Rachel, the proud capital of Arunafeltz, was a city built on faith—or, more accurately, a city mortared together by fear and gilded in the arrogance of those who mistook dogma for dominion. Its towering spires clawed at the heavens as if demanding divine acknowledgment, its gilded domes glimmered like polished lies under the relentless sun, and its streets—oh, its blessed, cobblestone streets—were paved with prayers that had done little to muffle the wails of the forgotten, the poor, and the unlucky fools who had been born outside the cathedral walls.
The city stank of incense and desperation, the two great perfumes of failing theocracies. And at its heart, beneath a ceiling frescoed with scenes of holy victories that had most certainly never happened, stood Pope Gregor the Sanctimonious. A man so enshrined in self-importance that I half-expected him to levitate at any moment, carried aloft by his own delusions.
Draped in robes embroidered with gold filigree and hypocrisy, he stood before his assembled warriors—the Paladins, the Alchemist Brigade, the Cleric Orders—all of them lined up in the Grand Basilica like sheep awaiting a particularly enthusiastic slaughter. The stained glass behind him, depicting the gods in their imagined glory, cast an array of divine hues over his self-righteous scowl as he raised his arms, the weight of impending war pressing upon his shoulders like a crown of lead.
"Brothers and sisters in faith!" he thundered, his voice echoing through the sacred halls. "Today, we stand on the precipice of a great trial! The Netherward Heretics, those blasphemous mongrels who know neither sanctity nor restraint, come to defile our holy lands! They come with their infernal machines, their godless magicks, their soulless weapons—things of steel and fire, unblessed by the divine! But we have something greater, something that cannot be forged in their factories of sin! We have faith! We have righteousness! We have the favor of the gods! And with these, we shall—"
A hesitant cough from one of his Cardinals interrupted his fervor.
"Er… Holiness, if I may?" Cardinal Bismarck, a portly man with the look of someone who had spent more time at feasts than fasts, stepped forward, adjusting his robes with the air of a man about to suggest something profoundly unpopular. "The reports from the front lines… They are troubling. These heretics—pardon me, invaders—they do not fight like men. Their weapons… we do not understand them. Their soldiers… they do not falter."
Pope Gregor scowled. "Do you doubt the gods, Bismarck?"
"Oh, no, Holiness! I merely… question their current level of involvement."
A few nervous glances shot across the ranks of Cardinals. No one ever questioned divine intervention outright—that was a quick way to get promoted from "advisor" to "martyr."
Gregor exhaled through his nose, his bejeweled fingers clenching into fists. "The gods test us, my brothers. Would they grant us salvation so easily? No! They wish to see if we are worthy! They wish to see if we will rise to meet the challenge or cower like faithless swine!"
"Holiness," another Cardinal, thinner and more skeletal in appearance, dared to interject. "Our alchemists report that these invaders wield weapons capable of striking down men from beyond the reach of swords and spells alike. Even the Holy Paladins struggle to—"
Gregor slammed his staff upon the marble floor, the sound reverberating like a judge's gavel. "ENOUGH! The gods have chosen this moment to test us, and we shall not fail them! Have faith! Have courage! Have—"
BOOM.
Somewhere in the city, an explosion shook the basilica's foundations. Dust rained from the frescoed ceilings. The Cardinals paled. The Paladins tensed. Outside, screams began to rise in a crescendo that no hymn could drown out.
Gregor's expression flickered—just for a moment. A heartbeat of doubt. Then he gritted his teeth and pointed a trembling finger at his soldiers.
"TO ARMS! DEFEND OUR HOLY CITY!"
Then the sky opened, and the gods did not descend. No celestial beings with flaming swords, no divine wrath pouring forth from the heavens—just the cold, calculated hum of machines that knew neither mercy nor prayer. If the faithful of Rachel had spent their entire lives looking upward for salvation, well… today, they would finally see something descend. Just not what they were hoping for.
The first to arrive were the Reaper Drones—silent, merciless, and eerily indifferent to the poetry of slaughter. They sliced through the heavens like steel-winged carrion birds, their watchful electronic eyes scanning the streets below, calculating the worth of every warm body in Rachel, and finding them all equally insignificant. Missiles streaked downward in elegant arcs, the final punctuation marks on the papal government's long-winded sermon of arrogance.
Then came the Abram Tanks, lumbering forward like iron behemoths, their treads grinding centuries of faith beneath their weight. The sacred cobblestone roads—once walked by saints, kings, and the occasional tax collector—were crushed to dust as these modern titans rolled through. The city trembled under their presence, and I daresay even the gargoyles on the cathedral spires flinched at the sound. The priests and paladins, with all their grand declarations of holy righteousness, found that their blessed armor offered little comfort when the shells began to fall.
Artillery fire followed, pounding the city with a rhythmless, unholy hymn, one composed in the key of fire, steel, and the ever-reliable percussion of crumbling buildings. The air filled with the scent of burning incense—no, wait, that was just burning everything. The faithful had spent centuries praying for divine intervention. They were getting it now, in a manner they never expected: precision-guided, high-explosive, and utterly unimpressed with their devotion.
And orchestrating this grand symphony of destruction was none other than Grand Duchess Iajulianna, daughter of Mhelpatrikus, the sort of woman who could make emperors lose sleep and warlords reconsider their career choices. She was the iron hand behind the Upsilon-02 Aerospace Force, a division so formidable that even the stars themselves likely whispered oh no, not them whenever her fleet took to the skies.
Under the command of Air Marshal Jean Grey—who, despite her name, had no mutant powers but did possess an uncanny ability to rain devastation upon her enemies—Upsilon-02 was a mobile task force of apocalyptic proportions. Strategic bombers loomed high above, their payloads promising to rewrite the city's architecture in blood and rubble. Fighter planes streaked across the sky in flawless formations, turning anything airborne that wasn't theirs into fiery debris. Attack helicopters hovered like vultures, spitting lead into fleeing formations of paladins who had, until this moment, never truly considered how fragile a man could be when faced with something he could neither smite nor sanctify.
Carrier planes dropped waves of airborne infantry, soldiers descending with calculated precision, landing amidst the chaos like celestial reapers. And then, because Upsilon-02 did not believe in overkill (only proper kill), there were the spaceships. Yes, spaceships. Because nothing says we are better at war than you like deploying technology so advanced that it makes the concept of medieval warfare look like children fighting over sticks.
And the drones… Ah, the drones. If the paladins had spent their whole lives imagining angels watching over them, well, their prayers had been answered—just not in the way they hoped. The drones saw everything. They recorded everything. They judged everything. And then, with all the compassion of a tax collector on a deadline, they erased everything.
Through all of this, I stood atop a ruined balcony, my tail flicking as I observed the carnage below. There was something truly poetic about watching a civilization that had sworn it was untouchable crumble beneath the weight of its own hubris. But, as always, war was not without its bureaucracy. And that is precisely when my earpiece crackled to life.
"I trust you're enjoying the show, Benetton?" came Iajulianna's voice, smooth as polished steel and twice as sharp.
I stretched lazily, licking a stray speck of dust off my paw. "Oh, immensely. But you do realize they'll call this a massacre, yes?"
She chuckled, a sound that made even my fur stand on end. "And? It wouldn't be the first. Besides, I prefer the term strategic adjustment."
"How diplomatic of you," I mused, watching as another cathedral tower collapsed in a plume of smoke and screaming. "And here I thought you only spoke the language of annihilation."
"Oh, I do," she admitted. "But it's always nice to put things in softer terms. Makes it easier for historians to write about without choking on their own moral dilemmas."
I sighed theatrically. "You humans and your obsession with rewriting history. Can't you just admit you enjoy breaking things?"
A pause. Then, her voice again, laced with unmistakable amusement.
"Oh, Benetton… I don't just enjoy it. I live for it."
The sky burned. The city howled. And the gods, as always, remained silent.
The Alchemist Brigade, once revered as the most formidable minds of Arunafeltz, now resembled nothing more than a congregation of panicked, robe-clad charlatans. Their carefully measured flasks and meticulously inscribed transmutation circles were no match for the cold, unfeeling logic of guided missile strikes and ballistic precision. No alchemical process in the world could halt a tank shell mid-flight. No amount of esoteric formulae could transmute obliterated limbs back into flesh. The battlefield had no patience for academia, and today, neither did the Netherward war machine.
I perched atop a crumbling parapet, tail flicking lazily, watching as a cluster of alchemists in gilded robes huddled together behind a rapidly disintegrating barricade of stone and misplaced confidence. They were shouting—though whether it was at each other or at the heavens, even I couldn't tell.
"This is madness!" screeched an elder alchemist, his beard streaked with soot, his once-pristine robes torn. "They're using unnatural forces! Demonic magicks! Apostate weapons!"
"Oh, shut up, Thaddeus!" snapped another, his glasses cracked but somehow still managing to reflect his growing despair. "You saw what happened to Master Vellario! One moment he was standing, screaming about the power of equivalent exchange, and the next—poof!" He flung his arms into the air dramatically. "No head! Just a mist of red and some boots still standing in place! What kind of equivalent exchange is that?!"
A younger alchemist, trembling violently, clutched a glowing blue flask like a man grasping his last shred of sanity. "W-We just need to regroup! Maybe we can use the Philosopher's Elixir—"
"Oh yes, brilliant idea, Erasmus!" another snarled, his voice thick with sarcasm. "And what, pray tell, is your grand strategy? Hurl our potions at the flying metal demons and hope they turn into flowers?!"
Erasmus, to his credit, looked as if he might actually try it. He popped the cork off the flask, his hands shaking so violently that half the contents sloshed onto his already trembling boots. "M-Maybe if we amplify the combustion properties—"
"Combustion?" Thaddeus spat. "Have you seen their firepower?! They don't need combustion properties, Erasmus! They have gods-damned machines that rain fire from the sky! Do you think they are out there carefully balancing the humors of the elements?! Do you think they are consulting the stars for proper transmutation sigils?!"
At that very moment, as if the gods themselves had a sense of humor (or more likely, a sadistic streak), another explosion rocked the city, sending a cascade of rubble down upon their makeshift sanctuary. The alchemists dove for cover, coughing and wheezing in the dust-filled air.
A silence fell over them, punctuated only by the distant rumble of tanks and the ever-present hum of drones circling like metal vultures above.
It was then that the youngest alchemist, barely past his apprenticeship, whispered the thought they all feared to acknowledge:
"Maybe… maybe alchemy is just… useless against them."
The words hung in the air like a death sentence.
Thaddeus closed his eyes, breathing heavily, his fingers curling into fists. "No. No, it's not useless." His voice shook, but there was steel in it yet. "Alchemy is the pursuit of knowledge, the perfection of matter. It is a discipline of intellect. And you know what that means?"
The others looked at him with a mix of hope and confusion.
"It means," Thaddeus continued, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with something almost resembling dignity, "that we are smart enough to run the hell away before we get turned into paste like Master Vellario."
Without another word, the once-proud Alchemist Brigade broke into a dead sprint, flasks and scrolls forgotten in the chaos, their legendary wisdom distilled down to the most primal instinct of all: survival.
I licked my paw, watching them scatter into the ruins of their once-glorious city.
"Ah," I mused, flicking an ear. "A most fascinating transmutation indeed—pride into sheer, unadulterated terror. Alchemy truly is a wonder."
And with that, another sacred institution of Arunafeltz crumbled, not beneath the weight of enemy steel, but under the simple realization that there are some forces in this world that not even their beloved science could counter.
And the Paladins—ah, the Paladins. The anointed champions of righteousness, the so-called divine hammer of the gods, the armored lapdogs of the church, now standing amidst the carnage like confused children who had just been told that Santa Claus wasn't real and, worse, that he had been gunned down by a firing squad for tax evasion.
Clad in their ostentatiously polished armor—so gleaming, in fact, that it did little more than serve as a convenient aiming reference for incoming fire—they stared into the abyss of modern warfare with the dumbfounded expressions of men who had just realized their entire belief system was utterly useless in the face of overwhelming firepower.
Their enchanted swords, once the terror of heretics and blasphemers, clashed against mechanized steel and found themselves wanting. Their divine blessings, chanted with voices trembling between devotion and sheer panic, fizzled into the ether as high-caliber rounds shredded through their sacred ranks. Their prayers—oh, their battle-hardened, faith-drenched pleas for salvation—were met with the cold indifference of artillery shells that had no time for theological debate.
It was almost tragic. Almost.
A particularly devout paladin, a mountain of a man with a greatsword nearly as ridiculous as his faith, bellowed, "Brothers! Hold the line! We are the bulwark against the unholy!" before an explosion promptly turned him into a fine red mist.
Silence followed for precisely three seconds before the rest of the holy warriors lost what little composure they had left.
"This isn't a battle!" one of them shrieked, his once-mighty voice reduced to a pathetic whimper. "This is—this is heresy! An affront to the gods!"
Another paladin, gripping his shield as if it could somehow stop the inevitable, was sobbing into his own gauntlets. "They—they don't even fight like men! Where is the honor? The chivalry? The—" A drone, whirring like some unholy metal wasp, hovered overhead before unloading a barrage of gunfire. The paladin barely had time to scream before he became a modern art piece against the cathedral walls.
"THEY HAVE METAL DRAGONS!" another paladin roared in sheer disbelief, pointing a trembling finger at an attack helicopter as it unleashed a salvo of missiles. "WHAT DEMONIC ALCHEMY IS THIS?!"
A bishop, his ceremonial robes now splattered with the remains of his comrades, grabbed a panicking paladin by the shoulders and shook him violently. "Hold yourself together, Ser Gideon! Our faith will shield us!"
"OUR FAITH?!" Ser Gideon shrieked, eyes wild. "OUR FAITH JUST GOT TURNED INTO BLOODY CONFETTI!"
"Keep fighting!" another paladin, one of the last still clinging to some semblance of sanity, barked as he swung his warhammer at a passing tank. The weapon connected—briefly—before the tank continued rolling forward, crushing both hammer and wielder beneath its treads without so much as a pause.
The remaining warriors, seeing their strongest shattered like a child's toy beneath the weight of a mechanical beast, made the executive decision that retreat—no, tactical withdrawal—was the most pious course of action.
"I will NOT run!" one stubborn fool roared, brandishing his sword. "I will stand! I will figh—"
A sniper's bullet found his skull before he could finish his righteous declaration.
There was a collective pause.
Then, like roaches fleeing a collapsing house, the Paladins of Arunafeltz abandoned their posts, their faith, and their dignity in a frantic stampede of clanking armor and sobbing prayers.
From my perch, I watched the once-mighty warriors scatter like frightened kittens and flicked my tail. "Ah," I mused, licking a paw, "it appears that faith is not bulletproof."
And thus, another holy order learned the simple, undeniable truth of the modern battlefield: gods may answer prayers, but bullets don't give a damn.
I watched from a safe distance, perched atop the ruined spire of what was once a proud cathedral, though now it more closely resembled an overcooked carcass picked apart by carrion birds. My tail flicked idly as I took in the sights below—the kind of macabre theater one only sees when arrogance meets reality at terminal velocity.
The streets ran red, though whether it was the blood of the faithful or merely the Pope's shame pooling like spilt wine was anyone's guess. The banners of Arunafeltz, once pristine and proud, were now tattered and soaked with the final prayers of those unfortunate enough to still believe divine intervention would come. Spoiler: it didn't.
Ah, what a fascinating spectacle it was! The screams—each one a symphony of disbelief and suffering. The confusion—paladins and priests alike stumbling over the corpses of their flock, their enchanted relics proving about as useful as decorative paperweights against machine-gun fire. The sheer horror in their eyes as they realized that no amount of faith could shield them from guided missile strikes. I purred at the thought. If only I had an artist's hands, I would have immortalized their expressions in oil and canvas, a true masterpiece titled The Death of Righteous Ignorance.
"Benetton."
Ah, here came my most esteemed company, voices weighed down by the burdens of mortal responsibility. Mhelfrancovince, with that ever-present aura of authority, and Nikkimae, whose talent for turning devastation into victory made her quite the amusing strategist. I did not bother turning my head as they landed with grace beside me—well, as much grace as one could manage while wearing full combat gear.
Mhelfrancovince adjusted his gloves, eyes scanning the battlefield below. "Thoughts?"
"Do you mean my tactical assessment, or shall I wax poetic about the depthless irony of this divine downfall?" I stretched lazily, letting my claws scrape against the old stone. "Because I have thoughts aplenty."
Nikkimae snorted. "Spare us the poetry, cat. Are they routed?"
I glanced down. The last of the paladins were attempting what could charitably be called a retreat—though, given the hysterical sobbing and frantic discarding of once-holy vestments, 'full-blown flight' might be a more accurate term.
"Oh, thoroughly," I mused, licking a paw. "I believe they have just realized that faith-based defense systems do not work against .50 caliber rounds." I flicked my ears toward a group of Alchemists desperately hurling flasks of fire and acid at an approaching APC. The vehicle, utterly unbothered, responded with a well-placed volley of lead that swiftly transformed the would-be warlocks into something resembling spilled tomato sauce. "And their magic? Well, let's just say science is winning this debate."
Mhelfrancovince chuckled, dark amusement in his gaze. "And the Pope?"
I purred, stretching luxuriously atop my perch. "Still hiding, last I checked. Possibly reevaluating his career choices."
Nikkimae crossed her arms, watching the last of the resistance crumble. "Think he'll beg?"
"Oh, most definitely," I smirked, my tail curling with anticipation. "But the real question is—will he do it before or after he soils himself?"
Mhelfrancovince exhaled slowly, surveying the city—his city now. "We'll find out soon enough."
I flicked my tail again, watching as the final vestiges of Arunafeltz's power collapsed into the rubble. The age of faith had ended. The age of war, however, was just beginning.
Somewhere below, amid the carnage, a paladin of rank—his gilded armor glinting with all the self-importance of a man who had never faced an enemy he couldn't smite with a dramatic prayer—stood before the smoldering husk of a once-sacred church. The building groaned as its last sanctified stones collapsed, its statues of holy figures now reduced to limbless torsos, their serene faces shattered beyond recognition. A fitting metaphor, really.
The paladin raised his sword to the heavens, his face a portrait of righteous fury. "This is blasphemy! This is heresy!" he howled, as if the very force of his indignation might convince the gods to intervene.
I, ever the charitable observer, perched upon a broken bell tower and tilted my head at his display. "No," I murmured to myself, watching the distant shimmer of a Reaper Drone as it locked onto its next target, "this is war."
A shrill whistle pierced the air. The paladin had just enough time to turn before the missile hit, vaporizing what remained of the 'holy sanctum' behind him in a glorious eruption of fire and stone. The shockwave sent him sprawling forward like a discarded ragdoll, his once-pristine armor now blackened and dented. He did not rise.
The Netherward Realm had come to collect its debt.
And faith would not be enough to pay it.
I sighed, stretching lazily atop my perch, basking in the comforting warmth of smoldering ruins. But, as always, peace was a fleeting thing. Heavy boots crunched against broken stone below me—Mhelfrancovince and Nikkimae, ever the responsible ones, had arrived to clean up the last stubborn remnants of the old order.
"Well, well," I purred, tail curling as I peered down at their captive. "Look what the dogs dragged in."
There, kneeling on the scorched marble steps, was the Holy Pope of Arunafeltz. A grand title for a man whose robes were now more ash than silk, whose trembling hands were clasped not in prayer but in desperate, pathetic pleading. His mitre, once a towering symbol of authority, had been lost somewhere in the chaos—perhaps blown clear across the city, landing unceremoniously in the gutter where it belonged.
Mhelfrancovince regarded him with a cold stare. "Your Holiness," he drawled, the title dripping with irony, "I believe you wished to speak with us?"
The Pope swallowed thickly, his gaze darting between them—between the hulking figures of Netherward soldiers who flanked the square, between the still-burning ruins of his once-great city, and, finally, to me. He hesitated.
I bared my fangs in a lazy grin. "Oh, don't be shy, Your Holiness. Say what's on your mind. Is it a prayer for deliverance? A plea for mercy?" I paused, feigning deep thought. "Or perhaps an offer of surrender wrapped in the pitiful trappings of diplomacy?"
His lips quivered. "P-please," he whispered, "spare my people."
Nikkimae tilted her head. "Oh? Now you care about them?"
The Pope flinched, wringing his hands. "I was deceived! The gods—"
"Ah, yes," I interrupted, leaping down to land gracefully before him. "The gods. Mysterious creatures, aren't they? So quick to accept praise. So terribly slow to return calls for help." I gave him a pitying look. "They're either profoundly deaf or they simply don't like you."
He looked at me as if I were the devil himself. Honestly, I was flattered.
Mhelfrancovince exhaled slowly. "We don't have all day, Your Holiness. What do you offer?"
The Pope clasped his hands together, desperate. "My full cooperation," he rasped. "Arunafeltz is yours. The temples, the wealth, the archives—all of it. Just… just let my people live."
A weighty silence followed. The crackling fires provided the only response for a long moment.
Finally, Nikkimae spoke, her voice low and amused. "You really thought you had a choice in this, didn't you?"
I chuckled, flicking my tail. "Ah, humans. Always bargaining when they've already lost the game."
The Pope's face crumpled in despair.
And I? Well, I simply purred. The age of faith had ended. The age of war had just begun.