbed shovel, bringing it down on the "body". With a single strike, the man jolted once with a haggard breath, before Cyril once again struck him down with a repeat. He wasn't going to fall for that trick. The search through the building was fruitless however. Nothing of value was found, not even a moon ring for his revolver. Annoyed, he exited the dusty building in search of another target.

The rain began its descent slowly, sith only a few drops of water colliding with his helmet, and onto the road. Up ahead Cyril could see through the fog and noticed there were two paths separating on both sides. Walking away from the house, he delved through the thin fog and looked at his options. Left led him further down the town whilst right back into the emptiness of mud and deluge.

"No sense in leaving now, I just started." Cyril told himself, taking the left path.

As the frequency of houses increased, the more dilapidated the buildings became, as some were reduced to their bare frame. His ears soon picked up on footsteps that weren't his own. Standing still only for a second to confirm where it was coming from. Up ahead to his right out of view. It was a gradual shuffle rather than symmetrical steps. Cyril walked over to the fragile remains of a stone pillar for cover, peeking his head to see how many there were.

The chlorine was very thin in this particular area so he could see what it was. A trio of scarred men suffering from the constant bombardment of the harmful chemicals. Their skin cracked and leathery in appearance, wounds bare open with no sign of treatment. Gas masks loosely applied, perhaps the people living here were so used to the chlorine they became more adaptable in this horrible condition. None of them seemed to have any ranged weapons, so Cyril was confident enough to close the distance with them. They weren't far now, probably eight meters

Breaking from cover. The crazed soldiers didn't react to him in the first five seconds, failing to notice the charging hunter heading towards them. Only by the sixth second did they notice someone approaching them. By the tenth, one had already fallen by two strikes from the torso.

By then their sluggish responses had already lost them an advantage in numbers, but Cyril dodged both of their clumsy swings by dashing away from both of the clubs. It seems their time in this environment dulled their reflexes and awareness. Made it easier for him to take the remaining two down. With the flick of his wrist Cyril brought his barbed shovel in a downward angle, extending the blade as he swung. Connecting to the rightmost soldier, before following up with an upward strike. The second man now fell lifeless on the brick road in thirty seconds, one was all that remained.

Shortening his shovel to its original length, Cyril turned counterclockwise to find the final crazed soldier, vanishing from sight in the chlorine. All that he could hear was the rain dropping its liquid artillery to the brick road. Only to hear the same shuffling from before, but this time much faster, as he was suddenly hurled to the ground by the final soldier, seeing the disfigured face up close with his left eye glossy with an odd looking pupil. Cyril jolted his head to the left to avoid a bludgeon from the soldier’s club. The pin wasn't held for long, as Cyril kicked the man away before firing his revolver. The bullet slowed him down quite a bit as he staggered up slowly.

Though not fast enough as Cyril was on his feet in seconds, closing the gap between the opponent with one final swoop from his melee weapon. Leaping up into the air before bringing his shovel down on the man's shoulder. Unable to continue, the last crazed soldier slumped backwards in defeat, lying motionless. The entire ordeal lasted a little over a minute and a half.

Hearing the muffled breathing from his mask, Cyril stepped over the body of his last foe before walking down the path where these crazed soldiers were leaving from. Going to the heart of Mons was the only thing he had in mind now. Perhaps he'll find more answers as to what those symbols and drawings mean? Cyril’s mind wandered at the myriad of theories that soon formed in his mind, at what it could mean. Leaving the trio of bodies he had left behind, his mind fluttered at the possible ideas of the drawings. His sudden vision of those…things. A small twinge of pain crept his way to his frontal lobe, shaking his head back and forth before it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. Strange. It had to have been because of the language and images that flashed through him. Hopefully they wouldn’t impede on his endeavors in the future. The last thing he would need is to be in the middle of fighting, and suddenly a series of slides would pop into his vision.

It soon became the same routine for nearly half an hour, navigating the nearly empty streets, heading forward, then left and right. Occasionally picking through the houses for any useful information. Unlike before with the first one, Cyril’s efforts have been fruitless. Outside of one marking plastered on the wall of a living room. There were little signs of the strange language, and even fewer evidence of the drawings. Perhaps he just got lucky with his first findings and the well for mysterious knowledge had been tapped dry. Thankfully, there were a few blood needles looted from a chest in one of the houses, bolstering Cyril’s amount, perhaps the most he had ever had so far in this journey, so it wasn’t all for nothing.

Leaving one of the partially destroyed houses, whose roof was eradicated from a shell. He returned to the path he was on, off to possibly the next house to scavenge for clues. Though something in the back of his mind told him to stop. Doing as his mind commanded, Cyril stood still in the middle of the road. The only sight ahead was the meter high wall of sandbags blocking the way, and the derelict tank nearby. Was it the sight of that tank that told him to stop? Was it another of those Crawling tanks? He tried to listen past the rain, past the rumble of thunder, and the scurrying of pests. A rumble soon followed, but not one of thunder, a metallic one. Getting out of the open, Cyril soon scattered to the right and found himself hopping over a crumbled wall, and hobbling up behind in cover. Perhaps it was one of those copper drone’s he heard of?

The steps drew closer with each passing second, Cyril remained absolutely still to try and blend in with his surroundings. The odd Angle he lied down in made it look as though he was another casualty, though if anyone got too close to see the slight heaving of his chest, the ruse would be over. Another step, this one closer. Whatever it was, Cyril assumed it was only a few meters away by now. Sweat began to bead his brow, beneath his mask, the lens started to fog up with his breath. His heart began to quicken its pace, but not to the point of panic. The metallic thud soon met only two meters away, a whir of joints and steel ratcheted the movement. With that sound, Cyril knew it was a copper drone. With each step, a sound of ratchets and creaking followed with each motion. The sounds grew closer to his hiding spot, no doubt this drone was scouting the area for more crazed soldiers or things in general to kill. Perhaps they were all affected much like the men of this war?

The movements of the machine stopped suddenly. Scouring the area with the rotation of its head. Cyril couldn’t see the drone, but he had assumed it was looking from left to right. The slightest noise, the slightest motion, he took precaution on being as silent as possible. The rubble ahead of him, however, seemed to disagree with that idea. A sudden crumbling of stone and wood followed, causing Cyril to stiffen and the drone to jolt its head so fast that a crack could be heard beneath its metal armor. Cyril was facing directly at the source of the disturbance, a decrepit hand reaching out from the debris, soon followed by the decayed body of a man wearing a German helmet. The face little more than a withered husk, he couldn’t stand up as his body was free from its entombment, that man, no, that thing was little more than a trench crawler. The creature soon moved towards Cyril, the lopsided mouth hanging open like a serpent. Cyril remained still, not wanting to break his cover just for the copper drone to be upon him.

He wasn’t given a choice as the wall behind him was soon demolished by the lengthy arm of the Copper drone, swinging it and him aside as if they were nothing. Cyril flung away to the street and landed back first. Tilting his head up, he could see the drone making two strides towards the trench crawler and brought its arm down to crush the interloper. Making a metallic gurgle as it finished the foe.

His chest burning and his lungs begging for air, Cyril choked and coughed for a few seconds before getting up to see the metallic monster before him. The cube shaped head swiveled to face him, there was no emotion behind that temple, only the simple command to destroy all who opposed him. Cyril dreaded this moment would happen, but there was no use in fearing it, he would prevail as he had done before. Extending his barbed shovel to its full length he began to charge forward at the copper drone, who returned with its long strides.

The two met in mere seconds, his opponent raising its left arm to slam on the stone road, Cyril rolled forward to dodge the attack. Slashing at him with his shovel once before dashing backwards to avoid another sweep from its long arms. The damage he dealt was no doubt not enough, all that it caused was a small tear. Cyril burst forward again to swing a pair of strikes before dodging to the left, avoiding another sluggish attack. The drone soon turned to his left to slam on the road once more, making its deep gurgling noise doing so. Annoyed with his lack of progress, Cyril simply rolled away from the attack and stood back up as quickly as he had evaded. Firing off two shots from his revolver at the head of the metal menace.

Both impacted the head and caused the copper drone to jerk at each sudden hit. The machinery inside might be fragile, so the pistol rounds might’ve damaged him in some way. It's movements became more unnatural, each step causing either an arm or the head to jolt in one direction. Cyril ducked away to avoid a horizontal strike, though he chose a poor time to stand, as the second arm flung him to the side, impacting the wall of a house. The force of the sudden attack wasn't enough to warrant wasting a blood needle.

Quick to his feet, Cyril shortened his barbed shovel to land a series of strikes at the metal beast. One at its abdominal armor plate, the others at its exposed leg joints. The drone wasn't quick enough to retaliate, only staggering to the ground as a series of mechanical wails and gears grinded in protest at the stress the machine was taking. Cyril plunged the barbed shovel deep into the gouged armor that was on the chest, jamming his weapon deep within the heart of the copper drone. Before forcefully expunged it from the automaton, the sudden force caused the machine to sputter and spasm for an instant, before going limp as all of its power shut down. He began the routine of calming his breathing after an engagement. With each fight, he would have to find ways to ease the sudden stress and relax after an encounter. Staring down at the copper drone, Cyril could not see a spark of life remaining from the bipedal machine, relieved that it wouldn't get up once more, he exhaled once before turning to the direction he was walking down.

Much like those horses, he assumed that he'll encounter more of them in other locations, but at least he found a way to combat them efficiently. If their heads were so vulnerable to small arms fire, a single sniper could probably take out an army of them. Though Cyril wondered if there were variants of the copper drones, perhaps ones fitted with ranged weaponry, rather than crude pincer hands. He shuddered at the thought of them wielding flamethrowers or machine guns. For now it was just a hypothesis, there's no telling as to whether or not they held such armaments.

The journey down the road led him to a few buildings relatively stable on each side, he moved towards his right at a two story house. Cyril walked through the battered door to see the dark living space of a room, very little remained of the place, aside from the bisected remains of a table in the center. A single body decorated the room, the foul stench of decay soon wafted the air. Cyril was thankful his gas mask blocked it out somewhat, though there were traces of the stench seeping through, even as it was passing through the chlorine gas.

Searching room to room. Cyril tried to find more evidence of those drawings and the language. There were no books in the first two rooms, the kitchen appeared to be ransacked, not a crumb in sight.

"A diary or journal upstairs?" He mused to himself, as he left the kitchen.

Returning to the living room, a flight of old rotting steps led to the second floor of the building. His first step, however, only led to the floorboard beginning to give way to his weight. Sighing as he could hear the wood begin to crack with the exertion of pressure, he began to sprint upwards. Some of the steps broke apart, but Cyril was lucky enough to not fall down. Reaching the top he looked back to see the handiwork he had laid out. Chuckling once at realizing he could’ve been a few seconds away from falling, Cyril turned to the hallway, hearing several rustles from one of the shut doors to his right. The time for amusement quickly evaporated as the grim determination soon replaced it.

Cyril hoisted his revolver up and took steps slowly at first. Hearing the creaks of the wood giving way to each step taken. However the door burst open with a sudden force that caused Cyril to jolt in surprise. Soon seeing a crazed soldier scrambling through the hallway towards him. Cyril dodged away as best he could given the small space he had to work with. Letting the madman run past by, only to strike his back with his shovel. Staggering, the crazed soldier tried to swing his crude shovel in response, but was deterred by his wound. Cyril finished him off with another swing, a horizontal slash to the chest. The soldier heaved once, before dropping his weapon in an attempt to keep himself from bleeding out. He came in to deal the final blow by driving the barbed shovel directly in the same wound before turning it vertically, driving it deeper until Cyril heard no more breathing.

Leaving the debased individual, Cyril ventured into the room the man was occupying. His eyes wandered to the floor. A decayed corpse was in a fetal position, his skin a grayish yellow with cracked, leathery skin. Symbols dotted his arms and legs. Looking up at the walls, Cyril saw more of the peculiar language dotting small sections, only a single window gave the room illumination for him to see. The noxious fumes of chlorine and rotting flesh made for an unholy stench that Cyril couldn’t avoid, he was appalled at the display, that man could be driven to a point of barbarism

Walking over to a bookshelf, he began to scour the few remaining books still standing. Skimming through them, a majority were simply novels or dictionaries. No diaries or journals. Returning one book on the shelf and then grabbing another to peruse through, each time faster than the previous. Cyril reviewed yet another story with no avail, until his hands came into contact with a roughly textured book, unlike the previous ones this one felt older, not through the deterioration of this horrible battle, but through an untold amount of time. Looking at the cover he could see faint words etched on it, a date with four numbers. The first three barely visible, but Cyril could make out the last number, a faded silver with the number 9.

The creak of wood moving slowly broke the silence. Before he could open to see the contents, Cyril placed the book in the same pocket as the prior one, to turn and see a disfigured man entering the room. His gas mask loosely applied, as Cyril could see the glossy eye of another crazed soldier. Grabbing his shovel, he extended the blade as he swung horizontally, but the man hopped back a meter to the entrance. Cyril broke the gap with another swing, this time a vertical strike down, which caught the soldier as he fell to the floor.

Though before Cyril could follow up, the lunatic hurled himself forward with inhuman speed. Toppling over the desecrated body and into the center of the room. A crude knife was drawn from the man, Cyril used his left arm to block it from being plunged into him, using every bit of strength to keep it away. The man flicked something away and a pin soon fell to the floor. Cyril looked up and noticed the hilt, it was a grenade!

Kicking the psychopath off of him, he staggered up as quickly as he could before running towards the window. He could hear the crazed soldier trying to follow, but Cyril was quicker, bracing his face with both of his arms, he crashed through the frame as glass shards rained beside him. God help him if his mask was torn by the glass. Being in the air felt longer than it should have, time slowed down to him, the only sound that brought him back to the present was the distinctive explosion going off inside the room he was formerly in. Though he could barely hear it, Cyril soon impacted the ground and landed with the same grace as a wounded carrier pigeon. Once his body came to a halt, Cyril immediately started to cough, taking great strain to breathe before getting the strength to look up at the crazed soldier’s handywork.

Smoke soon bellowed from the window, the black intermingling with the green to make a repulsive color. Standing up after a few seconds, he turned away from the room of sacrifice, to face the junction that was at the edge. In the corners of his eyes, he could see a faint glow. Fifty meters away, a pale white that shone through the gas, its radiant light powerful enough that he could make out what it was.

Cyril knew it was her, deep down dreading for what was to come. Always she appeared in places where he would be put to the test, or at the very least learn more clues about the world around him. Whatever it may be, Cyril couldn't avoid it. No matter how much in the bowels of his mind he would protest at the thought. He began to walk towards the Woman in white, the point of no return stretching farther away with each meter gained towards her. Only when he reached a dozen meters from her did she float away towards the left, further down the city. Running further down, knowing full well that she would be gone by the time he got there.

Rounding the corner Cyril halted his run by skidding his boots on the ground before looking forward. Freezing still as his eyes locked sight on the center of the town square. His own nightmares manifested right at this moment as he heard a familiar growling sound that haunted his dreams. Through the open and empty town square he saw through the mist of chlorine and rain. A pair of orange eyes soon glowed through the miasma, Hell stared back to greet him with a wolf's smile.

Chapter Text

It was cool outside. A gentle breeze washed over him as he was frolicking the fields of tall grass. Not a care in the world as his arms were outstretched, as blades parted ways for him to pass. He laughed, one that could be heard for a kilometer as the area was so isolated compared to the city his father would work in. Even as the afternoon turned to dusk, there was a sense of freedom as he played in the field. The grass soon became darker as the sun set further down the horizon. The faint amount of yellows and reds were dimming with each passing minute, replaced by a cold mixture of blue and purple.

He could hear a shrill voice calling for him. High pitched but with a tinge of annoyance. He had wandered surprisingly far away from his home, light from the sun was decreasing and his visibility became poor. His time of joyful glee over, he decided to scamper back to his cliffside home. Dashing through the tall pikes of grass and hopping over small shrubs, oblivious to the noise he created. Giggling all the while as he pranced back home.

The light from the sun was only a thin line as the bleak colors of night soon enveloped the celestial body. His only guiding light now was that of his home, which haloed over the pillars of foliage like a newborn star. Though he stopped for a moment, continuing to hear the voice from the house but something else.

A cold wind soon swept the blades as they danced diagonally to part ways. Through the howl of wind, he heard something low rumbling. It couldn't be a storm, there were barely any clouds out. No it was something else, as a section of the grass parted and the rumble increased not only in frequency, but in volume. Even with the visibility limited he knew what he saw. Through the darkened night he saw some sort of beast, he could only see the pointed ears and bulky body. Eyes and teeth glowing brightly to oppose its dark fur. Baring its fangs it passed through the blades much like he did only minutes before.

He had rarely seen any animals outside his home, only the occasional bird or butterfly. But never an animal as large as this. He stepped back once, twice. The creature mimicked his steps with a slow methodical movement. Though when the sudden jolt of motion came from the beast, he turned the opposite direction and ran.

His graceful leaps became panicked steps as his short legs did their best to carry him through the fog of foliage. All the while his pursuer howled and snarled at him. Fearing for his life, he soon screamed as loudly as his tiny voice could. Hopefully she would hear his cry for help. The closer he got to his home, the closer the four legged beast caught up to him. Snarls soon became shouts, but they were drowned out by the panicked voice of the womanly voice in the distance. His shining beacon grew as he parted the last of the foliage.

A simple house greeted his eyes and his mother on the front porch, brown short hair was the only thing he paid attention to as he soon stumbled onto the ground, 10 meters away from safety as that beast was soon upon him. A loud shriek sounded from the woman as he was about to be assaulted by the beast. Fangs bearing their strength, only seconds away from biting his leg, a loud shout reverberated from behind as he could see his father. Brandishing a shovel, and his mother grabbing the porch chair to protect their son. His father took the brunt of the attack as his arm was bitten by the creature, though his mother bashed the beast with the chair, destroying the furniture with one strike. The canine loosened his grip which allowed for the shovel to make one more swing at the beast, the sound of bone cracking as its skull was impacted by metal.

His vision began to blur and time slowed down, his blinks took longer intervals to open and close. He could only see his mother running towards him with her arms outstretched before his eyes closed once more.

That Woman must have done something to him, had she probed his mind? Read his thoughts, his deepest fears and secrets? Cyril wanted to scream, to flee from the sight of the beast and leave it be. As if luck decided to gamble against him, he opened his eyes and saw the canine shape of a dog or wolf, whiffing the air as it stopped its feast. Larger than any he had seen before, it gnawed on a mutilated mound of carcasses. Embers trailing from its charcoal black fur. Its eyes a bristling flame of orange pierced the chlorine gas, making it impossible to miss. As well as two streams of fire from its back as if they were tassels flowing freely in the polluted air.

Cyril stumbled and fell on the ground, was this the spirit of that wolf that came to hunt him down? Was it an apparition manifested from his darkest memories? Or was it just a coincidence that this creature reminded him of the one so many years ago.

The hound stopped its scent and turned his canine gaze towards him. Fangs bristling with marks of meat and tendons. The plumes of flame twisted as it turned to look directly at his new prey. The vulnerable fool that wandered into its demise. Cyril was first to move, as he stammered back, his hands passing through rubble as he shuffled away. All the while the beast slowly moved forward with one paw. Taking the time to savor this moment.

Cyril soon ceased his slow escape and tried to run towards the right, away from the dog's range. Though this only seemed to cause the beast to activate its true potential. As it darted towards the side at blinding speed, embers echoed behind as it went in for a swipe with one of its claws. Cyril narrowly missed it as he ducked down in panic, standing still for a second before realizing the beast was still near him. Making a panic roll away from a second swipe.

His panting heavy, his heart pulsed and his mind screamed in terror. Sweat beaded beneath his mask as condensation began to build up on the lenses.

The Hellhound quickly turned on its prey and let out another fury of swipes before unhinged its jagged maw to bite. Cyril avoided the swipes with rigidity as opposed to his usual movements of effortlessly weaving past such obstacles. For the great mouth that tried to sink its teeth on him, he rolled hurriedly under the beast as it slid through the stone with ease. Missing its next meal by a few meters as it turned around once more.

Cyril turned to face its horrifying gaze and extended his shovel, in hopes of keeping distance between that thing. Bracing himself as he slowly moved towards his fear made manifest. The monster accepted the challenge by running towards him once more, causing Cyril to stiffen his posture, anticipating the worst. The Hellhound of Mons opened its jaw and tried to snap its grip on Cyril's torso, only to be met with polluted air as Cyril sidestepped away from the attack and tried to get a series of strikes into the canine.

Once, twice, a third being attempted before a sudden blow to his torso as Cyril was knocked back from the front leg of the Hellhound. Impacting the stone road, he made his mark on a pile of wooden debris face first. Aches of his neck and upper body started to form as he could feel a sharp pain from his upper body, seeing a shard of wood piercing him, and making a crimson mark of blood. The Hellhound shifted its focus before prowling the square at his wounded foe. Not heading in for another attack so soon, it only skulked at first, giving Cyril time to get up from the small crater he landed in. Pulling the wood stake off of him as more pain soon erupted, his vision starting to blur around the edges. The thing that kept his eyes open was that Hellhound and its bright orange fire flowing from its body.

Quickly scouring his pocket for a blood needle, he quickly injected it into his leg before moving. The Hellhound sprung into motion as soon as the needle was used, causing Cyril to sprint away from the sudden charge. Its large jaw biting at nothing but the polluted air as Cyril rolled away from the attack, uploading his revolver hastily. Half of the shots rang true, while the others either impacted the road or flew towards the green sky.

The hellhound twisted its frame around and made another series of slashes with its claws. The final one trailing fire and smoke. Even through the rain and smog, the flames weren't immediately snuffed out. Cyril reloaded his revolver by placing another moonring into the chamber before having to make another series of evasive moves. The Hellhound didn't relent for a second. His breath was starting to worsen as panic and over exertion of his body started to take its toll. Cyril felt as though he was a steam engine releasing the boiled water as vapor. His mask became uncomfortable to wear, a first in his life. It was because of all this motion, the fire, the chlorine, that damn beast ahead of him. Coughing twice, he decided to try the offensive for once. Cyril rushed forwards and brought his shovel downwards and then up. A third was attempted at first, but he saw the left paw begin its horizontal swing. Noticing it in time, he sidestepped away from the attack before another strike from the right paw found its mark and tore at Cyril. Blood spilled from his lower leg as he staggered back.

Taking out another blood needle, he injected it as quickly as possible before making another roll away from the Hellhound. Charging with great speed, Cyril could feel the heat from the beast as it grazed him, embers fluttering and mingling with the poisonous gas and rain. His courage was starting to fade, or what little he had to begin with. Cyril saw the monster turn its horrifying gaze back at him, howling in defiance as it spewed sheets of fire from its jaws. Larger than any flamethrower he had seen the Germans use. Running to his left, Cyril felt the fire licking the tip of his waist cape as the heat drew closer to him. Only as he could see smoke starting to trail from his cape did the fire stop, as the Hellhound of Mons depleted its breath. Panting as his stamina was drained, Cyril tightened his grip on the shovel and revolver, sweat caressing the grips. The beast started to stalk him with the same slow and methodical motion, studying his tired prey. Taking one step back, the monster took a step forward, resuming its prowl. Cyril’s resolve began to wane, as he felt like all his attacks didn’t even slow it down. It was as if he was just entertaining that thing.

That canine grin spoke for itself, it was not phased in the slightest. It looked to revel in this battle, as if he was the only opponent to last this long. That Hellhound didn’t kill him outright because it enjoyed the feeling of a frightened foe. Drinking in the fear that Cyril gave off with each step taken backwards. Cyril stumbled on a piece of debris, falling to the ground and seeing the beast quicken its pace, before stopping the moment he returned to his feet. His breath soon was all he heard, not the gentle rain, or the flames licking the sky, or even the growl of the Hellhound ahead. It was his panicked exhalations, his heart soon pumped three times as fast, until fear completely overtook him.

He turned the opposite direction and ran away from the Hellhound as it broke into a sprint to chase him, eager to continue the one sided duel.

A roll to dodge another bite, a sidestep to avoid another sweep. Cyril ran towards one of the derelict buildings. Perhaps like that Messenger in Arras he would lose it in the tight confines of masonry and woodwork.

Bashing the weak frame of the door open, Cyril made a frantic rush through the building. Not even paying attention to the little details the interior had to share, his concern was for his well being. The sound of embers, locking at the edge of the door frame and the demonic snarl of the Hellhound echoed through the walls, the front paws started bashing through the walls. Brute forced its way inside as trails of fire started to spawn on the roof and tiles of the first floor. Cyril heard the sounds of hell below and knew that running wouldn't be an option with this creature.

He wanted to though. To cower and curl into a ball and hold his helmet close to him. The same way some soldiers would stand still in charging No man's land. The fear gripped him firmly and not letting its fingers slip for Cyril to wriggle his way out. Tears started to find its way in the edges of his eyes as he ran alone. Vaulting over a fallen support beam and jumping out of the second story window. Crashing onto the hard stone he let out a yelp that sounded more like a sudden cry. Away from his mother and father. Away from Nora with her beautiful plants, and Arthur with his shrill singing. Cyril felt hopeless.

The sound of smoldering wreckage being ignited by the Hellhound continued, and the heat grew warm as he could tell the beast was closing in on him. A stone and wood thunderclap sounded as the monster rammed through the failing building with ease. More so than the Messenger of the Sky. A howl of triumph rang through the city for all to hear as it continued its hunt. Cyril panicked and quickened his pace through the destroyed streets and abandoned buildings. He almost stumbled several times as he trudged through scattered holes on the road or a sandbag away from its colony. The lens of the mask was soon fogged up with tears and exhalations of breath, until all he could see was a faded green mist with indecipherable shapes, vaguely resembling buildings.

Cyril halted, and slowed his pace. His mind shouted at him to keep going, that he would be dead if he stopped now. However, another part told him to stop wallowing in dread. His family is still out there, his motivation for his journey. A brief flash of them all huddled together for an afternoon meal flashed by, perching his neck up. The Hellhound's trampling grew closer.

Rosie and Walker, they're alive because of him. He had saved his Lieutenant from the Kaiser's marauder, his actions made a difference. He saved Rosie from the claws of Arras and that sharpshooter Albrecht. The howl of the hellhound signified its rapid approach.

His eyes could faintly see the outline of his foe ahead, the plumes of flame wisping in the contaminated wind, as rain tried to silence them. Cyril stood his ground, as fear started to loosen its grasp as all he needed to see was the outline. The finer details were lost. Deep down he was frightened, but he found a sense of determination that because he was here, he made a difference to people's lives. He proved Edward wrong, and he gripped his shovel in resolve.

"Come on." He muttered quietly.

The figure of the Hellhound pounced in the air, howling in a reply as fire started to trail from it's mouth. Crashing onto the stone as Cyril rolled away from the impact. The beast quickly turned around and unleashed a breath of fire. He quickly ran towards the left to avoid the immolation, as the heat licked the edges of his waist cape. Near the end of the Hellhound’s attack, Cyril rolled away as smoke trailed from the path that the monster had carved.

Using this chance to go on the offensive, Cyril ran towards the darkened shape that was obscured by his fogged lens. Fiery eyes that would’ve pierced him only moments ago, only found a stonewall of resolve that defended him. WIth his extended shovel, he swung upwards, then down, even a third time. Even as he saw the form of a front leg beginning its swipe to knock him away, Cyril sidestepped the attack and unleashed a pair of shots to respond in kind. The Hellhound of Mons only howled in anger as it returned to its former position of attack as it went in for a series of clawed strikes and a bite. Sidestepping the first two, Cyril was fortunate to avoid the first pair, but moved too slow to avoid the third strike as it clawed his upper legs. Even as pain started to register in his mind, he was quick to avoid the clamping jaws of fire and smoke, as Cyril made a swift roll underneath the beast.

Facing away from its hind, Cyril was quick to capitalize on the blindspot and strike once before the Hellhound was quick to take note of its sudden attack from the rear. Unhinging its jaw once more, it twisted its body to try and devour Cyril in one fell swoop, but Cyril was quick to avoid it as he rolled away from the attack like before.

The sharp stabbing in his legs was starting to become more apparent as he could feel his balance start to shake. Looking away from the blurred beast, he started to scour his pocket for a blood needle, though had to stop as the Hellhound charged towards him with absolute hatred. Even with his mask fogged up, Cyril could still see the orange orbs emanating from the face. The creature skidded on stone and debris as it twisted its body facing towards him as quickly as it ran. Cyril was fast enough to grab a blood needle and jam it into his leg, feeling as if he would be fine enough to stand upright. He fired off his remaining four shots from his revolver at the tilted canine, it rushed through all the shots with a reckless abandon. Uncaring of its own pain, only demanding the simple meal in front of it.

Cyril timed his upward swing in time as the Hellhound was about to come in for another sweep from its brutish paws. Causing the beast to stagger for a moment onto the ground. Without a shred of hesitation, he plunged his barbed shovel into the beast’s face, making sure to twist his weapon for internal bleeding before removing it with a sudden swiftness, as blood coated his right arm.

The beast screamed in agony and fury as it stumbled back up, eyes looking down at the little man that was beating him. Going in for a fury of strikes, trailing fire and smoke. Cyril sidestepped, rolled and was effortlessly avoiding the attacks with ease. Reloading his revolver, he took priority on the head again and unleashed half of the rounds into the wounded face. The Hellhound only flinched for a second before a stream of fire erupted from its mouth, blazing the stone that Cyril stood on as he turned backwards to avoid the searing heat. The Hellhound was quick to follow up with another set of strikes from its claws, Cyril managed to get a single swing from his barbed shovel when an opening arose from the second attack, though he was quick to avoid the third attack as he rolled away in time to avoid it.

Though he was also quick to return the favor, as Cyril went in for a flurry of swings, all aiming at the beast’s head. Noticing the fire in its eyes dimming as time went on. He brought his own fury down on the monstrosity that haunted him for many years and felt nothing but hatred as he sliced, cut and slashed through the Hellhound, he could see puffs of smoke flow out of the beast’s mouth as if the fire inside was also dying out. The Hellhound made one more attempt for an attack, but it was so easily avoided that Cyril didn’t offer it a chance at reprieve.

There was no mercy to be found here.

He swung his barbed shovel at an upwards diagonally, hearing bone and muscle break with the swing as the canine staggered once more. The Hellhound made a last defiant howl, though it sounded more of a wounded animal in bitter contempt. Cyril had no pity for the damnable abomination, he simply placed one boot over the beast’s muzzle and drove the barbed shovel down directly into the dying ember of it’s eye. Blood and smoke were soon released from the socket as the last light from the ember died out, his weapon was drenched in red gore and black soot as he twisted the weapon once to make sure it understood this pain, before releasing his tightened grasp on the skull and bringing his weapon away.

All he could hear now was the pitter patter of rain dropping on the stone and his exhausted lungs, heaving up filtered air through the mask. Though even through the chlorine fumed sky, a blinding light soon erupted from the corpse of the Hellhound of Mons, before erupting into a fountain of blood and small embers, each raining down to bathe the streets in a different color. Cyril eased his breath and looked up at the polluted sky for a moment, he thought back at that moment long ago, how if only the little boy could know that he would face his terror and come out the victor. He closed his eyes for a moment, as the blood and ember were immediately replaced by the regular drops of rain, Cyril’s muscles relaxed and his shoulders slackened. He was at ease.

His moment of peace ended as he could hear the clang of metal and glass break in the distance. He darted his head towards the sound’s origin point, it was near the still burning house. Cyril began his way back to the town square, back to where the battle of fear had begun, his heart was fluttering as he saw a welcomed sight. A lantern. Jogging towards the crude beacon, he knelt down. Outstretching his hands and closing his eyes, allowing for himself another moment of tranquility as his eyes soon slid shut, back towards the Hunter’s dream.

Chapter Text

His mind wandered aimlessly for a fraction of a moment in the void. All the aches in his muscles. The hunger deep within his stomach. His parched throat. All vanished as he felt calm in the void. No rain, no death, no horror. Just nothing but emptiness. It was what his ears picked up that surprised him. Normally there would only be the silence of a gentle breeze, however, there was laughter? It was high pitched, and carefree. Was it himself but younger? Running in the breeze without a thought about anything in the world. But, there was a second voice joining in, a similar tone in voice. He wanted to open his eyes and see who was laughing, but they were sealed shut. The one time he wanted to peer into the void, and his eyes were forced to be closed. There was the thought in his mind that it could only be the same void as always, but that laughter. He knew who it belonged to, and that burned his desire to know.

Using all of his strength, he forcibly opened his eyes as best as he could. Though only managing a slit of vision, before feeling as if he would tear his eyelids out from the skin as he forced them open. For once, he saw something else other than darkness. There was sunlight, an endless field of green blades dancing in the wind, and a slight overcast sky. In the distance were two children, a girl with a green dress and short brunette hair, the other a little boy with a rugged shirt and pants that looked no older than five. Both gleefully giggling and prancing in the field. He reached out his hand, seeing the light skin and outline of sleeves. He opened his mouth but was surprised to hear nothing come out. But before he could get up, another figure was spotted further out. It was her.

Clothes and skin as bright as the stars above, she only stood there, watching the two children prance in the green field. Her lips muttering a word that permeated a surprising amount of force.

"Shut."

Both of his eyelids suddenly crashed down like the gates of an old fortress. His view of ethereal vision snuffed out. He wanted to open his mouth at the children, and at that Woman in white. With only two names echoing in his mind as he questioned what he saw.

Nora, Arthur?

Opening his eyes slowly, he felt the stone cold bricks on the palm of his hand, as he slowly bent upwards. Cyril straightened his posture before removing his gas mask and helmet. He felt a small bead of sweat trail down the side of his face. Why did they appear before him? Was this happening recently? Or was it something from the past as he was away in the war? He wanted to know what it was. Cyril contemplated asking this to Edward, but he though his response would amount to nothing or telling him not to think too hard about it. If he was here this time.

Before walking over to the workshop, he drank in the serenity of the Hunter's dream. No chlorine to grasp his lungs and hold it in a vice, no nightmares from his past coming to torment him, no technological marvels that have gone. The only fog here was the calming grey of peace and the fields of green and white. Incorruptible by the pollutants of war. Somewhere in his mind, he might've been unnerved with the towering pillars and the imposing chateau in the distance. But he had been used to the backdrop with each returning visit. The ambient sound of wind and leaves were apparent, so the old man had to be in the workshop.

He walked through the sea of green and white towards the modest building. His face and hair catching the cool wind, as Cyril half shut his eyes to soak it up. Through the serenity, he could see two figures through the fog, one tall and one short. Guess the old general would be here to see him this time unlike before. Brushing away the possibility of what he was doing in the chateau, Cyril composed himself and broke out of his lull of tranquility.

"Welcome home, good hunter." The calm voice of the Doll spoke up. Cyril acknowledged her with a soft smile and a nod before returning his neutral look at Edward.

The old general didn't face him at first, only doing so when the Doll spoke through the quiet air. He cracked his old bones and rotated his aged wheelchair to face him, denying the Doll assistance once more.

"I trust your travels have gone well, Cyril?"

Nodding as his answer he started to fish out the pocket of his uniform. The torn book, as well as various pages he had scavenged from the room.

"I recovered this in a library of sorts. I...saw something in it that I hope you would help me understand."

The old general reached out for it, grasping the damaged cover with his withered skin. Cyril thought that the two might as well be the same age given their decrepit nature. He opened the old book and started to skim through the parchment thrown in together. His features hidden beneath his beard and hat, Cyril hoped that Edward had an answer for him, otherwise the entire trip would be for nothing. The Doll however, moved closer to the old man, tilting her body to peer at the peculiar scribbles and language. The two soon began a series of back and forth where Edward would pass specific pages to the Doll, who in return would hold onto them gently as both stared at the book. This pattern went on for another minute before Edward closed the book, placing it on his lap before looking up.

“Did you remember anything from what you saw?”

He hesitated before answering. He was still reeling from his nightmarish encounter from the Hellhound, so his vision of what he peered at in the language and art was superfluous compared to a life and death situation, though he tried his best.

"Some sort of land where towers of stone touched a sky of ocean. There were shapes that resembled people, but I can't remember who or what they were. It just happened so fast." Cyril explained.

The Doll stared back at him with unflinching eyes, whilst Edward nodded slowly.

“Ah, I have heard of a place similar to your description years ago. A hunter found it, but I haven’t heard from him in over a decade. More than likely trapped there or he no longer dreams and has gone mad.”

So there were no lanterns there, that’s the only explanation that Cyril could think of. Or Edward was right and the hunter had truly gone mad. But that still doesn’t explain what or where it is. Was it below his feet since Hunter’s dream has towering pillars all around. No, the ones he saw were different, corrupted in a way that he couldn’t think possible for a piece of stone. A bead of sweat started to trail down his face as he started to think of possibilities, but he gently shook his head to break his whirling thoughts.

“What about the drawings?”

The Doll was the one to answer his question.

“The images seem…familiar.” She spoke softly before holding one of the pages. “The Dutch words, I can translate.”

“There’s a page with some sort of identifier for that esoteric language. I didn’t get the time to read it since I was trying to find more.”

Cyril was surprised that the Doll was fluent in more than one language, given the location the two occupied, he was surprised she knew it in the first place. Though he had to assume she learned it well before becoming a hunter.

“Follow the trail of tracks that lead to sites of war, that is where we gather.” She echoed the words from the foreign language before flipping to another piece of parchment. “The city where the conflict would originally end is our next meeting place.”

“Amiens." Edward whispered from his husked voice, before heaving out a loud cough.

Cyril had seen the name before on a map, but forgot where specifically it was.

"That was one of the pivotal battles two years ago. The Germans looked as though they were going to be defeated, but they pulled a miracle from under their boots. Not just there, all around the Western front they managed to push back to where the lines were drawn a year prior." The General explained.

"I know about these sort of metal drones. Was it because of them?"

"Oh no, that wasn't until October when the Copper drones were unveiled. Perhaps it was because they freed up their forces from the Eastern front in 1916 that they were able to innovate."

Cyril had heard about the suddenness of Russia leaving the war. But he had paid it no mind since they were facing turmoil on the front and at home. Perhaps the populace broke out in massive riots demanding their sons and fathers to return home, or they didn't have the material to continue fighting. Or the third option that Cyril dare not utter. "Is Amiens inhabited, or another ruin like Mons and Arras?"

"Possibly, since it was in the forefront of both sides. It saw extensive fighting, perhaps there are people holed up in it, sane or otherwise." Edward mused. "You have a high chance of potentially finding people to save, if you so choose to, unless they abandon the city. But I would count on finding more of those crazed soldiers you call them, perhaps more."

"Thank you for the warning." He was about to head to the gravestone before making a roundabout turn. "One more thing. I've been told about my arm having a number of...what was it, blood echoes?"

The Doll perked up and gently handed the pages over to Edward before walking towards Cyril. She removed his vambrace and started to caress his arm, he was shocked to see the numbers appear on his skin. His vision started to haze as he could see the digits form one by one. The feeling sent a shiver behind him before the Doll let go from her Porcelain grip. He didn't like the idea of being touched like that, it unnerved him.

"My apologies, hunter. I needed to be sure what you said was true."

"It's fine, just try not to do that again." Cyril said whilst rolling down his sleeve. The doll nodded in affirmation. "I met with another of your hunters that left. Phillipe who told me about it."

"Ah the entrepreneur. I figured you would learn eventually." Edward spoke up

Cyril ignored him and focused his attention on the Doll.

“These are used to improve one’s endurance, vitality and more. The more you improve however, the higher amount of blood echoes are needed. You’ll receive them after defeating anyone you fight.” she elaborated.

Cyril nodded as he returned the vambrace to its proper place. “How will this work though?” as he thought of what to do with this mythic currency within him.

“You must stand close to me, and close your eyes. Reach your hand out and I will do the rest”

It all sounded strange to him, he hadn’t expected the Doll to ever be this…talented was the word? He had assumed that she was just a peculiar companion to the General, but there was more to her than meets the eye. Where or how she came into contact with Edward, Cyril would never know. He hesitated for a moment, before following the Doll’s instructions. Eyes sliding down as his vision turned to black, only alone with his thoughts and the sound of the leaves rustling in the ghostly winds.

Though another sound pierced above all the others. An ethereal but calming chime that repeated every few seconds. Cyril concentrated on what he wanted to improve as the sound was the only thing he could listen to. Only when he opened his eyes did the sound end, and the normal ambience of the Hunter’s dream returned. A faint light was dimmed further from the Doll’s hands before Cyril could get a good look at it. He hadn’t felt any different, only thinking of one word and that was the first thing that the Doll said could be improved ‘endurance’. The Doll faced him and nodded once before returning to Edward’s side. Cyril tilted his head to follow her movement before turning his attention to the withered old man.

“I’ll be off. Do you think you can be able to translate the other language while I’m away?”

The General nodded and gave a faint smile through his raggedy beard.

“Of course, though it might take some time, a lot of the letters appear to not have a direct counterpart.”

“Anything is better than nothing. Thank you general.” he replied.

Before Cyril turned to leave, he gave one last look to the Doll’s emotionless face before returning towards the gravestones. Hoping that their deciphering will help speed up his mission.

In this time of turmoil and chaos, his closest allies were the strangest of people he had little idea of who they were. He wanted to learn more of them, especially on why Edward goes to the chateau, but now wouldn’t be a good time to query. Thankfully the Doll was good at keeping secrets and trusting him. Though that confrontation will have to come at another time, for now though, Cyril outstretched his arm towards the stone slab, closing his eyes and letting the black void overtake his vision.

He awoke in the ghostly compartment of the train. The faint bluish-white flames of light dotting the walls gave him an admittedly unsettling feeling. However, Cyril brushed it away, he was in good company. His face was still revealed, not choosing to don it before leaving. He decided to keep it off for once, at least until he reached Amiens. The train was still, no uneven bumps on the tracks and no sound of wheels making their rhythmic sounds. Had Cyril not learned about the lantern in this train, he would've spent a long time retracing his steps to the train, but Phillipe was so gracious enough to show him this one to save on time and energy.

He opened the train door to allow access into the passenger compartment. The cool air hissing away to the gentle warmth of the amber hued room. Phillipe was hunching on one of the couches with a mug of what Cyril assumed was either tea or coffee given the color. Opposite was Rosie who sat cross-legged sipping on an identical mug but with water. Hearing the noise the two turned their attention to Cyril. Phillipe straightened up from his impatient posture, whilst Rosie's eyes glistened. Running over and shouting his name in her broken English, as she left to hug him

"Hey kid, good to see you again." He said letting off a big grin, something he hasn't done in a long time. "Though I wasn't gone for long."

"Took forever." She replied as Cyril gently placed her down. He ruffled her hair a bit before focusing his attention on the conductor.

"Has anything happened while I was away?"

"Other than the odd Copper drone roaming around. We didn't have any trouble on this front. What about you? Did you find what you were looking for?" Phillipe inquired.

Not exactly, Cyril thought to himself. Only more questions that needed answering. Though with a new destination it wasn't fruitless, so there was that.

"It's not what I was looking for, but close enough. A collection of pages that point somewhere else. Amiens."

Phillipe crossed his arms and placed a hand on the chin before responding. “I’ve been there a few times, there’s a small group of people holed up there, but last time I visited them, they were getting ready to move locations.”

“So there are people there?”

“Yes, I counted around twenty last I remembered. However, that was several months ago. Not sure how many there are currently.” He said, shrugging his shoulders. “What are you trying to find in Amiens?”

Cyril wasn’t quite sure on how to begin his search. His only clue was a vague hint and that didn’t offer much outside of a general city location thanks to Edward. He could spend hours combing through the buildings for any hint of occult like activity. Though the fact the words had Dutch on them might help narrow down who the people are. Though finding a Dutch psychopath in the middle of all that chaos would prove to be a challenge. One he was not looking forward to.

“I’m not sure myself, Phillipe. Though, every little detail I find, I feel like I get closer to uncovering the full answer.” Cyril responded.

“Well it’s going to be a long while before we reach there. Might want to take this chance to relax.”

He nodded, and watched the conductor leave the cabin towards the front of the train to get the locomotive started. Cyril sat down on the luxurious seats and began to sink into their soft frame. If only these were light enough for him to carry, then he would have an easier time sleeping far from the glow of a lantern. He could see Rosie walking up to him and shuffling his arm to get his attention.

“You found?”

“Found what?” Cyril asked, straightening up.

“Found scary things?” She replied.

An image of that damnable beast jolted in his mind only for a split second, his eyes locked at the window before returning his attention to Rosie. “Yes I have, something’s are best left, never seen or spoken about.”

She didn’t push any further, realizing that he didn’t want to relive those moments again, despite happening so recently. Cyril only patted her head twice before returning a smile “Better I see that than you.”

Rosie nodded with her doughy eyes and returned to her seat and sat cross legged. Retrieving her mug and drinking from it again. Cyril placed his helmet and gas mask on the other end of the couch before moving back into the soft appliance. Telling her that he was going to get some sleep, and to try and make as little noise as possible. Rosie bobbed her head up and down in affirmation, giving Cyril the chance to shut his eyes and get some real sleep. Though the lanterns may leave him with plenty of rest, he wanted to try and remove himself from that encounter away from the void. Letting it slither back into the crevasse of his mind, as his thoughts drifted quietly.

A thump awoke him from his trance and Cyril groggily shook his eyes. Readjusting them to the amber lights and the ambience of the train wheels meeting the steel tracks. Rosie was staring out of the windows looking at the landscape with an odd sense of wonder. Cracking his arms to stiffen them out, he began to stretch as he stood up from his spot. Rosie turned from her gawking and pointed at something out there.

Cyril moved forwards to peer out the window, a whole host of buildings greeted his vision. Though unlike before, through the horizon, it stretched farther out than Mons and even Arras. A veritable maze of civilization. Though he couldn’t see all of it, from what he had to guess, Cyril assumed it was a little over eight o’clock. The sky around was a blur of black and blue colors intermixed together with the moon providing some illumination, though it was slightly hindered from the clouds blocking it. The sound of wheels grinding slowly to a halt, as well as a door sealing shut broke, Cyril from his gaze. He turned to see the aged conductor walk into the room.

“We’re as close as I’m able to get to the city. The area is a bit risky since there’s a little war going on between two groups of equally psychotic soldiers. No different than the ones you’ve fought.”

“Just regular crazed soldiers or some of the more…special individuals?” Cyril queried.

“There’s quite a bit of those big ones, the Copper drones, lots of animals scavenging the dead as well. Though from what one of the people who has survived here told me, they only fight for a couple of hours before going quiet for the rest of the day. Seems like we’re lucky now.”

Cyril could only hope he was right, lest he march straight into the middle of a warzone. Though given his experience he should be used to it, but not when both sides have an equal hatred of you. He heard the conductor begin to speak French with Rosie who was shaking her head up and down, understanding the probable dangers of Amiens. Though even if she wanted to go with him, Cyril wouldn’t allow her to just wander out in the likelihood of getting shot by an unseen marksman.

He had seen it happen several times. An idiot would peer too high up from the parapet, taking a look out of the cratered landscape that never changes, only to have a bullet lodged firmly in bone and brain as he had seen many fall prey to the baleful eyes of the sharpshooter.

As soon as Phillipe was done speaking to Rosie, Cyril knelt down and looked at Rosie on her level.

“Like before, just stay here with the conductor. I’ll be back soon.”

“Stay here, yes.” She nodded in affirmation before returning to her seat. Cyril was thankful that she wasn’t the type to disregard an instruction. She had enough common sense for her own safety. Walking near the exit of the train cabin he turned to look at Phillipe.

“Keep her safe. If you need to, you can move the train further out of the city if things get noisy.”

“Not to worry, I’ve handled these folk before, and they’d be foolish to get anywhere near here.”

Cyril nodded with a soft smile before donning his gas mask once more. Sliding open the train cabin door, he leapt onto the ground and began his trek into the battle scarred city. Hearing the door slide shut with a sudden force, until all around was the cold echo of the wind. The moon gave off its ghostly white glow as it pierced through the night clouds, giving him plenty of illumination. Taking in a deep breath through his mask, he exhaled once before marching forward into the next battlefield.

All around was rubble strewn roads and buildings reduced to brick piles, much like Arras and Mons with the outskirts receiving the worst of the artillery bombardment as opposed to the core of the city. Though that never meant the interior was safe, plenty of shells appeared to make their mark on dozens of buildings in the heart of Amiens. From simple holes in roofs, to entire floors being demolished, nothing was safe.

All that could be heard was the eerie silence of the evening wind massaging his clothes and hands. No other sounds of ambience like animals, or at least the ones that weren’t deformed and out for blood. Not even the faintest hint of a mouse scurrying for a crumb of food. Though at this point, Cyril would gladly take the sight of a mouse or rat over the crows and horses. Even with what he has been told about the city, he had a suspicion that both of those animals would be roaming around. Maybe not in the outskirts, but to where all the fighting is happening.

Maybe only appearing after those two sides that Phillipe mentioned have ceased fire and gone to regroup, the scavengers would clean up the mess left behind. Cyril didn’t even entertain the idea of imagining it, no sense in thinking about it when he was probably going to see it. He only focused on his long walk.

Reaching the edges of the quiet civilization, Cyril breathed a sigh of relief as he was glad to be out of the outlying buildings. Nothing of use was found out there, aside from a prodding crow that thought it was smart enough to make Cyril its next meal. So one of the two beasts he theorized was her turned out to be true. Can he go for two? He chuckled to himself at making it a game for thinking what could be found in the next destination. Though anything to get him to smile was something he needed to distract himself from the gloomy disposition the war had brought onto many.

The robust architecture became more apparent as he entered the city. There were more details on the walls and window edges to even the roofs. Whereas the exterior of Amiens buildings were small and purpose built. These ones had style, even in their ruined state. Cyril could only imagine what the city would look like when it was bustling with people. Milling about and going about their everyday life. He assumed most of the men went off to join the French army, whereas the women, children, and those who were unable to fight, evacuated as the war dragged on. Perhaps a few defiantly stood their ground and never left their home as the war came to their doorstep. But the chance of survival was near zero.

Though Edward and Phillipe's words that people were holding out here instilled hope in Cyril. Perhaps they could help him out in his search for the Dutch author of the book he found. Or he could be hiding among them. But if that was the case he had to assume the entire group of survivors were cultists of a sort. Praying that wasn't the case, he continued his roaming throughout the quiet streets.

Cyril gripped his weapons closely, and held his index finger on the trigger of the MK VI revolver. Ready to spring his left arm to fire, like a mechanized gadget at the first sign of danger. Though much like the outskirts, the city itself was deadly quiet. Only his footsteps on the brick road and the haunting rasps from his gas mask filled the auditory void that the city had left.

He walked down the streets with rows of buildings walled on either side, giving him the same labyrinthian appearance of Arras. But these were larger in comparison to the smaller French city. He truly felt like he was trapped in a modern maze. Cyril continued down the winding curve the path had laid out for him, glancing at the various shops and signs advertising businesses dormant from the war. There wasn't a single window that wasn't cracked or fully broken, with the displays and interiors of the building appearing to have been ransacked. More than likely by the crazed individuals inhabiting this city.

"Couldn't hurt to look through one." Cyril spoke to himself as he entered a beige colored building.

Gently moving the door aside as it made an unpleasant creaking with the swing. He was greeted with only silence as a response. The living room was a mess of torn and broken furniture. A few bullet holes and blood marked the place which meant there must've been a skirmish here a few days ago perhaps. Shuffling through the refuse Cyril looked for anything of note but all that remained was junk. He soon tried his luck in the kitchen but the pantry had been emptied. Maybe upstairs will prove better?

The steps to the second floor proved to be quieter than the door that led him inside, at least he didn't have to run from falling panels like last time. A trail of dried blood lined the wall on the way up, in the form of a hand, he paid no mind to it as he reached the second floor. Only two rooms, one ahead, and one behind. Cyril opted to take the ladder option and see what was behind him. Opening the rotting door, he saw only a simple bedroom. The desk was crushed by the support beams of the building, whilst the chest at the foot of the bed was looted.

His eyes, however, focused on the broken window overlooking the city. A wide expanse stretching for what seemed like kilometers in the darkness. The faint light of the moon gave the town an eerie sense of dread. But past all that, a bright beacon that drew Cyril's eyes away from the moon and buildings below. A grand cathedral with twin spires jutting up to pierce the heavens with an architecture that looked older than the city itself, with arches and statues dotting the walls with beautiful craftsmanship. Even with the little visibility he could see, the moonlight beaming on the stone.

Though Cyril remembered his last encounter near a cathedral. Perhaps one of those warring factions is using it as a command post. Whatever it may be, checking it out might be better than wandering about the streets. Turning from the window he made his way back to the stairs, only to hear a sudden noise from one of the rooms.

Tensing up like a spring, Cyril aimed his revolver towards the shut door. Taking one step before the door swung open by force, a snarling dog sprung out of the trapped room and attempted to pounce at him. Cyril let out a single shot which caused the canine to stumble its leap, and landed with as much grace as a dying crow. He might’ve aimed for the head had he not been startled by the dog that was upon him

The guard dog was quick on its feet however and ran back towards Cyril, only to be driven back by a swing from the shovel. It missed the beast by a meter, but the dog retaliated with jaws open to clamp down. Cyril however returned with another swing, this time the strike connecting between the rabid beast's jaw hinge, there was no cry of pain as the creature fell to the wood floor with a thud. Its lower mouth barely hung onto the rest of the skull.

Cyril began to ease his breath as the canine was slain. Making his way down the stairs of the house and out of the building. Exiting the derelict structure, he returned to the empty street and wondered what else was going to pop out and attack him. Though all that greeted him was darkness and silence. He soon began his solitary march down the road.

His journey soon took him to a demolished part of the city. For every one or two intact buildings, there were five or seven buildings with either the upper sections destroyed, or the entire structure reduced to bricks. As he continued to walk, Cyril could see several corpses littering the streets. All of whom had the signature scarred skin and tattered clothes of the crazed soldiers. Perhaps the two factions that fought here didn’t care enough to bury their dead. Though Cyril could understand why, no sense sacrificing themselves for a dead body. There were more defensive posts like sandbags and a derelict machine gun, he was surprised none of the crazed soldiers took it with them. Though what did he expect from a bunch of frothing lunatics.

However, as Cyril turned to face the rubble stricken buildings ahead, he was surprised to see a faint flicker of amber light in the distance. Squinting his eyes, he could tell from the narrow frame that it was a lamp post that was somehow still functional after all of this devastation. Still defiant in illuminating the night. Arras and Mons had no sign of power, so he had to assume a majority of the places affected by the nightmarish foe had the same luck. Though maybe he’d be proven wrong at some point, for now it wasn’t his primary concern. Out of the corner of his eye, Cyril could spot a shadowy figure moving away from the lamp post and into the alleyways.

He gripped his barbed shovel tightly and walked forward, fully expecting to be ambushed the moment he turned the narrow passage. Though all he saw was nothing. Only a few wooden barrels and a broken wheel. He made his way forwards, returning to the radius of the flickering lamp.

Suddenly, he heard more movement, as the sound of several bricks being toppled over caused Cyril to turn the opposite direction, only to find nothing. Before hearing sounds from behind again, twitching his head he turned to raise his revolver. The only illumination was from the broken lamp and the moon above, but even then it was difficult to see any figures in the blackened sky. Standing still for several seconds, waiting for any shred of noise to sound off. How many were there? Five? Ten? Twenty? He couldn’t tell if it was malformed animals or crazed soldiers, but he would have to assume it was the ladder.

What felt like a lifetime passed and when nothing alerted him, he decided to take his chances and bolt down the direction he was heading. Anticipating an entire army would follow him at his escape. Only to be greeted with the eerie silence as before. Cyril slowed down his pace until he knew he was far away from that lamp. coming to a complete stop to calm himself. Looking up at the sky he could see the gothic architecture of the cathedral close by. His destination would soon be reached, and hopefully he would find safety in it.

Continuing on down the streets he was nearing the grand monument. Passing through a destroyed French tank, and roads that gave him more options to explore the city, some were covered with mounds of detritus and scraps of metal, whereas others were unhindered by debris. Though Cyril didn’t pay attention to the alternate pathways and headed straight forwards. Soon breaking into a sprint as the build drew closer. Stopping only twenty meters from the cathedral to notice peculiar additions to its frame.

Wooden barricades covered the lower windows, barbed wire emplacements littered around the perimeter as if it was a moat of razor sharp metal. Walls of sandbags covered parts of the walls of the building, in what he assumed was to give the holy building extra protection from the bombardments. There were several bodies strewn in the wire. Crouching down, Cyril could see they were crazed soldiers, their glossy eyes still hung open even in death.

However, in the first time he stepped through this city, a loud shot reverberated through the air and impacted the stone road. Narrowly missing him by a few centimeters. He was taken aback from the sudden surprise and soon stammered his way back up and was turning the other way he came, heading for the nearest cover he could as another shot rang out. This one a total miss as the bullet flung wildly at his right. Though before a third shot could scream out for him, Cyril heard someone shout through the gunfire.

“Jesus Christ Otto! That’s not one of those madmen, stop firing!”

Cyril could tell the accent from the man’s voice. He had served with several folks who were from London, but this one spoke like he was an officer. Even with the silence of the rifle, Cyril was tense and ready to attack at the slightest sign of trickery. He still stood in the open and was surprised to see a man in a British officer’s outfit open the heavy doors of the cathedral. His face adorned with a fancy moustache dark as the night sky, and his uniform adorned with a small shoulder cape. With the officer finishing on his heaving, he turned to face him and looked at the young man with confusion.

“You gonna stand out there, or are you waiting for Christmas? Get inside.”

Cyril obliged the man’s invitation, relaxing his shoulders and walking towards the sanctuary of the cathedral.

Chapter Text

"You're either brave, or stupid" the man said as he led Cyril inside the cathedral. "Not a lot of activity out there before a battle starts. The sniper up there thought you were one of those lunatics."

Cyril only nodded in response before breathing a long sigh of relief. The doors behind him slid shut, with a heavy thud. Looking back only once, he turned away from their thick wooden frame and back to the officer. Judging by the markings on his shoulder he was a sergeant. Though it was vaguely visible, as a piece of cloth wrapped around the symbol. His head was shaved down to where only a small bit of hair could be seen.

The sergeant led him down the grand hall of the cathedral and noticed how the front was more fortified with sandbags, and a machine gun of French design guarding the way. There were a variety of different soldiers guarding the entrance. Much like Kemmel hill, a mix of British, French, German were standing vigilant. But Cyril noticed more Belgians and Austro-Hungarians than in the previous holdout Cyril had visited.

Some of the men looked more like hunters than they did regular soldiers. Adorned with either blood needles on their belts, or a menagerie of uniquely crafted weapons. One of the French hunters that Cyril saw held two gauntlets with a steel spike and what looked like wooden stakes wrapped around it. Making his barbed shovel and medical cleaver look tame in comparison. The ones without their gas masks wore neutral faces, though one or two had the look of annoyance at a new person. Cyril noticed it came from two of the Austro-Hungarians. He paid them no mind, but he had to expect that they would've preferred to see one wearing the familiar colors of their nation as opposed to a former enemy.

What surprised him was the restraint of the Germans and a few of the other Austro-Hungarians. Cyril would've expect that when the horrors started ravaging Europe and elsewhere, that the nations would still want their soldiers fighting. A common foe united them, and their hardships became equal. Cyril didn't really ponder on it when he was on Kemmel hill since he was just relieved to see someone else alive. But here, he could actually stop and relax. The sergeant stopped walking just shy from all the two dozen soldiers and turned to face the slightly smaller man.

"If you're going to be living here, it's best to know who you are." He started.

Cyril shook his head before replying. "I can't stay for long. I'm passing through and trying to find someone."

The sergeant didn't move and crossed his arms. It took him a moment to realize that Cyril forgot to greet him.

"Oh! Lance corporal Cyril White. Pardon my manners." He had been so used to greeting Edward informally, that he felt silly thinking that would be the same for every single high ranking officer out in this mess.

"That’s better. Sergeant Hughes, welcome to the Frontline cathedral.” Cyril tilted his head in confusion at the name. Even behind his mask the sergeant could tell the man’s confusion. “Just something a few of us here nickname the place. Apologies for my fellow up there taking shots at you.”

“I’m used to it by now. Had to kill some kraut bird man that used a spire as his nest.”

“Really now? Was this before or during the world going to shit?”

“During.”

“Oh, probably one of those holdouts or cultists, or something else entirely.”

Felt like both if Cyril could care to remember Albrecht. His power of vanishing in a split second made him think that he worshiped whatever was out there, and that his small group of hunters were training to learn that technique from him.

"Come along, Lance corporal. Let's get you something to eat. No use fighting out there on an empty stomach." The man let out a hearty chuckle which Cyril found a relief. A little joy always helped in times of need.

Hughes led him past the fortifications to the core of the cathedral. Passing through walls of stone, the sergeant moved towards a tarp that concealed the room. Revealing it Cyril was first to enter, stopping only a few steps later to take in the view of the place.

The nave and choir areas had been extensively modified to accommodate so many people living in one place. To Cyril it looked more like a small community working together to maintain their large home. To the right he could see benches dedicated to keeping the sick and wounded as comfortable as they can be. Cyril could see what looked like a nurse or two catering to them. But the gowns he had seen in triage stations were simpler compared to the ones these two wore. To his left he could see a large area for harvesting crops. A battered looking man was tending to the small field that was off to the side with a trowel. Picking up a fresh radish from the pack of vegetables and wheat being grown. Behind the farm stacks of barrels and crates were piled high with labels in multiple languages. Cyril could only make out the words salt and canned before turning his attention further down the center of the nave. Tents and small shacks constructed of wood dotted the hall, looking like a neighborhood in disarray.

Though Cyril thought it was impressive in a way, how these people managed to find a way to live in just one building. He heard Hughes call out his name to follow him, not realizing he was staring dumbfounded at the lifestyle these people lived in. Preferable than the trenches, that was for sure. He walked down the impromptu farm where Hughes was standing besides one of the large crates. Lifting the top open revealed a treasure trove of foods. Canned soups, broth, bread, various vegetables and more. That was only one crate, he could see several more crates and barrels stockpiled near a wall.

“Take your pick lad.”

Cyril was surprised to hear the words. Stretching his right hand as it hovered over what to choose. He didn’t want to gawk at it for long and grabbed a piece of bread, primarily the heel. The sergeant closed the crate as Cyril took his choice, taking a glance at the younger man.

“Surprised you aren’t eating it immediately. Some of the people who first came here would’ve ravaged it in seconds.”

“I’ll probably save it for a little later.” Cyril responded. The sergeant dimmed his smile a bit, however.

“You’re not one of those hunter’s are you?”

Cyril stood absolutely still. His mask concealing the shock of hearing the words, unable to respond immediately, worried that he would be thrown right out of the building and left for himself. But some of those soldiers guarding the entrance looked like hunters, or what he would imagine they’d look like.

“I am.” was all he responded with.

Hughes kept his neutral face as an answer, sighing before waving to the younger man to follow him. Leaving the small corner of the farm, they walked down the dingy neighborhood of makeshift houses and large tents. Several of the houses didn’t have doors, so privacy was a luxury that could only be dreamt of here. Though that was probably on the lower tier of priorities, Cyril mused. The two reached the end of the homes to the end of the church, Cyril saw that certain benches were arranged in rows. A chalkboard stood at the end of the benches, When Cyril turned to the center he saw a small gathering of children, formed in a semi circle in front of a woman.

This woman wore the robes of a nun, but with the edges of the lower outfit scratched up. Her blonde hair was bleeding through her veil. The children were enthralled by the soothing voice of her narration of the tale she read aloud. Cyril counted a little over a dozen boys and girls gathered around, perhaps sixteen in total? Cyril wondered if they were orphans like Rosie, or if some of their parents were here in the building. A pair turned as he and Hughes made their approach. Some were nervous, others staring gobsmacked at the two men. The woman paused her narration and looked up with burgundy eyes.

“Sister, this gentleman here is another of those hunter’s.”

The woman closed the book at the familiar word, softly ordering the children to come back later. Some pouted as they sulked away, passing by the two. Hughes soon ushered them away before turning to face Cyril. “She can help you with whatever it is you do.”

Cyril watched as he walked away with the children, returning them to their homes or tents, but he soon turned to face the nun sitting on the chair. She placed the book on a circular desk before stepping up to reveal her full height. Cyril looked up as the women towered over him by twenty five centimeters.

"My name is Anneliese, I'm pleased to meet you young man."

She spoke in a soft gentle voice. One that sounded like clouds floating softly. Cyril thought it was a counter to all that surrounded him. In a way, she reminded him of the Doll.

“Cyril” Was all he needed to say at the moment.

"Please sit, you must be tired from your long journey." She gestured to one of the benches at his right side.

Taking the opportunity to rest for a moment. Still holding the piece of bread he was offered, she only just noticed it in his hand.

"Oh, do forgive me. You must be famished. Please take your time"

Cyril looked up with the emotionless lens of his mask for a few seconds. She was beautiful, he did admit that much. But there was a sense of mystery to her that perplexed him. It was the same as seeing the Doll. Only this time, she had a warmer presence as opposed to the Doll's cold neutral look.

Removing his helmet and mask he revealed his ruffled hair from underneath and bit down on the small piece of bread. It had a little crunch to it, but he'd gladly take it over some of the food he had to eat while being stationed in the frontline trenches. He spent the next minute taking his time to savor the taste in his mouth. The two sat in silence as Cyril quietly ate, and Anneliese patiently waited, with a simple smile on her face. It lasted another minute and a half as Cyril finished off the remainder of his food. Gently rubbing the crumbs from his face, before he stared back at her.

Unaware of what to start the discussion with he crossed his hands and interlocked them. All the while Anneliese still sat still with her smile never fading away. Was he charmed by her? A few more seconds passed before he finally worked up the courage to speak.

“I’m looking for someone. I found a book in Mons and a friend of mine told me to head here. I just wasn’t sure if I’d find the author or anyone that would read it?”

“Do you have the book with you, perchance?” Anneliese responded.

Cyril shook his head. He had given it to the care of Edward and the Doll for study. “I left it with my friend’s for them to try and translate it.”

“What a shame. Do you at least know what language was in the book?”

“It was…unordinary. One moment it was Dutch, the next it was these symbols that I had seen before in another place. It looked like the ravings of a madman. One of my friend’s was able to translate one of the sentences. It stated that ‘The city where the last battle would’ve been fought is our next meeting place.’

He had paraphrased it, he forgot what the Doll had originally spoken it as, but it was close enough. Anneliese interlocked her hands, still with her warm smile, and responded softly.

“Do you remember what the strange markings looked like?”

“Yes, they looked like waves and sudden jagged lines.”

Anneliese nodded, her smile slightly fading as he placed a hand beneath her chin. “I have seen this writing before. Some of the soldiers that fight here tarnish the walls with a similar style of what you described. Though I haven’t ventured out in a long time to see if there are more.”

“The two factions work I’m guessing?”

Anneliese nodded once more, her hand still cupped beneath her chin in deep thought. “Perhaps some of those men out there are cultists in secret. Do remind me, where was it you found this book in?”

“Mons.”

“And what about the other place you saw it in?”

An epiphany soon dawned on him. The paper he had stored in his pocket from Arras, the dead German that once held it! He had forgotten to share it with Edward and the Doll. He quickly shuffled his pockets to find it, feeling the deepest corners to see if the piece of parchment was hiding from him. Cyril located it in his breast pocket, unfolding the yellowed papers and handed it to Sister Anneliese. Truth be told, he only skimmed through one of them, and it was the one that had the word ‘Rook’ in it.

The tall woman read through the various pages with intent, studying the language and whatever else might be in there. She scoured through the papers for several minutes, causing Cyril to lean forward in anticipation. Once she was satisfied with perusing the pieces of parchment, she placed them on the bench and her smile had faded.

“From what the note says, this was by a Follower of the Storm member. There’s a German hunter that came all the way from Arras to escape them after he refused to join. Some worshipped a sort of ‘God of black feathers’. From what the notes say, this man didn’t wholly subscribe to the idea, but chose to stick with them because they were from the Fatherland.”

Cyril tilted his head back for a second to try and see any German hunter in the distance, wondering who he saw earlier was the one that escaped Arras. Returning to face Anneliese after failing to make out any details in the distance.

“What about the markings here?” Cyril spoke up.

“They look similar. However, like I said, it’s been a long time since I had ventured beyond the cathedral. I have to protect those in here.”

“Do you think I’ll be able to find the author of that book I found in Mons? Or someone like him?”

Anneliese crossed her legs, her dress flowing with the motion as she pondered. The smile returned. “If he crossed all the way from Mons to Amiens. The chance of the original writer still being here is high. The long journey would take a toll on anyone, given how dangerous it is out beyond.” She spoke in her soft voice.

Then he can try to pry answers out of the madman. But where to start? The city was massive, and would take hours combing through the buildings. He relayed his concerns to Anneliese who returned his questions with another smile.

“Have faith, you have already come this far, I know you can succeed in this endeavor.” She placed a hand on his lap “From what you have told me, you have persevered through so much. This will be the same, I know it.”

She radiated a warmth Cyril never knew was possible in this hellish landscape. A kindness that he thought had long since been abandoned.

"If there is anything you need. Anything at all, you're more than welcome to return."

"Thank you, Sister Anneliese." Cyril responded softly.

He stood up from his seat to gather his helmet and gas mask. Returning them to his face before exiting.

“Before you leave, young hunter.” Sister Anneliese spoke up. “There is something I must show you. If you would be so kind as to follow me.”

Cyril was confused by the suddenness of her words, just as he was about to depart. He could see the tall woman stand up and move towards a door that was a half meter too small for her. Gesturing her hand to the wooden frame. Cyril was perplexed by this, assuming that she was secretly a woman of unsavoury repute, but the thought was dashed away.

He hesitantly walked over with his headgear in one hand. Anneliese opened the door to reveal a small room with a rather peculiar sight. A lantern, faded in its light, sat in the middle of the room, hidden from prying eyes.

“This is used by the hunter’s to traverse between locations.” She said whilst ducking down to enter the room. Cyril followed closely behind to inspect the lantern.

“So you know of Edward as well?” He asked inquisitively.

“I have heard of him. But never had the opportunity to meet the gentleman.” She responded softly. “Should you need to, you can use this to return here any time.”

Cyril nodded with a smile and snapped his fingers near the lantern, seeing the ominous white flame grow in size, as it illuminated the small room with its ghostly light.

“You have my thanks, Sister.”

The woman giggled almost playfully to Cyril’s ear, which caught him by surprise at first, but he soon thought nothing of it. “You are most welcome Cyril.”

Giving one last bow to the tall nun out of respect, who returned the gesture, but with more grace. Leaving the impromptu school room, he passed through the neighborhood of makeshift houses and tents to see Hughes in the distance looking over a list of some sort to another soldier. Upon hearing the smaller man's footsteps, he turned to face him.

"I take it your chat went smoothly?"

Cyril nodded an affirmation "You mentioned cultists before, have you seen any nearby that I can track down? I'm trying to locate one of them for answers."

"They're farther away from the cathedral. But every now and then we'd get a glimpse of someone that doesn't belong from those two warring madmen or from here. Otto can probably tell you specific locations since he more or less lives up at the spire."

"Thank you, sir. I'll head up there now." Cyril responded briskly with a salute.

"Good luck out there lad."

It took a moment to reach the apex of the cathedral. Nearly a dozen ladders is what it took to reach the top of the spire, until finally opening a trap door that led him to the peak. The creek of the aging door more than likely alerted Otto to his presence.

The man that overlooked the entire city wore the old dark blue uniform worn during the opening hours of the war. Though to Cyril, it looked to border on black, especially during the night. His head adorned with an adrian helmet and a looming shadow that crept throughout his lower jawline. His dark brown hair was short and kept clean as opposed to Cyril’s. The man named Otto crossed his arms as he looked over the horizon of derelict buildings and businesses. Now under new tenants and management.

Cyril could see the man’s rifle. Though he couldn’t tell what it was, perhaps his nation’s standard issue rifle, or one he modified. Otto wasn’t paying attention to his arrival, the trap door opening didn’t make him flinch or distract him from his post.

“You want me to apologize for shooting at you?” The Belgian said in a dispassionate tone. Cyril could’ve told by the way the man held himself what he would act like.

“No, just help on finding something.”

The sharpshooter chuckled, shaking his head in the process. “You want to find someone down in this hellhole? You must be pretty stupid to ask that.”

Cyril walked over past the small assortment of boxes and ammunition to stand next to the man, observing the scenery with him. Undeterred by the man’s insults, it slid right off like rain on his helmet. Upon noticing that Cyril wasn’t joking, Otto simply exhaled sharply in a matter of mild surprise.

“I’m looking for those cultists. Are you gonna help me, or am I just going to have to find them myself?” Cyril rebuked in a calm manner.
Otto tilted his head and didn’t bother with another insult, only looking at the masked hunter with a neutral expression.

“Alright. I haven’t seen many of them wandering around, but they usually wear rags or cloaks over their uniforms. I tried to shoot one that passed by, but he was faster.” He chuckled to himself. “Almost as if some divine intervention wanted him to live.”

Cyril looked at the Belgian and continued his questions.

“Did he move with a sort of clouded trail?”

Otto shrugged “Couldn’t tell. It was a New moon and I could barely see him besides the light in his eyes. They were purple, and I’m not lying when I say that. One minute he was walking, the next he moved with such speed I didn’t notice he was gone.”

Cyril hoped that wasn’t the man he had to be looking for. But given his luck, it might as well be. He crossed his arms over the railings and looked down to the streets and rubble below where Otto gestured where he tried to shoot the cultist.

“Do you have clues as to where they would go?”

“West, Southwest? Either of the two. There’s a few buildings down there that none of the lunatics go into. So those ones are your destination.” Otto turned to the left and pointed at the buildings that looked to be immune to the destruction around, save for a few holes in the roof or openings in the walls. “A hundred, maybe a hundred fifty kilometers from here.”

Cyril gave a look at the pristine, in terms of ruined cities, buildings in the darkened distance. Their roofs sloped as opposed to being flat like others. He couldn’t see lights in them, otherwise he would’ve picked up on it. At least he had the next place to journey. Only to hear a sudden puff of smoke followed by the hiss of what sounded like a serpent. Cyril and Otto looked up to see the trail of a small orb of light blossom into a supernova of luminescence. A flare sparked the night, rousing hoots and hollers from the mad denizens of Amiens. Followed by another flare close behind.

Otto let out a small chuckle at the timing, believing it was another sort of divine intervention. Cyril however wasn’t laughing. He turned to the trap door, holding onto the ladder and slid down on his descent. The night was about to become long.

Chapter Text

Cyril stormed off of the nave of the cathedral, passing through the cadre of hunter’s and regular soldiers. He could hear dainty footsteps reverberating through the cavernous walls of the holy site. He turned around to see Sister Anneliese following him, her face was one of concern as she hurried to reach Cyril.

“You have to wait until the fighting is over. It’s far too dangerous out there.”

He turned his body to face her completely. Noticing the look of worry on her smooth skin.

“I’m sorry, but I need to go. My mission is out there, and this tussle won’t deter me.”

A small commotion was brewing near the front of the cathedral. A trio of soldiers watched and a small gathering of people from the houses had looked on. Hughes trudged through the small crowd and walked towards the pair standing off.

“You can’t go through all of that. Are you bloody insane, Lance corporal?”

Less so than the crazed soldiers out there continuing a war that had ended a year ago. Cyril thought to himself. He still wasn't taking no for an answer.

"I'll come back alive, I promise." He told the two as he made his way out of the cathedral.

Anneliese outstretched her arm in an attempt to protest this decision but stayed her hand. Cyril assumed that she couldn't do anything to change his mind.

He looked back one more time to see Anneliese's worried expression being hidden behind the closing doors. Hughes and one of the other soldiers sealed the entrance shut as Cyril exited the building. Deep down, he did feel ashamed of leaving Anneliese in that disposition. Though there wasn't much he could do, with a new destination discovered, Cyril's purpose here was finally made clear and he was determined to see it through.

He stepped over the fallen lunatics that dared to breach the cathedral walls. Passing the line of barbed wire and going down a few steps onto the open area that would lead to the building. Cyril gave a look back to the holy place before turning his focus to the one he had been told could be the place he needed to go. Up above, the shriek of artillery shells howled out their song as they impacted the ground farther away. A plume of smoke began to rise in the moonlit sky, as the fires of war soon began to spread throughout the city once more.

He turned west, sprinting past the destroyed Renault FT tank in the hopes of reaching there as fast as possible. Vaulting over a wall of sandbags and leaping over a meter half trench line, determination swelled in Cyril as he was ready to find the owner of that book from Mons. The sound of battle soon drew closer as he ran. Gunfire, brawls with melee weapons, the last gasps of life being sucked out from a dying body, and the roars of creatures Cyril dared not to imagine could be heard all around him. It was as if Amiens had returned to the Great war, in such a ferocity that none of the soldiers who fought in the early months could’ve possibly imagined.

Cyril’s run took him through an abandoned field that was juxtaposed to the baroque architecture he was used to seeing, the grass was pockmarked by several craters and weapon emplacements. Trench defenses littered the field as he could see in the distance, shadowy figures in a giant melee of bodies. Crazed soldiers and artillery trolls all swung, crushed, maimed and slaughtered each other. To Cyril, he could hardly tell the difference between the two factions, only seeing that a few wore Brodie helmets, while others wore field caps that were inadequate for protection.

The crowd hadn't seemed to notice Cyril's approach or him being hidden. Hopefully it stayed that way, as he began to skulk down into a small trench line, crouching so that he would become less visible from what little light there was. However a flare cracked above in the night, illuminating his position. Though from what he could see, Cyril poked his head up to see if the crazed soldiers even noticed him. Thankfully they were still preoccupied killing each other, giving Cyril a chance to hurry his pace in the trench, breaking from his crouch as he ran towards a half destroyed wall. Breathing heavily through his mask, he could still hear the brawl as the light from the flare began to dim.

Cyril stuck close to the wall, clinging to its misshapen appearance, going low if needed to keep himself hidden. Though a snap of a bullet struck his leg. Hearing the sound first before the stinging pain. Cyril turned around to see a trio of silhouettes in the dark, their eyes being the only thing he could make out, either from their deformed faces, or the masks they wore.

Cyril twisted around and fired off a pair of revolver rounds. Hitting one of the soldiers, but failing to kill him. He turned around and grunted through the pain as he began to run as quickly as he could away from the trio. He passed the only gap of the wall visible from the melee he was hiding from, Cyril tilted his head to see if they heard the fire. One had begun running towards him with a wooden plank and several barbed wires strung together. Tackling Cyril with surprising force.

The madman bludgeoned his upper neck with the crude weapon. Causing a sudden scream from Cyril. Before another strike could be attempted. One of the crazed soldiers from before, fired on Cyril's attacker and killed the man.

Panicking, as his breathing became shallow, he fished for one of the blood needles in his pocket as the slumped over corpse fell on his torso. Finally grabbing one, he heard another shot ring out, though it was aimed at the crazed soldier as opposed to him. He jabbed the needle into him and could feel his breath again as the wound from his neck almost vanished. Blood covered part of his uniform from where he was shot and hit, but he had enough strength to heave the corpse off of him. Rolling up, he began a sprint away from the rifleman.

Rather than give chase, Cyril heard gunshots echo towards his right, which he assumed the crazed soldiers were going to join the squall in the field. Only to hear seconds later an explosion rippled behind him where the crazed soldiers originally were, sending him ducking for cover behind a stack of crates. Whether it was from a six inch gun or an artillery troll, he didn’t stay to find out. Standing back up he started to continue his run down the derelict streets away from the battle.

Hearing the sounds of shouts and gunfire, in the junction ahead, he darted to the nearest building, however the door was locked. Cursing to himself, he kicked the door once, twice, thrice until it finally gave way and allowed him sanctuary. Cyril heard the sounds of war drawing closer. Peaking through the shattered glass of the shop, seeing several crazed soldiers firing their poorly maintained rifles against another group of raving madmen wielding all sorts of brutish melee weapons.

Breaking into the melee would be stupid of him, he needed to wait for the carnage to pass. Hearing the clamor of metal clash together with wooden frames, the brawl continued for another minute and a half until none of the riflemen were left standing, causing the group of melee crazed soldiers to hurry down the road. Leaving Cyril the chance to sneak away from the lunatics. However, one of the crazed soldiers decided to turn back as he heard Cyril’s footsteps even through the ambient noise of battle. There didn’t seem to be a point in outrunning them, it was only four of the lunatics and their run in with the riflemen at least softened them up for him.

The first one wearing an ad hoc gas mask lunged forward with his rusty shovel, Cyril sidestepped and hit the soldier with a rear strike with his shortened shovel. Swinging around he could see another going high with a club of sorts, only to be sent back to the ground as Cyril fired his revolver square into the chest. One of the soldiers got lucky in rushing him down by tackling his shoulder, leaving the remaining crazed soldier an opportunity to try and pin him with a saber. Cyril kicked the man away from him before extending his barbed shovel for added range. Swinging diagonally at the saber wielding crazed soldier before setting his sights on the remaining individual. Continuing his momentum with the swing he made, Cyril brought the extended shovel downwards to strike at the man’s chest, planting his corpse firmly on the ground.

His breathing was steady even during the squall between four of the lunatics. But to their credit, they were already battered down by the riflemen, which made things easy for him. Cyril walked forward, taking a left to get him closer to the building where Otto had told him about. If the crazed soldiers steered clear of it like he said, then it'll be easy to spot. Hopefully.

Running further down the street, leaping over shell holes and the stray body here and there. Loose pieces of paper flung in the air, as the echoes of war drones on. He saw what looked like a pair of artillery trolls, heaving a large artillery shell, escorted by several crazed soldiers. One of them spotted Cyril and he turned towards his left towards a narrow alleyway. Avoiding a bullet and one of the artillery shells being hurled towards him. It didn't explode however, perhaps being a defect. Thankful that it was, Cyril ran down the sharp turns, passing several buildings before exiting right behind the group of soldiers and trolls. Rather than fight them, another group of soldiers found the convoy and started a skirmish in the street. Cyril heard a loud metallic clang on the stone road, followed by a thunderclap with a bright orange bloom rising from one of the buildings.

The house began to give way to its foundations, as the roof caved in, leaving the walls to burst out stone and wood shrapnel. Giving him a perfect chance to leave the artillery troll and the other madmen behind him as he ran down the war torn streets. Noticing that the buildings were reduced to small pillars and walls, the shell's handiwork he surmised before using them for cover. In the distance, he could see a large halo of light, orange in its glow, as it cast a shadow on approaching figures. Hearing their footsteps rushing through the streets and the ruins, Cyril stood still and waited for them to pass.

However that opportunity was dashed away as another firefight broke out. Rifles burst from the night impacting the insane, as Cyril could hear the mechanical grinding of another of those drone’s lumber forward, speaking a low growl that was incomprehensible to the normal ears, he heard several panicked screams as the claws of the Copper drone crushed bone and flesh, flinging them away with its herculean strength. Several grenades were lobbed on both sides, creating a popcorn effect of explosions.

All while this was transpiring, Cyril was shimmying close to the walls and rubble, avoiding the sight of the two crazed factions as they fought for dominance. One noticed him dashing to another wall and fired off a shot with his busted rifle. Cursing aloud from the gunshots and explosions he broke from cover and began sprinting away, only to run head first into a large soldier wielding an oversized saw. Stumbling at the sudden appearance from the large foe, he tried to avoid the swing from his brutish weapon, but received a taste of the jagged blade as it impacted part of his leg.

Fighting back the urge to scream aloud, Cyril gritted his teeth with so much force he bit part of his lip and felt the slow descent of a red trail of blood falling down his mouth. He got back up as quickly as he could to point his revolver at the large soldier three meters away, only to see two regular crazed soldiers pop out from the rubble and detritus to join in on the quarry. Cyril turned around to see that the rifleman had brought along another crazed soldier, who was just as disfigured as his companion. He was surrounded and he knew the enemy had the advantage. He wondered why they hadn’t immediately pounced on him and started attacking at once. They simply stood there, menacingly. Perhaps they were two opposite factions and decided to go into a truce to fight a greater foe?

The revolver shifted from forward to back at the two parties, not moving an inch as Cyril’s breath was all he could hear. Drowning out the sounds of war all around him, as if this one tiny area was all that existed. Not even the wind could be heard as it fluttered through the six men. He had one small chance to grab a blood needle from his pocket and impaled it into his leg as the damage was mitigated, though the scar of the blow still remained and lightly drew blood. Two would’ve been needed to fully heal himself but he didn’t want to waste them. Rather than wait for the inevitable, he decided to take the initiative.

Cyril dashed forward towards the pair in front of him. Striking the German clad madman with a series of three strikes, as he was the first to fall. His partner immediately fired a shot, however Cyril wasn’t quick enough to avoid it, as it lodged its way into his upper chest. Had it been a little further to the left it would’ve striked his neck. Despite this, Cyril could hear the three men behind him charging forward with the smaller one’s attacking first, as Cyril stumbled his way to avoid them with his new injury. The large soldier shoved one of the smaller ones aside and proceeded to bash his saw down on the rubble. He had dashed twice away from the strikes to gain distance from the thing and his repulsive face, before peppering him with a pair of shots from his revolver.

Returning his attention to the rifleman, Cyril ran towards the ranged attack and extended his barbed shovel before bringing the full might of the weapon down onto the psychopath’s deformed skull. Dropping the Belgian Mauser on the stone floor. His sights turned to the large soldier who was finished with his tantrum, and rushed with his gangly limbs to swing his saw again at Cyril. He was quicker this time, as he rolled forward, then returned with a single wing of his extended weapon. Catching the large soldier in the back. Tilting around, Cyril could see the permanent grin the large man wore with the single piercing white eye that was visible in the night, as the madman went in for a sweep.

Cyril fired off another shot which caused the soldier to stumble to his knee, giving Cyril a chance to close the distance and finish him off. He shortened his shovel and jabbed it deep into the large soldier’s torso, hearing the edges sheer through internal organs and flesh before forcefully dragging the weapon out as a shower of blood and what looked like a lung was released from the soldier. Clearly dead, Cyril turned to see the remaining two weren’t phased by their larger comrade’s death, and pressed forward.

The one with the mace drunkenly swinging up and to the right, whilst the one with the shovel swung with more rigidity. Cyril avoided the strikes and swings before extending his barbed shovel once again to finish them off with a series of two sweeping blows that caught them in their chests. The one with the mace fell first, but the shovel user had some fight left in him, to which Cyril swung his weapon in a downward angle that impacted his helmet and sent him sprawling on the ground.

Sound finally returned to him, as his breathing began to ease, and the familiar cacophony of explosions and rifle fire returned to his ear. He dug out another blood needle as the pain in his upper chest from the bullet wound would hinder his performance. Feeling the rejuvenating energy as the tissue slowly reformed and slightly pushed the bullet out. Giving Cyril a chance to dig it out with his fingers. Crouching down to avoid further detection he spent several seconds before he got a grip on the little bastard and dragged it out of his flesh. Wincing from the experience, he flicked the harmless round on the stone that the squall had taken place in and resumed his course towards the building.

The distance between him and the two factions fighting in the street had grown further apart and he decided it was time to stand up fully, as he was away from the small rubble giving him cover. Cyril ran down the war torn road, passing through several buildings lit up from douses of flame and smoke. Perhaps these crazed men had a flamethrower with them? Cyril shuddered to imagine the thought of it being true. He had only seen the weapons used in the distance from the Germans, never personally on the receiving ends. Only hearing from one lucky man that his arm was seared and boiling red. The strong winds only added to the fire’s spread as it began to envelop another of the old buildings, windows spewing radiant heat and giving an orange glow that Cyril needed to adjust his eyes as he passed by the smoldering building. The palace he had entered was a large open square with a destroyed truck further down, and a hotel relatively intact compared to it’s unfortunate friend on the left.

Increasing his sprint to a full run, to avoid being spotted. Luck however wasn’t favoring him this night, as a shout in French caused him to tilt his head. Seeing a quartet of crazed soldiers and what looked like a machine gun nest. His heart started to panic and sent several more beats than usual as Cyril began to use all his energy to run from the emplacement. Hearing the bullets beginning to fly by him, as he took cover by the truck before stopping to catch his breath. The canvas wrap that normally would’ve been over the vehicle had been scavenged by one of the two factions, and all that remained was the thin wire like frame. Giving Cyril so much to work with as he tried to steady his breath. Waiting for the idiots to waste their ammunition.

As he thought, they ceased firing for several seconds. Giving Cyril an opportunity to escape the machine gun position. He bolted away from his cover, only to hear the machine gun was still loaded as it still tried to find its way to burrow into him. One found its mark on his lower arm, causing him to grip his barbed shovel tight as he continued to run as the flames outlined him in the night. Cyril fired off his two remaining rounds in an attempt for them to stop firing but it did little, as they continued the pace.

The run finally ended when he reached the side of the hotel walls, out of the firing arc from the machine gun. Cyril continued to run away from the four crazed soldiers, assuming that they would abandon their position to chase them. However, more shots soon rang out from behind him, as he looked back to see a pair of crazed soldiers and an artillery troll came under fire from the position. Cyril continued to run from the burning building until its glow was no longer visible from the buildings. He soon entered a curved street with several trenches and bridges placed over them, as he stumbled into the nearest one to catch his breath.

The line was only a meter and a half deep, forcing him to crouch on his knees to avoid being spotted. Though the bridge offered him some safety as he sat beneath it, coughing several times from the smoke he inhaled and his lungs wanting to rest. Cyril opened his canteen and removed his gas mask. Letting the steam from beneath his emotionless face free as he drank two large gulps of water. Relieved by the cool water rushing through his throat, offering him a reprieve from the gauntlet he had endured. He didn’t expect it to get better, but it was nice that he didn’t have to get shot at for several minutes. His heart soon slowed down its incessant pounding, and his breathing eased. Cyril simply listened to the ambience for several minutes as his joints rested. The sounds of battle seemed so distant from this trench, if he wanted to he could’ve simply stayed here until the fighting stopped. But that would be pointless, sooner or later one of those crazed soldiers would see him and he’d have to fight his way out.

Thinking it’d be better to move on now rather than later, Cyril rustled his arms into motion and started to shuffle from under the bridge. Unlike the common sounds of war, there was one that soon grew. Not suddenly, just in a gradual change in volume. Cyril was out of the trench as he could hear it, a grumble of cog and tracks colliding with stone. He knew what it was from the sound alone. Even when in Ypres, the sound of a tank was unmistakable, and it made him tense up.

There was no point in fighting it, if it was fully manned, all sections would be covered by the machine guns and or six pounder guns on each side. He couldn’t see it in the distance of the curved street and debris, but he didn’t need to. Stepping back as the sound grew, he crouched his way back under the bridge and lied limp. Hoping that him faking death would fool anyone that would happen to see him. Thinking back on the first time he used it, he was lucky it worked in Ypres, perhaps it would hold true here in Amiens.

The sound of the mechanical marvel soon overwhelmed the sounds of distant artillery shells and screams. Cyril’s head was angled at the right, lobbed in an awkward angle to sell the illusion. He could see the large tracks cross the gap with ease as it lumbered forward. Cyril could vaguely see a scratched set of numbers on the tank before it was out of sight. He didn’t leave from his position as several steps followed close behind. Whether from crazed soldiers or artillery soldiers he didn’t know. Only hearing them above on the wooden bridge. Some of the impatient ones decided to either hop or vault over the trench, causing Cyril to hold his breath as their disfigured appearance came into view. Thankfully, they didn’t even notice he was there. It went on for a few more seconds before the sounds of footsteps ceased on the bridge, and the rumble of the tank entered the swirl of ambient noises in the distance. Cyril craned his neck from his awkward position and felt it cramped as he lay there.

“Can’t wait to go back to that lantern. So I won’t feel that.” He muttered to himself, before exiting the trench.

Half an hour passed as Cyril's journey continued on the ravaged streets. Several encounters with the warring factions resulted in a few skirmishes. Only once was he able to evade them. Though in between the fisticuffs, Cyril had to deal with a a few ravens in one instance, and a War horse in the other. Both of them scavenging the dead that had been strewn about on the ground.

He shuffled past a narrow alleyway to avoid a patrol of crazed soldiers and their canine companions. Cyril could hear the dogs stop their pace and their handlers holding still as well. He didn't stick around to find out whether or not they found him, hopefully the dog's sense of smell had deteriorated over time. Vaulting over a broken wagon, he made his way to the opposite end of the alleyway, putting greater distance between him and the patrol. Entering a large street, with a road wide enough to allow two tanks to travel abreast, Cyril walked down the admittedly quieter section of the city. Perhaps he was getting closer? Remembering the words of Otto that they steer clear of that building. Or perhaps he was in one of the territories occupied by the madmen? He couldn't rule it out, so Cyril returned to his cautious movements.

Taking cover behind a derelict truck, he peeked his head out to see in the darkened street. With only the moon and occasional artillery explosion in the distance to greet him. Sticking close to the wall he moved past ransacked businesses and bakeries. Stopping only as his ears heard the sound of hooves on the road ahead. Cyril couldn't see much in the darkness and decided to crouch down behind a series of boxes. Assuming it was another War horse as the steps drew closer. He broke from cover and extended his barbed shovel to deal with the equine.

Only when he looked up, did he see the silhouette of a rider and saddle mounted on the deformed animal. A gas mask obscured the madman's face, as he wielded a javelin. Cyril saw the cavalry rider jerk his head towards him. With the moon illuminating the lens of his mask. There was no point in outrunning him, he held the advantage of speed.

The cavalry rider reigned the War horse back, causing the beast to let out a distorted cry of annoyance and anger. Before its gaze also turned on Cyril. He dashed out of the way as the horse tore through the air with its front claws. The cavalry rider trusted his weapon forward to try and pin Cyril's waist cape down. However, Cyril had already sprinted past the attack and fired off a shot with his revolver. The bullet narrowly missed the rider, but it was enough to break his focus.

Cyril took the opportunity to swing his barbed shovel upwards then down. The first was avoided by the cavalry rider reigning his mount back. But the second caused the beast to take a direct hit to the deformed skull. The War horse howled in agony at the injury it sustained, before going into a fury of strikes with its front claws. Managing to hit Cyril in the lower leg before he was quick to dodge the final one. The cavalry rider shouted in German before thrusting his javelin again. Cyril took the strike on his arm before dodging a second thrust.

Firing off another shot with his revolver, he managed to finish the War horse off with a shot towards the War horse's skull. Causing it to crash to the ground, along with its rider. However, the ladder wasn't finished fighting. He scurried for his javelin before seeing Cyril swing his barbed shovel downward. The man avoided the strike before jabbing his weapon forward to create distance. This only caused Cyril to fire yet another shot off as it collided with the man's arm. Causing him to drop the javelin. Cyril went in with a quick horizontal strike that caught at the former cavalry rider's lower torso.

As he fell to the ground slowly dying from his mortal wound. Cyril stepped over the crazed individual and saw the lens of the gas mask still staring back at him, the only difference now was that blood was coating the left eye. He struggled to speak, but Cyril could tell he was probably cursing him. It didn't matter. He swiftly ended the cavalry rider's existence. Not wasting time to watch the crazed individual's life ebb away, Cyril left the man to his fate and continued down the street.

Artillery and gunfire still echoed from far away as he passed a winding turn, passing more bodies and poorly constructed defenses. Thinking to himself that the cavalry rider must’ve taken them out earlier. Crouching down, he heard rustling in the right as his eyes turned towards the rubble strewn building. Taking cover behind a small alley, Cyril clenched his barbed shovel and his revolver tightly, waiting for whatever popped out of the detritus. Hearing his haggard breath through his mask, as the seconds soon turned to a minute. No further sounds from the area came, and he left his position to resume his journey. Turning towards the area as he passed it, he must’ve thought that the wind knocked over loose bricks that were on the verge of falling. Chuckling to himself as he was frightened by masonry for a moment.

The further he walked, the sounds of battle dimmed, until it was only a quiet whisper that licked the edges of his senses. He was near, and he could feel it. The footsteps his boots made and the howl of the wind was all that could be heard. Chills soon creeped at the wounds he had endured, piercing his outfit as Cyril could feel the cold envelop him. Entering a small square, he could see several of the buildings remained largely intact, with the occasional hole on the roof. With sloped roofs, Cyril had finally reached his destination. Thankful that the ordeal was over, but dreading what lay inside.

The furthest one was a tall tower with a conical roof similar to Albrecht’s perch in Arras. Keeping a sharp eye above, Cyril anticipated someone to be on the lookout. However several steps had passed and no one seemed to be on the perch. Looking forward to the entrance, he could see the windows of the building remained unscathed by the war surrounding them, with the small crack here and there. He shortened his barbed shovel before reaching the door. Cyril hugged close to the wall, exhaling a sharp breath of chilled air before slowly opening the door.

It made an unpleasant creek as he slowly lurched it open. Peering inside to see inside, he could see only tattered curtains and destroyed furniture dotting the interior. To his right was a ransacked living room, to his left was a dining room with a table broken in two, as chairs were scattered around. Forward was a narrow hallway with a set of stairs that led to the second floor.

Taking a moment to search the two rooms on either side, Cyril started with the living room. Walls of faded green were spattered with small patches of dried blood. Finding nothing, he turned to the dining room to find nothing but what looked like a severed arm near the table. The color a pale white, with several insects hovering by the rotting limb. It didn’t have a lot of muscle to it, Cyril thought it belonged to a woman. Not wanting to imagine what might’ve transpired here, he left the room with a swift turn before heading towards the stairs. Pointing his revolver up, he carefully took his time as the aged wood mumbled with each slow step taken.

Reaching the top, Cyril aimed his revolver towards his left to find nothing but blood and scattered debris on the floor. He stood still as his eyes caught sight of some sort of writing profaned on the wall. It was similar to the writing on the book he had given to Edward and the Doll. Cyril could feel the grip on his weapons grow cold with his grasp, almost as if they were becoming a permanent fixture of him. His breathing began to increase as he walked past the writing as quickly as he could, though trying to maintain his silence. Turning to his left he moved past the staircase and stopped in his tracks.

He could see a small path leading to a door that was open halfway. Giving off a faint glow of blue and purple. All he could hear was his breath now, the sounds of war were almost a distant memory to him. It was as if this building was all that existed. He decided to continue his stealthy approach and opened the door as quietly as the old frame would allow it. Praying that his mind was just playing tricks, he swung his head inside.

Cyril’s eyes grew wide. He couldn’t understand what he was seeing.

The source of the arm’s owner was found. Or what was left of her, a greying body of a woman. Her torso and head were the only identifiable thing about her. It looked as if she was…changing into something, a sort of metamorphosis. Where her arms and legs would be was replaced with a bluish white tangle of flesh. But they ended in a sort of tail look. Her lower legs were completely fused, with only the upper part showing any sign that they were two separate limbs. Chains had been fastened on the mutated appendages, leaving Cyril to imagine that she wasn’t doing this by choice. Which made him want to throw up what little content was in his stomach.

He heard the sound of wood creaking from the weight of a footstep. Eyes bulged beneath his lens, he quickly turned around, poised to strike first. Only to see the dissipation of mist, almost as if it was being pushed towards him. Similar to Albrecht, Cyril turned to the opposite direction in anticipation for the apparition to appear. Right on cue, he saw the hooded man form into reality. Swinging his barbed shovel horizontally, he caught the man in the chest causing him to sputter backwards towards the deformed woman. Swinging the body back and forth as chains chimed their metal song. Cyril saw that the man wore a tattered suit, with the rear cape receiving mismatched cloth to complete its look. He was adorned with a top hat, which Cyril found odd at first before he dismissed it.

Attempting to strike again with the same trick, Cyril swung forward, only to see his opponent vanish completely, before materializing on the far side of the room. Unphased by the long wound that covered his attire. Eyes glowing purple, this had to have been the man Otto saw. Cyril had found his quarry, the cultist simply walked to his left, still facing him.

“You look like you’ve fought someone with my skills before. Your reactions were faster than the others.” He casually chimed with his thick accent.

Cyril found him, the Dutch author, it had to be him. He wanted to subdue him, but wondered if this cultist would simply vanish like before. Circling in the opposite direction, with the moon peering through the stained windows, illuminating Cyril, while obscuring the man’s features as he walked by the glass. If he was going to make a move he had to do it now. Firing a round from his revolver, he heard it impact the window, as shards of glass shattered. He nonchalantly contorted his body towards the right in an unnatural way to avoid the bullet before vanishing again.

Cyril walked forwards towards the spot he had been in, before turning around to see the mist appear again, the cultist rushed forward. Only to see that Cyril was faster. The look of disbelief washed over him in the blink of an eye as Cyril brought his barbed shovel down to slash his left leg, severing half of his foot. He spiraled down onto the floor, his hat toppled over before resting near the wall where the window was positioned. He drove his weapon into the man’s right hand, noting the lack of screams from him, only a mild grunt as it was under the weight of the brutish weapon.

Unnerved by the man’s high tolerance to pain, he returned his barbed shovel to his belt, only to hold the cultist up and pin him to the wall. One hand held on his neck, the other holding the MK VI revolver.

“Enough games. You can start by telling me what was inside that book.”

“You must have confused me with someone else.” Rolling his eyes as he quietly spoke.

“I’m not stupid. You’re the only Dutch man in this city.” Tightening his grip slightly, he coated his words with anger. “Not only that, the one who can disappear like the wind. See if this rings any bells, ‘The city where the conflict would end.’ Remember now?!”

The cultist chuckled “So what if I wrote that. Would you like it signed?” He mocked before being flung to the ground. Coughing several times before Cyril strode back and heaved him up.

Doing it with one arm put a lot of strain on it, but it was better than putting his sidearm away, in the off chance the man would attempt anything.

“No, you can tell me what you did to her!”

Slowly inching his head towards the dead woman creature. He smirked. “To bring about a messenger.”

“To who?”

“If you truly looked through my book you would know.”

Cyril stared at him before remembering the vision. The pantheon of figures and esoteric shapes that he barely had time to comprehend. It was as if the woman in white had guided him secretly to these locations. The momentary clarity dawned on him.

“You see her don’t you?” The cultist cooed. “The white robed maiden. Dancing in the pearl flames. She’s our messenger, to guide us towards enlightenment.”

How. How did he know about this?

“What's wrong? She brought you here to see this.”

Cyril tightened his grip to the point where the cultist for once showed signs of pain, struggling his attempt to breath.

“What did you do, to this woman?” Cyril demanded, hating the fact he offered no answers.

“We tried making her a messenger. She wasn’t forthcoming with that idea so we persuaded her in a manner of speaking. The process was fruitless. She proved to be stronger willed than others, before passing away from brain failure.”

He wanted to kill him right here and now. But he needed more answers.

“There were more?” Cyril asked with venom lacing his words.

“Men, women, children, animals. Anything we could get our hands on.” He motioned his hand lazily as if this was a typical activity.

“Enlighten me on who your friends are.” drawing his face closer, Cyril could see the man’s purple eyes sparkle like the cosmos, as if he was staring at the depths of space.

“We’re one group of many. We believe in one, whereas different groups believe in others.”

Pointing the revolver at the cultist’s face, Cyril’s patience was near its limits.

“Names, places. Now!” Shouting so loud the building echoed his voice.

“Verdun, Liege, Belfort, Metz, Zeebrugge. Hell, even as far as places like Przemysl and Asiago. Your choice of gatherings. I’m only here to safeguard this town, in case any of us decide to use this building as a place of discussion.”

A list of locations was a start, he only knew about Verdun the most, being on the map saying to stay away from it. He heard of Zeebrugge during the war in passing, but never dug too deep into it. Cyril pressured the gun on the cultist’s brow.

“Now how about some names.”

“You think I’d give away my brothers and sisters' identities? So that you can hunt them down?”

“You gave me your meet up spots.” Cyril huffed a chuckle “Some friend you are.”

“As if you’d be able to reach any of them.” He shot back with a smug grin.

“I can.”

A loud reverberation deafened his eardrums with how close his revolver was. The cultist wore his smile even in death. Cyril dropped the body on the ground, his arm relieved from having to exert pressure and keep him from escaping.

He let out a long exhalation, noticing that the sounds of gunfire and chaos had fallen silent. Amiens had finally found peace. Cyril left the morbid room with determination and another objective on his long journey. When one location was reached, another was added.

Chapter Text

The heavy doors parted separate ways, as Cyril heaved them open wide enough for him to enter. Their thick frame put more strain on his arms as he tried his best to push them apart. When they allowed him entrance, his muscles screamed back at him of the temporary agony, Cyril ignored it to the best of his abilities. Seeing several of the hunters and guards standing watch on the front. One of them walked over to help him inside. Being stabilized by the guard, Cyril took off his mask and felt the cold air blast in his face. Sweat became frigid in a split second. Taking a few seconds, Cyril finally regained himself and stood straight. The Hungarian guard stepped away from him, as Cyril looked forward to see Hughes stride forward with a look of disbelief washed over his face.

“I don’t believe it.” Was all he said before a grin shifted.

Cyril returned with a soft smile, letting out a few coughs before saluting. His throat was dried up, and his voice almost felt like a shallow husk. The amount of running, fighting and even the interrogation had worn him down. Ending his salute, he took out his canteen from his rear and emptied the entire container of water. Clearing his throat once as his throat was pure of dehydration.

“I found who I was looking for. He provided some answers that’ll help me.”

“I take it you didn’t bring him here?” Hughes asked, raising an eyebrow.

Cyril shook his head, before explaining that he was put down. The cultist wouldn’t betray the trust of his allies, Cyril knew for a fact that it would’ve been fruitless to continue prying on that, so he ended his miserable existence.

“You wouldn’t happen to have anyone missing here for a while?” Cyril questioned

“No? Did you find someone?”

“What was left of a woman. That cultist did something to her. She must’ve been dead for a while. Wasn’t sure if you lost someone here.”

“Only the hunters here go outside to trade supplies with the conductor that stops by.”

Cyril mused for a moment wondering if that woman was truly from Amiens or was dragged from somewhere else and brought here to be tested on. How many more people were snatched by these so-called “people”? How many were being tortured right now, being turned into a “messenger” was. All questions he'll inquire to Edward soon enough.

"Now that you finished your task. What now?" Hughes queried

Cyril sighed at first before answering. "That man gave out a list of places, but there's so many that I can't think of where to start. Verdun, Zeebruge are ones I know off the top of my head."

"Why not ask Anneliese? Maybe she can help."

“It’s worth a chance. Thank you Sergeant.” Cyril saluted in response.

“Anytime, Lance corporal.” Hughes returned the salute.

Cyril returned his mask, making his way down the nave. Past the rows of houses, a few of the inhabitants stared at Cyril, whilst a majority went about their business. He paid them no mind as he narrowed himself past a pair of rugged men in conversation. Reaching the row of benches and the chalkboard. Where The abnormally tall nun was busy with a sort of class for the children.

Hearing chalk being scratched through the board as she was writing in cursive along with a simple series of math equations. Fully concentrated, she didn’t notice Cyril’s arrival. However a few of the children did, tilting their heads away from their study. One boy perking up to get her attention.

“Sister, the soldier is here again.”

That did get her attention. Placing her chalk down on the ledge of the board, everyone turned to face him as all eyes stared back at the emotionless mask that Cyril projected. Anneliese had a warm smile or relief and happiness washed over her. She offered the children a small break from their lessons, some of which cheered at the thought as they were let out of the impromptu classroom. A few Cyril saw gathered around the center of the houses and played what he thought was football as one of the kids kicked a spherical object. Though his attention soon returned to Anneliese who sighed in relief.

“They aren’t a bother, are they?” Cyril asked.

“Oh goodness, no. They’re angels, each of them. I’m just relieved to see you’re alright.” She said while brushing a lock of blonde hair away from her eyes.

“I said I would be back. Though I am at a new crossroad. I found who I am looking for, thanks to you. He gave me so many names of towns and cities that I couldn’t possibly go to them all.”

Anneliese perched her head to the side in the hopes of some elaboration. “Such as?”

“Verdun and Zeebruge are the ones I remembered since I saw them on a map before. But places I’ve never heard of like Belfort, Metz and Lee-ege I think? That one I nearly forgot.”

“Ah you mean Liege. I know about it, though sadly Otto has stated it was reduced to rubble.”

Cyril nodded, crossing that one off of his list. Then he remembered the map from so long ago.

“What about Verdun?”

The sister’s smile faded slightly. Cyril knew from the old map that it was “too dangerous”. However given all that he has seen and experienced, perhaps the soldiers wrote that down when the unknown horrors were first unleashed. Perhaps Verdun was abandoned?

“One of the hunter’s here was in Verdun, several months ago. An army of madmen, beasts, and other creatures he wouldn’t speak too much of.”

“Did he describe anything about the latter?”

“Only that one or two had a disfigured humanoid shape, but at the same time almost animalistic. As if evolution happened so rapidly for it.”

Cyril nodded at the words. So the cultist was at least true in that regard, he thought to himself. It was a start in the right direction. Last he remembered Zeebruge was farther away than Verdun, so reaching it wouldn’t take too long.

“Maybe a majority of them left for a different place?” He surmised.

“Surely they’d stand their ground?”

“It’s been several months though. They can’t possibly still be there, they’d eventually run out of food and move onto the nearest town or village.”

Before Anneliese could finish, her nervous voice halted as Cyril didn’t motion at the slightest. Unbothered at the thought of it, only with determination in mind. She looked concerned for the man, but didn’t bother trying to persuade him to reconsider. Cyril looked at her and spoke with a soothing voice that almost mirrored hers.

“I am grateful that you’re trying to keep me safe, I truly am. However, I knew full well that I would be walking into danger wherever I go. As much as I would like to stay here and help you, I can’t.”

Anneliese was about to say something but Cyril was quicker.

“My home isn’t plagued with these madmen or beasts. I want to make sure that it never comes under threat. I can’t do that if I stay here, you must understand.

“I do.” She said solemnly.

“I will return someday, I just don’t know when.”

Anneliese perked up from her dour mood, returning her soft smile before standing up. “You are always welcome to return.”

Cyril reached out his hand, which she took and shook for a moment. He returned to the area where the lantern lay, entering the room lit by the ghostly white glow. He knelt down, outstretched his hand. Before he closed his eyes, he turned around to see Sister Anneliese with her angelic smile with several of the children peering from the entrance to the makeshift classroom. Beneath his second face, he smiled before closing his eyes.

His sight returned to the now familiar landscape. Standing up from his crouched position he first saw the imposing chateau looming in the distance. The fluttering of grass and white flowers flowed in the serene garden. Untouched by the machinations of conflict. He didn’t waste time to marvel at the beauty he had come to enjoy with the Hunter’s dream, Cyril made his way straight to the workshop. Passing through the small layer of fog that permeated the ground.

He could see the old general was reading what looked to be a newspaper, still in his ragged wheelchair. While the Doll didn’t appear to be outside, which Cyril found odd at first. Though she must be doing some business inside the workshop, perhaps still looking through the pages and translating them. The sounds of grass being trampled by Cyril alerted Edward of his presence, who ceased his reading, placing the assorted papers on his lap, folding them up.

A pang of unease itched the rear of Cyril’s mind. What else could he be hiding from him? Mentioning Anneliese would be pointless, he probably expected him to find more people that met the old general sooner rather than later. So pointing out every person would be redundant.

“Welcome back. Does the journey treat you well, Cyril?” The withered man asked.

“As best as they can be.” He said dispassionately. Turning around to face the garden that the Doll would maintain, he turned to ask her whereabouts.

“She is inside. Diligently looking through the words and drawings of the book you found as you said.”

“Has she come out?”

Edward creaked his body around to the point where Cyril could hear bones pop. Facing the doorway to the workshop. “Only to tend to the garden and water the flora.”

“Did she say anything to you?”

“No, she is focused.” he smiled through his grey beard. “The Doll will help you no matter what.”

Cyril nodded, excusing himself to enter the building. He had only been inside a few times so he wasn't familiar with everything inside, save for a few standout objects like the hooded statue, the fireplace and the extensive workbench. It was the latter where the Doll was situated. Several pages dotted the table, as she was bent over skimming and translating the words. Up above, Cyril could see his medical cleaver and sawed off SMLE hung on the wall with specialized racks for the both of them.

Several footsteps in, and Cyril saw the Doll halt her studies and turned to face her. The same impassive look was worn on her face. Cyril looked at her smooth features and noticed she didn't look tired in the slightest. No bags under her eyes or half shut eyelids. It was as if she had been at work for only several minutes.

"Welcome home, good hunter." She greeted in her soothing voice. He returned the gesture before looking at the table and the scattered contents.

"How long have you been working on this?" He asked.

"Since your departure"

Flabbergasted, Cyril exclaimed his surprise at the dedication of her task. "You didn't stop to rest?"

She shook her head once to compound her statement.

"That's certainly impressive."

Looking over, he could see a pair of pages that the Doll procured into a sort of translation guide. A few letters were assigned to a series of symbols. Leading the Doll to translate only a few of the words. Cyril saw that only basic words like ‘the’ ‘and’ ‘or’ and ‘we’ were identified. Seeing a second piece of parchment below the translation of a broken up sentence the doll had penned with a quill. Despite the lack of development, she didn’t show any sign of frustration. If she even could.

Cyril looked at the pages with the unusual language only for a split second. Glancing away as a faint whisper licked the back of his ears. Causing the Doll to stop and look at the hunter in a puzzled face. A single bead of sweat trickled down his neck, before brushing it off.

“Do you know what this could mean?” He asked while pointing at the words the Doll wrote down.

“It could take weeks for me to fully understand it.” She responded quietly “Unless there is a dictionary, I doubt I could decipher everything in an efficient manner.”

There probably wasn’t one down in that deluge, so Cyril wouldn’t even bother searching for one. Though the fact she managed to understand several words from an esoteric language in what felt like a day and a half was astonishing.

“Perhaps I’ll focus my efforts on the larger words.” She stated.

Cyril saw how long they could get. From what he could see, the longest one was thirty two characters long. Which he couldn’t even fathom on what they could mean.

“Thank you. Even what little you’ve managed to find, is more than enough.” Cyril thanked her with a smile.

The Doll’s features softened for a moment before nodding in acknowledgment. Cyril then asked for her assistance in using the blood echos he obtained in Amiens, to further improve himself. She ceased her work, asking him to close his eyes and stretch out his hand. Cyril did so, closing his eyes as darkness swallowed his vision. Hearing the chiming sound as his vision was obscured in the black void, all he could do was envision what needed to be bolstered. He had withstood so many wounds in Amiens that his current vitality needed the extra strength.

His mind was set in stone as Cyril opened his eyes, the process complete as the Doll recoiled her porcelain hand away from the hunter. Thanking her again, as he turned to leave the workshop. However, a question soon arose from his mind.

“Do you know what a Messenger is?”

The Doll stopped her work again, turning to creek her emotionless face back at him. The slow turn made Cyril uneasy, reminding him of his first encounter with the Doll.

“I have, from a hunter that hasn’t returned in some time.”

The same one she had mentioned before? He delved deeper, asking the question, to which she nodded slowly. “Do you know what they are?”

“No, only that they vary in appearance, that is all that he would really say.”

“Who is this hunter you’re mentioning?”

“He didn’t share his name, unfortunately. It had been so long that I only remember his garb being that of the Red cross. Farther in the distance, is a grave we made for him.” She led him to one of the windows, pointing her delicate hand in the mist.

It wasn’t the one that he used to teleport back with. Cyril barely looked at that direction in Hunter’s dream, he could see now that a few gravestones dotted the area, gates weaving around like veins in random directions.

He had heard of the Red cross, offering aid to both sides of the conflict. He couldn’t imagine there would be many left out there, perhaps many perished in the opening stages of this cataclysm. Shunting the thought in the back of his mind, as it didn’t pertain to the moment, he thanked the Doll one last time before leaving.

Shutting the door behind him, he walked past the General, stopping only two steps away from him before turning his head.

“You know all of this, I take it?”

Edward smiled through his ragged beard, letting out a small laugh. “You’re catching on quick. Yes, I know about them, but much like the Doll I’m not privy to such information. The hunter she’s mentioning didn’t tell much about them, not even to me.”

“Very well…I know about a group of cultists. I found the author of that book.” He said, pointing towards the workshop. “He gave me a list of names that they gather, Verdun is where I’m heading to next.”

The old general nodded. “Be careful, Cyril.”

He only nodded in response. Returning to the gravestone in the distance. Though his eyes could see the one the Doll mentioned, as well as dozens of others. All slightly different in design and ornamentation. If Cyril failed, perhaps that is where he would be laid to rest. He threw that thought away, knowing full well it would only hamper his resolve.

Reaching out to the gravestone, he shut his eyes. Allowing the faint glow of white light to surround him, until all returned to darkness.

Opening his eyes, Cyril returned to the eerie glow of the train cabin. The lights from the car emitted a familiar bluish-white radiance that became a calming sight as time went by. He felt at ease each time he returned here.

Leaving the storage car, he opened the door to allow him entrance to the luxurious passenger cabin. Rosie was dangling her feet idly, kicking them up and down. She immediately turned to face Cyril and hopped down to greet him enthusiastically. He ruffled her hair, to which she playfully giggled before straightening it back to its original form. The Conductor soon entered with the sound of joy, straightening his hat out before smiling at the young man.

“I trust all went well?” He asked with a cool smile.

“As close as it can get.” Cyril responded. “Those people you know, they’re now holed up in a church. Have their own little community and army at their disposal.”

Phillipe whistled at the news. “I remember when there were only a few soldiers in Amiens holding out. Guess that nun tidied it up.”

That was an understatement, Cyril thought to himself.

“So what did you find there?”

Cyril’s shoulders stiffened, unsure of whether to mention that woman who was half transformed into that thing. Especially in front of Rosie. He found a compromise at least with that cultist. Cyril explained about the man he saw, how he was the author of the book he discovered in Mons. Finally giving out a list of locations that he was given from that cultist, but nothing about specifics on who they were.

“-Liege has nothing. But Verdun is where I’m planning on going.”

Phillipe scoffed and placed a hand on his forehead, sputtering in disbelief with some French words before returning to English. “I can get you close but I’m not going near the city. Too densely packed with all those psychopaths and monsters. Best I can do is get you near one of the fortresses.”

“That’s fine by me.”

“It’s gonna be a long ride though, I’ll get you something to eat and drink. Then we’ll head out.” He walked towards the storage cabin.

Cyril watched as he shut the door behind him, sitting down on the red couch as Rosie returned to her spot, opposite of him.

“He’s treating you well?” he asked.

Rosie perked up and shook her head. “Phillipe tell me funny stories.”

“Oh? Would you want to share one?” Cyril said, as he leaned closer.

“Uhm. He arrive at big town, big big town.” She outstretched her arms to exaggerate how massive it was. “Many people, very loud. Waiting for-”

Her explanation was cut short as Phillipe returned with a mug and what looked like a plate of cheese and grapes. Shutting the door behind him, he smiled at the little girl with an eyebrow raised.

Cyril heard the man question something to Rosie in French, she responded in the same language. A small back and forth began, he barely made out half of the words being spoken before it was over as soon as it began.

“I can explain it better. I don’t think she knows what some of the words translated into English are.” Phillipe said in his accented voice.

Rosie pouted and muttered something under her breath, causing Cyril to let out a laugh. He removed his mask and helmet as Phillipe passed him the mug and food. He graciously accepted it and bit into the cheese. Giving him a sharp taste as the Conductor began his tale.

“This was well before the war, twelve years ago. I was in Paris, waiting for passengers to board. It was the last call before we had to depart."

Cyril nodded as he began. Rosie was holding in her laughter.

"And here comes this posh, portly man, huffing and puffing as he hurried his way to the cabins. By now the train had started moving, so he hurls his two suitcases at me so that he can grab onto the rail bar. I'm amazed I caught the first one, but the second only hit the door as he had to grab it."

Cyril chuckled at the thought, whereas Rosie continued to hold in her laughter.

"He grabs it, and the train is picking up speed, so I tell the rotund man to hurry up. He's probably running for the first time of the year, as he holds onto his hat with his free hand. He manages to catch up, by some luck, and I hurl him on board. But he bounced like a ball as he fell onto the floor. Hitting the other entrance."

Rosie began to laugh uncontrollably at the idea of a man so big he rebounds like a ball. Cyril let out a laugh as he chewed on two of the grapes. "Did he fall out of the other door?"

"No, he landed face down on the floor after he bounced the first time. He wasn't going to bounce away." Phillipe chuckled, to which Cyril and Rosie laughed in unison. The former held nothing back as she went into a fit of joy.

After the round of comedy, Cyril finished the remainder of his meal, thanking Phillipe for the story.

"Helps to lighten the mood every now and then, it's always good to remember the good times."

"Yeah, it does. Thank you for that." Cyril beamed a rare smile"

"You should probably get some rest. Getting to Verdun is gonna take a while."

Chapter Text

A slight rumble drones on as Cyril opened his eyes, the tracks colliding with the train wheels creating a steady background rhythm so it was a miracle he managed to sleep to begin with. The night was mainly occupied by waiting and talking to Rosie.

"Tell me your family?" Cyril remembered her asking. He went into detail on who they were and what they were like.

He told her about his father, working in the docks and seeing all types of ships. From the smallest one manned boat, to the largest of passenger ships coming into port. Cyril described his few visits and it being a bit crowded on one of the times his father took him to the dock.

"Many ships?" Rosie would ask. He would nod, vaguely remembering a dozen and a half ships moored to port.

Rosie learned soon about his mother. Staying home to maintain the house and keep order among the family. Describing a time when he stayed out of the house too late involving an angry dog.

"Like here?" Rosie asked. Cyril chuckled, saying that it would've looked like a puppy in comparison to the ones he had encountered here.

"You'd probably get along with my sister and brother. They play around with each other quite a bit."

"Fun!" She jumped up in excitement. Cyril smiled at her enthusiasm.

He sat back before pondering how they would've grown up a bit for the past few years Cyril had been here. As he blinked several times, focusing on the present as opposed to the relaxation from last night. Would they still recognize him? His mother and father for sure would, but would Nora and Arthur?

If anything the two have more than likely been told their older brother was listed as dead, despite Walker's objections saying that he was alive, might've been enough to notify his family. He hoped that someday he would return home and show that their eldest was alive and well. It would've been preferable to this hellhole.

It looked to be noon. The clouds parted slightly to show veins and patches of blue sky. Hidden behind the constant haze of clouds. Cyril could only think of one other time the clouds had parted to show the real sky, and that was in Arras. Felt like a lifetime ago, when it was probably only a week and a half. He stood up and walked towards the window to fully enjoy the slight color in the sky, the constant streak of monochrome being broken for once.

He turned to look at Rosie, who was casually sipping her cup of water. Following Cyril's original gaze as she turned to look outside the window as well.

"Pretty" she commented as she took another gentle sip.

He was inclined to agree, ignoring the ordinary destruction that the war and the horrors had wrought upon the land. Fields of mud and dirt sloped like small mounds, with only the odd green of vegetation clinging onto life. But these were so few and far between that Cyril barely noticed them. The sun seemed to be covered up by the greyish-white clouds above, anytime it seemed the celestial body would offer it's warmth, a new formation would arrive to block its radiant heat.

Perhaps for the better, Cyril thought to himself. He was lucky that the sun was only out once in his travels so far. Despite the outside temperatures remaining the same. There was the briefest spike in heat as Cyril would sweat beneath his mask. So much so it would fog the eye lens.

There was a slight jolt in the train car, as the brakes collided with the wheels in a sudden motion. Slowly decreasing the speed of the locomotive. Cyril had to hold onto the couch cushion to brace himself with the sudden force, correcting himself as he stood up again. Rosie on the other hand only nudged a slight bit as she held her cup still, only a small amount of water rippled out and made contact with the floor. Cyril had to take a guess that he was here, or as close to Verdun as can be. Moving over to his spot, Cyril started to grab his gear, clipping his shovel on. Placing his revolver in the holster and finally grabbing his gas mask and helmet. Though he heard the door of the cabin open before he could wear his second face. Phillipe walked in waving his cap and placing it atop his head.

"It's a distance away, but this will be as far as I go. I'm not gonna risk getting too close."

"That's fine. I didn't expect a close drop off anyway." Cyril replied. Placing his mask over his face.

"We're not far from Fort de Vaux. Maybe you will have better luck there than in the city."

Placing the helmet on top. Cyril turned to face the conductor. "I don't know much about it."

"It was built decades ago and held off the German’s for months. If you're looking for more of those lunatics, that's better than Verdun itself."

It would mean less scouring through the homes and businesses, Cyril thought to himself. He had never been inside a fortress however, so this will be uncharted territory for him.

"How far is it?" He asked.

Phillipe pointed to his left, where the train car door was situated. "It's a bit of a walk. But you'll know when you find it. From the large stone walls."

Cyril thanked him, shaking the older gentleman's hand before turning his attention to Rosie. She nodded at Cyril's request to stay here, bobbing her head up and down in affirmation. He gently ruffled her hair before turning to the train entrance. The door hissed open to allow cool air inside the cabin. Cyril hopped down to the wet terrain. Hearing the door slide shut with a heavy thud before he took his first steps at the all too familiar landscape.

Mud and dirt caking the surface with a rough texture. There was a decently sized crater with its own pond. Small wooden bridges dotted above to offer passage, each step offering a groan from the aged planks, giving a rare sound to the empty field. Small ravens fluttered down to scavenge the remains of a carcass on the rim of the hole, one standing idly on a body floating in the pond. Halfway through, Cyril could see one of the corvids try to pester him, swirling around cawing all the while. He batted it away with his barbed shovel before it finally relented, allowing him to finish his crossing in peace. The crater soon pivoted up, forcing Cyril into a short climb, he used his shovel as a balance with each shaky step upwards. His lungs heaved with each step as the steep terrain offered a small challenge, before he finally reached the top and let out a long breath.

Reaching the top he could see spires of bark, with branches acting like veins. The colony of trees still standing were spread apart, offering little in the way of shade. Their leafless form, a skeletal reminder of the impact that constant shelling had on the once mighty forests. The earth above their roots had become uneven, as mounds of dirt and detritus created various hills and dips in the surface, offering an uneven landscape. Cyril paid it no mind as he walked through the depleted wood. From what he could count, only a dozen trees could be identified as standing. The rest formed were either half buried, or fragmented from an artillery shell impacting so close.

Despite this, he hadn’t seen anyone roaming around. Besides the raven here and there, perhaps it was truly empty like he thought? The trek was uneventful through the pillars to bark, he could see a clearing and found a pathway that looked to be a road well traveled, he saw a wheel laying idly on the side, and a few boxes beside it. Cyril walked over to check the contents inside. Noticing that they were sealed tight by nails, he swung his barbed shovel downward to open it, the contents spilling out from the broken frame. He could see a trio of canteens fall from the first one, Cyril hefted the water container and felt nothing inside, tossing it to the ground, he bashed the other crate to check what it hid.

Breaking the weakened crate he found two rolls of bandages. Grabbing both of them, he stuffed them in his pocket and focused his attention further down the road. Even though the blood needles proved to be more effective, he figured that they would come in handy regardless. Maybe he could offer them to Phillipe in exchange for some blood needles or bullets, he was a trader afterall. Walking down the serpentine path, he passed through more familiar sights of derelict trenches, a machine gun emplacement and several corpses littering the field of mud, and on the road. All of which he had barely paid much attention to. Only glancing back and forth at any sound that stuck out from the silence.

Cyril passed through a light fog, giving him a momentary decrease of vision before finally seeing it. The conductor was certainly right, it didn’t take long to reach at all. Only a fifteen minute walk away from the train and there it was.

From this angle, it looked to be square shaped with stones that looked older than him lining the walls. A gorge surrounded the fortress with dozens of shell craters surrounding the perimeter. This no doubt was a place that had endured a lot of fighting. Several had impacted the roofs of the fortress, allowing the elements inside the old bastion. He could see half a dozen bodies lying motionless on the surface, with a few limbs poking up from beneath, no doubt more were buried beneath the earth. Barbed wire surrounded the top of the fortress, like a crown of twigs. Sandbags and small trenches were placed in various locations, some of which were occupied by the aforementioned dead. Like before, it seemed unusually quiet, as if the world had gone to sleep, and Cyril was the only one awake in this peculiar dream.

Blinking several times as if to reassure himself that this was indeed reality. Cyril shook his head once and walked down away from the road and to his destination. Hands gripped tightly on both of his weapons as each step on the mud squelched with a sickly screech. He stepped over one of the bodies, which looked to be a frenchman judging by the blue uniform that was damp with water. However, his leg crossed paths with a hand that was submerged and he felt the icy cold fingers stroke the leggings.

Tensing up, Cyril turned around and felt the sudden touch and turned around to see if someone was alive down there. However, the paleness and decay of flesh meant that Cyril must’ve been imagining things. His breathing eased as he turned around and continued onto the fort. Hearing a faint crack, as if someone stepped on a branch, he turned around to see where it had come from. Checking beneath him, he hadn’t stepped on anything, turning around to the body, the hand, even the ones further away. Nothing.

This place was starting to get to him, Cyril shook his head and blinked to reassure himself that it was all in his head. It had to be.

He turned around towards the gorge, after a couple minutes of reaching it. He saw the drop was a few meters. Puddles and abnormally large rats, their eyes glossy much like the crazed soldiers that Cyril had killed countless times. He hated the rodents for feasting on the dead and stealing what little food was kept on the frontline, these ones however feasted like kings as their size was half of that of a man. He couldn’t imagine what could have possibly happened to make these rats so massive. Though this seemed to be the least peculiar compared to the war horse’s or any number of creatures he had encountered so far.

Leaping down from the edge of the gorge, he brought his barbed shovel down, colliding it with the black fur of the large rodent. The serrated blade created a large gash as Cyril slammed to the ground. The rat didn't have time to notice as it screeched its last breath. It's comrades however were quick to respond. The closest one to his left, Cyril could see it rush him with foam cresting the jagged teeth. It attempted to leap but only got less than a meter off the ground, which Cyril rolled to his right, retaliating with a pair of swings that caught the obese rodent in its flanks, killing it within seconds. The third rat of the trio waddled its way towards him, rather than waiting for the beast to catch up. Cyril rushed the opponent and swung his barbed shovel downwards.

However, the rat was faster, swiping it’s right hand and scratching his torso. Before it could follow up with another, Cyril retreated momentarily, extending his barbed shovel for extra range. Bringing it in a downward strike, the added length kept him away from the hideous creature as the blade impacted the rat’s head. Hearing muscle and bone crunch under the force of the swing. Cyril reeled the weapon back and saw tendons stick to the barbs before jolting the weapon back to it’s shortened length. Scattering the brain matter and blood to the ground.

Stepping over the bloated corpses, Cyril made his way down the wide gorge, seeing several haphazard graves marked along the way, those were the lucky ones. The majority of the corpses he saw were lying in the open, some had mouths gaped wide open as water had pooled inside the ones that faced towards the sky. Most bearing the colors of France or Germany, but a few had the uniforms of other countries which surprised him. Perhaps they had come to the fort later on in search of supplies or equipment to survive this hell?

He searched for any sort of opening that would allow him access inside the fortress.The only one he saw so far was a giant gash on the stone skin, however debris blocked further entrance, so Cyril moved further down. With the fog fully lifted, he had full visibility with his surroundings, seeing the blue veins of the sky that broke through the grey clouds, offering a slight bit of color to the French bastion. Cyril chuckled at the comparison, thinking for a split second of their blue uniforms before he stepped over another dead Frenchman, his arm and leg torn off halfway. Must’ve been from the rats from before.

Taking a turn towards his right, Cyril saw that the trail descended further into the fortress moat. Trails of water had begun to form, finally living up to its name as he had thought of the castles from centuries ago that his mother would tell him about. He exhaled a short laugh, thinking that old forms of defense were still used even today. The stone walls surrounding the gorge bore hundreds of bullet holes and dried blood. However as he walked down, Cyril noticed the random stains of blood became more…deliberate?

It was hard to explain. He trailed his head at one that looked like it was intentionally dragged by a man’s hand, as if he was creating a morbid painting. Turning slightly to the left however made him stop. His eyes locked at the familiar symbol. The random lines, the circles that overlap them, he had seen it all the way back when he first found Rosie. Hearing a faint whisper at the edge of his ears Cyril turned around, thinking that someone was right behind him, serenading him with words that sounded unlike any he had heard. Be it English, French, German or Dutch. He heard the whispers cease, ending just as quickly as they had shown up.

Beneath his mask, sweet beaded his face, as his breathing accelerated. He almost felt like he was going to throw up what little food he had eaten. However, restrained the idea as his hand moved his hand away from his second face.

Looking away from the bloodied iconography, he began his steady march up the incline away from the gorge. A large stick jutted from the slope, with a lone helmet crowned atop the spiked wood. Something he had seen a few times before during the war, primarily in No Man’s land, surprisingly one of the more tame things he had seen throughout his journey so far. Reaching the apex of the incline, Cyril finally saw a breach in the fortress walls. It looked to be caused by an artillery shell that landed in its vicinity; a small crater had been the base of impact with stone loosely applied throughout the ground and floors of the interior.

Gripping both weapons tightly, Cyril ventured inside the depths of Fort de Vaux, steeling himself of what lies inside the old walls. Turning both directions to get a sense of the inside. The masonry was colored a bone white, with the lower section of the wall painted in red. Several stacks of crates were toppled over, their contents long since looted. A few lights offered illumination, cables lined the stone as they trailed throughout the interior, offering either an orange or white glow. A lone corpse slumped at a corner, leading to a set of stairs to descend further into the depths.

From his rear, Cyril heard the familiar sound of thunder rumbling the lunar fields. Perhaps it was perfect timing that the fort was such a short distance away. The blue scars were slowly being stitched by lines of white and grey. Another storm was coming, and Cyril wondered how much the old defensive structure would block out the sound of the rain.

Now fully inside, he listened for the slightest shift in noise, the inch of movement, even checking the body that lay on the ground. Walking over to the blue uniformed body, Cyril confirmed that the man was indeed dead, his eyes long since removed, either by the rats, or by the opportunistic soldiers that held no regard for what they ate. He shuddered to imagine the thought. If he had to theorize, they would’ve eaten either the rats, ravens, a war horse if lucky enough, or the endless bounty of dead soldiers that pockmarked the land. Shaking his head at the thought, Cyril turned his attention to the stairs and descended further into the fort.

Light was absent in the second room, motioning his left hand to the side to feel the stone as he carefully stepped down into the darkness. Cyril felt foolish not taking into account that certain areas would be pitch black. The lights in the entrance were built into the walls, so there was no point going back for them.

“Wait a minute” Cyril whispered. He stopped his tracks looking through his pocket and found the lighter he recovered all the way back in Ypres. He had almost forgotten about the ornately designed tool, feeling stupid he did so. Cyril flicked it on with several attempts and, unsurprisingly, it only offered a faint glow that barely showed more than half a meter in front of him.

He had to go through the steps and future rooms without any light source. Even with his eyes slightly adjusting to the lack of illumination, it still wasn’t much to see ahead. What little he could see was several planks of wood and crumbled rocks lying on the floor, that toppled over as his foot brushed them aside with a slight shuffle. Soon stepping on what sounded like a metal grate as one of the rocks he toppled over slid in between the lines and tumbled down for a few seconds.

Cyril kept doing this for the entirety of the room, with how long it took for him to walk in the obscurity, it must’ve been a decently sized room. His revolver was pointing forwards, turning it slowly to see if there was an obstruction. Hearing a slight tap against the silver metal, alerting him to steer clear of either a support beam or a wall. However when pointing his gun forward, his arm was pushed back slightly, he must’ve reached the edge of the room. Feeling the wall ahead, he stuck by it and tried to find a passage. Hugging it close until he felt the chilling touch of steel. The door appeared to be shut as Cyril felt more of the metal barrier. Taking in a deep breath as he held his barbed shovel he pressed the door slightly. As he did, he could see overhead and wall mounted lights bleed through, temporarily disorienting him with the sudden glare, before readjusting himself to the glow of orange and white.

It was a small room, square in shape. A chair along with an aged wooden desk with a small lantern hung over it. Cyril turned to the center and found one far more familiar to him. It stood still in the center, the light inside extinguished until someone like him came along to reawaken it. He snapped his fingers and saw the familiar ghostly color of the lantern beat its white flame. There wasn’t much else to the room’s name, outside of a few large casings, looked to be seventy five millimeter shells for whatever heavy gun this fort had to offer. He also saw several stray bullets on the floor, inspecting them to see if any were the same as his revolver or SMLE back in the workshop. However, they were all of different calibur, so he tossed the one in his hand back to the ground.

Cyril walked back to the first desk and picked up the small lantern, hefting it slightly to determine its weight before feeling comfortable with it. He reached around and clipped it to his belt and walked for a few steps to see how it would perform. Cyril thought it was a fine fit, and glad he managed to find a new tool for his journey.

“Sorry little buddy, but you have a friend that can do your job a lot better.” Cyril commented towards the lighter as he nestled it back to its usual spot.

His eyes soon set their sight on the last noteworthy thing of the lantern room, another steel door. Its hinges slightly open to allow easy access. Inching it open he heard the creak of the heavyset door shift as he opened it, allowing him access to an expansive hall.

Easily reaching twelve meters in height, he saw the blue and white arched hallway and felt small in comparison with how it easily reached to the top of the fortress. A small trolley was situated in the far corner, empty of whatever ammunition it was meant to carry. Light spilling in the room from above, as a twelve meter hole broke through the defenses and allowed the elements a chance to enter inside. The salvo of shells must’ve created several breaches deeper in the fort, offering Cyril some natural light as his eyes readjusted to the grey and white clouds that swirled above. The last vestiges of blue were being enveloped by the coming storm, as a crack of lightning arced for a split second before vanishing.

However his marvelling was cut short as he heard the first noise inside the fortress. Running towards the trolley, he crouched down behind cover to avoid detection. Cyril’s breathing soon picked up as he peaked his head further down. The hallway ended in the same white and blue stone walls that guarded the hall with an entrance way. The doors were already broken off as he could see the twisted hulks that they used to be. However, the sound came closer, it was a pair of footsteps. Cyril tried his best to make out what it was but it was so far away he couldn’t see anything in the black void further down. Though it didn’t take long for him to see it.

The thing was bipedal, it’s legs twisted back, then jutting out forward. Much like the hind legs of a horse. It’s hands were long with serrated nails that looked more like blades. Blood was dried on the tips. But Cyril noticed it’s head, it was equine in shape, but there were no eyes in the blackened sockets. The lower jaws were split in two, operating individually. It was as if the War horse’s evolved, however he just thought of them as a leaner version of them. They were probably the same animalistic beasts as before, just walking on two legs.

Confident enough with his abilities, Cyril broke from cover and made his presence known. Running towards the bipedal beast the same as he would any crazed soldier. However, he heard the creature screeched. A mixture of a human and some otherworldly sound that drones for a few seconds. Then it charged at him faster than Cyril could respond.

One moment it stood still, the next it pounced and struck Cyril with its sharpened blades. The sudden force knocked him back, almost fading the sense of pain he had received from the sudden strike. Cyril landed from the trolley he had used for cover, hitting its steel body and creating a slight dent in the frame. He sported out a small amount of blood from the impact. Fishing out a blood needle as quickly as he could, the creature easily towered him by half a meter, it paced for a second before running at him again. By that point Cyril had trusted the remedy into his leg and felt the warmth it provided.

He didn't have time to savor it, he rolled out of the monster's path, avoiding another charge from the equine thing. It turned its split jawed face with a series of cracks. Cyril rushed in before it could retaliate, hitting the lanky creature with a trio of fast strikes. Blood exited the creature and painted the white and blue walls with a deep crimson. It still wasn't down, however. The beast swiped forward with its left hand, Cyril dodged it to the best of his abilities, but received a slight graze from its bottom claw. Tearing a slight red line in his upper leg, but not enough to warrant another blood needle. It howled again, attempting another charge, though Cyril stopped it before it could do so. A single shot from his revolver reverberated loudly in the arched hall, the sound momentarily surprised him with how loud it was. But, it staggered the beast for a second.

Capitalizing on this opportunity, he rushed forward and plunged his barbed shovel in the thing's abdomen. It let out a whimpered cry before being silenced entirely, as Cyril violently brought his weapon back. Blood torrented from the gaping wound, as it was hurled back a meter before slumping to the ground in a howl of agony.

Cyril heaved two gulps of air, as each exhale slightly fogged his lens. As the creature took its final breath, the first drops of rain started to fall through the hole in the fort. And it soon began the familiar symphony that he had heard countless times. He looked to the hall further down where the Trench beast had exited and failed to notice a second door on the left side. Walking over, he tried to open it, however the mechanism stalled, it was probably locked from the other side. Thinking to himself that if he could find it, perhaps he could create a shortcut for when he eventually leaves the fort.

Cyril moved over to the entrance way further down the hall. A few seconds after walking he stepped over the collapsed doors and entered the darkened hall. The light behind him became more faint with each step, his lantern became more handy as the small glow gave him some illumination. The walls looked to be the same as before, there was a trolley that he motioned away from with a crate of what looked like medicine. Carefully looking through them he made out a few of the French words, translating to "antidote". They were contained in eight centimeter bottles with a golden yellow hue from what the lantern could make out.

Out of curiosity Cyril decided to take the findings and shoved the containers in his pocket, thankfully they didn't seem to create much noise when they collided together. If anything the only noise he could hear was his own footsteps echoing further down. He was nervous that another one of those Trench beasts might've heard it, so he gripped his weapons tightly in anticipation. Thanks to the pocket lantern, it made seeing slightly better, he couldn't imagine doing it with only the lighter in this hallway.

Cyril glanced left and right periodically for any sort of passage or hallway that led further down into the labyrinthian tunnels. All his results only ended with the occasional corpse or the stack of boxes to either side. Rubble became more frequent as a small mound of rock had piled to the left. Cyril saw a surprisingly wide entrance, however when he pivoted to the right, the way had been collapsed with debris and wood. Turning away it didn't take long for him to see the end of the tall hallway, another door greeted him, unlike the prior ones this was open and not obscured with the fort's weight.

It took him up a small set of stairs and into another of those box shaped interior's, though unlike the lantern room, this had more space to roam around in. A few dots of light were situated in the wall and a dim lantern hung idly as well, its light almost faded entirely, the electrical cousins taking the burden of illuminating the room. Cyril could see pipes crisscrossing along the roof beginning and ending at random intervals, some of them turning further down away from view, obscured by a wall where the dim lantern hung. Despite his steps being quiet, he could hear the loud thumps of something nearby. Taking cover besides the wall he raised his revolver and peered behind cover to see.

Further down was a short hall with a pair of blue doors shut, and what looked like a soldier beheaded and missing half of his leg. It looked like he tried to open the door before he perished. To his right he saw the killer, another of those Trench beasts skulking out of another door, one of the lights shimmering its dark brown hair and disfigured jaw. To his left he saw a collapsed wall, possibly caused by an artillery shell.

The beast snarled in its low growl hearing Cyril's slight adjustment of his right foot. He cursed to himself as the monster twisted to his direction, arms outstretched as it began to do a charge. Cyril wasn't going to let that happen. He would have the first strike.

Rolling out from the safety of the wall, he fired a shot at the Trench beast halting it's advance and staggering it. His barbed shovel had been shortened for most of his time in Fort Vaux, however he extended it to get extra range and hit the Trench beast with a single attack from a downward swing. The beast yelped at first but countered his second swing with a fury of it's bladed nails. The first one couldn't be avoided in time as it struck his lower chest, but the rest were avoided through a narrow dodge as he backed away. Swinging horizontally to create further distance and keep the Trench beast back. Cyril fired another shot which went wide as the Trench beast ducked down to charge again.

With such speed Cyril was lucky enough to roll away in time as the creature slammed into the stone walls behind him. Masonry and the destroyed shards of a wooden box was all it impacted, causing the beast to turn around. Only for Cyril to retaliate with a downward, then upwards strike causing the Trench beast to be pinned to the wall, staggering it. He took this opportunity to drive his barbed shovel into the bloodied torso of his enemy, hearing meat and bone crunch and squelch under the sudden thrust, before being violently tugged out as viscera and internals were torn away from the beast. It's dying growl soon became more like a husked man begging for water before slowly dying out.

Cyril coughed several times and looked down to his injury. It didn't look as sever to warrant yet another blood needle. He turned away from his quarrel and set down the double doors.

"Poor man must've been terrified of those things." He commented to himself, briefly imagining what it must’ve been like for that man to see such a horrific creature. Almost reminding him of his first encounter with the War horse.

Looking at the lever on the door. Vyril used both hands to grab it and tried to heave it towards him. Only to be met with great resistance, as it barely budged open. He tried one more time, using all of his strength to reel the door back even a smidge. With great strain he heard metal and stone clash as a screech could be heard from the two. Despite his efforts it was only five centimeters, but it was at least enough to push the heavy door open. Using the weight of his body to shove the door open, the resulting sound inside the hall was defeating that anything inside must’ve been able to hear it.

When the door was wide enough to walk through he let his arms go limp for a moment as his muscles were in agony from the strain. His heating fogged his gas mask lens with every exhale, only to be clear for a split second with each new breath. Cyril unclipped his barbed shovel and took his Webley revolver out from its holster. As he entered the new room, it appeared to be a makeshift supply depot. Wide boxes with firearms, small crates filled with ammunition and another dead soldier, probably the one who locked himself in the room. Probably committed suicide considering the splatter on the wall behind his head. Cyril thought he must’ve decided to just end it here than take his chances out there.

Cyril rummaged through the storehouse and tried his best to find anything useful. In the small boxes of ammunition he was surprised to find a moon ring with six bullets inside for his revolver. Placing them in his pocket he spent another minute searching, only to find mostly rifle bullets for the French weapons or some of the German ones. Leaving the tomb of gunpowder behind, Cyril made for the other doorway.

Stepping over the Trench beast, he peered down the hall and could only see a faint white light at the end, though more apparent was the foul odor of decay. He could faintly see a pile of bodies on one end of the narrow hall, but couldn’t tell how many were there. A faint buzzing of flies filled the air and made Cyril shudder. He had seen them surround the dead along with maggots crawling around, feasting on the remains. Remembering one vivid encounter during guard duty at night that he could hear the buzzing bastards over the line as a soldier that was killed several meters away in a charge. He had to hear the incessant noise all night, and it was the only thing that could be heard, no artillery, no gunshots, just that.

Exhaling, he began to walk down the narrow corridor, stepping over a pool of what he assumed was water before making his way to the corpses. Some were slouched against the walls, but most were sprawled on the floor. Either this was where the assaulting party was mowed down, or the Trench beasts just dragged them here for some reason, he will never know.

Carefully stepping over them, he almost expected one of them to wring it’s rotten hand around one of his ankles. But all that happened was the slight shuffle of limbs. He had to swat a few flies away with his barbed shovel, it deterred most of them, however a few still hovered around him before returning to their original duty of scavenging. Trudging over the last body, he made his way to the door on the opposite end, illuminated by the white light above.

Cyril pushed the door aside and entered another of the large halls, only this time there was more damage than before. Pipes spewing steam out in the open, debris cluttering portions of the floor, creating an almost uneven surface, and several holes above to allow more of the rain to pour in. Making his way further down he saw the droplets above pool down into a waterfall on the largest hole, creating a small pond below it.

He had to have been close to a clue, or anything to shed light on what the cultists do in a place like this. Cyril assumed it was the same as in Amiens, it seemed likely as ever. Though he also thought that maybe locations such as these were the origin of those horrors. Thinking of some of the names that the Dutch author mentioned to him. Any one of them could have been where it all started. Or perhaps it happened simultaneously.

As he pondered, Cyril kept moving forward and could see more lights alongside another of the gated entryways. He stepped over a peculiar sight, a Copper drone. Either it was trying to breach inside or was part of the defense of the fortress, he was surprised to see another one. However, he refocused his attention onto what lay ahead. Pushing the metal barrier aside he saw the small mounds of rubble had come to an end on the other side as it was clear of debris. Another barred entranceway lay straight ahead up a slight incline, while another door was located to his left.

Trying the closest option, he opened the door and saw a few lights illuminating the narrow hall, two stone pillars obscuring half of the walking space, one further down, and one closer to Cyril. Probably put in place for the French defenders. He walked down the hall, but heard a faint rasping, causing Cyril to hold for a moment.

Listening closely, it wasn’t the sound of a Trench beast, it was human. The man let out a wet cough that echoed through the hall and Cyril felt the person standing right next to him with how loud it was. He was probably hiding behind one of the pillars, though with the door being opened, Cyril knew his presence was already made well aware to whoever it was.

Steadying his pace with a few steps, he carefully walked over to the sound and saw a man with a rifle peer out. The glazed look in his eyes and the ragged torn uniform he wore confirmed he was a crazed soldier. However when he fired, he completely missed his shot and only hit the stone ceiling above. Cyril used this opportunity to close the gap, as his ears were still ringing from the gunshot. His barbed shovel was shortened in the confined space and came in handy as he whirled around the pillar and struck the crazed soldier in the chest with a horizontal strike.

It was all he needed to do as he looked at the man, slumping over, dropping his rifle and collapsing to one side. Cyril saw the individual only had one leg, the other was wrapped in several layers of cloth, bloodied and swelling from lack of changing the bandages. In a way, he almost pitied him, but any sort of remorse was washed away as he saw the determination to kill in his eyes. There was no mercy in them, even as the man lay dead and stared back at him.

Moving past the pillars Cyril noticed the door had a locking mechanism. He heaved the lever to it’s right and opened it to reveal the same hall where he had killed the first Trench beast. He now had an easier way of making it back to the surface, without having to navigate the labyrinthian halls. Leaving it open, he turned back to where he came from, stepping over the cripple soldier and weaving through the pillars.

Reaching back to the slight incline, he walked towards the second barred gateway, noticing the walls were lined with written notes. Not of the madmen or cultists. But it looked to be the French soldiers that were holed up here. Perhaps when the fortress was under siege from the German’s, or from when the beasts came. He couldn’t tell due to his lack of knowledge of the language. Only making a few words out like ‘months’ or ‘water’. He passed by the wall journal and reached the apex of the incline, passing through the barred gateway, though he was surprised to see the steel warped in a way to let something larger pass through.

Cyril assumed it was from the Trench beasts, or something else he hadn’t seen. Almost reminding him of the Messenger of the sky in Arras. The way that creature effortlessly passing through the thinned walls of houses. He couldn’t imagine any creature doing something like that, but with metal Passing through the oval shaped hole, he found a winding corner that turned towards the right. One of the lights above flickered, every now and then plunging the room into near darkness. The lantern on Cyril’s belt kept it from becoming pitch black entirely. Remaining close to the inner curve, he hugged the sloped stone with his revolver held up. Taking careful steps as he slowly turned the corner.

Each step caused an echo to reverberate, causing Cyril to halt his pace for fear that whatever was down there might hear him. When no sound returned to answer him, he would resume his slow turn. A minute went by until he reached the full turn and saw a long corridor with passageways leading to the left and the right. A series of pipes ran all the way down to the edge of the corridor. Passing through the first two sets, Cyril noticed they were sleeping quarters for the soldiers garrisoned here. However, he saw something out of place.

Unlike the typical white and orange of the Fort de Vaux light’s, the rooms emitted a blueish white glow. Not unlike that of the lamp’s he would use to return to the Hunter’s dream. But that wasn’t what caused Cyril concern. There was a slight shadow further up ahead. Steadying his breathing, Cyril made a couple of steps before the shape contorted out of sight. Causing him to hold still. He didn’t think it was a Trench beast, the ones he had encountered so far weren’t for subtlety or stealth. No, someone was in there hiding from him.

Cyril moved a few meters forward but stopped the moment he saw the shadow appear again. Only this time he finally saw a faint outline of a woman, only something that looked unnatural.

There was a slight cracking sound that echoed the hallway, the shape jutting back slightly before bending forward. Cyril heard the woman cry out in anguish as what he assumed to be blood poured out from her jaw as the light showed how her mouth unhinged in an instant. Cyril had to assume she was already becoming a messenger, and that there were more cultists inside. He couldn’t wait any longer. Taking no consideration the noise he made, he rushed down the hall and slid his boots to stop in place, peering inside the barracks.

There was no one else, only her. And she didn’t look to be someone taken from her own will. No, she was one of them. Her tattered black cloak showed how her legs had deformed into a more lupine shape, with the upper legs containing coarse brown fur. Her arms elongated and bandaged with grey boils jutting from her hands and lower arms. The thing’s head was still human in a sense, it was the lower jaw that was transformed into a more serpent like appearance. Fangs bristled alongside her mouth dripping with fresh blood from her transformation. The last thing Cyril noticed was the ornament the woman-creature had on her hood. It was a silver eye, with the iris changing between aquamarine and black, swirling with pinpricks of white. As if the cosmos was contained in that gem.

She contorted her deformed head towards Cyril. At first tilting it in confusion, before returning to a straightened position. Her mouth opened to emit a distorted screech between a woman and a beast. Cyril instinctively retreated before seeing the priestess swing a series of strikes at him with lightning quick timing. Extending his barbed shovel, Cyril went in for a series of swings, only for the first one to barely graze the creature as she left the barracks and crashed towards him. Stumbling the two down to the floor.

Cyril attempted to raise his revolver, however the woman was fast as she plunged her claws into his left hand. Causing Cyril to drop the weapon as blood spewed out from the fresh wound. Before he had time to react, the creature swung at him once, twice, thrice. All in the span of two seconds as he felt each surge of pain from the bladed fingers. Even with that, there was a lingering sickness that grew that attempted to choke the last vestiges of life out of him.

Cyril coughed up blood and saw the right hand of the woman priestess raise up before bringing the wrath of stars down upon him, swinging in the direction of his masked face. Feeling a brief sense of torture before it was silenced, as his blooded vision was soon replaced with darkness.

Chapter Text

His eyelids retracted, finally feeling their weight lifted as he could finally see. Only to be met with the emptiness of the black void. Not a sound was heard here, which he had come to be used to for the amount of time he's been here before. The crackle of lanterns fell still, the patter of rain ceased, and the howling had been silenced. All was quiet here. Just like No Man's land. He instinctively felt his face, clean of any wounds inflicted. The last thing he saw was that Priestess tearing him asunder. The one thing he didn't mind when in the Void, was the absence of pain. One moment it was agony, as he could feel his skin eviscerated as blood seeped out. His lungs filled with the same fluid as he coughed the last gasps of air. Only for it to end just as quickly as it began. For that he was thankful. Not dwelling on his failures for long, he simply laid down in the void as he could see the warped entities crawl towards him with their stubby frames. Sealing his eyes shut, he awaited to be returned to the real world.

Cyril opened his eyes again. Hearing the familiar rhythm of his gas mask breathing in and out. His vision fixated on the small lantern that led him back to reality as he stood up in the small lantern room. Same as before, only the white glow drowned out that of the faint orange that was native to the fortress. Cyril took a moment to get his bearings as he articulated his fingers slowly. This was the third time he had perished, and he still wasn’t used to waking up again, cheating death.

“How long has it been?” He pondered to himself. Motioning for his weapons on his belt.

Cyril remembered the last time a day had passed. He assumed that much was true, but he remembered what the Doll said about the Messengers taking time to search for Hunters and bring them back. He was standing near the lantern for an extended period, he didn’t even notice the deformed creatures surrounding the lantern. Cyril hadn’t seen them much since his journey’s, he almost forgot they existed. All they seemed to do was make low ghostly wails, crouching down, Cyril wondered if they were tactile at all and he touched the closest one.

Pressing his finger, he felt a rough bumpy texture as the Messenger didn’t recoil or react, but all of them seemed to laugh in response to the touch. It was Cyril who tensed up the moment he heard the subtle laughter coming from the strange beings. Despite being a hunter for what felt like several weeks. He still had much to learn, even from something like these small messengers. The moment he began to step away from the lantern, Cyril looked back and saw the creatures vanish from his sight. Shaking his head, he made his way to the door and left the serene sanctuary, back into the bowels of Fort de Vaux.

He returned to the wide expanse of the corridor leading down into the darkened hall with the collapsed doors further down. Though unlike before, he hadn’t heard any footprints from a Trench beast, or any other inhabitant. The holes above the arched roof illuminated a warm orange glow that Cyril deduced it was late in the afternoon outside. It was slightly warmer than when he first arrived in the fortress. But not to the point where he was contemplating on removing his gas mask. No, it was more like being wrapped around a blanket as opposed to being bombarded by the sun’s rays. He always preferred the rain as opposed to being in the dry heat. The only downside was that it made the terrain a quagmire of mud and debris. At least with navigating the stone of this fortress he wouldn’t have to worry about such issues.

Cyril found the door he had opened for the shortcut and entered the narrow confines. Seeing the two pillars that offered the defenders a barrier from the attacking forces. Cyril noticed on the ground the crippled soldier he had killed earlier, the body was still there, only it was being feasted on by a lone rat. One of the large ones like in the outer perimeter of the fort. Keeping his barbed shovel shortened, Cyril ran forward while the rodent was preoccupied with its meal and slashed at the foul animal with a trio of strikes. Not allowing it a chance to retaliate. It slumped dead on it’s meal, glossy eyes looking upwards, as Cyril shuffled it’s corpse out of the way to continue his way back.

It didn’t take long making his way through the corridor. Only ten seconds passed when he reached the other side, stopping at the edge of the door. Trying to hear the faintest of sounds, but none greeted him. Creaking it further open he turned to the barred door a few meters away and made his way up the incline, stepping through the warped gateway further above, and walking the winding corridor towards the barracks.

Cyril took extra care to be as silent as possible. Fully expecting that priestess to be around the corner waiting for him. Blocking out the sound of his exhalation from his gas mask, Cyril listened closely for the slightest idea that she was indeed there. Only when silence answered back to him, he exited his corner and walked down the soldier’s quarters. Each step is slow and methodical, he peered in each door one at a time with his weapons brandished in both hands. His revolver pointed outwards towards each door he passed. One was devoid of any mattresses, another was shut, but a slight hole in the metal frame suggested the room had collapsed from the weight of an artillery shell. A third shared the same fate, only the earth had flooded a small part of the hall, but not to the point where the entire floor was covered in dirt.

Cyril barely noticed the small blue-white glow from before, further up ahead. He was taking his time sweeping the individual rooms before finally coming on the room where that thing mauled him. Not caring for subtlety, hurried to the side of the entrance, taking in a one breath before rotating his body from the wall towards the barracks.

With his revolver erected forward, he lowered it the moment he saw no one inside. What he saw confused him. Candles were sporadically placed throughout the room, perhaps thirty six in total, wicks crackling as the black stems of their waxy bark slowly melted away by the eerie glow of their light. Effigies of creatures in various shapes and sizes, though crudely made from chunks of stone or wood carvings. In the center of the room were two skulls, one fractured in multiple pieces with the only recognizable piece being the lower jaw still recognizable. The second was intact, however something was off about it.

There was a large hole at the top, but not as if it was bashed with a rock or another such object, but as if it parted ways to allow access for something. Cyril walked towards the center of the room picking up the peculiar piece of bone. Hefting it up he looked closer at the object before noticing something inside the hole. It was light, a brilliant one where blue and green danced around like water, pinpricks of white fluttered like snow. This wasn’t like the candles, perhaps he was imagining things. However, Cyril noticed when he moved it away from him, it still burned on.

“How?” He whispered to himself as he inspected it again, drawing it closer to him for a moment. Cyril shoved it in with his other equipment. Only to hear the snarl of a distorted wolf, standing completely still, he didn’t dare look behind him. But when the thing spoke he froze still like a statue.

“You shouldn’t take what doesn’t belong to you.”

With one sentence, Cyril jolted his body around to face her, however was met with a sudden swipe from her distorted hand. Sending him crashing into the remaining bed frame in the barrack. The smell of rusted iron and blood soon overwhelmed his olfactory senses, however his vision was still clear as he could see that thing again. She began to skulk toward him in a wolfish gait. Cyril had to get up, however he felt a sharp pang of pain from his back, probably from the impact he had endured. He had to power through the pain, as another swing came from the Priestess, as Cyril rolled forward to avoid the strike.

Rolling directly under her sweeping arm, Cyril finally stood back up, and felt bones crack as he stood up. Cartilage and muscle aching as he readjusted his stance and faced the grotesque madwoman. She contorted around and growled at Cyril in her distorted voice, even with half of her body deformed from her unholy benedictions. Extending his barbed shovel, Cyril went in for a horizontal swing before collapsing it for a pair of quick strikes. The Priestess was faster however, she dodged backwards avoiding all three of the swings before retaliating with a pair of swipes from her elongated arms.

Cyril retreated for now, aiming his pistol up at the bastard and fired a single shot. She wasn’t fast enough to dodge a bullet. No living thing could, Cyril would believe that till the day he truly died. The shot connected her torso and staggered her, stumbling to the ground for a moment. He dashed forward to drive his barbed shovel into her barrel-like torso before forcefully pulling it away as blood fountained out of her wound.

She was quick on her feet, or paws given their shape. She raised her right hand up, howling before she thrust it forward. Cyril turned around as she swatted at him with such force that he was flung from the barracks into the door from the opposite side. Metal collided with him as he could hear bones crack from the impact. Cyril felt a sharp pain as his breathing became frantic, almost heavy, as if water was slowly filling them. He was suffocating as blood was filling his lungs. Gasping and choking, he desperately grabbed a blood needle as he jammed it into his upper leg.

The drowning sensation was over, as he felt oxygen enter his lungs, as they were repaired. His back was straightened as part of the bones were realigned. However there was a subtle ache that persisted. The important thing was that he was still breathing and alive. However the Priestess fished her way out of her altar and resumed her onslaught. Entering a series of ferocious swipes. Cyril immediately rolled away from the first wave, before dodging the second and third wave. Before a fourth pair could be attempted, Cyril swung in an upwards motion to his right, before bringing it down, then back up again. All of which connected and caused a series of pained yelps, though it sounded more gruff as opposed to the ones he’d heard from one of the regimental mascots from the Trench’s.

The Priestess contorted her face, barring her full set of bone colored teeth before thrusting herself onto Cyril. Pinning him to the ground with her strong grip before slashing at his face. The first swipe dislodged his gas mask and helmet, revealing his pale face to her. Green eyes stared back at the abominable beast. Before another swing could be attempted, Cyril moved the hand that held his revolver and fired low at the Priestess, causing her to retreat and lose her grip on the Hunter.

Cyril turned to see his second face and saw that even the canister that connected the hose to the mask was dislodged from his jacket. Cyril looked back at the creature and saw her contort her body on all fours in a prowling stance, before she sprung forward with both elongated hands outstretched.

He has seen this used before on the War horses and sidestepped once to avoid the lunge. Dodging to his rear as she swung forward in a horizontal motion. Cyril riposted with a pair of quick swings, however she avoided the swings.

He smirked, and extended his barbed shovel to bring the full might of it down upon the bitch. The added range connected with her shoulder blade and created a nasty gash that tore part of her black robe.

By now the only illumination had been from the lantern from Cyril’s belt, and the small ornament that donned on the Priestess’ hood, swirling from an aquamarine to a deep blue. The lights from the candles in her altar were becoming less and less useful as the two fought further and further away from her area of prayer. Cyril's pocket lantern was carrying most of the work, and it was becoming more difficult to see her moving around.

She lunged her arms forward into a series of swings, though before he could avoid the last one, it caught him as Cyril soon felt searing pain from his torso. Failing to notice another sweep from the Priestess's elongated arm. It knocked him backwards, hurling himself towards the curved stone hallway as he saw specks of white in a black void for a split second before impacting the ground.

His vision was blurry from the sudden force that was trusted upon him. Even as he staggered back up from his stupor, Cyril could tell he suffered a concussion of sorts from the impact. From his dazed state he saw the woman creature contort on all fours, Cyril couldn't afford any delay. Despite the drunken vision he was experiencing, he had to retreat for now, at least to reorient himself.

She pounced towards him, and Cyril, despite his body's protests, rolled away from the Priestess. He was thankfully quicker, as she skidded her leap and turned to face Cyril, who was busy falling back to the warped gate, and the light from the lanterns and exposed holes above offered greater illumination. The Priestess hurled herself out of the darkness and into his path as she leapt up once more. Landing a meter away from Cyril as he avoided being mauled. He returned the favor with a strike from his shovel. However, she broke off from her attack and avoided the single swing.

At first he cursed to himself, but grew a smirk from his battered face. He can finally see clearly, and there was a lot more open space as opposed to the confines of the hallway. Cyril could see the pale complexion mixed with the brown fur that had grown on her legs, her disfigured serpents maw was fully visible in the light as she tilted her neck and prowled in a counterclockwise motion. He stood still at first, keeping his gaze locked on the creature examining him, before he sprung forward, extending his barbed shovel to catch the Priestess with a serrated swing.

She received the brunt of the swing on her upper torso, before returning with a quick swipe from her long arm. Cyril rolled away from the first, but didn't have enough time to dodge the second, as he felt sharp claws burrow in his skin.

It was painful for sure, but not worth another blood needle, as he retreated and fired his revolver. Or attempted to as all Cyril heard was a single click.

“Dammit.” Cyril cursed aloud as he began reloading with another moonring.

Breaking the revolver open, he saw the six spent shells fly in different directions as a new case of bullets was inserted into the gun.

The Priestess took this opportunity to pounce forward again and tear down at him. Before she could, Cyril fired two rounds from his revolver, causing her to halt her attempt to maul him. A pair of bullet holes dotted her thin lower abdomen, at first she reached over at the wound, but returned to stretching her arm outwards in her “normal” bipedal stance. She resumed her counterclockwise motion, and Cyril responded in kind, taking a moment to check his surroundings. A small bit of rubble piled in the corner behind her, her fangs prominently displayed as her brown hair obscured her eyes deep within her dark hood.

Cyril could feel a slight tinge above his head and quickly brushed his hand grasping the revolver on it. His finger had tracked blood, at first he was surprised to see it, but remembered when he was flung towards the stone wall, feeling stupid he didn't realize it was because of that. He continued to lock eyes on the woman beast. Still snarling and exhaling with rabid delight, however with her next breath, Cyril heard her speak for the first time since their clash had begun.

“You're putting up more of a fight than our last encounter.” Her voice still retained the elegance of a woman, but had none of the warmth it brought.

It was barely an encounter and more of a one sided slaughter. Cyril mused to himself. “Can't say the same for your friend in Amiens.” He taunted with a sly smile.

Her serpentine grin vanished, though it was hard to tell given her lower jaw was so far apart from her face. She almost pounced on him again but restrained her feral fury.

“You liar! Lambert would never fall to some unworthy cur like you!” She barked out.

Cyril pointed his revolver upwards keeping her at bay. It might only stagger her, but she had to know that a firearm wasn't to be underestimated, even with her lupine gifts.

“He wasn't keen on sharing his name. But he was very forthcoming with other details. He told me all about you and your gatherings.” Cyril was half true with his statement. That cultist wouldn't share their names, but he wanted to test something.

Her teeth began to grate as they were closely being sharpened with the frequent back and forth grinding. Cyril hoped this would work and not just make things worse. His grip tightened on both weapons and he kept his breathing as calm as he could.

“You'll die a slow agonizing death for Lambert!” She barked out.

In an instant she leapt forward with an overhead swipe before landing at Cyril. Thankfully he dashed backwards to avoid her pounce, she swung again, faster than before. Then another, a third one followed. It became harder to dodge her attacks. A few near misses, however some connected, brushing his outfit with deep crimson that was fully displayed on his attire. Balling her claws, she brought both of them down to slam the ground, but Cyril was quicker, rolling forward as he shortened his shovel for one swing.

He couldn't follow up with a second as he rolled away to avoid one of her hands from swinging towards him. Cyril stood up as his joints were strained, his muscles over exerted, and his breathing hot despite being free from his mask. He felt weak, stepping back towards the warped gateway, as he grabbed a blood needle to heal his wounds.

As it punctured his skin, the Priestess immediately seized the brief opportunity and sprinted towards him. Cyril's eyes widened as he could see her full set of teeth from her unhinged jaw, uttering a grotesque roar of human and beast. She lunged towards him and grabbed his shoulders with both of her hands. Cartwheeling down the sloped floor as the two tumbled down the hallway. Before she could claw at his healed features, Cyril fired a shot from his revolver that caused the woman to back off. She let out an annoyed grunt that sounded more like an irritated mother than it did that out of anger.

She landed on a small mound of concrete rubble before hunching her back down with an audible crack. A small trail of blood flowed down her lower jaw, periodically raining out small drops of red on the floor. Cyril coughed several times as he heaved in air and tried to clear out the dust and soot that entered his lungs. He felt like the fight had gone on for hours when in reality it only lasted ten maybe fourteen minutes at most? It just felt longer, the Priestess moved with such speed and agility that he was amazed that he lasted longer than a few minutes against her.

However, the woman howled in the air again. Louder than before as the sound bounced off the sloped walls and right back to his ears. It was almost deafening, he gritted his teeth together and fought back the urge to cover his ears. He saw her claws from her hands begin to ooze a green fluid. Pooling the floor and drowning out the small dots of red that had fallen from her mouth. Gripping his barbed shovel tightly, Cyril braced himself for what was to come with this phase of the battle.

The beast woman began to let out green smoke, trailing from her serpentine teeth and flowing like her tattered garb. He could catch the faintest scent and his mind was instantly transported back to running in No man's land. Those poor bastards that weren't quick enough to get their masks on in time, the fog carpeting the ground, poisoning the air, killing the flora and fauna. Smelling the odor, only lasted a second, but in that short span of time, he relived weeks in a heartbeat.

Chlorine gas.

He covered his mouth for a moment as the fumes died out surprisingly fast. However the Priestess soon moved forward in a dash, swinging her hands in a downward swipe twice as Cyril avoided the venom laced claws.

He began to cough, not into a large fit, but only once, as the smell died quickly as soon as it appeared. Her new ability was thankfully not as potent as the chlorine gas he had fought in, but it was just as frightening as it was in the war. Sooner or later the small doses he would inhale would probably cause him to cough blood. However his eyes soon began to water as the crescent edges of his vision soon welled with tears. This fear of chemical weapons is why he always wore a mask. If he wasted time to run back for it in the barracks, sooner or later the swings that exuded the chemicals from the claws or mouth would kill him slowly overtime.

Cursing to himself, he coughed out twice before he lunged forward with another sweep from his barbed shovel, extending it forward for the added range. She brought her nails to counter with a single swing, before Cyril retreated. Weezing a previous gulp of air as he fired once, missing the Priestess as she managed to avoid the bullet.

His eyes now stinging he fired again in annoyance, this time the shot landed on her lower torso, he had to assume it was her stomach. Unlike before she wasn’t staggered by the bullet, she simply rushed forward, dragging her poison licked claws in an upward swing, dragging debris and dust into the air, mixing it with the foul chlorine.

Blinking away tears, they soon started to stream down Cyril’s face as he coughed furiously. Then he remembered it, the antidotes from before! It had to work against the gas! He was hesitant in ingesting a mystery liquid into him, but he had injected dozens of blood needles and he had learned to not bother where the blood came, only caring that it healed him. The same had to be true for this.

Avoiding another swing, Cyril brought out one of the glass bottles and yanked the cork that kept the liquid in its container. Quickly drinking and powering through the bitter taste as his lungs were cleared of the airborne filth. His breathing returned to normal for the moment as he tossed the empty bottle to the side. Cyril quickly grabbed his revolver with his left hand.

Before he could fire off a shot, the Priestess roared with a deafening volume, sending small puffs of chlorine in the hall before she dashed forward bringing one of her clawed hands on the ground, trailing it across the stone, sending dust, gas and other small particles in the air. She moved with such speed that Cyril dashed twice away to avoid the incoming sweep. So fast that she created small sparks from the ground with each sudden contact, before coming to a halt on the opposite end of the hallway. Skidding before she slowed her charge.

Cyril took this opportunity to run towards the Priestess, at least in an attempt to get a few more swings in before he breathed in too much of the chlorine. With his shovel extended he brought it in a downward strike before bringing it upwards. Both hit the woman beast in the chest as blood seeped from her wounds. She retaliated with a quick swing, causing more of the poison to flow in the air. Halfway through her swing however, Cyril fired his revolver and staggered her. Dashing forward to not wanting to waste this opportunity he plunged his hand in the fresh wound, before violently ripping it out as blood and even chlorine ripped into the air.

The Priestess stumbled back drunkenly, but still stood. Cyril gritted his teeth in frustration at her persistence. The bitch was persistent and annoying at that. To the point that it looked like she smiled at him, almost savoring the duel the two shared. He tasted the red copper that had persisted in his cheek, causing Cyril to spit blood onto the stone.

The two of them charged at each other, one with a sense of determination, the other a lust for battle. Cyril gripped his shovel close as he swung it horizontally, catching the Priestess in her charge. She swiped the air where he once stood as a small puff of green smoke trailed close behind. He had strafed to the side and swung twice, feeling tears beginning to stream down his eyes, he retreated for a moment to avoid a fury of swings from her claws. Cyril fired twice from his revolver, however none of the shots seemed to stagger her offense, only yielding angered grunts in response. Heaving a gulp of air, he lunged forward with his barbed shovel in a downward swing, transitioning it to its shortened form to gain increased swing speed.

All of them landed on their mark, as the Priestess tried to grab him with her free hand, however Cyril dashed away, holding in the urge to cough as chlorine soon filled his senses. One more swing was surprisingly all it took now, a horizontal strike from her torso sent the Priestess crumbling to the ground, in a series of anguished cries of pain, first to her disjointed knees, then swinging around to land on her back, resting on the cold stone floor.

Unlike prior foes, she didn’t seem to erupt in a blood, or the bright light appeared, the woman beast simply lied still with only a few dying breaths, Cyril hung close to the wall and avoided her, almost expecting that she would rise up again in one last ditch effort to attack him.

“You are doomed to fail, boy. ” She rasped coldly.

Only then, when her last words were uttered did the familiar blinding light dawning on Cyril’s vision, he moved his right hand to shield them as he could tell the Priestess was well and truly dead. He had heard a similar thing spoken in Amiens, thinking nothing of it outside of a petty threat, he dismissed her final words and left the hall.

Retrieving his mask and helmet, and holstered his pistol and held them aloft on his free hand, he returned to the room where he had first encountered the bestial woman, the barracks were just as silent as they were in his first foray into Fort de Vaux. The light shining from the far end was his beacon, and Cyril entered the desolate quarters.

“Figures it’d all be wrecked” He commented on the state of repair their battle had left it.

Bed frames were upturned and in ruin, candles and effigies were scattered about, some broken beyond recognition, but a few were still intact surprisingly. Same went for the skull he noted earlier. He pocketed the peculiar skull after he inspected the hole in its head again, still seeing the milky dance of blue and purple.

However his eyes soon became drawn to the crude sculptures, or the ones that remained. Either carved from a craftsman knife, or sculpted by a small chisel, the two he had seen intact were vastly different in shape, one having a sort of slug appearance with a long tail and shell in a pose that looked like it was praying. The other, a multi-armed creature with a bulbous head gripping the very stone it was carved on. It was small enough that he could place them both in his pocket, though the amount of items he carried created a large shuffle with each movement he made.

He planned on heading back to the Hunter’s dream regardless, more clues were found, and Cyril expected more questions would be raised regardless of the answers he received.

“We’ll see if the old man is forthcoming this time.”