The valley lay scarred by fire — deep gouges through blackened soil, as if the land itself had been flayed. From the cliffs above, Aeon and Guts observed the war camp below: crude tents clustered around a half-collapsed chapel, fires burning with unnatural steadiness.
Red banners waved on jagged poles — stitched with a familiar symbol: a flame encircled by broken chains.
Aeon stared in silence. Guts scowled.
"They're not hiding," Guts muttered. "They want to be found."
Aeon said nothing. His gaze lingered on the firelight flickering across those false banners. Not just cultists. This… this was a rally.
They descended at dusk.
Campfires hissed in the wind, sending coils of smoke into the purple sky. Children murmured prayers beside men sharpening rusted swords. Some wore armor, others robes. Many bore brands — not the kind Guts knew, but self-carved, etched in flesh with ash and flame.
A man stepped forward as they approached.
He was tall, wrapped in black iron etched with cracked red sigils. His helm was shaped like a flame-tongued crown. Beneath it, molten eyes stared out.
"I am General Vaech," he announced. "Voice of the Second Judgment."
He dropped to one knee before Aeon.
"We have built this army in your name."
Aeon's face hardened. "That name was meant to die."
"It was reborn in fire," Vaech said. "You cleansed the world once. Now we do so again."
Movement rippled behind him. Four figures emerged — massive, armored beings with limbs too long, spines twisted under their plated backs. Apostles. Changed, but not completely inhuman. Their eyes were reverent.
"We serve the Flame," one rasped. "We judged beside him. We judge again."
Guts drew Dragonslayer. "You call this judgment?"
Vaech's head turned slowly. "You walk beside him, knight of grief. We offer you a blade, a place at the front."
Guts spat at the ground. "You know what I see when I look at you?"
He raised Dragonslayer and leveled it at Vaech's chest.
"Another bastard who wants to feel holy while he kills."
The moment snapped.
The nearest Apostle roared and lunged.
Guts met it mid-charge. The greatsword screamed as it cut through the first layers of flesh — only to be stopped by bone plating. The force sent Guts skidding back, boots grinding into the dirt. He pivoted, rebalanced, and spun low, striking the Apostle's knee.
The beast howled and stumbled.
Another Apostle barreled in, claws flashing. Guts rolled aside, letting it strike where he had stood a breath before. The claws tore through canvas, shredding tents and scattering soldiers.
Amidst the chaos, Vaech drew his weapon — a massive war-axe, the blade shaped like a burning crescent.
He came at Guts with frightening speed.
Guts barely raised Dragonslayer in time. Steel clashed — sparks flew. The impact sent a shudder up Guts' spine. Vaech pressed in, blow after blow, a relentless rhythm of iron and fury.
Guts ducked under a wide swing, countered with a quick hook of his blade, then drove his shoulder into Vaech's chest. The general staggered, but did not fall.
"You're strong," Guts admitted. "Too bad strength isn't purpose."
Meanwhile, Aeon moved through the camp slowly, each step heavy with memory.
He passed cultists locked in prayer, others frozen in awe. They didn't attack. They watched. Waiting.
Waiting for him to join the violence.
The Apostles circled the edge of the fight, unsure whether to intervene. They recognized something in Aeon — not power, but history.
He watched as Guts ducked another wild swing, countered with a backhand strike that dented Vaech's helm. Guts was bleeding now, his side torn, his leg dragging slightly — but his fury gave him rhythm.
Still, he wouldn't last much longer alone.
Aeon knelt and touched the ground.
The soil was warm — not from the campfires, but from something deeper. A pulsing memory. The land here remembered his fire.
He exhaled and drew that memory upward.
Vaech roared, bringing his axe down with both hands.
Guts caught it edge-on — barely — and dropped to one knee.
Then fire spilled through the cracks in the ground.
Not heat — not destruction.
Judgment.
White flame curled upward from beneath Aeon's feet, threading across the earth like roots of light. It wrapped around Guts, not burning — but strengthening. His wounds slowed. His vision cleared.
He stood.
Vaech looked up in shock as Aeon approached, silent, hand extended.
"You serve a memory of me," Aeon said. "But I'm not that fire anymore."
He lowered his hand.
The light flared once — a burst of stillness.
The Apostles collapsed.
Not dead.
Not cursed.
Just… emptied.
And in that silence, Guts struck.
Dragonslayer came down like the world's last judgment.
Vaech fell, his mask split, his eyes full of something close to gratitude.
"You came back," he whispered. "Even if not for me."
The banners were pulled down.
Aeon burned them himself — not in rage, but in quiet refusal.
"What now?" Guts asked.
Aeon looked toward the horizon.
"Now we find what was twisted before it spreads."