novelraw Chapter 199 – Purge
Chapter 199 – Purge
It was easy.
Too easy.
Was this the power of a champion? Was this what it meant to be chosen?
How did he compare to the others? To the ones who bore the weight of divine favor before him?
Caelum carried his mother’s limp body through the quiet village streets, the weight of her in his arms both unbearably heavy and far too light. He had expected to feel numb, for shock to drown out the world, but instead, he felt everything. Every breath of wind, every creak of wood, the distant murmur of waking birds. His senses, his body—everything thrummed with energy, touched by divinity, touched by her.
It hadn’t sunk in yet. None of it had.
Before, he had been powerless. Before, he had wanted to run, knowing he lacked the strength to save the village.
But now? Now, he had the power to act.
He would bury his mother tomorrow.
Tonight, there was a church to purge.
The villagers might scorn him for it. They might cast him out, brand him a heretic, a murderer.
So be it.
Better that than to let them remain blind, to let them be led to slaughter by those who pretended to be their saviors.
He laid his mother down gently on her bed, smoothing her hair from her face. The lines of pain were gone now. She almost looked peaceful. Almost.
He stood. Set his jaw. Dropped his pack by the door and stepped out into the pre-dawn dark.
The church stood at the heart of the village, silent and still. But he wasn’t the only one walking its way.
A lone figure strode ahead of him, moving with purpose.
Plate armor.
The emblem of Praxus gleamed on her back.
She heard him approaching and turned.
Makiva.
"Makiva," he greeted curtly.
Her expression was as stern as ever, as unyielding as the steel she wore. "That’s Paladin Makiva to you, apprentice."
He stopped a few paces away. "No. No, it isn’t," he said, his voice firm, final.
Her brow furrowed. "Giving up already?" There was challenge in her tone, in the way her eyes bored into him. "Are you that weak?"
Caelum huffed a humorless laugh. "Perhaps."
He took another step forward, close enough now to see the way the lamplight glinted off the edges of her armor. Close enough to see her flinch.
"I do have a question, though."
Makiva narrowed her eyes. "What?"
Caelum didn't blink. Didn't falter.
"Do you know what’s under the church?"
A slight shift in her stance. So subtle, so practiced, but he saw it.
He felt it.
A fraction of tension in her shoulders. A flicker of a reaction too fast to catch—unless, of course, you had the sight of a champion.
It was an answer in itself.
Makiva’s lips pressed into a thin line. "Asking stupid questions, are we?"
"Answer."
Another shift. Her weight adjusting ever so slightly. Not yet reaching for her weapon, but preparing to.
She held his gaze. "Rooms for the clergy to sleep in, as well as storage," she said evenly. "What is with this pointless questioning?"
A lie.
Not in the words themselves, but in how she said them.
He stepped closer, his voice low, steady. “And what, Paladin Makiva, is under that?”
Her answer came in steel.
In a blur of movement, she drew her sword and swung for his head.
Caelum barely had time to react, ducking back just in time to feel the rush of air as the blade sliced through the space where his skull had been. The sound of metal cutting through air was sharp, precise—practiced.
He landed lightly, brandishing his own weapon as he eyed her warily.
“You know,” he said, tone almost conversational, “I really hate the sword. It’s hard to maintain, and it does poorly against plate armor.”
Makiva did not respond. She moved.
A feint to the left—quick, deceptive—then a sudden pivot as she pulled back, ramming her shoulder into his chest.
Caelum saw it coming, braced for the impact, but still—she was strong.
The force of the blow sent him skidding back, boots scraping against the dirt. She was already in motion again, bringing her sword down in a vicious arc, aiming for his head.
He shifted. Twisted to the side—just enough.
His hand shot out, catching her wrist mid-swing. He clenched, twisted.
Makiva grunted, her grip on the sword breaking as she was forced to let go. The weapon tumbled from her grasp, embedding itself in the ground between them.
"Evil!" Caelum snarled, his voice raw, furious. "What you've done to the villagers is horrible!"
With a sharp pivot, he used her own momentum against her, pulling her forward and slamming her into the ground.
But she was a warrior. A paladin.
She rolled into the fall, tucking her body expertly, recovering faster than he expected.
By the time she rose, golden light flickered around her hands—an augment.
"You are too soft," she spat. "I thought I would be able to beat that out of you."
Then she lunged.
A punch, faster than anything she had thrown before. Too fast.
Caelum barely had time to react before the blow connected, slamming into the plate over his torso.
Denting it instantly.
The force rattled through him, driving the air from his lungs, sending him stumbling back, off-balance—
Makiva was already moving again.
Before he could press his advantage, she twisted around him, her movements fluid despite the damage she'd taken. Her fingers closed around the hilt of her fallen sword, and in one swift motion, she brought it up to block as Caelum’s own blade whistled through the air toward her.
Steel met steel with a sharp clang, sparks flying as she redirected his strike. Her counterattack was immediate—a sharp downward slash aimed for his collar.
Caelum reacted on instinct.
He caught her wrist again, his grip like iron. With a sharp yank, he pulled her forward, using her own momentum against her.
Makiva stumbled—just enough.
Before she could recover, he drove his knee up into her sternum with brutal force.
A choked gasp burst from her lips as the breath was knocked from her lungs. Her body jolted with the impact, armor doing little to cushion the blow. He punched her face, ner nose spray with blood, then he butted his head against hers, sending the veteran paladin reeling.
His blade sung through the air, faster than older woman could even react.
Makiva’s sword clattered to the ground. Her hands flew to her throat, gloved fingers pressing desperately against the deep gash. Blood welled between them, spilling in thick rivulets down her armor, staining the pristine steel with deep crimson.
She staggered, legs trembling beneath her, her breath coming in wet, ragged gasps. Her lips parted as if to speak, but all that escaped was a garbled, choking sound.
Caelum exhaled slowly, his grip tightening around his sword.
“I didn’t want to kill you, Makiva.” His voice was steady, but his words carried weight. Regret? Maybe. Or just the bitterness of broken illusions. “I wanted to believe there was some good in the church. That you might have been better.”
His dark eyes met hers, unwavering.
“I am disappointed.”
Makiva’s knees buckled, but she forced herself upright, blood smearing across her armor as she struggled to keep hold of herself. Her jaw clenched, her eyes burning—not with defiance, but confusion.
“How?” she gurgled, blood bubbling at her lips. “How did you—”
She coughed, her body convulsing from the effort. Her gaze searched his face, desperate, pleading for an answer.
Caelum stared down at her, expression unreadable. He could have told her. Could have let her die knowing how he’d surpassed her.
But she didn’t deserve that.
“You know what?” he said coolly. “You don’t deserve to know. Not after everything.”
Makiva swayed, her strength failing her at last. The light in her eyes flickered, then faded.
Her body lay cooling in the streets behind him, bathed in the soft light of dawn. The village was stirring, the first hints of morning creeping over the horizon, rousing what little life was left here. Caelum stood over her corpse for only a moment longer, his breath slow and measured, before turning away.
There was no point in lingering. No point in mourning.
Not yet.
Makiva would be found soon enough. Someone—perhaps an early riser on their way to draw water, perhaps a child chasing the first rays of morning—would stumble upon her lifeless body. Her blood would stain the dirt, and word would spread like wildfire. That was inevitable.
He needed to move before then.
The church was his next target. He had always known that, even before his hands had been stained with Makiva’s blood. That place was the root of it all—the rot that had poisoned this village, the institution that had stood by and allowed their corruption to fester. It had to be dealt with.
But that did not mean slaughtering everyone.
Caelum believed that not all within the church were complicit in its crimes. There were those who had no idea, those who followed blindly, believing in the righteousness of their faith without ever questioning what lay beneath it.
He would not punish ignorance.
But those who knew?
Those who had seen and still participated?
They would be shown no mercy.
As he approached the church doors, he could hear voices inside—soft, murmuring, waiting. He pushed the heavy wooden doors open, stepping inside, his boots thudding against the stone floor. The gathered acolytes turned to him immediately, confusion flashing across their faces.
They had been expecting Polana.
She would never come.
The air inside was still heavy with incense, the scent clinging to the walls, as if trying to mask the stench of what had been done beneath this very floor. Morning light filtered through the stained-glass windows, casting fractured colors across the polished stone. It was quiet—too quiet, save for the occasional shuffling of robes, the uncertain movements of those waiting for the morning prayers to begin.
Caelum strode forward without hesitation, his boots echoing in the silence as he climbed the steps to the podium. It was an odd thing, standing there. He had always seen Polana address the congregation from this very spot, her voice steady, commanding, speaking of faith, duty, and sacrifice.
How hollow her words had been.
He placed his hands on the podium, fingers gripping the edges, and surveyed the room. Acolytes—young, old, men, women—stared at him, waiting, their expressions ranging from curiosity to confusion.
He took a breath.
“Hello,” he said, voice steady. “I am Caelum, Makiva’s apprentice.”
That alone caught their attention. He had never addressed them before. He had always stood behind Makiva, always been just another figure in the background, training, learning, preparing.
No longer.
“I bring tragic news.” His voice did not waver. “Makiva, Hart, and Polana are dead.”
A gasp rippled through the room. Whispers followed—some sharp and immediate, others hushed and fearful. He saw the way some of them straightened, hands twitching toward weapons they did not carry in this holy place. Others simply looked stricken.
But he didn’t stop.
“The enemy found out about the experiments,” he continued, letting the words settle over them, “and went on a slaughter.”
Technically true.
The murmuring grew louder. Some of them glanced at each other, eyes wide, uncertain. Others lowered their heads, as if in silent mourning.
Then, carefully, he raised a hand and pointed to a section of the church.
“All who know,” he said, his voice cutting through the whispers, “please go wait there.”
There was no immediate movement.
Then, slowly, a few figures stood up. Then more, then more. Half the acolytes stood up and left for the tunnels under the church. He would meet them soon.
They did not speak. They did not protest. They simply obeyed.
The ones who knew.
Caelum watched them carefully, noting every face, every step. Some looked resigned. Some looked fearful. A few—the truly guilty—looked defiant, but they did not dare speak against him.
He had expected more resistance.
But perhaps they had expected this day to come.
That left the others.
Those who remained standing in place, eyes filled with confusion, with uncertainty. They did not know.
He had suspected as much.
He turned his attention back to them. “The rest of you will be converted,” he said.
More confusion. Some of them looked at each other, murmuring, but none dared to speak up.
Then, finally, a voice.
“What does that mean?”
A young woman, no older than nineteen, stepped forward, her brow furrowed. Caelum recognized her vaguely—one of the newer acolytes, a diligent student who had always been eager to please. She had a sharp gaze, a mind that seemed to grasp the weight of things quicker than most. And yet, she looked at him not with fear, but with wariness, her hands tightening into fists at her sides.
Caelum met her gaze, unflinching.
“You will find out soon enough,” he said, his voice even, his expression set in stone. They would know the truth. One way or another. His fingers curled slightly at his sides, his mind already focused on what was to come. “Stay here until I get back.”
The acolytes exchanged uncertain glances, their murmurs barely audible in the grand space of the church. The rising dawn cast long shadows across the stone floor, stretching toward the pews, the altar, the high-arched ceiling where golden murals depicted their faith in radiant color. It was a beautiful place. A sacred one.
And yet, beneath its foundation, something rotted.
More than half the acolytes were complicit. That much, he knew. It made his blood simmer with quiet rage, his grip on his sword tightening as he turned on his heel. He had spoken to many of them over the past month, exchanged words, broken bread. He had even called a few of them friends.
But no friendship could excuse what had been done here.
He moved with purpose, stepping off the pulpit, past the assembled acolytes who watched him with a mix of confusion and unease. Their whispers followed him as he made his way through the side hall, down the corridor where the storage rooms lay in quiet gloom. The air was stale here, untouched by the incense and candle smoke of the main hall.
At the end of the corridor, the storeroom door stood slightly ajar.
He pushed inside, the scent of dried parchment, oil, and old wood filling his senses. Against the far wall, crates were stacked haphazardly, sacks of grain pushed aside to reveal the thing he was looking for—a heavy trapdoor, its iron handle gleaming faintly in the dim light.
He crouched, grasping the handle and pulling it open. The creak of rusted hinges echoed in the silence. Below, a narrow staircase descended into darkness. He slipped inside, his boots making little sound against the stone steps as he shut the trapdoor behind him.
The underground chamber was dimly lit by a few flickering lanterns affixed to the walls. The air was different here—thicker, damp with the scent of metal, old blood, and something acrid that clung to the back of his throat. The room stretched wide, lined with wooden shelves and iron racks filled with devices of cruelty—tools meant not for healing, but for harm. Chains hung from hooks on the walls. A table in the center bore fresh stains, its surface marred with deep grooves, as if something had struggled there recently.
They were waiting for him.
A dozen of them, gathered in the space. They looked up as he entered, some with curiosity, others with thinly veiled suspicion. These were not the wide-eyed, hopeful devotees of the faith that knelt in the church above. These were the ones who had known.
Dunal, one of the older ones, pushed off the table where he had been leaning, his sharp eyes narrowing at Caelum’s approach. His arms were crossed over his chest, his stance one of forced ease, though there was tension in his posture.
“What’s going on?” Dunal asked, his voice steady but edged with unease. “Is Polana and the Paladins really dead?”
Caelum didn’t hesitate.
“Yes,” he said, his voice cutting through the quiet like a blade. He let the words settle, watching the ripple of shock pass through the group before he reached for his sword. The metal whispered against the sheath as he drew it, its edge still dark with blood.
“I killed them myself.”
When the purge was complete, Caelum ascended the narrow stone steps back to the surface, the scent of blood still clinging to his skin like an unwelcome shadow. The weight of what he had done sat heavy on his shoulders, but he did not waver. There was no room for doubt now—only what came next.
As he pushed open the trapdoor and stepped back into the storeroom, he let out a slow, measured breath. The air felt different here—cleaner, untouched by the horrors below. But it wouldn’t stay that way for long.
He steadied himself before exiting into the hallway and making his way back to the main chamber of the church. The remaining acolytes were still there, though they shifted uneasily, their expressions lined with nervous anticipation. Some sat on the pews, whispering among themselves, while others stood rigidly, watching the doorway as if expecting Polana or Makiva to step through it at any moment.
But they would never come.
Caelum walked with purpose, his boots echoing against the polished stone floor as he made his way back to the podium. The golden murals above gleamed with the light of the rising sun, casting an almost ethereal glow across the room. It was ironic, really—this place of supposed holiness, this beacon of faith, was built on something far darker than any of them had ever imagined.
He stepped up to the podium, gripping the edges firmly, and let his gaze sweep across the room.
“Everyone who is left,” he began, his voice strong and unwavering, “I will offer you two choices.”
The murmurs died down, and all eyes turned to him.
“Leave, and live in ignorance. Or stay, and have your faith shaken.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and absolute. A silence settled over the acolytes as they glanced at one another, uncertainty written on their faces. But no one moved.
Caelum inhaled. Then, with the same conviction, he said, “I killed the Paladins and Polana.”
The reaction was immediate. Gasps of horror filled the chamber, followed by shouts of disbelief, cries for justice. A few acolytes stepped forward, their faces twisted in outrage, their hands balled into fists.
“QUIET.”
His voice thundered through the chamber, slamming into them with the force of a storm. It was not a request. It was a command.
The church fell into silence.
He let the quiet stretch, his eyes scanning the crowd. Some still looked at him with shock, with anger, but others… others were beginning to see something else. Doubt. Fear. The seeds of truth taking root.
“Have you not noticed the villagers going missing?” he continued, his tone controlled but forceful. “Have you not wondered where they went?”
He exhaled slowly, steadying himself for what came next. He really didn’t want to do this.
“Beneath this church,” he said, his voice softer now but no less cutting, “there are tunnels. And beneath those tunnels—there is something else.”
A few acolytes exchanged uneasy glances, but no one spoke.
“In those accursed halls are the missing people,” he continued. “Or rather, what became of them.”
He let the words sink in before delivering the final blow.
“The church has been turning villagers into aetherbeasts. And they were planning on converting the rest soon.”
A sharp intake of breath rippled through the crowd, followed by a voice that rang out in defiance.
“Lies!”
Caelum’s gaze snapped to the man who had spoken.
Acolyte Gareth. He should have expected this—Gareth had always been one of the more devout, a staunch believer in the church’s teachings. His face was red with fury, his fists clenched as he took a step forward.
Caelum did not flinch.
“If you want proof,” he said, his voice cold and cutting, “go down there yourself.”
His hand tightened on the podium.
“There are over a dozen cages,” he continued, his words like steel, “and in them are twisted creatures that resemble the people who live here. People you have known. People you have spoken to.”
His voice grew quiet, yet it carried through the chamber like a blade slicing through cloth.
“Including my father.”
The room was deathly silent.
“When I found out, I ran.”
Caelum’s voice was steady, but the weight of the past pressed down on him with every word. The memory of that night burned in his mind, as vivid as if it had happened only moments ago.
“I tried to escape with my mother. We thought—” He hesitated, his fingers tightening against the podium. “We thought we could get away. That we could run far enough, hide well enough, and be free of this place.”
He swallowed, the ache rising in his throat, threatening to choke him. His nails dug into the wood, grounding himself against the swell of emotions clawing their way to the surface.
“They found us.”
The words were quieter now, but in the hushed stillness of the church, they carried a terrible finality.
He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to continue.
“They killed her.”
The silence that followed felt suffocating. The acolytes stood frozen, their expressions a mix of horror and disbelief. Some averted their eyes, unable to meet his gaze, while others looked at him as though they were seeing him for the first time.
“They killed my mother,” he repeated, his voice hollow, “simply because we wanted to leave. Because we wanted to escape that fate.”
A sharp exhale left his lips, but it did nothing to ease the weight in his chest. The grief hadn’t left him—it clung to him, coiled tight in his ribs, waiting for the moment he let his guard down. He hadn’t had time to mourn. Hadn’t had time to stop, to breathe, to feel.
If he did, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to move again.
But he couldn’t afford to break. Not yet.
Now, there was only this moment.
“The only reason I am here now, speaking to you, is because I was appointed.”
A murmur of confusion rippled through the gathered acolytes. Some stiffened, their eyes narrowing with uncertainty. Others shifted uncomfortably.
“I became a champion.”
He saw the way their eyes flickered with recognition, with the weight of old scripture. The Church had long spoken of champions—vessels chosen by the divine, bestowed with power beyond mortal means to serve a greater cause. But none of them asked who had appointed him. Perhaps they feared the answer.
And he would not give them one.
Let them make their own assumptions.
“I was given the power to cleanse the rot in this place,” he said, voice steady once more. “And I have done just that.”
He lifted his gaze, sweeping over them like a judge passing a sentence.
“All who are guilty,” he continued, each word deliberate, heavy, absolute, “all who are complicit… are dead.”
The church was silent.