The roof could not withstand even for a full minute the weight of the bipedal war machine and collapsed.
Dragging everything down with it.
A shower of debris and dust, Desmond and his team, Abigail, the girl named Amara.
And, of course, the machine that had caused the roof to collapse in the first place.
The darkness.
Maybe he had lost consciousness in the fall, but Desmond was sure that, if so, not for too long.
For the simple fact that he was alive.
Before the roof collapsed, Desmond had been ready to fire the eighth arrow (or was it the ninth?).
In other words, Amara had already done her thing.
The cloud of dust made it difficult for him to breathe and also to see.
Where was she?
The bow was in one of his hands, and that was something, but not the arrow. He had lost sight of the arrow in the fall.
Seconds.
He had seconds, and if he didn't make it in time, only luck would save him from being torn apart by the blast.
It took him too long to revive.
If the blast killed him, he would be out of action for the rest of the night for sure.
He wouldn't die, but that in itself was bad enough.
The dust cloud cleared.
He saw the arrow in the debris.
Desmond tried to move, and found he could not. His left arm hurt like it was on fire.
He looked at his arm.
Crap.
In the fall, it had been caught in the rubble. Crushed.
Oh, shit. Shit.
Desmond grabbed his left arm with his right hand, dropping the bow first, of course. And pulled to get it out.
He couldn't.
He wasn't able to and he wouldn't try again.
He had no time to waste.
So, seeing that there was a quicker way, he made the decision.
Desmond dropped his right hand.
He didn't retrieve the bow and he didn't try to reach out for the arrow without pulling his other arm out, because it was impossible, he could see it, but it was slightly out of reach. It looked as if his fingers might graze it, but no.
What he did was call the sword to his hand.
He returned his gaze to his left arm, crushed and trapped.
He swallowed saliva.
He could come back from the dead. This should be nothing to him.
He should be able to do this without flinching.
He should be a fearless soldier, displaying Abigail's unbreakable will.
However...
However, even though experience had shown him that the power Abigail had granted him was something that went a long way, that he could rely on it....
Magic wasn't like mathematics. Two plus two didn't always equal four.
Well, it did.
It was kind of like math... only each equation followed its own rules, its own system.
He was trying to get to the point that...
Desmond was simply afraid that if he cut off his arm his magic would stop considering it part of him.
He had regenerated from a bullet in the heart.
Also, he had just realized, from the right eye he had broken in his efforts to regain control of his body.
But they were wounds of a different nature.
They were wounds, he had not gouged out his eye, he had not torn out his heart.
Nothing told him he wasn't correct in his fears. That his arm would regenerate even if he voluntarily cut it off.
Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Shit.
But, as he had said...
He had no time to waste and no real choice. What was an arm compared to the people he cared about?
Desmond swung the sword.
Pain.
His arm was gone.
Blood and pain.
What was left of it writhed like a red worm.
Pain, pain, pain.
Desmond screamed in pain at first, but toward the end he turned it into a howl of pure rage, overcoming the pain.
Had that writhing, blood dripping thing really been part of his body?
Desmond rose to his feet, pushing aside the surrounding debris with his body, with his sword.
He put his hands on the arrow.
How has it not exploded yet?
Amara had said the limit was... fifteen seconds, he thought?
Has it really not been fifteen seconds yet?
The bow. He had left the bow behind, next to... next to the bloodsoaked rubble, the rubble that had... crushed... the other half of his arm....
Half?
Most of his left arm had been swallowed up by the rubble.
He had left it behind, the bow, the bow, but he didn't have time anyway.
Getting the arrow ready and shooting, he couldn't afford that much time.
So he picked it up and threw it.
Through a gap in the rubble, outward, crossing his fingers, hoping that....
This time he wasn't so lucky.
It exploded outside, yes, but not enough to pose no danger.
In other words...
The explosion caused the mountain of debris to sink a little deeper, burying him deeper beneath it.
Before they fell on him, Desmond raised his one arm along with the sword, doing his best to protect his head. The head was the most important thing.
But it didn't make much difference.
His back, no, his whole body was being crushed.
The pain was unbearable.
Whether it came from the arm that was no longer there or from the pile of debris crushing him, the pain was excruciating.
Footsteps.
Desmond heard the footsteps of that bipedal war machine, making the ground rumble.
They hadn't been lucky that it had been damaged in the fall.
Of course not. Since when was he lucky? Desmond crawled along the ground like a worm. Over and through the rubble. Leaving a thick trail of blood behind him. Blood that came from the...from the.... from the stump.
Fuck.
His whole body ached and he was on the verge of losing consciousness, his head floating like a balloon inflated to the limit.
But he could fight on.
But he had no intention of giving up.
The distance was not that great.
But...
But the footsteps were getting closer. Of course they were getting closer, the arrow, the explosion, his screams....
It had noticed him and now it was coming to crush him while he couldn't move.
What about the others?
And Abigail?
Desmond was close enough to the exit to see the machine lift a leg to crush him.
Desmond immediately recoiled, but he knew it wouldn't work.
That it would only be delaying the inevitable.
Abigail...
The only thing I can do is leave everything in your hands, he was going to think.
He didn't have time to finish the thought.
Not because the machine had crushed his skull, but because someone had intervened and it wasn't Abigail. It was Christina. Her shadows lifted the pile of debris, sending it flying in all directions, as easily as if they were toy blocks.
It also raised a sizable cloud of dust.
He felt a hand nearby.
A hand that didn't touch him the first time, which then reached for his shoulder, squeezing it with...
Maybe not too hard, but he felt as if a knife had been thrust into his stump.
He let himself be dragged by that person, through the smoke.
Towards...
Behind some tables. Together, they hid behind some tables.
Abigail, Christina and Amy.
Even that girl, Amara, was there. They had all survived.
That is, for the moment.
Just for the moment.
Amy put her hands to her mouth, stifling a groan of surprise and fright. She said nothing. Anyway, there was nothing to say, he supposed.
My arm...
"We don't have much time," Abigail said. "As soon as the smoke clears....."
Abigail looked down, staring at her stump.
She nodded her head.
"Amara, does your magic work on human flesh as well?"
"I've never tried it," she replied with a disgusted expression. "But I don't see why not."
Abigail nodded her head again.
She stretched an arm forward. Toward him.
"Cut," she said simply, marking the exact spot with her fingertips.
■
His intention had been to quickly deal with the enemies on the rooftop and then go down to the ground again and proceed to harass the enemies on the upper floors.
Leave those animals with nowhere to run and then crush them like rats.
However, he miscalculated.
He thought the roof would support the weight of the war machine he was piloting.
He was dead wrong.
Now, he had fallen through the roof into the building. He found himself in a cramped office.
He could not walk without smashing everything in his path.
He could not walk without encountering some obstacle.
The roof was open.
The walls were still standing. He could knock down a wall so that the soldiers below would have a clear line of sight to the enemies.
But, with him inside, they would not fire.
Not because they cared in the least about his life. If necessary, they would trample on his life... just as it should be.
Johan would give his life for the Azure Empire, for Emperor Walter, proudly if necessary.
They would not do so because they had been told to avoid tearing down the building even if a situation arose where that seemed necessary. That is, one like this.
Because that would make it difficult to recover the objectives, which were essential to the victory of their homeland. It would give them a chance to escape, just that, since they couldn't die.
Johan found that hard to believe, even considering he was talking about such impure demons.
Still, the Emperor's word was law.
If they were on this mission, then it was true... and he could see why this mission was so important. More than fighting for this or that territory, to win them, to hold them, all that, the natural process of war, was insignificant compared to the mysteries of life and death.
Any sacrifice would be worth it if they could get their hands on it.
Bottom line, he was alone in this.
And he didn't care.
Quite the contrary.
Both targets had been on the rooftop. The two targets had gone down with him and his machine. If they didn't interfere... if he managed to capture them all by himself...
His name would be known in every corner of the Empire.
The mission was more important than his pride. More important than anything else, certainly.
But, if he could do it, while he was at it... what was wrong with that?
It was a win win.
"Where are you?" Johan looked around, without moving from his place. The cannons at his back were ready. They could fire at a rate of five hundred and fifty bullets per minute, destroying everything.
It was true that it ran out just as fast, yes.
And it took... a less"than" optimal time to reload. So it was not a machine made to fight without support.
Still, it could do this.
No, he would do it!
He would kill them and capture the targets!
"Get the hell out!"
He was shouting like that to pump himself up. .
The words he said didn't matter.
They would not reach the ears of his enemies, one way or another. The metals and glass that separated him from his enemies were too thick a barrier for that.
Yes... He was scared.
Of course he was scared. He had enlisted years ago, but he didn't have much experience on a real battlefield.
And even if he did...
Maybe for his comrades it was different, but he didn't believe that anyone could be at ease, no matter how much experience the person in question had, risking his life against those demons.
It would be one thing to fight against other human beings, but those demons....
Johan swallowed hard.
He knew better than most what they were capable of.
He remembered that dark, dank room that always reeked of rotting flesh, despite his best efforts. He remembered everything he didn't want to remember.
But, at the same time, his reason to fight.
That memory instilled in him fear and disgust, but also longing. Also strength.
His body was filled with the strength to keep fighting.
I will kill you. I will not leave a single one of you!
Johan, together with his war machine, advanced.
Smashing cubicles, tables and chairs, scattering what he didn't completely destroy.
His war machine was not very tall.
Still, he had to make it bend its back so it could walk without hitting the ceiling.
It was not the ideal environment for fighting.
Nothing in this situation was ideal, but....
He pulled the rats out of hiding. Five in all. No, three total, plus the two precious targets.
Splitting up as they ran away from him, as if to confuse him, as if telling themselves that at least this way someone would be saved.
Johan smiled in spite of himself.
He had never felt so powerful in his life.
He went after them. He opened fire.
The cannons emptied without him killing a single one of them.
They were sneaky and that thing that could use shadow magic was a big part of why, he suspected.
That and luck, of course.
Luck always played a part. But, like everything else in this world, it had a limit.
It was about to run out, in fact.
Johan chuckled to himself, like a happy little boy.
He hadn't killed any of those rats, but he had hit one. He could see his arm lying on the ground, over a pool of blood, he could see the trail of blood that the person who had lost that arm had left behind.
Not the whole arm, but a good chunk of it.
It looked like it belonged to a woman.
If it belonged to one of the target's female companions, fine. If it belonged to the explosives thing, all the better.
And if by any chance it belonged to the other target... it wouldn't matter.
It would just make it easier for him to capture her.
Johan didn't rush. He patiently waited for the cannons to reload.
The person in question wasn't going to get very far after losing her arm, anyway.
He wouldn't fire immediately, even when his guns reloaded.
He had the advantage, operating this machine, safe inside his cockpit, but it was not in his best interest to underestimate the enemy.
He would only fire when he had them in range. At the last moment.
To make sure he wouldn't miss, wouldn't give them a chance.
Then, without warning, everything trembled.
An attack?
But he had been attentive and hadn't seen anything coming. Why?
The attack threw him off balance, he had to lean against one of the pillars of the room to keep from falling sideways. An explosion, he realized. But it's too late to change anything.
They jumped out of their hiding places, behind tables and other furniture.
Out of the darkness, surrounding him, pouncing on him. It seemed to him that their eyes glowed milky white in the moonlight coming through the windows and the hole in the ceiling.
Those were demon eyes. The eyes of death.
Johan opened his eyes wide, his heart almost stopping as he saw his death approaching.
And in those seconds...
It was said that life flashed before your eyes as he died. Johan, however, remembered nothing about his childhood. He didn't remember the day he enlisted, the first time he had kissed a girl or anything like that.
The milestones of life that marked his path.
No, what he remembered, where he went back to?
It was that dark, reeking room.
He remembered his mother, who was trapped in a living hell, unable even to escape into death. He knew it very well because he had tried. Again and again. Again and again, but...
His mother was trapped in a hell in which she couldn't even choose to die to end her suffering.
Her body was covered in gray stuff like swollen tumors that glued her to the bed and the wall, preventing her from moving of her own free will. Preventing her from doing anything, even speaking.
She could only see sunlight through the window.
A life that was not life.
She couldn't speak, she couldn't move, so she had no way of knowing if she was suffering in that state. He shouldn't, but...
Every time he looked into her eyes, somehow, he knew.
That she was suffering every second of every day and he hoped someone could release him from her suffering.
It had been so many years since his mother was normal that he couldn't even remember her face.
Her real face, not the one twisted by the magic that had been cast on her, that one he remembered. Oh yes, all too well.
And now...?
Was he going to die here, leaving her alone, without having achieved anything important? Johan had killed a few demons, but that was like removing a few drops from the ocean: no one would know the difference.
He didn't want to die here.
He wanted to go on living until they won the war, or at least until he saw the queen's head on a pike.
Nothing and no one within his reach could bring his mother back to him, nor the person he once was before his world came crashing down.
So Johan needed something like that.
Retribution.
Nothing could be made up for, nothing could be fixed.
But at least, then...
Johan shouted as he opened fire. But since the machine had been knocked off balance by the explosion, the shots were going too far, right, right, he reoriented the cannons and....
It went down.
With the machine's legs severed at the knee, it collapsed.
The bullets were lost out there again, not even coming close to the enemies that were circling him like hungry crows.
It's all right, it's all right, he told himself frantically, his heart in a fist.
But it wasn't true by any stretch of the imagination.
Even without his legs, he could still move the guns, he could still shoot, he could still do damage. But it would accomplish nothing.
They had rendered him immobile and were already on top of him.
No matter how he looked at it, they would finish destroying his machine and then he would be ripped out of it, dragged out and subjected to unspeakable things. He would end up like his mother.
Dead, even with his heart still beating.
Begging for mercy, begging for relief, every day only to continue to suffer.
No, that wasn't life.
And he still had one ace up his sleeve.
If he had to die here, fine, he'd take it. But he would take a few hellish spawn with him. This machine had a self-destruct function. All he had to do was activate it.
It was fast enough that they would probably not have time to retreat to a safe distance.
And they would be engulfed by the explosion.
He had long since forgotten his mother's true face. But now, as he was about to pull the lever...he remembered it. Or at least he thought he remembered it.
As it really was. As it should be.
Her face full of life, a little chubby even. Not the face of that emaciated ghost whose bones he could follow with his finger over the skin.
Johan Smiled.
As tears ran down his cheeks, for some reason.
Sorry, he thought.
Goodbye.
A girl stood in front of her. It wasn't the witch, not one of the companions either, but the other one. A girl he didn't know at all. One girl of the dozens who were going to die tonight, without meaning.
Still, this was tremendously meaningful to him.
She was the last person he would see in this world.
The first person the blast would probably kill, being closer than the others.
■
He heard a metallic hiss, like that of a machine trying to start up.
Smoke.
Desmond watched as a cloud of smoke expanded at high speed, covering the war machine, the pilot still inside and them too, of course.
Even his special eyes couldn't penetrate the fog at all, but he saw enough and also felt the movement.
More than half a dozen soldiers had arrived, rappelling down from the hole in the roof.
Those soldiers in the new armor, armed to the teeth, and the war machine he himself had disabled, but not eliminated. And, of course, those waiting outside.
That was the real problem.
Desmond took a deep breath.
We can still do this.
"Get back, get back!"
Not everyone heard him.
Amy stayed where she was, in fact, she touched the cockpit glass to make it explode as they had planned, instead of retreating as quickly as possible.
But it wasn't a surprise.
After all, Desmond was incapable of following his own advice.
He lunged toward the half dozen guards with the intention of killing them before the smoke even cleared. For everyone's sake.
Desmond swung his sword at the nearest enemy.
He stopped.
No, he didn't stop, he was stopped.
The soldier who had been his target had removed one hand from the shotgun he carried and had stopped his sword with his hand, grabbing it by the edge.
How?
Even with one arm short, without being able to put the full force of his body behind the blow, Desmond should have easily snapped the enemy in two. If not his body, at least the arm.
But the soldier had parried the blow, of that there was no doubt.
Casually.
He began to push Desmond backwards, beating him in strength.