He sat atop the pile of corpses, still catching his breath. Not human. They were never human.
Twisted things—limbs too long, jaws split three ways, claws still twitching in the dim. Their blood was black and smoking, eating into the stone beneath like acid. Fumes curled up around him, mixing with the scent of sweat, steel, and ash.
He didn't bother cleaning the blade.
Dareth's sword—now his—rested against his shoulder, its ivory grip darkened by blood and the heat of battle. The scrap of wine-red cape he had tied around the hilt fluttered gently in the draft rising from the depths.
Beneath the blade, clutched in a pouch at his hip, lay the Marshal's insignia—a silver badge worn only by those entrusted with command over entire crusades.
He hadn't spoken since the fight. There was no one to hear him. Yet, the silence itself felt sacred—like a cathedral carved in hell. He looked down at his own armor, blackened, cracked, and stinking of demon bile. The patchwork plates were loose again; one gauntlet was dangling by a frayed strap.
The blood-painted Cross of Saint Peter across his chest remained unburning. No high demon, then. Not yet.
He exhaled slowly, stood, and stepped down from the heap. The ground beneath him crunched wetly under claw and bone.
Then he paused—nose tightening.
The stench was worse ahead. He could smell it, even through the helmet's filters: sulfur, decay, and something else—wet heat, like breath from an open furnace. Without hesitation, he turned his visor to low-light mode and advanced into the black. Deeper into the wound, deeper into the rot, deeper into the nest.
The tunnel pulsed around him.
What began as cracked stone, scorched and split by the force of the invasion, had melted into something wrong—raw, living, wet. Flesh had replaced soil, dark and veined, stretched taut between the broken bones of the earth. It shifted beneath his boots like stretched hide, flexing faintly with the rhythm of some distant heartbeat.
The air was hotter now, thick with sulfur and blood. Not blood like a battlefield—but blood as in the inside of a body, where it never should be seen. He knew what this was.
"A nest," he whispered.
The demon wound had matured. Not just a tear in the crust of the planet, not just a tunnel of war—but a birthing place. The earth had been digested, consumed from within and reformed in the image of the abyss. He kept walking.
Veins the size of his wrist throbbed along the walls, black and red, twitching as he passed. Strange growths jutted out like cysts—some burst and leaking, others still swelling. In one, he saw a human face stretched behind a thin membrane—mouth open in a scream that never came. He did not stop.
When he found a stretch of flesh not slick with bile, he raised Dareth's blade and carved into it.
The Flame of the Throne—cut in swift, practiced lines. The Cross of Saint Jude followed shortly after. Each one seared faintly as the blade touched the corrupted tissue, glowing white with holy resistance.
The wound shuddered, a wet, sickened groan trembled through the corridor. Good.
He went deeper.
The walls closed in tighter, narrowing like a throat. Strange appendages hung from the ceiling—tendons, maybe, or umbilical cords, twitching and dripping with fluids that hissed where they hit the floor.
He passed another growth. This one looked like a half-born creature, still connected to the wall. Its eyes fluttered open as he passed. Then it hissed, weakly, before curling back into sleep.
He gripped the hilt of his sword harder.
"I should burn this whole planet," he muttered. "But I cannot."
The heartbeat was louder now. Faster.
The stench of sulfur and rot became overwhelming—almost to the point of blacking out his senses. His helmet's filters struggled to keep it out, but nothing could truly separate him from the stink of the Pit.
He carved another symbol, even though his hands ached. The Wheel of the Saints. It flickered, like a candle in wind.
Then he heard it, breathing. Not his, though, no, it wasn't human. A slow, thick inhale, wet, low, and very close. He raised his sword again, slowly, and stepped forward into a wider chamber.
The walls here throbbed, pulsing with slick fluid and dull, organic light. Sacs lined the flesh like tumors—some still swollen with writhing forms, others burst and empty, their contents long scuttled off into the dark. Pools of amniotic slime hissed as he stepped through them, sticking to his boots like tar.
And then he saw her. The Nest Guardian. She stood in the far curve of the chamber, her body half-fused to the wall—as if grown from it, or returned to it. Her flesh was pale and stretched, covered with row upon row of swollen, leaking nipples, some still dripping thick white fluid onto the ground. Beneath her bloated torso, she had no legs—only a nest of rootlike tendons, anchoring her to the pulsating floor.
Her arms, however, were anything but weak. Two scythe-like limbs, black and serrated, curled outward from her shoulders—like a praying mantis sculpted from bone and hatred. They moved with slow, deliberate grace.
And her face…It was human, or at least had been once. A woman's face, still vaguely beautiful in symmetry—but the eyes were black voids, and her lips curled back to reveal rows of dagger-like teeth. Her tongue was too long, writhing slowly between words that had not yet come.
She looked at him and smiled.
"Templari," she said. Her voice was wet, full of milk and blood and bile. "Another worm from the womb of your withered god. Come to burn what you cannot cleanse."
He didn't answer. He was too busy moving—drawing his stance low, feet spread, Dareth's blade humming softly in his grip.
The Cross on his chest remained still. Not a high demon, but ugly just the same.
She uncoiled from the wall like a spider awakening—massive, sinewed, birthing sacs peeling away as she stepped forward. Her breath was fetid, her skin slick with birth fluids. The nest around her came alive—dozens of wriggling forms shifting in their sacks, agitated by her movements.
"I am mother," she said. "I birth the new flesh. I feed them with my body. You are filth in their cradle."
Then she screamed, the scythe-arms lashed out, cutting through the wall beside her as she lunged. Now the battle had truly begun.
The Guardian lunged—not like a beast, but like a whip of flesh and murder.
She struck low first, one scythe-arm curling like a serpent and slicing through the meat of the nest wall beside him as he dodged. The wet shriek of severed flesh filled the chamber. Her other limb followed immediately, arcing high and crashing down in a blur.
He rolled, narrowly—one of the pauldrons on his patchwork armor torn clean off by the strike. It landed with a clang, skittering across the floor and disappearing into the mucous pools.
"Of course," he growled to himself. "Wasn't made to survive this anyway."
She hissed and circled, her lower half dragging like an anchor but her torso swaying with disturbing grace. Her spine flexed unnaturally—vertebrae popping in and out of place, her arms spreading wide as if to embrace him. Milk and ichor dripped from her countless teats, pooling where she passed.
She struck again—rapid-fire now, both scythes hammering like a forge's rhythm. He blocked one blow, but the next tore a chunk of the forearm plating off his gauntlet. The jagged metal split from the leather straps and clattered to the floor.
"You cannot kill what was never born," she cooed, voice echoing in the wet chamber.
"Then I'll settle for erasing you," he muttered.
He darted forward—not foolishly, but close enough to strike. Dareth's sword found her hip and bit deep, slicing through flesh that pulsed with warm resistance. She shrieked in pain—then laughed, sharp teeth glinting as her tongue lashed out like a whip.
It caught his cheek—slicing it open. Blood joined the bile in the air.
The Guardian recoiled into a coil of limbs, then spun. Her tail—or what passed for one—swept the ground like a flail. It caught him across the ribs, lifting him briefly off his feet and sending him into the fleshy wall.
The impact tore off one of his shin guards and knocked the breath from his lungs.
"No redemption," she snarled, closing in. "Only womb, only flesh, only return."
He stood—barely—gripping Dareth's sword harder.
He waited this time, letting her close. As she struck again, her mantis-arm aiming for his throat, he stepped in rather than back, forcing her scythe to catch on his ruined chestplate. The blade skidded across the dented metal, screeching, then stopped—jammed for half a second. Enough.
He drove the sword upward, clean through her jaw and into her skull.
The Guardian's body seized, convulsing violently. One arm twitched, then fell limp. Her mouth hung open, dripping blood and milk, her human face split in two by the force of the blow.
She slumped forward and collapsed, vomiting black fluid from every orifice.
He stood panting, hunched. A piece of his helmet's visor broke free, cracking down the middle. The symbol of Saint Peter, painted in his own blood across the breastplate, was now scratched and half obscured by gore.
He looked down at himself—a knight no longer, dressed in a parody of what he was, broken pieces hanging from leather straps, blood slick on his neck.
The Guardian's corpse twitched once more before settling into stillness. Her birthing sac pulsed twice… then ruptured, spilling putrid bile across the fleshy ground.
He dropped to one knee, gasping. Blood ran from his cheek, his ribs screamed with every breath, and what remained of his armor barely clung to him. His chestplate was dented, one pauldron gone, and his shin guard cracked in half. The visor hung useless from one side of his helmet. He didn't move for a while.
The chamber stank of death and milk, and every breath tasted like rot. He wiped his blade on a patch of wet, pulsing flesh and slowly sheathed it. Dareth's sword was heavier than his old one, but true. It hadn't bent. Hadn't broken.
He got to his feet with a groan. One by one, he picked up the scattered pieces of his armor. Some were salvageable—the bracer, the loose thigh plate, part of his shoulder guard. He secured what he could with leather straps and bits of cord, repatching the mockery he wore into something usable. Not respectable. Just useful.
When he finished, he activated the forearm data pad, voice gravelled from the fight.
"Nest guardian neutralized. Deep infestation confirmed. Multiple birthing sacs destroyed in crossfire. I'm sealing the chamber and proceeding deeper."
He paused—then added:
"Armor compromised. Repairs made with field scrap. I am… still moving."
The reply took longer than usual.
"Understood. Nest confirmed. No reinforcements en route. Mission continuation authorized. Proceed with cleansing protocols. Purify remains."
He exhaled, then turned back to the Guardian's twitching body. With the last of his strength, he drew a small vial of sanctified oil from his belt, along with a T-shaped branding seal—a disposable iron tool meant for field consecrations.
He muttered a prayer under his breath, words heavy with blood and faith.
"By His blood, through flame and truth, let the body return to dust unclaimed."
He drove the seal into the Guardian's chest, over the heart that never beat.
The brand glowed white-hot. The body seized violently, then ignited—slowly, grotesquely. The flame spread across the walls, crawling like veins, lighting the sacs and fluids with a hiss and roar.
He stood back as the entire womb chamber burned, smoke rising through unseen vents in the ceiling.
He moved quickly now. The corridors of flesh pulsed with renewed life—the nest's destruction had awakened the hive.
Somewhere in the distance, he heard shrieking. Not words. Not orders. Just fury—raw and directionless.
They knew. Every demon in the wound would feel the loss, and many would come. His breathing was still ragged. His body ached beneath the cobbled ruin of armor. His sword hung heavy on his back, held by the last length of his torn cape.
But he pressed on. Each footfall squelched into living meat, and each wall trembled as if the wound itself was preparing to push back. The heat, the stench, the tension—it all called something old from his memory. Something buried beneath years of shame and silence.
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Planet Carthus Minor. Underground. Nest incursion. Squad: six knights. One Marshal.
The tunnels were tighter then, but no less foul. The stink of rot had clung to his skin for days, and even now, years later, he could still taste it when he remembered.
Marshal Dareth led them forward, torch in one hand, sword in the other. His white armor was already stained in blood. But the Templari Cross on his chest still burned brightly in the dark.
"Listen," Dareth had said, voice low but calm. "The nest isn't the true threat."
"Then what is?" he had asked, still a proud Knight-Captain, still believing in certainty.
"The one who gave it breath," Dareth answered, kneeling near a wall pulsing with heat.
He traced a holy symbol onto the fleshy growth, and it sizzled at the touch.
"A high demon seeded this place," Dareth continued. "That's how nests begin. They give a part of their spirit. Their essence. That sacrifice is what corrupts the land and births the womb."
"They trade power for permanence," one of the younger knights whispered, realizing it.
Dareth nodded.
"Where there's a nest—there's a foothold. And where there's a foothold... the demon's not far off."
He snapped back to reality as a tremor rippled through the ground beneath him. The walls throbbed again—faster now. The beat of a wounded animal's heart, furious and bleeding.
Dareth had been right. He always had been.
There was something deeper in this place. Something watching.
He could feel it in the marrow of his bones. The Cross on his chest remained cold, but his instincts were screaming.
The air changed.
It wasn't just the stench anymore. It was pressure—like something enormous had taken a breath beneath the earth. The tunnels began to shake. Not a tremor… but a rhythm.
He stopped.
From deeper within the corridor came a faint rustle—then a skittering sound, sharp and fast, like claws on bone. He raised his sword, slowly.
There, near the curve of the tunnel, it watched him. Small. Disgustingly small.
Its skin was tight over a bulbous head, its eyes too large for its face. It stood like a simian, knuckles dragging, spine arched. A blindfold of stitched skin hung over its sockets—but it saw him all the same. It let out a low, clicking moan.
"Spy," he muttered.
The creature snapped its neck back, letting out a high-pitched screech like breaking glass. It echoed violently through the tunnel. No. Not a scream. A signal.
He charged and cleaved it in two before it could flee, but it was too late. The ground vibrated and the walls hissed.
From behind, the flesh-tunnels erupted in howls and roars—dozens, maybe more. The stench of blood and bile surged forward like a tide, and he heard the pound of clawed feet racing toward him. They were coming and he ran as fast as he could.
There was no strategy now—just survival. He sprinted through the living halls, torchlight flashing off wet, red walls. The passages seemed to shift, becoming narrower, more erratic, as though the wound was alive and trying to herd him.
His lungs burned. His armor plates banged loose against his body. Demonic shrieks grew louder behind him, gnashing, barking, clawing sounds blending into a deafening roar.
One of them got close enough to slash his side—he turned and swung instinctively, slicing through its jaw, but the others were already behind it. He couldn't fight them all. Not here.
He dove through a narrowing gap just as the ceiling collapsed behind him. Flesh, dust, and bone sprayed as he staggered back to his feet. Ahead, he could see an open maw in the tunnel—a cavity, black and yawning, deep below.
The ground cracked beneath him. He reached for the edge—too slow and he fell. He tumbled through the wound's throat, a chute of meat and rot, until it spat him out violently into a vast open chamber. He hit the ground hard, rolled, and came to rest beneath a grotesque outgrowth of bone.
Silence, complete and terrifying silence. Then… a rumble. Something ancient and knowing.He looked up to see a throne of fused corpses and blackened bone sat in the center of the chamber. Upon it lounged a massive figure, still as stone—antlers of charred iron, skin like split obsidian. Its face was humanoid, but wrong—too smooth, too perfect, and lined with flowing scars that glowed like molten script. The Cross of Saint Peter on his chest suddenly burned red—searing hot.
"High demon," he breathed, crawling to his knees. Then it's eyes opened.
The high demon's eyes burned like coals plucked from a dying sun—not with hatred, but recognition. It rose slowly, towering, elegant in its wrongness, and the chamber groaned alive around it.
The Cross on his chest flared white-hot.
He didn't need a name. He didn't need a command. He already knew:
This was his First Act of Redemption.