The next gate hissed open under the weight of its own warped servos. Caelin stepped through, Dareth's sword tight in his grip. The smell hit him first—burned ichor, scorched bone, and the fetid stench of ruptured demons. Then his eyes adjusted.
Piles. Mounds of corpses, from slithering lesser spawn to towering mid-tier fiends with blades for arms and skulls split clean through. Their twisted bodies were heaped like offerings before a silent altar, stacked so high they touched the flickering lumen-strips above. Some had been crushed, others torn apart—ripped limb from limb by something that hadn't used a weapon.
Caelin slowed his pace, every step measured. The ship trembled beneath his boots. At first a subtle vibration, then a full-bodied quake that rattled the broken metal underfoot. Bulkheads groaned in protest. Above him, he heard an enormous thrum ripple through the Sanctum Caligar's upper decks, followed by a distant roar—not the cry of a demon, but something worse.
He turned his gaze to the far end of the corridor. The demons had fled from something, and judging by the direction of the carnage, it was ahead. Whatever had cut through them hadn't done so for survival. It was hunting. Or worse—cleansing.
The Sanctum Caligar was not just compromised—it was infested. And now something immense was moving through its heart, tearing everything in its path.
Caelin pressed a hand to the blood-washed wall and carved a holy symbol—simple, quick, and imperfect. A prayer through action.
Then he stepped forward, toward the trembling decks and the slaughtered trail left behind.
Caelin moved with purpose, each footstep careful against the trembling floor beneath him. The scent of scorched ichor and smoldering bone thickened the deeper he pushed into the torn corridors. The emergency lumens flickered above—half the lights shattered, the rest bleeding red pulses into the dark like a heartbeat. Then he saw it.
The beast loomed at the end of the corridor, framed in the half-light, a monstrous silhouette hunched beneath the tangle of ruptured bulkheads. Its back rose and fell with slow, deliberate breaths—each exhale steaming in the cold, recycled air. It stood on two legs like a man, but that was where the resemblance ended. Its grey skin was mottled and thick like stone, corded with veins that pulsed faintly beneath the surface. Its eyes, stark white and pupil-less, glowed with something ancient and unyielding.
It turned slightly. Not to look at him, but to acknowledge his presence.
Caelin froze. There was no fear in him—only instinctual tension, like a blade held taut before the clash. His reforged armor bore fresh scratches already, his fingers tightening around Dareth's sword. But the creature did not attack.
Instead, it stepped over a mound of demon corpses—scores of them, cleaved and crushed, some missing limbs, others bearing gaping wounds large enough to have been made by hands. A mid-level demon still twitched beneath a massive heel until the beast crushed its skull underfoot with a wet crunch.
Then it spoke. Not in words, but in a low, guttural vibration that thrummed the walls. A language not built for human ears—raw, primal, more felt than heard. Caelin didn't flinch.
The beast studied him with eerie calm, its head tilting slightly. Then, in a sudden burst, it lunged—not at Caelin, but past him. A screech of metal echoed down the hall as fresh demons broke through a vent behind the Templari knight, and the beast tore into them like a hammer through glass. Limbs flew, bone snapped, and in seconds the corridor was silent again, the new attackers turned to pulp.
Caelin stepped forward slowly. The beast turned back toward him and snorted, thick breath misting the air. Then, strangely, it nodded.
"You're not with them," Caelin muttered, voice low.
The creature didn't respond, but it moved past him again, deeper into the inner sanctum—toward the Pontifex's chambers. Caelin followed.
Whatever this being was—barbarian, prisoner, monster—it killed demons. It carved a path through them like a reaper. And right now, Caelin could use a storm.
The beast moved with deliberate purpose, every footstep a thunderclap against the ruined deck plates. Caelin followed, sword held low, senses taut. Whatever this thing was, it hadn't turned on him. Not yet. And it was heading the same direction he was: the Pontifex's sanctum.
Golden filigree on the shattered walls marked the edge of the inner sanctity ring—a series of sealed gates and prayerwarded bulkheads that surrounded the Pope's private chambers. Here, no common footstep was ever meant to fall. Only the Holy Guard, the inner Curia, and the Pontifex himself had access. And Caelin, now, as the last hand of God in the chaos.
But silence reigned here. No prayers. No chants. No light save for the flicker of breach beacons. Not even bodies—just blood, seeping from under doors and pooling in long, slow trails toward the throne-room gate. The beast walked through the carnage like a creature returned home.
The two approached the final anointed gate. Its outer gold shell had been split—ripped by something with more strength than fury. Holy seals fluttered in ruined scraps, and sanctified glyphs had been smeared with ichor. Something unclean had been here. Caelin pressed a hand to the panel beside the gate. It sparked, failing to respond.
"Stand back," he murmured to the beast.
The creature growled low but obeyed.
With a heavy grunt, Caelin drove his armored boot through the emergency lock mechanism. Sparks flew. Gears screamed. Then, with a shuddering groan, the sanctum doors began to open—just enough for them to squeeze through the broken entry. The chamber beyond was dark. Holy statuary lay shattered. Candles burned low, casting long shadows over frescoed walls. The golden throne at the center stood empty—its silk seat soaked in blood.
And beside it—movement. Caelin raised his sword instantly. But it wasn't a demon.
It was one of the Pontifex's lower guards. His white robes were soaked crimson. He crawled, half-conscious, toward Caelin, leaving a glistening trail.
"F-Forsaken…" he rasped, eyes wide in horror. "They… they took him. The Pontifex. Dragged into the vault… the vault beneath…"
Then he went still.
The beast behind Caelin let out a slow exhale. Its glowing eyes turned toward the vault doors at the rear of the chamber—sealed by divine key, untouched for centuries. Until now. Caelin narrowed his gaze.
"Then we go deeper."
Caelin stepped past the dead guard and approached the vault doors, the weight of ancient sanctity pressing down like a second gravity. These gates had not opened in centuries—adorned with sigils from ages long past, forged in metals blessed before the last Crusade even began.
Blood stained the threshold.
The doors were half-opened. Not from force. From within.
The vault was ajar.
Beyond lay darkness.
Caelin stepped through. The beast followed.
They entered a vast, sanctified chamber carved from starborn stone. The temperature dropped. Moisture clung to the breath. The air tasted like old prayers and older bones.
Rows of golden sarcophagi lined the walls—ivory-faced lids carved in the likeness of each Pontifex who had passed. Their names, etched in High Canticle. Atop some caskets, weapons lay still: swords with burning inscriptions, hammers carved from meteorite, helms that had been worn at the Battle of Cindrael, the Siege of Black Solace, the Fall of the Leviathan Moon.
This was the holiest place aboard the Sanctum Caligar. And it reeked of demon. Far at the end of the burial vault, the ground dropped away. The central lift, once used to lower the dead and raise relics, was frozen in place hundreds of feet below. The chain mechanisms had been torn or rusted through, and the shaft descended into darkness—a black pit ringed by stone and scripture. Caelin stepped to the edge.
"Elevator's gone."
The beast grunted beside him, its chest rising slowly. Caelin looked up at it, then back down.
"Guess that only leaves one way."
The beast didn't answer. It stepped forward, grabbed the frayed edge of a torn guide chain, and with impossible ease began to climb down the wall like it had done it before.
Caelin sheathed his sword and took a breath. His ribs still ached from where the last demon had impaled him, and dried blood clung to his face and armor. But there was no time for hesitation. He took three steps back. Then ran.
And leapt. The descent was like falling into the arms of martyrdom. Scripture blurred past. Faint glows from ancient relic-warding glyphs lit the shaft in pulses of gold and violet. His stomach turned. Wind tore past his ears. Somewhere far below, the beast reached the next level down and looked up. Caelin's boots slammed into the lift's collapsed base, knees bending to absorb the shock. The metal groaned beneath him, then held. He exhaled hard, the pain shooting up his legs.
The beast offered no comment. It turned toward the next tunnel, where red light now flickered. Unnatural. Pulsing. Demonic.
From somewhere ahead, deeper in the Pope's reliquary vaults, came the echo of a voice. A whisper. A chant. The Pontifex, or something wearing his voice. Caelin reached for his blade.
The tunnel narrowed, then opened like a gaping wound into the sanctum below.
Relics lined the blackstone walls—cruciform blades in golden glass, banners of sainted martyrs, codices of war and revelation. But they had been defiled. Icons were turned upside down, holy water basins shattered. Scripture had been overwritten by foul symbols. The air buzzed with warped prayer.
And then they saw it. The Pontifex Caelestis XXIV knelt in the center of a massive blood-drawn sigil—its lines precise, ancient, and blasphemous. Sprawled across the floor like a spider's web, the ritual symbol throbbed as if alive. It had been painted with blood, not all of it human.
The Pontifex's robe was torn at the shoulders, stained with old sweat and crimson handprints. But his eyes remained closed, mouth moving in solemn Latin—Pater noster, qui es in caelis...
Eight demons circled him, kneeling, their grotesque frames mirroring the Pope's posture mockingly. They too prayed—but not to Christ. Their tongues writhed with forgotten languages. They chanted toward the dark. Toward something deeper. Older.
Tartarus stirred beneath the ship. One of them hissed and placed another line of blood upon the circle. The ritual neared completion.
The Pontifex's voice did not waver. Caelin moved silently into the chamber, his sword drawn. Behemoth lumbered behind him, steps slow but deliberate, his breath low and guttural like thunder beneath the floor.
At that moment, the Pontifex opened his eyes. He looked up—and saw Behemoth.
The prayer faltered.
"...no," the Pope whispered, stunned. "You. It's you...Behemoth."
The demons turned in unison, their voices halting. Eyes—black, violet, ember-red—locked onto the intruders. One let out a chittering croak. Another rose to its full, jagged height and bared fangs dripping with steaming saliva.
"You weren't meant to be free," the Pontifex muttered, eyes still on the beast. "You were... a specimen. For codex and study. Not for war."
Behemoth said nothing. Caelin stepped beside the ritual circle, sword low, his voice grim. "What is this?"
The Pontifex tried to rise, but the bloodline held him like a chain. "They intend to sacrifice me—my blood, my soul—as a vessel. A gate."
"To what?"
One of the demons laughed. Its voice sounded like snapping bones.
"To summon Karaziel," it rasped. "Not reborn... but released. Torn from Tartarus by your own sacred hand."
Caelin's eyes narrowed. "He's dead. I killed him."
"Only his flesh," said another. "But his soul sank into the deep, with the Watchers. This one," it gestured to the Pontifex, "is the key to pull him back."
The chamber rumbled. The glyph pulsed faster. Behemoth growled low. Caelin raised his sword.
"You won't finish this."
The demons rose from their kneeling positions, shrieking in a hundred dialects at once. The ritual circle ignited in bloodfire, casting eerie shadows that danced like spirits of the damned. Eight mid-level demons surged forward. The battle for the Pontifex had begun.