"I have given you the authority to trample snakes and scorpions and overcome all the power of the enemy; nothing will harm you."

  In the pitch-black night, someone seemed to murmur these words—a quote from the Gospel.

  Before the rise of steam technology, the Holy Gospel Papacy ruled the Western world, inciting wars and conflicts in the name of God. Under the banner of faith, the Templar Crusaders ravaged islands and continents, leaving destruction in their wake. They enforced divine authority until Inverweig emerged victorious in the Glorious War. Steam engines shattered faith, creating a massive military gap between the conservative Papacy and steam-powered nations, ending faith’s dominion over humanity.

  Yet the Gospel Church’s influence endured. Old Dunling, founded by Romans, still saw most inhabitants reverent of its traditions, their whispered prayers merging into a torrent of devotion.

  Officer Price knelt on the ground, struggling to make sense of the night’s events.

  Hours earlier, the sheriff had mustered all available officers. Unclear on the mission, Price assumed it was a covert operation—perhaps even a suicide mission. But upon arriving with the mounted police, they were met by the Royal Guard.

  Price rarely saw these soldiers in crimson cloaks. Legend claimed their cloaks, once black, were dyed red by enemy blood during the Glorious War, earning them the nickname "Redcoats" from terrified foes.

  Their iron boots struck the ground, the sharp clatter echoing in everyone’s ears. A Lower District resident nearby opened his window to curse the disturbance, but leaned out to find an unnatural darkness.

  The Redcoats sealed the underground palace and surrounding area, forming a barricade of guns and cannons. To prevent leaks, the Mechanicum had cut power to the district minutes earlier, plunging it into darkness to shield its secrets.

  No resistance was offered—nor possible. The Royal Guard disarmed the mounted police before they could react, forcing them to kneel in Old Dunling’s frigid night.

  Something momentous was happening. The silence was broken only by bootsteps, ragged breathing, and the murmur of prayers.

  Suddenly, a mounted policeman stood up. Several guards trained their weapons on him—a type Price had never seen, likely a Mechanicum prototype. He dared not stare; curiosity could be fatal.

  "I am Sheriff Donath of Suyalan Hall! I demand to see your commanding officer!"

  Sheriff Donath, unable to bear the humiliation, roared in anger—only to be struck down by a rifle butt. The guards cared nothing for his rank.

  "Sheriff Donath?"

  A voice called from the darkness. Through the pain, Donath saw a man emerge—clad in unfamiliar black cloaks with ornate trim, carrying unique swords and guns of intricate, deadly design. He smelled of sulfur—not unpleasant, but pungent and familiar.

  "Greetings. I am in charge here."

  The man wore an elaborate mask, but Donath couldn’t make out its details in the dark.

  "Do you have any idea what you’re doing?!" Donath snarled. As a sheriff, he wasn’t accustomed to such treatment, but his words were met with a boot to the gut, doubling him over in pain.

  "Let me make two things clear, Sheriff," the man said, pressing a pistol to Donath’s head with casual menace.

  "First: if your mounted police weren’t needed to maintain order in Suyalan Hall, you’d all be dead by now." The gun twisted, drawing a whimper from Donath. Other officers tensed, but guards aimed at them.

  "Second: we are authorized to shoot anyone tonight."

  Raising his watch, the man called out, "Blindfold and gag them. They aren’t meant to see what comes next."

  Price offered no resistance as he was dragged away. The guards, unprepared for the mounted police, herded them to the shadows. But when it came to Price, the man halted the process, gesturing for him to step forward.

  "Your name, Officer?" The man glanced toward the Outer District, as if awaiting something.

  "Price Lelana, sir." Price dared not offend, not after seeing his superior beaten.

  "Call me Red Falcon." The man turned, his red-lacquered mask studying Price. Price knew it was a codename but wondered why he’d been told.

  "Take this. Protect your men." Red Falcon handed him a heavy rifle, unlike any Price had used.

  "W-why me?" Price managed, suppressing his questions.

  "Call it a hunch… or dislike for your sheriff. Don’t just stand there. If you value your life, forget everything you see tonight." He added, "Madness may spread to your men. If necessary… you know what to do."

  "Wh-what do you mean?" Price’s confusion grew as the chanting prayers intensified, a mystical aura clinging to the air.

  "Knowledge has a price. Best you remain ignorant."

  Before Price could press, a distant steam whistle pierced the night.

  Steam trams shouldn’t be running at this hour, yet one emerged from the mist, its scorching light cutting through the dark.

  It raced forward with a howling wind. As it passed, Price glimpsed its massive, armored frame—larger than any tram he’d seen, a true "iron serpent" laden with deadly intent. More whistles followed, thundering like stampeding horses.

  Price had a strange feeling: the Royal Guard were not the night’s true players. These iron serpents, striding from the dark, were the real protagonists.

  As they vanished into the Lower District’s depths, artillery fire and explosions shook the earth, as if giants clashed in the dark.

  Like Boro’s paradise, the underground palace was built atop ruins—once a grand structure, destroyed by enemy fire during the Glorious War.

  Soldiers in Red Falcon’s gear secured every entrance, silent and icy, guns trained on the palace. Boro’s time in the Lower District hadn’t been wasted; he’d obtained the palace’s original blueprints, positioning heavy troops at key exits as the first line of defense, with scattered soldiers and outer Guard units.

  "So you insist on entering personally? Your role is command, not combat. If anyone should go, it’s me." Boro opposed Galahad’s plan to rescue Eve himself. With the operation imminent, they stood at the palace gates, bracing for the worst.

  "We don’t have time. We must attack before they arrive."

  "So you’ll enter, rescue her, and escape in minutes? You know our protocols. You’ll die in there, and we’ll have to incinerate your body to contain the threat." Boro distrusted Galahad’s plan.

  "Then what do you suggest?" Galahad snapped.

  Silence. Boro had no better idea. Burton was a versatile tool, but unpredictable—like now.

  Thankfully, the night answered for them. A bone-chilling cold washed over them, instinctive dread knotting their stomachs. They shared a glance before a piercing siren split the air.

  A rapid ticking filled their ears, intensifying to a continuous shriek—the Geiger counter, detecting invisible radiation. The meter rose past critical, its red light bathing everything.

  No debate followed. Bullets were chambered, cannons readied. Without hesitation, artillery fire engulfed the palace. This was a "purification"—no survivors, including Eve, whose death was deemed inevitable upon the alarm.

  Such was the Purification Bureau’s iron rule, the reason they survived against monsters.

  "All units: Reality distortion anomaly detected. Engage. No one leaves alive tonight!"

  Galahad’s roar echoed over the comms as divine light bathed the ruins, banishing darkness. A massive iron dirigible floated in the clouds, its beams like divine swords.

  A stench of blood and rot emanated from the entrance. Galahad signaled, and flamethrowers ignited—soldiers in heavy fireproof suits, their lenses and gas masks the only visible features, their breathing labored.

  These "incinerators" were nightmares in underground assaults, equipped with Mechanicum flamethrowers and fuel packs for prolonged burns, scorching the air and roasting enemies alive. Behind them, riflemen formed a protective line, guarding the slow-moving incinerators.

  "Do you hear that, Galahad?" Boro aimed his strange silver lance, tense.

  From the darkness came hurried footsteps and raspy whispers—a panicked crowd fleeing the depths, only to meet annihilation.

  "Remember our cover: a fuel explosion collapsed the palace… no survivors." Galahad’s voice was robotic, a stark contrast to his earlier resolve.

  Twisted figures spilled into the light, no longer human—their mutated forms matching ancient tales of demons.

  As iron serpents screeched to a halt, their wheels sparking against the tracks, the deep chanting of prayers crackled over comms:

  "Be alert and of sober mind. Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour. Resist him, standing firm in the faith."

  Iron doors slammed open, steam billowing. In the white haze, a man stepped forward, murmuring into battle.