"Oh, Holy Mother Hellvakar! I come for you to bless me once more. 

For the Father of Wraths, Titanous demands blood. 

Either from me or the poor fellows, I shall challenge. 

I pray you'll forgive those who've fallen and yet to cease by my hand.

And if this battle is my last, judge my deeds fairly, for my sins are mine and mine only to bear.

So Help me, Titanous! Lend me your strength, and I shall make you proud!"

As the commanding officer, I got up from prayer first as the others waited for my signal. "Alright, let's get moving, men!"

I've memorised every prayer to atone for my past crimes. Yet out of the dozens, the Clergy had taught us this prayer is in my bones. My name is Kalrmish Attarlarn, a brother to a dead sister, a petty murderer, and now a soldier of a penal battalion. For my courage and lust for violence, the Legion's Grand Commissar recently made me Second Lieutenant of my regiment. Many may think such a promotion is a great honour, only if I was in the regular army. As a knighted officer of the Black Legion, I was just as disposable as the thirty rankers under my command. 

More than half of them are convicts drafted from far and wide across the Commonwealth's colonies; a few are eager for violence, while most are green recruits who cannot loosen their rifles' grip. A clear demonstration of their fear and anxiety for what was about to come as we matched closer to the rebel campfires in the distance for the anticipated ambush; it was now or never. 

My fearful Staff Sergent nervously requested, "Sir, they're just a few ticks away. Shall we begin the feint retreat?"

I clicked my duel revolvers. "No. We will follow the Captain's plan." 

Our regiment commander, Major Juntland, expects my company of seventy-two men to clear the southern forests of insurance and bandits. These are the same woods where four of my predecessors and their men are now hanged from spruce trees. Our company leader, Captain Killian, was one of the few survivors of the two failed attempts to root out these bastards a few months ago, where he lost his brother Karlst. Having lost my sister to Count Frasier, I understand why Major Juntland chose Killian to lead the third attempt. 

The experience of losing close kin can never be justified with a few simple farewells or goodbyes, especially if you were powerless to stop the monsters who took them. It drove people to give their lives for a new passion for vengeance, and for more than ten years, I followed my mission to kill Count Frasier and his family. As a result, I orphaned my only nephew Irise, a product of the Count and my sister. I only hoped Killian could place his anger to good use since he entrusted me to risk everything to execute his plan—a plan to fulfil his demand for vengeance and our taste of victory.

"Ahh!" a bullet hit the corporal who led our column. Suddenly, around fifty men dressed in stolen uniforms and filthy grey and brown trousers and rags appeared from the bushes. 

The sergeant blew the burgle to order the column to retreat. The men dozen strong vanguard sacrifices themselves for us to fall back. It was not my nature to back off from a fight, yet to die to such cowardly tactics would not help Killian accomplish his revenge. So gruntingly, I led a dozen survivors back as the rebels hunted us like foxes. 

"Come and show your true colours, legionaries!" One of The rebels taunted as he mocked us with a white flag, and soon the rest began adding to this choir of humiliation, "Ruff them feathers, Chickens! Cluck cluck!" 

I turned and aimed my revolver at the large fellow who led the rebel taunt. He was quite a sizeable bearded dwarf with stumpy legs and a fat stomach. Regardless, his iconic looks no longer mattered since he scoffed a great deal of blood out after I shot a round right into his heart. 

Surprised and stunned by my extraordinary marksmanship, the rebels cried out for their fallen choirmaster. "Those bastards killed Hendrick! You'll all pay for this, federal scum!"

I gunned down eleven more, not wasting a bullet from both of my revolvers.

I drew my sabre, aware the odds were stacked against me. I prepared to face the entire rebel force charged at me.

Suddenly, I felt a hasty push knock me off balance. 

"Sir, get down!" 

From above, I heard a great thunder of bullets whizzing from the ambushing machine guns hidden in the following line of bushes, sprayed volleys of lead across the trees. As the rebels fled, our hidden forces finally revealed themselves.

"Nicely done, Kalrmish!" 

I looked up and, to my surprise, saw Major Juntland amongst Captain Killian's platoon as he thrashed open the scalp of a dead rebel with his noblemen's dagger. The face of the decapitated rebel was mutilated beyond recognition, which I assume was also the Major's work.

"You should thank your sergeant, he knocked you out of your daydream," he said as he kicked the sergeant's corpse and scoffed in delight. "Well, maybe his family, if he has any. Just give our comrade a prayer. That'll do."

I got up with a disinterested sigh.

"Thanks and no thanks, Lord Commander."

"You're welcome, dimwit boar," said the Major as he stepped past as he searched for his next victim to experiment with his sadistic crafty work.

I felt a pat on my shoulder. 

"Well done indeed."

It was Killian in a disheartened tone, Still lost in his thoughts about his brother Karlst. 

I gave him a semi-sarcastic reply. "Next time, you the one baiting, Killian." 

but all he replied was a simple nod of his iconic face: a well-groomed moustache with cold, calculating green eyes topped by his fearsome cheek scars that resembled a branch and a cross. Suitable for a man chosen to be the poster boy of the Black Legion twice. 

He may be almost five years my senior, yet he had yet to understand the consequences of allowing The God of Wraths to corrupt one's mind and soul, for vengeance is both a curse and a gift from Titanous the fallen. 

The animals fell right into my plan thanks to Kalrmish's bravery or stupidity. Yet I can help but notice that Kalrmish was weary of his perception of my new emotions. He does not understand that I've volunteered for the black legion and, unlike most men, I lack a carer's courtesy. I find it hard to feel any sense of empathy, compassion or remorse. Doctors categorise my kind as Anthropidous Apexious or Anthro Apex. It's the most stigmatised and misunderstood condition known to the world and for a good reason. For I only find joy and pleasure from the misfortune of others now exacerbated by the legion's motto for senseless violence. 

Many in my unit were unaware that I am Anthro Apex, even Lietunent Kalrmish. Everyone except for Major Juntland. He is the only man aware of my condition and respects my capabilities. This is why he entrusted this pest extermination operation to me, not Kalrmish. Many may think I've devised this risky plan to avenge Karlst when I intend to impress the Major—just another step upward in my career. 

As the Major crucified the remaining rebels onto trees, news arrived from the capital that the Imperial Governor and Grand Commissar Löwenherzig had been assassinated. Kalrmish and the other officers were shocked, while most of the lowborn rank and file cared less about the death of the Legion's Commander. Regardless of what they think, a new lord commander will take his place and govern the city of Cashstia. It was a shining opportunity for Major Juntland, who entrusted me to sabotage the first two attacks as a means to kill off two of his rival officers. I wonder if this assassination is his work as well. The sadistic bastard is clearly ambitious that he may be next in line with thirty thousand Cashstians under his thumb. Nevertheless, I'll be his right hand, the Vice Governor of Cashstia.