The Wolf Squad advances with a slow, almost solemn gait. The burden they carry is not merely physical, though the titanium siege rifles weigh heavily upon the transport sleds. These are instruments conceived for the end of days: their munitions are inertial masses capable of tearing through tank armor as if it were parchment.

  On the fifth day of travel, Vargo walks at the head, his gaze fixed upon the livid horizon. ?At the end of the last Great War,? he says, his voice rendered hoarse by the dust, ?man ceased to build tools and began to forge dark miracles. These rifles punch through reinforced concrete as if it were chalk. Before the catastrophes, we were capable of a technology we would define today as mythological. We were gods of metal, before we became children of the ash.?

  Don Thomas, walking a short distance away, clutches his mechanical rosary. ?This arms race was the final pride, Vargo. The sin that broke the back of the past. Weapons are inert; it is the hand of man that transforms them into evil. And man, when he grasps power, cannot resist the temptation to close his fist.?

  Strangely, the cleric’s sermon meets no sarcasm. There is a bitter logic in his words that resonates within the group. ?They must be used with the utmost reserve,? Vargo counters, but the thought of General Valerius bites at his conscience. He knows well that in the higher echelons, no one cares for Don Thomas’s morality. For them, power is the only valid liturgy.

  ***

  The camp is set up under a sky that seems to hold its breath. The campfire crackles, the sole sign of life in a land that has forgotten the song of birds. Martel, sitting too close to the flames with a nearly empty flask in his hands, shifts toward Giada. His eyes shine with an amber reflection, dictated more by alcohol than by heat.

  ?You’ve become a tough one, Giada,? he begins, leaning toward her. ?But you’ve kept all your femininity. It’s a miracle, out here.?

  Giada does not lift her gaze from the flames. Martel’s blatant courtship irritates her skin more than the sweat beneath her armor. ?Are these words dictated by the alcohol or the heart, Martel??

  He smiles, a sincere and bitter grimace. ?By neither. I simply recognize beauty where it remains. It is an act of honesty, an admission.?

  The sentence strikes Giada, forcing her to look at him for an instant, but weariness prevails over curiosity. ?Sleep is beginning to arrive. Goodnight, Julien.?

  She stands and reaches her tent, but Mira Vance’s shadow intercepts her immediately. ?Now you’re flirting with that dandy Julien?? Mira asks, arms crossed over her chest.

  ?He did it all on his own,? Giada retorts, slipping inside. ?I cut myself loose with the excuse of sleep.?

  ?Keep doing that,? Mira hisses, following her with her gaze for a moment. ?That pig has had his sights on you since the Academy days. But he’s a classist piece of shit, Giada. To one like him, we are just a whim, meat for his appetites.?

  ?Don't exaggerate, Mira. In the cursed marshes, he gave me great support. I don't believe he’s the asshole you paint him as.?

  Mira laughs, a dry sound that holds nothing of cheer. ?Of course. Someone who rejects a fine piece of a man from the Serpieri family can’t know a thing about males. Your senses are clogged with mud, girl.?

  Giada turns sharply, her eyes burning. ?Enough, let's cut it short! I really am sleepy. And if you care so much, I’ll leave both the Serpieri and Martel to you. Have fun.?

  ?Pity,? Mira murmurs under her breath as the lanterns are extinguished. ?Pity they are all attracted to your pretty little face...?

  ***

  While the others sleep, Thomas and Vargo remain alone, sitting on ammunition crates, sipping a strong liquor that burns the throat beneath a starry sky.

  ?Vargo,? Thomas begins, staring at the stars that seem too distant. ?It is beyond doubt that General Valerius wants to strike down the animals of the Luminous Forest.?

  Vargo looks at him askance. ?And you are here to understand how the Church must move. Tell me the truth, Thomas. How does Archbishop Aldrich view the so-called 'Luminous Forest'? Be sincere, at least with me.?

  Don Thomas sighs, the weight of his cassock seeming to double. ?The world has changed. God creates, and only He can do so. But if that is the case, why do the creatures of the Luminous Forest—that new Eden—bear the likeness of monsters from pagan myths? Why do they prevent us from prospering? After the Cursed Marsh, I believe this new world is in part the work of dark forces that oppose man. I will tell Archbishop Aldrich that they are demonic monsters; it seems to me the most consistent path with Church Doctrine. It is the only way. The alternative would be to admit that God has turned His back on man. And the Church cannot accept that. Those beasts are a punishment for the sins of three hundred years ago that we must expiate.?

  Vargo drinks the last drop, then shakes his head. ?We agree that they are an obstacle. But you see, Thomas... those monsters could be the proof that your God has already excluded us from the new creation. We are not welcome in the Garden. Centuries of expeditions bear witness to this.?

  ?God abandons no one! Especially not man, however much he may sin,? Thomas replies with a firmness that sounds like a desperate prayer.

  ?It is not a matter of abandonment, Thomas. It is a matter of truth. We are not made for this new world. It is a fact. What best suits modern man is the Wasteland. The mud and the rubble are our true homeland.?

  Don Thomas falls silent. There is no more room for words; both must live with a terrible doubt: is this the end of humanity?

  ***

  On the eighth day, the earth speaks a language that Vargo Cortez knows all too well. The captain kneels on the path that marks the border of the colony, brushing his gloved fingers against a depression in the rocky ground. It is a deep print, furrowed by a force that does not belong to common physics. The weight of a deity impressed in the mud.

  ?Rifles in hand,? Vargo orders, his voice allowing no reply. ?Look around you; there are signs of the beast.?

  The group obeys, but the tension slips away as the hours pass. The tracks are old, eroded by the dry moorland wind that consumes everything. The beast could be leagues away or hidden behind the next mound of centuries-old rubble. They advance confident, for they carry the titanium of the siege rifles salvaged from the foundry, choosing the shortest path through a labyrinth of stunted shrubs and sharp rocks.

  They round a massive ridge in the ground, and time stops. The nightmare of every explorer materializes in a silence that screams.

  ?The Kirin,? Vargo whispers. The word is a harbinger of ash.

  The creature stands still among the brush, intent on foraging among the anemic vegetation surrounding the High King’s Castle. It is beautiful and terrible, a paradox of flesh and divine light. Its body recalls that of an equine, but with musculature so dense it seems sculpted in marble; its white coat shines with azure shades, while the mane and tail fluctuate like luminous smoke in the stagnant air. Upon its brow stands a horn: not the slender lance of fairy tales, but a massive blade of bone, vibrating with a faint, sinister electrical light.

  The group is petrified. Mira Vance shifts a step, her voice a trembling breath. ?Captain, look at it. It isn't aggressive. If we back away now, we can leave. There is no need to fight.?

  But destiny is deaf to prayers. As Mira speaks, the Kirin lifts its head. Two celestial eyes, deep as primordial abysses, plant themselves upon the Wolf Squad. It is not the gaze of an animal; it is the judgment of an entity that perceives the corruption of their souls and the weight of the metal they carry as a sign of an inevitable threat.

  Vargo reads the inevitable in those pupils. If he does not act, they will be overwhelmed. ?Dax, Kael! Load the siege rifle! The rest of you, free fire! Now!?

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  Giada feels a sudden cold crawl up her spine. It is a sacrilegious error. They are shooting at a splendid being; they are trying to kill a god. The thunder of rifles tears the silence of the moor. The bullets bite the creature’s skin, opening superficial wounds that spray blood shining like mercury. The Kirin neighs—a sound that shatters the soul—and with a speed that defies human vision, it lunges forward.

  It aims straight for Vargo, the origin of the hatred. A hoof, hard as a pneumatic sledgehammer, crashes into the captain’s chest. The steel armor over his abdomen shatters. Vargo is hurled away for meters, rolling in the dust like a ragdoll. He does not lose consciousness, but the pain is a conflagration: his ribs are broken, his breath is a terrible rattle, and his rifle lies far off, now useless.

  The youths continue to fire toward that being which, with a single blow, has incapacitated a veteran like Vargo Cortez.

  The creature is already among them, a white storm. ?Shoot for the head! The neck!? Martel screams, vomiting lead against the beast to distract it. Kael bellows at the top of his lungs, his voice choked by terror: ?The siege rifle is almost ready! Hold on thirty seconds and Dax will use it!?

  The Kirin charges again, aiming for Giada. The girl crosses the gaze of death and knows she is doomed. But Julien Martel is not yet finished. He discharges his entire magazine at point-blank range into the head of the sacred beast, drawing the creature’s wrath upon himself.

  The Kirin recoils, stunned by the volume of fire. The horn on its brow explodes in a blinding light. It is an electromagnetic shockwave that hits the Wolf Squad. Everyone collapses to the ground. The world disappears into an absolute white. Limbs are wracked by violent spasms, muscles contract unnaturally beneath armor, tearing screams of agony that are lost in the hum of ozone.

  Despite the searing pain, Julien Martel drags himself through the mud. The Kirin is still there, infuriated, ready to deliver the final blow to Vargo Cortez—the one who emanated the most hostility of all. A few meters away, Kael and Dax struggle against their own shaken nerves, now unable to aim the heavy weapon. Martel advances, an inch at a time, his only eye not yet blinded fixed on the target.

  As the creature lifts its hoof above the captain, a lethal shot erupts from the siege rifle. The titanium projectile strikes the Kirin’s neck with the force of a meteorite.

  The Kirin crashes to the ground, heavy as a collapsing mountain. The light that enveloped it dissolves slowly, like the flame of a candle extinguished by a frozen breath. Silence returns to the moor, but it is a different silence. A silence that tastes of the end.

  ***

  The minutes bleed away like molten lead, dilated into an eternity of spasms and short breath. When the effects of the horn finally fade, the Wolf Squad emerges from the dust in a piteous state, a mass of dented metal and trembling flesh.

  Mira Vance springs to her feet, her voice broken by a rage that is but a veil for terror. ?I said it! I said we could have left it in peace!? she screams, pointing a finger at the remains of the creature, now only an inert mass of extinguished flesh.

  But her cry is drowned out by Julien Martel’s. He stands above the remains of the creature and above his companions, filthy with mud and blood, but with eyes lit by a feverish glow. ?We have killed a legendary monster! A creature of the Luminous Forest!? he shouts to the grey sky. ?We are heroes!?

  In his head, that plural is only a diplomatic concession; deep down, Julien is already conjugating every verb in the singular. Despite the lancinating pains, the rest of the group joins his exclamations. Exaltation is the only anesthetic capable of covering the horror of what they have done.

  Only three of them remain in silence. Mira and Giada exchange a look heavy as a boulder: they perceive, with a clarity that freezes the blood, that they have crossed a sacred boundary from which there is no return. They have killed the beauty that perceived them for what they are: beings full of aggression. Vargo Cortez, instead, is silent because the darkness has finally claimed him; the pain of broken ribs and muscular spasms has defeated his mettle, leaving him lifeless in the dust. His body is laid upon a leather sled, improvised as a stretcher.

  ***

  Under the guidance of Don Thomas, the Wolf Squad undertakes the grueling return. They drag the siege rifles and the body of their captain like a bitter war prize. But when the gates of the High King’s Castle swing open, the atmosphere shifts.

  It is not the orichalcum they carry that makes them legendary, but the word of Don Thomas. The cleric, with an eloquence that surpasses any bard, begins to weave the web of myth before the gathered colony. He sings of the deeds of a group protected by the hand of God, capable of striking down a blasphemous monster risen to divide humanity from the New Eden.

  At the center of the tale, Thomas places a single name: Julien Martel. ?A paladin!? the cleric proclaims, his voice echoing between the stone walls. ?A hero guided by Providence is the young Martel Julien, who challenged the evil magic of the beast while the others lay helpless on the ground!?

  Don Thomas paints every detail with epic hues: Martel’s skill in striking the monster’s muzzle, the heroic rescue of Giada Ricci from certain death, and the superhuman will to resist the Kirin’s horn to reach the siege weapon.

  Julien listens, and his chest swells beneath his deformed armor. The weariness that weighed upon his limbs vanishes, replaced by a sweeter poison: pride. If the Church has decided that he is a paladin, then he will gladly accept this God who demands of him such honor. In that moment, in the heart of the Castle, Julien Martel ceases to be a soldier and becomes a symbol. A symbol built upon the carcass of a fallen god.

  ***

  The Wolf Squad is transferred urgently to the Castle’s medical wards. Vargo Cortez lies on an iron cot, his chest bandaged and his breathing assisted; he is reduced to a shell of a man, but the doctors confirm that his heart, tempered by a thousand battles, will continue to beat. Their stay will not be short: the colony’s doctors want to study the reactions of their nervous systems to the Kirin’s shockwave, to understand the nature of that power which nearly extinguished their lives.

  In the meantime, the carcass of the Kirin is dragged into the largest square of the High King’s Castle, displayed like a hunting trophy at the feet of the colonists. People crowd behind the wooden barriers, observing the creature with a reverential terror. In the eyes of the colonists, that is not divine beauty, but a monster vomited by an ancient myth to annihilate the human race. The azure coat, now dull and soiled by dust, seems the tangible proof that the sacred can be cast down.

  ***

  In the depths of the command palace, far from the cries of the crowd, General Valerius and Archbishop Aldrich sit facing one another. Candlelight dances over tactical maps, casting distorted shadows upon the walls.

  ?The young Martel has proven to be an unexpected resource,? Valerius begins, breaking the silence. ?A perfect hero. We can make him the symbol of this new era.?

  The Archbishop nods slowly, fingers interlaced over the silver cross. ?Yes, the Martel scion is the ideal fit. He will guarantee us the unconditional support of the most influential families. But there is more, Valerius. For years the Church has groped in the dark, unable to interpret the creatures of the Luminous Forest. We feared them as divine judgments or insoluble enigmas.?

  Aldrich lifts his gaze, his eyes shining with cold determination. ?But if we now possess the power to kill them, then the truth is clear: they are only a malignant obstacle between man and his destiny. From this moment, the expansionist ambitions of the Militia will find no further opposition in my sermons or those of the other presbyters. The Church will bless the advance toward that green once considered 'forbidden'.?

  In the depths of the command palace, far from the cries of the crowd, General Valerius and Archbishop Aldrich sit facing one another. Candlelight dances over tactical maps, casting distorted shadows upon the walls.

  ?The young Martel has proven to be an unexpected resource,? Valerius begins, breaking the silence. ?A perfect hero. We can make him the symbol of this new era.?

  The Archbishop nods slowly, fingers interlaced over the silver cross. ?Yes, the Martel scion is the ideal fit. He will guarantee us the unconditional support of the most influential families. But there is more, Valerius. For years the Church has groped in the dark, unable to interpret the creatures of the Luminous Forest. We feared them as divine judgments or insoluble enigmas.?

  Aldrich lifts his gaze, his eyes shining with cold determination. ?But if we now possess the power to kill them, then the truth is clear: they are only a malignant obstacle between man and his destiny. From this moment, the expansionist ambitions of the Militia will find no further opposition in my sermons or those of the other presbyters. The Church will bless the advance toward that green once considered 'forbidden'.?

  Valerius crosses his hands, a complacent smile barely rippling his lips. ?We are about to give humanity new lands to tread upon. I will immediately send more squads to study the Luminous Forest. We will ride this wave of fervor. Man will reclaim what was taken from him, and he will do it with steel and faith.?

  ***

  The atmosphere in the Library is heavy, saturated with the smell of ancient parchment and the thick smoke of oil lamps. The dim light struggles to make its way among the monumental shelves, casting shadows that seem to move with a life of their own between the spines of forbidden tomes.

  Elian treads the stone floor with an irregular rhythm, his hands clenched in fists that tremble with tension. Every step is a curse chewed through gritted teeth. The idea that that worm Martel is celebrated as a hero—that his hands, stained with the blood of a blessed being like the Kirin, are the same he used to rescue Giada—makes him burn with a cold, visceral anger.

  Zech approaches him, resting a heavy hand on his shoulder. ?Easy, Elian,? he murmurs with a cynicism that cuts the air. ?If Martel has such a craving to massacre creatures like that in the Luminous Forest, his life as a hero won’t last long. Blatant luck is not an eternal armor.?

  Elian does not have time to respond. Master Silas’s voice emerges from the darkness at the back of the room, icy and solemn as a sentence. ?What they have done could truly cause the death of who knows how many explorers. Martel included.?

  Elian stops abruptly, turning toward the old sage. ?What do you mean, Master??

  Silas advances slowly, his face furrowed by wrinkles that seem like canyons carved by time. ?I mean that the Luminous Forest is not a simple expanse of trees and beasts. It is a single, immense organism. Killing a single animal is not an isolated act; it is an insult that guarantees the fury of hundreds of thousands of creatures, each more lethal than the last. They may have forged weapons capable of tearing the flesh of gods, but they cannot conquer an entire ecosystem that will deduce that humanity is a hostile species. This 'heroism' will make humanity’s situation even more wretched than it already is.?

  Silas stops before the two youths, his gaze becoming penetrating, devoid of any trace of hesitation. ?Elian, and you too, Zech. The time when I prepare you for uncomfortable and silent truths is over. Tomorrow I will begin to reveal to you what a Guardian of the Forbidden Truth must know. Because perhaps, for the world of men, there is not much time left.?

  Elian’s eyes widen, his breath caught in his throat by astonishment. The anger for Martel is instantaneously replaced by a sense of dizzying void. Zech, instead, knits his brow, his voice reduced to a hoarse whisper: ?Guardian of the Forbidden Truth? But what does that mean, Master??

  Silas does not answer. He turns back toward the shadows of the Library, leaving them alone with the weight of a title that tastes of condemnation.