The rotor blades carved through the thick night air, their rhythmic thrum nearly lost beneath the howling winds. The helicopter descended through the ink-black sky, an omen against the void of a moonless night. Below, the sea raged against the jagged cliffs, salt mixing with the gunpowder-laced wind.

  Inside the aircraft, a young cultist reclined with a languid grace, fingers tapping idly against the tablet in his hands. A man of taste—arrogant, clever, and cruel in equal measure. His sharp, knowing eyes flicked across the live feed—a drone’s mechanical gaze tracking the hunt below. A battered truck, its rusted frame riddled with bullet holes, tore recklessly along the winding mountain pass. A convoy of black SUVs pursued, headlights slashing through the dark like the eyes of beasts. Gunfire cracked in rapid succession, muzzle flashes illuminating the void. Bullets ripped through the truck’s failing exterior, but its defenders refused to surrender.

  Then, from the heavens, death descended.

  A figure in black plummeted, landing atop the truck with an impact that barely disturbed his balance. The Executioner of the Flock of the Redeemer—one of the cult’s most feared killers—rose to his full height, his long coat whipping in the wind. His blade gleamed under the dim glow of the SUVs’ headlights. With spectral grace, he moved, cutting down a defender in a single motion.

  The cultist smirked, intrigued.

  A one-armed swordsman, desperate but skilled, met the Executioner’s onslaught. Steel clashed, sparks dancing between them. The swordsman fought like a man with nothing left to lose, his curved blade weaving arcs of defiance—but it was not enough. A final strike sent both warriors tumbling into the abyss, swallowed by the darkness below.

  Two guardians remained.

  The cultist leaned forward, eyes glinting. Whatever lay inside that truck was valuable—otherworldly. The defenders fought with a desperation born of duty, not survival.

  Then, fate intervened.

  The truck swerved violently. A herd of cattle—startled, unfortunate creatures—stood frozen in the headlights. The impact was inevitable. The vehicle plowed through them, bones and metal crunching in unison before it twisted, flipped, and careened off the edge of the ravine.

  The cultist barely blinked as the wreckage vanished into the abyss. He exhaled slowly, satisfied.

  Then, movement.

  From the mangled remains, two figures emerged. A young woman, bloodied but unbowed, shielding the smaller figure behind her—a girl clutching an ornate, glowing box. Its luminescence pulsed against the dark, casting eerie shadows through the broken forest. The woman hesitated only a moment before dragging the truck’s injured driver from the wreckage, urgency in her every motion.

  Commendable, the cultist mused. Futile, but commendable.

  Then the shadows moved.

  The last remaining guardian—a phantom in the dark—moved unseen, slicing through descending cultists with surgical precision. He did not fight for survival. He fought for vengeance. The screams of dying men punctuated the night, brief and final. Gunfire erupted, wild and desperate, only to stutter and die in uncertain silence.

  The cultist sighed, turning to the nun seated across from him. A silent understanding passed between them. She required no command; she existed to serve. Without hesitation, she rose, grasped the rope beside her, and leaped from the helicopter.

  She fell like a star through the black, robes whipping around her slender frame. The moment her feet met earth, she was already moving, sprinting toward the slaughter. Ready to hunt the shadows.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  The cultist remained seated a moment longer, savoring the tension. His men were dying. That much was clear. Yet, he felt no urgency—only the thrill of the chase. He reached forward, tapping the pilot’s shoulder.

  “Take us lower.”

  The helicopter dipped, winds shrieking as it neared the battlefield. With a smirk, the cultist stepped onto the skid. The moment felt ripe. Perfect. He let go.

  Gravity seized him, but he landed effortlessly, boots striking the earth in a controlled descent. The remaining cultists turned to him, eyes seeking leadership and reassurance. He offered neither. Instead, he walked forward, savoring the moment like a connoisseur of suffering.

  The woman—the last defender—stood her ground. Though battered and bruised, her beauty and bravery were undeniable. Around her, bodies lay broken, a testament to her skill. The girl clutched the box tighter, its glow pulsating like a heartbeat.

  The cultist tilted his head, smiling. “A pleasure to meet a fabled guardian of Amihan.” His voice dripped with mockery, yet held a strange reverence. “I was under the impression your kind were myths—fairy tales, dismissed even by the Spanish Inquisition.”

  “I am one of the flock who seeks the Redeemer, at your service,” he said, giving an exaggerated bow. He introduced himself without a name. “But tonight, you shall remain so. Fear not, for I am utterly enchanted by your beauty and defiance. You are far too exquisite for mere slaughter. No, I have a different fate in mind for you—a cherished pet in the church's dungeons.” He chuckled, voice thick with amusement. “If there were a goddess on Earth, I believe she would stand before me now.”

  She scoffed, rolling her aching shoulders. “And you talk too much for a man whose victories are counted by the bodies of his disposable pawns.”

  The cultist laughed, a rich, velvety sound. “And you wield your blade like a savage artist desperate to finish a masterpiece before their grace fades. Tragic, really.”

  She smirked. “Funny. I was about to say the same about your men—flailing like dying savage animals while I cut them down with grace.” She adjusted her grip on her weapon. Poised, calm—too calm. Even outnumbered, she did not waver. And that’s when he realized.

  She was waiting.

  A rustle in the darkness. A familiar scent in the air.

  The cultist’s grin widened. He knew she was done with her hunt. “But I... don’t... think so,” he purred.

  The ranks of his men parted as a figure stepped forward. A woman, moving with the measured grace of a predator. In her grip, something dripped crimson.

  The severed head of the phantom guardian.

  The woman’s breath hitched. The cultist savored the flicker of horror in her eyes.

  “Your ally fought bravely,” he mused, voice almost wistful. “But in the end, he was merely a delay.”

  The guardian’s grip tightened on her weapon. Fury burned in her gaze. The cultist chuckled, shaking his head.

  “Time is running out, oh, little miss last of your kind.” He clicked his tongue. “A waste, really.” His eyes darkened. “Seize them. At all costs. Give me the little girl and the box unharmed.”

  The cultists surged forward.

  And then, the girl moved, sensing an impending doom.

  Her lips parted. A whisper—soft, yet deafening. Thousands of voices, ancient and unknowable, flooded the air. The ornate box in her grasp lifted, hovering as its glow intensified.

  Then—silence.

  A soundless shockwave rippled outward. Then, white light.

  The world detonated.

  A tidal wave of power erupted from the girl, an unholy force that defied reason and obliterated everything in its path. It struck with neither fire nor sound—just an unfathomable white radiance that stretched skyward, swallowing the night. Trees splintered into dust.

  The earth cracked, rupturing as if struck by the fist of a god. Cultists closest to the blast were simply erased, their bodies disintegrating before they could scream. The cultist felt himself lifted, hurled backward. But in the final instant, before oblivion could claim him, the nun moved. Her body shielded him, taking the brunt of the force.

  The pain was brief—then, darkness. When the dust settled, he stirred. His robes were no longer pristine, now tattered and scorched. Around him, the world was ruined. The forest was gone. The air smelled of sulfur, ash, and death. And the guardian and the girl—vanished.

  He looked around where they once stood. His fingers twitched, brushing against something half-buried in the ash. A fragment of light, pulsing with raw power. He lifted it, a dying glow illuminating his face turning hollow. A slow, satisfied grin spread across his lips.

  A shard of mystery. For whatever purpose he will soon know. But for now the hunt was not over. He felt something divine had begun—and nothing could stop the oncoming storm it brings.