The silence at the Heretics’ HQ was thick. Scouts and fighters adjusted their final blades and tested the edges of their mechanical saws. In one of the rooms, Kol—driven by a thirst for revenge against Elijah—trained through push-ups and pull-ups. If he couldn't win with technique, he’d win through raw grit and willpower.

  In the main hall, time seemed to have slipped back to an era that no longer existed.

  Freya rested on a worn-out sofa, her body seeking a comfort the outside world could no longer offer. Beside her, Gun sat on the floor, leaning against the upholstery. He wasn't sleeping. His calloused fingers distractedly stroked the fabric of the blanket covering Freya. To him, the world could end in fire today, as long as the flames didn't touch what was on that sofa.

  Inside Freya’s mind, however, the scene was different.

  Oregon, Autumn 2020 (10 years before the Fall)

  A pale gold sun bathed the backyard. The scent wasn't of diesel oil or gunpowder, but of freshly cut grass and apple pie cooling on the windowsill. There were no masks, no black tactical uniforms. Freya was only ten years old.

  She laughed as she watched her father (his face obscured by the light) fix a wooden fence. Her mother (face also obscured) was nearby, humming a soft melody that Freya desperately tried to remember in the waking world. But the center of her attention was on the lawn.

  There, her older brother—Silas, a fourteen-year-old boy, tall for his age with broad shoulders and dark blonde hair that shimmered under the sun—was tossing a football. He had no bandages on his face. No hidden bidents up his sleeves. He smiled, a smile that lit up everything around him.

  "Catch this, Freya!" he shouted, throwing the ball with precision.

  It was a moment of absolute peace. A promise of a future. But suddenly, the sky in the dream began to darken. The sound of laughter was replaced by the rumble of military vehicles. Men in uniform emerged from the shadows of the trees, grabbing Silas by the arms. The soldiers told the terrified parents that the boy had been selected for a project along with several other children and that they were sorry, but they were just following the Colonel's orders.

  "Let him go!" Freya screamed in the dream alongside her parents, but her voice came out silent. "Silas!"

  In the dream, her brother looked back one last time as he was dragged toward a black truck bearing the CIA logo. His face began to melt, transforming into a metal skull with jagged teeth.

  "I’ll come back for you, sister..." his voice echoed, now cold, coming from everywhere. "Blood always finds its way."

  Heretics’ HQ – Present (2040)

  Freya bolted upright on the sofa, waking with a muffled scream that died in her throat. She was panting, cold sweat pinning blonde strands of hair to her forehead as her hands frantically sought her womb, shielding her four-month-old baby. The transition from the 2020 sunshine to the dim light of the building was a physical shock.

  Gun reacted in the same split second. He leaned over her. His hand, carrying a raw tenderness he reserved only for her, rested on her shoulder.

  — "Breathe, Freya! Look at me. You’re here. I’m here."

  Freya looked at him, her eyes dilated with terror, trying to process that the monster from her dream was, in fact, coming for her in real life. She trembled under Gun’s touch.

  — "Silas... Gun, he’s not my brother anymore," — she whispered, her voice breaking. — "I saw what he’s become. He’s coming for me. He’s coming because of the baby."

  Gun didn’t respond with words of comfort, for he didn't know how to give them. He simply squeezed her shoulder, a silent promise that any Reaper crossing that door would have to go through his corpse and his Magnum first.

  At that moment, the metal door slid open with a hydraulic hiss. Henry entered the room. He was stripped of his visual identity, wearing only a black tactical shirt, a vest, and trousers. The scars where his pinky fingers were missing were exposed—a physical reminder of the price of his stay at the enemy’s HQ.

  Elena walked toward him with silent steps. In her arms, she carried the reinforced blue jacket and the carved wooden mask, both sporting fresh, vibrant blue paint. She stopped before Henry and held the pieces out.

  Henry put on the jacket slowly, feeling the familiar weight of the fabric that defined him as a Heretic. He held the blue mask with both hands, staring at the cross made of carved branches.

  — "Welcome back, Scout," — Elena said, a glint of respect in her eyes.

  Henry didn’t put the mask on yet. He grabbed his radio. He needed Silas to hear his human voice, without the distortion of the modifier, so the message would be personal. He tuned into the Reapers' frequency and pressed the button.

  The crackle of static filled the room.

  — "Silas. It’s me."

  Reapers’ HQ – Monitoring Room

  Jester’s communication console emitted a high-priority signal that sliced through the room's technical silence. The court jester tilted his head, making the bells on his blue and red suit jingle with a sharp sound. He hit the receive button, and Henry’s voice filled the space, sounding clear and defiant through the speakers.

  — "Silas... Jester... Reapers. It’s me." — Henry’s voice was ice-cold. — "I’m gone. And don’t think for a second that I’m coming back to that paradise of lies. Silas, you said I was family, but family doesn't rip the fingers off the ones they love. I’ve seen what you truly are. You aren't gods of death... you’re just ghosts in black suits."

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  In the center of the room, Silas froze. Henry’s voice continued, turning into an ultimatum that hit every Reaper present like a physical blow:

  — "If you want your war, come get it. But it won't be here in central Oregon. I’m waiting for you in Chemult, on Highway 97. The old home of the Enforcers. Bring the tank, Silas. Bring every weapon you have. Let’s see if you’re really that immortal when the asphalt starts burning under your feet."

  The radio hissed and went dead. The silence that followed was charged with a dangerous electricity. Jester turned to Silas, his cheerful skull mask seeming to mock the betrayal; he activated his voice modifier.

  — "Silas... the little blue bird didn't just fly the coop, he decided to call us out to his backyard," — Jester laughed, an electronic, distorted sound.

  In a surge of silent fury, Silas delivered a brutal punch against one of the monitors, shattering the glass and killing the screen in a trail of smoke. Around the room, the reaction was immediate, every Reaper donning their mask:

  Elijah, with a look of pure sadistic pleasure behind his skeleton mask, drew his Five-Seven pistol and, with a dry, metallic snap, slammed the magazine home, ready for the slaughter.

  Ian, his fingers fumbling over his sniper rifle with a silent bloodlust.

  Fabrizio tensed his shoulders, his hands moving down to his hand-scythes.

  Aiden stopped checking his pompadour in a screen's reflection, his sadistic gaze fixed on the leader.

  Lil and Andrew exchanged crazed looks, Lil breathless at the prospect of imminent destruction.

  Meanwhile, just a few meters away, Silvia lay huddled under the covers in her dark room. She had heard every word Henry said. Trembling, she pressed her heart necklace against her chest, tears streaming down in silence. No one there suspected that her heart beat for the man her brothers were riding out to hunt.

  Silas spun on his heels, his authority emanating like a shockwave.

  — "REAPERS! WE RUN TO WAR! WE RUN TO THE FIRE!" — Silas’s roar echoed. — "Me, Elijah, Fabrizio, Andrew, Lil... the five of us on the bikes. Ian, you drive the tank! Aiden... grab your guitar. You’re staying on top!"

  Highway 97 – Chemult | 7:00 PM

  The cold night wind howled through the metal carcasses and wooden buildings of the small town. Suddenly, with an electric hiss, the streetlights and storefront signs of Chemult—powered by the generators the Enforcers once controlled—flickered to life all at once.

  The ghost town, less than a kilometer long, was now bathed in a pale, sickly white glow. In the center of the cracked asphalt, the ten fighters formed a circle. The Blue Scout, his wooden mask now properly adjusted, exuded a cold authority.

  — "Alright, everyone, here’s the plan," — Henry began, his steady voice echoing through the silence of the empty street. — "We know this ground better than they do. We’re going to use every inch of these ruins."

  He pointed to the surrounding structures, laying out the death trap:

  "Solomon and I will take the big Motel. It’s the high ground; we’ll have a full view of the highway entrance."

  "Leo and Kol, you take the brown house. Prep the oil and flame trap."

  "Kane, the workshop! Use the space for cover."

  "Elena and Piro, the abandoned train! It’s the perfect spot for Piro’s flames and Elena’s ambushes between the cars."

  "Beck and Vane, the convenience store. Secure the side access."

  Henry then turned to the most unstable figure in the group.

  — "Mickey, stay hidden behind any of the buildings. You’re our wildcard. Don’t reveal yourself until the chaos has started."

  Mickey let out a short, sickly laugh, baring his teeth in a sadistic grin. He raised his hands: in one, he held a frag grenade with the pin nearly pulled; in the other, his Magnum and Jester’s electric bracer strapped to his wrist, emitting a constant blue hum.

  — "Don't you worry, Scout," — Mickey mocked, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. — "With this toy turned on, the clown’s drones will think I’m just another broken streetlight. I’ll be in the shadows... waiting for the right moment to give Silas my 'gift'."

  Henry nodded, though Mickey’s unpredictability kept him on edge.

  With coordinated agility, the Heretics dispersed. The sound of boots hitting rooftops and the creak of fire escapes were the only noises for a few seconds before the group vanished into the town's heights.

  Atop the Motel, Henry and Solomon took their positions. Henry raised the thermal binoculars and aimed north. The horizon was dark, but in the distance, a vibration began to rise through the asphalt.

  The glare of powerful headlights appeared at the bend in the road. The roar wasn't from ordinary engines; it was the heavy, guttural rumble of a battle tank, escorted by the high-pitched whine of five high-displacement motorcycles riding like a hunting pack. Aiden stood atop the tank, shredding his guitar to fire up his comrades for the slaughter.

  Reapers’ HQ – A few hours earlier

  Fabrizio, his mask clipped to his belt, entered his sister’s room. The space was draped in shadows. Silvia remained huddled, avoiding her twin’s gaze. He approached and briefly touched her shoulder.

  — "We’re heading out," — Fabrizio said. — "Silas isn't going to leave one stone standing in Chemult. Stay here and wait for our return."

  Silvia didn’t answer; she only nodded under the covers, hiding her tears and Henry’s necklace.

  — "Wish me luck, sister," — Fabrizio asked.

  — "Good luck..." — she whispered, her voice stifled by the secret she carried. He turned his back and left, heading for the garage.

  Highway 97 – Chemult | 7:10 PM

  The convoy came to a halt at the town's entrance. Ian positioned the tank while the five motorcycles formed a defensive arc. Silas dismounted and walked to the front, staring at the lit-up buildings.

  — "HENRY!" — Silas roared through his modulator. — "COME OUT OF THE SHADOWS! YOU HAD THE NERVE TO TALK ON THE RADIO, NOW HAVE THE NERVE TO DIE TO MY FACE!"

  On the rooftops, Henry and Solomon watched from the Motel. Atop the tank, Aiden gripped his spiked guitar, awaiting the signal to begin the symphony of destruction. Hidden in an alley, Mickey kept the bracer active, laughing silently as he watched Jester’s drones slowly approaching in the distance.

  Henry signaled the group to wait. He wanted Silas to take the first step into the kill zone.

  The tank surged forward, and with a sharp blast, Ian blew the entrance gate of Chemult to pieces.

  Inside the structures, the Heretics took cover. Henry grabbed his radio:

  — "Silas! Give me two minutes before we start the slaughter?"

  Outside, Silas raised his hand, signaling the convoy to stop. Henry continued:

  — "We’re all inside the buildings, Silas. If you fire the tank at the structures, you end the war right now. But that would diminish you and the Reapers. If you’re truly the greatest assassins in the world, grab your weapons and come inside. Let’s settle this on equal ground!"

  The taunt struck Silas’s ego. He looked at the tank and then at the buildings. The leader gave the order: Ian would remain in the tank, waiting for an opening, while the others dismounted.

  The scene showed the six Reapers lined up on the asphalt: Andrew wielding his submachine gun and machete; Aiden with his spiked guitar ready; Lil dragging her giant scythe; Fabrizio twirling his pair of smaller scythes; Elijah with his Five-Seven in hand. In the center, Silas held his M4 rifle—an impeccable relic in that world of ruins.

  — "Go... kill them all..." — Silas ordered.

  The voices, distorted by modulators, replied in unison:

  — "Copy that..." — "Let's move..." — "Hell yeah..."

  The black figures dispersed toward the city lights.

  The town of Chemult became a board of silent death. Each Reaper chose their prey, moving like shadows under the pale glow of the streetlights.

  Silas was the only one who remained in the center of the highway after the tank passed. With a sharp motion, he drove the bayonet of his M4 into the cracks of the asphalt. The rifle stood upright like a war scepter. He sat down calmly, his left hand resting on the top of the weapon, watching the city with the patience of an executioner.

  The dispersal was tactical:

  Elijah paced toward the Motel. The rhythmic click of his boots on the concrete announced his arrival to Henry and Solomon.

  Fabrizio slipped into the Workshop. His small scythes glinted under the fluorescent lights as he hunted for Kane.

  Andrew kicked in the door of the Brown House, entering with his submachine gun raised, hunting for Leo and Kol.

  Lil and Aiden headed for the Abandoned Train. Lil’s maniacal laughter and the first distorted chord from Aiden’s guitar echoed between the railcars where Elena and Piro lay in wait. Though not an official duo among the Reapers, both shared an identical thirst for carnage.

  Ian, isolated inside the tank, pushed forward. The engine let out a low growl as he patrolled the main street. Hidden in a dark alley, Mickey didn’t even blink. He gripped his grenade tight, watching the armored turret rotate, waiting for the exact moment Ian turned his back.

  In the Convenience Store, the silence was absolute. Vane and Beck exchanged tense glances through the cracks in the windows. They realized no one was coming for them. The figure of Silas, sitting alone in the middle of the street, was both an invitation and a death sentence.

  — "Everyone has a target except us," — Beck whispered. — "Should we go for Silas? Or does he want us to flush ourselves out for the tank?"

  Vane looked at Beck’s build and then at his own muscles. They were the strongest of the Heretics, but Silas wasn’t just a man; he was a legend.

  The scene focuses on the solitary figure of Silas in the center of the highway. His head is bowed, his right hand covering his face in a gesture of heavy mourning, while his left remains firm atop the M4 driven into the ground. The sounds of the battles starting around him seemed to fade away.

  — "Diego... Zack..." — he whispered, his raspy voice cracking beneath the modulator. — "I’m sorry. It was my fault for sending you into the wolf’s den. I’ll never forgive myself for that."

  He pressed his fingers against his mask.

  — "But today, we show them your sacrifice wasn't in vain. I’m going to burn every last one of these Heretics and crucify them near your graves in the woods. They will be my gifts to you."

  With a slow movement, he pulled a crumpled letter from the inner pocket of his suit. It was the last memory of Zack. He stared at the paper for a long second as the first gunshots and screams began to echo through the buildings of Chemult.

  — "I hope luck smiles on us today... right, Zack?"

  Silas tucked the letter away, raised his face, and fixed his gaze on the Motel. The hunt was official.

  End of Chapter