The Behemoth's massive frame moved with surprising gentleness as it reached toward the Pontifex. Its long grey arms lifted the old man from the heart of the symbol, the white robes of office stained red. Caelin stood tense, sword held low but ready.
The moment the Pope's body was lifted from the circle, the blood-red lines began to glow brighter—pulsing like a heartbeat.
"No," the Pontifex muttered, reaching toward the sigil. "The blood of eight—eight mid-levels… it's enough…"
"To summon what?" Caelin asked, stepping toward him, eyes narrowing.
The symbol flared with violent light. That's when the chittering began.
The air inside the vault thickened, and from the lines of the sacrificial sigil, shadows bled into form. Dozens—no, hundreds—of minor demons began to claw their way into the chamber, pulled from the outer dark like rats swarming from flame-lit cracks. Behemoth snarled, shielding the Pope behind its frame as Caelin stepped forward, sword raised.
"These are just the beginnings," the Pontifex warned. "It's not over. Not yet."
"I know," Caelin said, spinning his blade in hand, face grim. "The gate's still open."
One of the lesser fiends—a twisted, bat-faced thing with too many limbs—lunged first. Caelin split it midair, then turned into the next, his foot crushing its spine as he shoved forward into the swarm.
The vault became a killing field again—though this time, not just to purge the desecrators, but to hold the line. The very walls seemed to scream.
And beneath the screams, a new sound rose. Something deeper, something coming.
From within the symbol, the blood began to rise—not evaporate, but lift—forming into a suspended spiral of hovering droplets, spinning and congealing midair.
Caelin looked up just in time to see a shape beginning to manifest. Not just another demon. A new presence. Taller than the rest. Ancient. The summoning was not yet complete. And they had moments left.
As the blood spiral spun tighter and darker above the sigil, Pontifex Caelestis XXIV rose to his feet with the aid of Behemoth's hand. Though shaken, he stood with the dignity of one born to the throne of God's vicar. With one bloodstained hand, he reached beneath his robe and activated the comm-broach affixed to his chest.
"This is the Pontifex," he rasped. "To the Custodes Caelestis—activate the Jerusalem Bell. Authorization: Vox Sancta. Now."
There was a moment of static. Then a low chime.
"Acknowledged, Holiness. May it toll death to the damned."
The comm went silent. Caelin turned his head as the air shifted again. A sound like grinding brass echoed from deep within the ship. Then— a note.
One pure, low, thunderous tone. It rolled through the decks like a wave of sacred fire, vibrating through the bones of all who stood in its path. As it resonated, the vault's stone groaned, and a wind whipped through from no source—carrying no scent but iron and incense.
Then, the effect took hold. The minor demons froze mid-charge, writhing and shrieking as their forms began to dissolve. Holy fire laced with relic-prayer engulfed them—banishing their shrieking spirits back to the dark. One by one, they disintegrated in radiant agony, leaving only the scorched sigil behind.
But the summoning continued. The blood spiral no longer fed on their presence. It was fed by the blood that had been given—eight mid-level demons, sacrificed.
"It's not enough," Caelin growled, stepping beside the Pontifex. "That bell doesn't touch what's still coming."
"No," Caelestis said grimly. "It was never meant to. It is a mercy for the lesser... but not for what waits beyond."
Behemoth roared, its chest puffing with battle-rage as it faced the forming vortex above. The blood spiral had now become a shape, faintly humanoid. Twisting horns. Wings of bone and membrane. Eyes still closed—but vast.
The Pontifex whispered, "A Principality… or worse."
Caelin spat blood from his cracked lip, and raised his sword once more.
"Then we kill it before it wakes."
Under the fading echo of the Jerusalem Bell, the air still thrummed with holy resonance. Its chime—blessed by millennia of faith—had vaporized the horde of lesser demons, burning their forms to ash and leaving the sanctum floor blackened and steaming. But at the center of the ruined summoning circle, the blood remained.
It didn't drip or pool anymore—it spun.
A spiral of gore, thick and living, coiled tighter and tighter like a vortex in the fabric of the world. The lines glistened, shimmering with a hellish intelligence. And then the spiral lashed outward—a storm of blood-whips, hundreds of them, writhing and cracking like serpents born of slaughter.
Caelin dove to shield the Pontifex, barely ducking beneath one that carved a trench into the marble wall. Behemoth stepped in, broad and unmoving, a walking citadel. The tendrils struck him—hard. Slashes split open his grey flesh, steam rising from the wounds, but he did not yield. He roared—a thunderous, bestial challenge.
From within the spiral, a hand emerged.
It was not clawed, but regal—dark as obsidian, lined with molten symbols that flickered with curses older than human memory. Shackles, etched in the sigils of fallen cities and long-dead prophets, broke open as the arm pushed forward. A shoulder. A crown of blackened horns. A face chiseled with cruel divinity.
Baal.
Not a name whispered, but a title thundered. A memory of genocide. An echo of burning altars. His arrival was not heralded by flame or fury, but by the sheer weight of his presence—a crushing pressure that bent light and reason.
The Pope gasped, staggering despite himself. "By the blood… Baal."
Behemoth stood between Caelin and the encroaching high demon, his white eyes fixed on the intruder. He grunted once—like recognition—and flexed his clawed hands.
Caelin gritted his teeth, blood still dripping from the slash across his brow. "The Bell held back the tide…"
The Pope finished the thought: "But it could not stop a prince."
Caelin stepped forward. Dareth's reforged blade shimmered in his grip. "Then I'll send him screaming back to Tartarus."
Baal's lips curled in a sneer. His voice, when it came, was a thing of oil and thunder.
"Mortal child. You slew my brother… You think you walk with fire now? I am fire. I am the breath that drowned Carthage. The feast at Megiddo. I am Baal—first tongue of Moloch."
The name echoed like scripture through a tomb.
Baal's form finished manifesting—an imposing mountain of ritualistic muscle and rune-scored armor that smoked with every movement. His horns glowed like molten iron, curved back like a twisted crown. His feet, hooved and fire-marked, cracked the floor beneath him with every step forward. His eyes—twin voids of ash and light—swept across the trio as if appraising livestock.
Behemoth charged first, reckless and primal. His footsteps shattered relics and disturbed centuries of dust from the vault's sacred alcoves. With a furious roar, he lunged and struck with the force of an avalanche.
Baal didn't move.
He caught the blow, barehanded—Behemoth's great arm trembling in his grasp. The demon's muscles didn't strain, didn't flinch. Then, slowly, he crushed Behemoth's wrist until bones split through grey flesh. A bellow of pain filled the sanctum.
Caelin came from the flank, Dareth's blade arcing in a perfect upward cleave. The steel met Baal's side—
—and rebounded.
The sword sparked against the demon's skin like it struck a fortress wall. No blood. Not even a scratch. Baal turned, eyes locking onto Caelin with disdain.
"You carry the sword of a martyr, not a king."
He backhanded Caelin, and the force sent him flying. He crashed through a golden reliquary, breaking ancient sanctified armor beneath his body, ribs cracking on impact. The Pontifex shouted, trying to rise, but blood still dripped from his neck. Behemoth, refusing to yield, roared again and charged anew, even with his arm mangled.
Baal answered with a surge of hellish strength. He lunged—faster than anything that large should be—and struck Behemoth in the gut with his fist. The blow lifted the beast off the ground, drove him back into an ivory sarcophagus, and shattered it like porcelain. Dust and bone sprayed the chamber as the remains of a long-dead Pope spilled into the air.
Caelin staggered to his feet, wiping blood from his temple. His blade was still in his hand—but the hopelessness had crept in. Baal could not be harmed. Not by their strength. Not by mortal steel. Behemoth tried to rise. Baal stomped his leg, breaking it with a sickening crack, pinning him like prey.
"This is your champion, Pontifex?" Baal's voice was silk and steel. "This is your flame against the night? You cannot even protect your relics. Your house is ashes."
Caelin limped forward, shoulders shaking—not from fear, but fury. He looked at the fallen Behemoth, the bleeding Pope, and the mocking demon towering before them.
But he didn't retreat. He raised his sword again, and Baal only laughed.
As Baal's massive form loomed, his blood-red eyes burning with malevolent fury, Caelin and Behemoth strained against the onslaught. Each blow they landed was met with devastating retaliation, the demon's strength seemingly endless.
The Pontifex, still kneeling but steady, spoke with grave certainty.
"This... this is Baal," Caelestis XXIV said, voice firm despite exhaustion. "The very Baal Elijah faced on Mount Carmel—the god the priests called upon in vain."
Caelin's breath caught. The ancient name carried a terrible weight.
"Elijah challenged Baal's prophets to a trial—fire from heaven, a test of true divine power." The Pope's eyes hardened. "The priests of Baal cried out for their god, but he remained silent—offering only deception and falsehood."
Baal's cruel laughter rang out, as if mocking the memory.
"But Elijah's God answered, not with mere fire," Caelestis continued, "but with undeniable truth. Baal is no god—only a demon, a deceiver."
Behemoth roared, surging forward with renewed fury, driving Baal back for a moment.
"We face the same ancient lie now," the Pontifex said, voice rising. "And we will endure as Elijah did—through faith and unyielding courage."
The ground shook beneath their feet, the ship trembling as the battle raged, but the Pope's words kindled hope amid the carnage.
The battle against Baal was relentless, each strike shaking the very foundations of the Sanctum Caligar. Caelin's breath was ragged, Behemoth's movements growing slower under the demon's crushing power.
The Pontifex's voice cut through the chaos. "Elijah did not rely on swords or fire alone. He called upon water, and a sacred altar to prove the truth."
Caelin's eyes scanned the chamber. Near the blood-drawn symbol lay ornate sarcophagi—ivory and gold relics of past Pontifexes. They could be the altar.
"There's water, beneath the floor," the Pope continued. "Demons have blocked its flow, but if released, it will sanctify the altar and reveal Baal's falsehood."
Without hesitation, Caelin and Behemoth moved to clear the blockage. The chains of dark magic woven into the pipes resisted fiercely.
As the water surged free and began flooding the chamber, Baal's blood-whip spirals lashed out wildly, thrashing in fury.
"You shall not defile me!" Baal roared, charging toward the Pope and Caelin with terrifying speed.
Behemoth stepped forward, muscles coiled like iron cables, to intercept the demon's furious assault. The massive beast bore the brunt of Baal's blows, trading thunderous punches with the ancient entity, buying precious moments.
Caelin joined the fray, using every ounce of his training to keep Baal's attention divided, dodging and striking, but careful not to break from the ritual's progress.
Meanwhile, the Pontifex raised his voice in prayer, his hands moving in precise liturgical gestures, focusing divine energy on the sarcophagus-altar as the water pooled deeper around their feet.
But the ancient rite demanded more — a willing sacrifice, blood willingly spilled, to sanctify the altar and call down the purifying flame.
The Pontifex met Caelin's eyes. "One must give themselves. Without sacrifice, this holy fire will not descend."
Caelin's heart thundered. Behemoth shifted beside him, awaiting his command.
The Pontifex lifted his own hand, veins visible on his pale skin. "I will stand as the sacrifice. The flame will purify Baal… but my life will be forfeit."
"No," Caelin said fiercely. "You are needed."
Before the Pontifex could reply, Behemoth let out a guttural roar and stepped forward, placing one massive hand on the Pontifex's shoulder.
"Behemoth," the Pontifex said softly. "You have already given much."
The beast bared its teeth but bowed its great head in acceptance.
Caelin clenched his fists. "I'll do it."
"No," the Pontifex said again, voice steady. "I believe this calls for a sacrifice of faith and flesh, one who holds the divine covenant. The Pontifex must remain."
A tense silence hung heavy, broken only by Baal's furious growls. Finally, with a solemn nod, the Pontifex knelt upon the altar, pressing his hands to the cold stone.
The chamber filled with an unearthly glow as the Pontifex began to chant in the ancient tongue.
A pillar of brilliant flame erupted from the altar, bathing Baal in holy fire. The demon screamed, the infernal agony ripping through his dark form as the sacred blaze purged the corruption.
As Baal writhed, his blood spirals unraveling, the Pontifex's body weakened, his breath growing shallow. Caelin and Behemoth kept the demon at bay, their strength faltering as the ritual reached its climax.
With a final, terrible roar, Baal's form dissolved into nothingness, leaving only silence and the faint scent of burnt ozone. The Pontifex slumped forward, his sacrifice complete.
The chamber fell into utter silence.
No tremor shook the floor. No demon howled in agony. No blood screamed from the walls. The spiral of crimson that had once lashed at the air was now a scorched stain on the relic vault's floor.
The flames slowly receded, leaving only charred stone and the faint golden shimmer of sanctified air.
Behemoth stood motionless, chest heaving, its massive shoulders slumped in silent reverence. Caelin knelt at the edge of the sarcophagus, eyes fixed on the figure slumped atop it.
Pontifex Caelestis XXIV lay still. His ornate white robes, once immaculate, were now scorched and blackened at the edges, his mitre having slipped from his head and floated in the pooling water beside the altar. His breath was gone.
All across the Sanctum Caligar, the demons ceased.
Every infestation. Every corrupted hall. Every prowling fiend from the lesser circles shrieked once, and then died, their forms burned from within as the ancient consecration rippled through the hull like a silent storm.
For the first time in hours—perhaps days—the ship was quiet.
Then, with a sharp crackle, the Pontifex's vox-link, embedded beneath his robes, came to life.
"Pontifex Caelestis? This is Commander Vaelus of the Guard. The ship's systems show all demonic lifeforms purged. I repeat—all demonic signatures have vanished. Please respond."
Caelin rose slowly, moving to the Pontifex's body. With careful reverence, he activated the comm on the High Shepherd's collar.
His voice was hoarse, low, but steady.
"This is the Forsaken Caelin," he said. "The Pontifex... is dead. He gave his life to destroy Baal, the First Tongue of Moloch. The vault is secure. The ship is safe."
Static.
Then: "…Repeat that last transmission."
"He is dead," Caelin said again, firmer now. "He offered himself in sacrifice. The relic sarcophagus was used as the altar. It called down holy flame. Baal is gone."
The silence on the line stretched long. Then came Commander Vaelus again, but his voice now trembled with disbelief.
"No. No, that can't be. The Pontifex—he was chosen. He bore the Signet. He—he cannot just be dead."
Another voice in the background: "Check again. Scan the chamber. Look for vitals, any—any trace of him. This must be a mistake."
Caelin said nothing. He simply turned his eyes back to the Pontifex's body, then to the golden water still flowing like tears across the floor. There was no deception here. No mistake. Only finality. After a moment, Vaelus's voice returned. Low. Broken.
"Understood, Forsaken. Retrieval teams are en route. We… we will confirm." A pause. "Hold your position. And… may the saints receive him."
Caelin deactivated the comm. He looked back toward the scorched remnants of Baal's defeat—the water still flowing quietly, whispering over stone as though mourning the cost of salvation.
He turned to Behemoth, who met his gaze with its glowing white eyes and gave a slow, solemn nod. No words passed between them. They had stood before an ancient demon, and they had survived.
But at a cost.