The circle of flames and black smoke created by Kol isolated the center of the courtyard, transforming the sacred ground into a death ring. On one side, Vincent’s remaining army clashed against the wall of steel formed by Mika, Tara, and Kol. On the other, the deadly silence between Henry and the prophet of gunpowder.

  Vincent Malakor lunged like a cracking whip. His black machete sliced through the air with erratic speed, driven by the chemical frenzy racing through his veins. Henry blocked and parried; every movement was a cold calculation of strength and precision. Henry was physically superior, an elite scout molded by Solomon, but there was something inhuman about Vincent.

  Henry delivered a brutal punch that landed squarely on Vincent’s ribs. The sound of snapping bone was unmistakable, but Malakor only laughed. He spat blood and exploited the proximity to whirl his machete, tearing into Henry’s shoulder. The cut wasn’t deep, but blood began to stain the Heretic’s blue jacket.

  — "Do you feel it, demon?" — Vincent hissed, his eyes dilated. — "Pain is God’s kiss! Every wound is a verse of my gospel!"

  Henry didn’t answer. He surged forward with a sequence of slashes from his trench knives. He opened a gash in Vincent’s chest and another in his cheek, but the leader of the Crusaders kept coming, ignoring the blood pouring from his body. He fought as if pain were fuel, becoming more dangerous with every blow received.

  Meanwhile, in the background, Tara used her shield to pin three Crusaders against a tomb, while Mika performed a low sweep with her Naginata, keeping the mass of maniacs at bay. Kol was a blur of fury, his axe rising and falling, ensuring no cultist interfered with the duel.

  The Moment of Sacrifice

  Vincent, in a surge of adrenaline, leaped at Henry, managing to drive the tip of his machete into the scout’s thigh. Henry let out a grunt of pain, fell to his knees, and for a second, Malakor thought he had finally silenced Solomon’s heir. The prophet raised the black machete for the blow of mercy, exposing his entire guard in a delusion of triumph.

  It was his final mistake.

  Henry did not retreat. He ignored the pain in his leg, seized Vincent’s armed wrist with his left hand, and with his right, delivered a devastating upward punch. The impact of the brass knuckles dislocated Vincent’s jaw, forcing his mouth open at a grotesque angle.

  The Final Consecration

  With cruel agility, Henry ripped one of the ammo magazines from Malakor’s necklace and forced it into the leader's bloody mouth. Vincent tried to bite or struggle, but Henry had already grabbed a common glass bottle lying on a nearby offering altar.

  In one continuous motion, Henry smashed the bottle over Vincent’s head. The glass shattered, slicing the prophet’s scalp and mixing with the blood already covering his face. Dazed and with a mouth full of metal and gunpowder, Vincent had no time to react when Henry grabbed him by the scruff and the waist.

  — "If you want heaven, Vincent..." — Henry growled beneath his mask. — "Go by fire."

  With herculean effort, Henry hurled Malakor’s body directly into the center of the great bonfire of tires and debris that burned furiously.

  Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

  What followed was a visual nightmare. The flames licked Vincent’s body instantly. But even as the fire consumed his lungs, Vincent Malakor kept laughing.

  His laughter, distorted by the sizzle of burning flesh, echoed through the cemetery like a macabre symphony. He burned alive, maintaining the laugh of a madman who believed he was being purified, until his nerves finally gave way and the sound ceased.

  The remaining Crusaders, seeing their "god" or "prophet" turn into a pyre of bones, lost their courage. They threw their knives to the ground and fled into the darkness, leaving the Heretics alone with the smell of smoke and death.

  Henry remained standing, breathless, wiping blood from his mask. He looked at his companions, who were covered in soot but alive.

  — "Get the cargo," Henry ordered, his voice firm again. — "Maros will have what he wants. And we will have our water."

  The scene cuts abruptly from the heat of the cemetery flames to the clinical cold of the Willamette Water Treatment Plant. The contrast is shocking: the silence inside is broken only by the constant hum of hydraulic pumps and a metallic dripping.

  The heavy doors of the Council Room swing open. Henry, Mika, and Tara enter, carrying the weight of the mission on their shoulders and their stained clothes. Kol Valet walks ahead, throwing the last bags of seeds onto the glass table with a crash that makes Maros's monitors tremble. The fertilizer barrels are deposited on the floor with a dull thud, releasing a fine chemical dust.

  Regent Maros rises slowly, adjusting the cuffs of his impeccable uniform. He looks at the barrels, then at the blood dripping from Henry’s thigh and the soot on Mika’s face.

  — "It’s done," Kol says, his raspy Ukrainian voice cutting the air like a razor. He wipes dried blood from his axe blade onto his pants, never taking his eyes off Maros. — "The Powder Cross is no longer a problem. Vincent Malakor is now nothing but smoke in the Oregon sky."

  Maros walks around the cargo, inspecting the seals on the barrels with silent satisfaction.

  — "Release the drinking water for our sector," Kol continues, taking a step forward, imposing his stature. — "We want a full year of guaranteed flow in our grids. We are going to be the foundation for the starving people, and you will fulfill your part of the deal."

  Henry remains in the rear, leaning against a steel beam. He is in absolute silence, his blue mask hiding his exhaustion, but his eyes are fixed on the Hydraulic Scepter that Maros keeps within arm's reach. He observes the Regent's body language; Henry knows that men like Maros do not like to hand over what they consider "liquid gold" so easily.

  Maros stops before Henry and smiles bureaucratically, turning to the control panel behind him.

  — "A year is a long time in the new world, Heretic," Maros says as he types a code into the terminal. — "But the word of the Hydro-Council is as pure as our aquifer."

  He pulls a bronze lever. In the distance, the sound of great floodgates opening echoes through the station's pipes. The flow has been released.

  — "The water is already running to your cisterns," the Regent states, turning back to them.

  Henry took a slow, deliberate step toward Maros. The sound of his heavy boots, still soiled with the ashes of the cemetery, echoed on the station's polished metal floor. He stopped just inches from the Regent, who remained rigid, gripping his Hydraulic Scepter with white knuckles.

  The atmosphere in the room shifted from a tense negotiation to a direct and lethal threat. Henry tilted his head slightly to the side, and his voice came out in a frigid whisper that made the Hydro guards lock in place.

  — "If necessary, or if this contract is broken by a single cent of less pressure... we will take your base," Henry sentenced.

  Maros tried to maintain his posture, but Henry continued, his presence occupying all the space between them:

  — "If we killed over seventy mental patients, we can also kill simple sailors in here. Do not mistake our need to negotiate for a lack of capacity to conquer."

  Henry looked at the Scepter in Maros’s hands as if it were a useless toy.

  — "The water is ours now. The flow is ours. Keep the machines running, Regent."

  Henry turned his back without waiting for an answer, signaling to Mika, Tara, and Kol. The group left the Council Room with the arrogance of those who had just redrawn the map of Oregon. Maros remained motionless, watching the Heretics disappear down the corridor. He knew that, from that moment on, the Hydro-Council was no longer the absolute sovereign; they were merely the caretakers of the Heretics' water.

  As a closing ritual, each Heretic brought their hand to their face to adjust their war identity. Henry fastened his blue mask, the symbol of leadership and vigilance. Kol adjusted his, a dark gray like the trenches where he was forged. Mika slid her pink mask over her face, a delicate contrast to the violence she had just dealt, and Tara fixed her dark green one, the color of resistance and brute force.

  They exited the Hydro base and began the trek back to the Heretics' HQ. The dawn air was heavy, but for the first time in weeks, the pressure on their shoulders seemed to have eased. Without the constant shadow of the Powder Cross and with the water flow guaranteed for the people, Oregon seemed a little less hostile.

  The silence of the path was broken by Kol’s raspy and humorous tone. The Ukrainian wiped one last drop of blood from his axe and glanced at his companions.

  — "Forget about me tomorrow," Kol joked, letting out a heavy sigh of exhaustion. — "It’s 12 on, 36 off, guys. My shift as an executioner is over. Only wake me up if the world ends again."

  Mika let out a short laugh, and even Henry allowed the corner of his lips to turn up beneath the blue mask. They had survived hell, and rest, though rare in that world of ashes, had finally been earned.

  End of Chapter