Chapter 01: Feast and Blood That wine cost five thousand dollars a bottle! Elios swirled the dark red liquid in the crystal glass he held, staring blankly, as if looking at sewage water. He rotated the glass slowly, letting the light from the gigantic chandelier on the Sky Deck Ballroom ceiling reflect off its surface. “Damn it,” he muttered softly, touching the small earpiece hidden in his right ear. “I could buy an entire orphanage in Sector 4 just with the money for one bottle of this crap. Target not sighted yet, Doc. Are you sure your intel is right?” “Patience, Elios. The distortion signal is there. Don’t drink the wine; it ruins your focus,” Doc’s voice crackled in his ear. Elios stood in the corner of the room, leaning against a sturdy pillar, trying to look inconspicuous amidst a sea of silk gowns, Armani tuxedos, and the grand robes of the Cardinals. Yet, Elios still looked like a vagrant who had wandered into the wrong event. His rented tuxedo was to

The dawn sun had not yet risen, but the Central Sanctum Veritatis Cathedral was already brightly lit, challenging the darkness with its own light pollution. The hundred-story building was a Neo-Gothic monster wrapped in fiber optic cables. Elios stood at the main gate. He had swapped his rented suit for his trusty worn leather jacket. His wound was crudely stitched and bandaged. "Access Confirmed. Welcome, Paladin Elios," the gate system announced as it scanned his retina. His priority access status bypassed the civilian-level weapon screening layers. The interior of the Cathedral resembled a tech corporation headquarters more than a house of worship. Cyborg monks hurried past with data tablets. Gargoyle statues had CCTV camera eyes. Elios had to surrender his firearms at the checkpoint. A special Paladin Protocol allowed for weapon storage, not total disarmament—a privilege held by only a handful of names. It still made him feel naked. However, he still kept a thi

The Trans-Continental train let out a long hiss, its metal screaming as if forced to stop by an invisible hand. Steel wheels screeched wildly before finally locking. Red emergency lights flickered, sweeping over the pale, sweat-streaked faces of the passengers. The car door opened with a violent jolt. Division IV Cleanup Teams entered in unison, black from helmet to boot, weapons raised, their movements fast and mechanical like a swarm of worker ants trained for only one purpose: clean up, eliminate, silence. Elios stepped down last. His leg was dragging, every step pulling pain he no longer cared about. His trousers were torn and wet with blood that was already turning black. His right hand was wrapped in a crude bandage, red stains seeping out, dripping onto the station floor. Several medics tried to approach, but he waved them off. He had to leave. Now. A Paladin Lieutenant blocked his path, his silver armor still clean, his face tense but obedient. "Age

Elios’s 1200 cc Cruiser engine roared harshly, shattering the dead silence at the Sector 4 Border. The sound was unnatural here, like a chainsaw cutting through the cold, toxic air. Ahead of him, the Quarantine Gate stood twenty meters tall. The razor-wire fence was layered with electrified steel armor, while automated guard towers on the left and right immediately locked onto the target. Machine gun barrels rotated, their optical systems aligning the crosshairs precisely on Elios’s head. The indicator lights turned red. But the shots never came. Someone stood right in the middle of the road, blocking the gate barrier. A woman. She wore a tight, pearl-white tactical bodysuit with gold accents, the official uniform of the Sanctum Division Intelligence. Over it, a long black trench coat billowed in the toxic Sector 4 wind. A short, silver-plated pistol was holstered low on her right thigh, more standard equipment than a primary weapon. Her black bob was precisely, geometri

The light was painful. White, sterile, and cold. Not a light that gave life, but one that stripped everything bare without empathy. Elios squinted as he stepped across the steel threshold. His pupils contracted fiercely, forced to adapt from the absolute darkness of the sewer to the nerve-piercing clinical brightness. For a moment, the world felt flat, like a black-and-white photo dragged into overexposure. His Shotgun lowered half an inch. His finger remained on the trigger guard. Reflexes didn't die just because a room looked clean. Behind him, Vera stopped moving. Not because she feared dirt. The smell of sewage was gone, replaced by the scent of old antiseptic and cold metal. A smell belonging only to hospitals and morgues. “This…” she whispered. Her voice was small, almost lost in the vastness of the room. They stood in a giant hall, three stories high, as wide as an aircraft hangar. The glossy white ceramic floor reflected their shadows cr