The prophecy foretold it, and war arrived. The First World War erupted, a brutal conflict engulfing Europe. Tanks, their treads churning the mud into a churning brown slurry, rumbled alongside lines of cannons, their black muzzles glinting under the smoke-choked sky. Foot soldiers, tiny figures in a vast, chaotic landscape, advanced through fields of shell craters, the air filled with the scent of smoke of rifle fire and the earth-shattering boom of artillery. Above, warplanes, like predatory birds of prey, engaged in a deadly aerial dance, a macabre ballet of death played out against a backdrop of churning clouds and the ever-rising plumes of black smoke from burning villages.
The stench of cordite, blood, rotting flesh, and decay hung heavy in the air, a foul stench that clung to everything. Countless bodies, limbs twisted at unnatural angles, lay scattered across the ravaged landscape, their faces obscured by mud and dust and the frozen expressions left as they drew their last breath, their lives extinguished in a maelstrom of violence. Infernos raged, consuming entire sections of the battlefield, while a rain of chemical weapons, a ghastly yellow-green mist, descended without mercy, suffocating thousands more. This was a war waged without ethical restraint, a grotesque spectacle of human ambition and savagery.
This was the cost of war: innocence lost, lives shattered, a legacy of suffering etched into the very soil. Millions perished—civilians caught in the crossfire, soldiers mown down in the trenches, entire towns reduced to smoldering rubble by carefully planned bombardments. The sheer scale of the devastation was staggering, a testament to humanity's capacity for self-destruction.
High above the battlefield, the Guardians, ethereal beings of immense power, watched this carnage unfold. Their faces, though unseen, reflected a chilling mixture of fear and disbelief at the depths of humanity's cruelty.
While humanity tore itself apart, the Holy Order dispatched thousands of Holy Knights to the front lines, under the rationale to bolster the ranks of the warring armies.
The Order was far more than a single entity. Across the globe, clandestine organizations, operating under the Order's banner, existed. Their purpose was to defend their respective nations, even if it meant engaging in conflict with their brethren from other branches of the Order. For evil, a relentless, amoral force, sought to break free from its prison and wreak havoc upon the mortal realm, feeding upon the potent emotions of humankind. Its ambition was limitless, its hunger for power insatiable.
The knights of the Order swore to prevent, and if necessary, eliminate this threat. Their failure to prevent the war, as foreseen in ancient prophecies, was a burden they would carry to their graves. They were the chosen ones, entrusted with knowledge of the supernatural and a prophecy they might never be able to prevent. They pressed on, driven by hope and faith in humanity's potential for redemption.
August 1915: Paris, France
The Holy Order and its various branches received intelligence reports of an entire battalion vanishing without a trace. The soldiers, tasked with a daring assault, had simply disappeared. Eyewitnesses reported seeing them walk into a swirling mist, only to vanish without explanation.
This wasn't the first such unexplained event during the war. Reports of phantom armies, such as the alleged angelic intervention at Mons in 1914, added to the growing unease.
Even before the war, in 1900, three lighthouse keepers on Flannan Isle had vanished mysteriously. A subsequent investigation by Order agents revealed a sinister presence, resulting in the deaths of two of the five agents.
Days after receiving the report about the missing battalion, the Chevalier Blanc in Paris mobilized twenty elite knights. Clad in black suits, black gloves, and gas masks, their faces partially obscured, they were armed with swords blessed by the Holy Father, weapons possessing the power to banish evil.
These twenty knights split into four squads of five, then set out for the location where the battalion had last been seen. Riding powerful stallions, they arrived to find a scene of devastation: smoke-filled air, scorched trees, and the acrid smell of burning metal and oil.
"Disembark here," the Captain commanded, his voice firm and resolute.
The knights dismounted, securing their steeds to charred tree trunks before regrouping.
They began their search for clues, their eyes scanning the ravaged landscape. The Captain noticed fresh footprints leading into a small clearing. There, amidst the debris, lay a severed arm, still clutching a pistol. The weapon's chamber was empty, and the hand itself had been cleanly severed, though the surrounding flesh showed evidence of considerable trauma.
The Captain approached cautiously, his eyes examining the gruesome find. The cut was clearly not caused by a conventional weapon; the jagged edges and surrounding bruising suggested something more powerful, more unnatural. Then, he saw it: small, sharp teeth embedded in the flesh near the wrist.
"Call the others, immediately," he ordered, his tone betraying a growing unease.
They theorized that the hand had been deliberately placed there, a macabre calling card.
Three of the four squads arrived quickly, but the fourth squad failed to appear. They waited five minutes, but to no avail. Even the knight dispatched to summon the missing squad never returned.
"Should we search for our comrades?" one of the knights asked, his voice laced with concern.
"No," the Captain replied, his voice low and grim. "Our objective is clear: to investigate. Our mission now is to retreat and report our findings to the Cathedral. Remaining here would only complicate matters and endanger us all.
We were lured here, deliberately. A cunning entity has been watching us. Back to the horses, quickly!"
They broke into a run, weapons ready to be drawn, their eyes scanning the darkening landscape for any sign of their unseen enemy. The air filled with the ominous sounds of growls and malevolent laughter as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long, menacing shadows.
As they increased their pace, a thick mist began to roll in, obscuring their surroundings. They drew their swords in unison, forming a defensive triangular formation, with the Captain at the point. From within the swirling mist, they heard it, a monstrous roar that seemed to vibrate in their very bones, a sound that spoke of death and unimaginable horror.
Suddenly, an object hurtled through the air, landing several meters away from the Captain. It was one of their comrades, their body brutally mangled, torn apart with a savagery that defied human comprehension. It was a message, a gruesome display intended to break their spirit. But the Captain showed no emotion, his gaze fixed ahead. His priority was the living, not the dead. He stepped over the body without a glance.
"It's coming," he muttered, his senses straining to detect the approaching enemy.
"If anyone is caught, do not look back, do not stop to help them. Prioritize your survival and the mission. Our ultimate objective is to survive and report back to the Cathedral. Even if I perish, do not stop. Do not stop even if you hear your comrades scream in agony. Your success is the mission's success. Do you understand?"
"We understand, Sir!"
They understood the grim calculus of their situation. To ensure the mission's success, some would have to make the ultimate sacrifice.
The Captain heard the screams of his men, the clash of steel against something unnatural, the sickening sounds of broken bones and torn flesh. He didn't look back, pushing forward until he broke free from the mist. His body felt numb, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Then, he noticed his left arm was gone.
"Captain…" a voice called out.
One of his knights stood beside him, cradling his severed arm. His face was a mask of disbelief; they were the only ones to escape the mist.
"You must go. Report to the Cathedral. Leave me," the Captain ordered, his voice betraying no emotion.
The knight, his face etched with grief and determination, mounted his horse and rode away without looking back. The Captain watched him go, the mist already beginning to close in. Malevolent laughter echoed through the air. A dark arm, long and clawed, emerged from the mist, seizing him and dragging him into its depths, leaving only his severed arm and the fading echoes of sinister laughter behind.
Hundreds more would vanish at that same spot before the Holy Order finally retaliated with a devastating bombing raid. To this day, the public remains unaware of what transpired, but the Order, and its various branches, know the truth. They always do.
"May I ask a question, Sir?" a young student, wearing a crisp white polo shirt with a red cross embroidered on the collar, asked.
"You may," the Priest replied, his gaze calm and steady.
"Why are you telling us this information, Sir? Why now?"
"You will carry on the work of our fallen brethren. Their burden will now be yours. You are gifted, able to perceive the threats that lurk beyond the veil of the mundane. It is our duty to protect humanity, no matter the cost." He closed the ancient book, stepping down from the podium.
"Understanding the Order's history, its struggles, is crucial. Our enemy is relentless, unfeeling, and utterly without compassion. It seeks to eradicate those of us who are gifted, viewing us as a threat to its dominion." The students sat silently on the hard wooden benches of the Cathedral.
"It wants to destroy the Order, and it wants to destroy you. To inflict pain, misery, fear, and agony. You are here for a reason, not solely because of your gifts. The supernatural tragedies that have touched your lives have marked you as targets. The Order has taken you in because you have reasons to fight this evil, motivations to eliminate it, and the unwavering conviction to triumph against it."
The students' gazes shifted, their expressions changing from a casual unconcern to one of steely determination as they recalled the traumas they had endured. Some had lost their families, others their friends, still others everything they had ever held dear. The priest's words weren't just a story; they were a stark and brutal reminder of the reality they now faced. The horrors he described were not fiction; they were etched into their very souls.
"The memories you cherish, and the memories that have left lasting scars, these are your strength. Today marks the end of your days as students. Tomorrow, you will become knights of the Holy Order. Fulfill your duties, your mission, and your purpose."