Siege of the Rotting Sanctuary
As the screams inside the encirclement of the rotting sanctuary began to fade, what rose to the water's surface were not voices, but corpses alone. Demons with arms and legs half-twisted, floating up. Angels, skewered by spears and swords through rents in their barriers, unable to hold on and flipping over as they surfaced. The water grew murkier by the minute. The pristine white sanctuary from when it first fell had long since been washed away. Now pushing through the current were no prayers or blessings. Blood and flesh. Shattered bones and armor fragments. Severed wings and cracked helmets. Those remnants were transforming the water into something else.
At that moment, a rotten floral scent bloomed from the center of the encircled zone. It was Astamar. Submerged up to her thighs in the water, she walked slowly through the heart of the area as if it were her own garden.
"Fine materials."
Her soft voice flowed over the floodwaters.
"Water mixed with holy water."
"Half-charred flesh."
"Even echoes of prayers."
Wherever she passed, the water's hue shifted. Clear water turned a murky blue-green, then soon flipped to pitch black-red. Astamar lightly raised her hand. Shadows writhed beneath the surface. Demons with half-rotted, festering bodies rose, each bearing grotesque flower-shaped spores on their backs. Septic Flower Cluster.
"Here."
Astamar tapped the water's surface with a finger.
"Where it will take root."
The Septic Flower Cluster gathered the corpses. Arms. Legs. Mangled torsos. Armor and bones. Piled together, trampled and compacted. Over it all, dark red spores rained down. The corpse mound slowly swelled. Soon, a rotten flower bloomed. Pus and blood oozed from between its red-and-black petals, weighing the water down further. Astamar muttered like she was reading a pathology report.
"When stepped on, it rots from the armor seams first."
"Mixed in water, tissue penetration speed... doubles."
Without even lifting her head, she added,
"It'll collapse half a day faster than yesterday's."
The water inside the flood encirclement was no longer holy water or poison. Water. Blood. Rotten flesh. Spores and mold from the Septic Flower. All blended into a completely different disease.
The angels couldn't possibly be unaware of it. While their barriers barely repelled the water and plague, a few stamped footholds on the surface and spread their wings anew.
"Move to upper airspace!"
"Secure a clean zone!"
One angel shouted upward. But the higher they climbed, the more the light pressure that had descended with the water pressed down on their backs again. Gabriel's sanctuary dome. And above it, the light rampart crushing down. The entire battlefield was bound as one mass, a structure that permitted no escape at all. Break free from the ground, and another sector tears open instead.
"Do not retreat!"
Another angel's bellow erupted. In the end, they charged forward, running across what they believed to be sanctuary waters—across the rotting sanctuary itself.
"Front line, half-step forward."
Gart's voice burst from beside me. Leader of the Ironblood Shields. His arms and shoulders bore dozens of stab wounds, but he pounded his fist on the top of his shield.
"This line is the gate."
"Behind this line is Nova!"
Shields clacked—thud, thud, thud. They synced their rhythm by striking each other. Balrag's mass. The Ironblood Shields' weight. Both surged forward in a single line. The current splashed back once. Opposite them, the angels' shields collided. Their defense was still three layers deep. Outermost: the sanctuary's outer film. On armor surfaces: the water veil from Gabriel's water authority. And clinging to flesh as the final layer: the thick ultimate barrier of protection.
But today, the opponent they withstood was the ground itself—hardened overnight. Bones and blood pressed in, corpse mounds sodden and heavy with water, Septic Flower rot spreading atop it all. It wasn't the sanctuary holding; the sanctuary was rotting.
Above the gate, the Skyreavers in charge of the airspace moved as well. Low-rank demons hurled themselves from the ramparts first. Short wings. Imperfect flight. They sliced the wind with spears, short spears, iron scraps with hooks. Mid-rank demons behind adjusted trajectories and drop points.
"The ones floating in upper airspace."
"Wings first."
A high-rank Skyreaver demon issued a curt order. The long spear in his hand twisted once in midair. Authority nudged its path. Not head or chest, but where barriers overlapped thinnest. Wing joints. Wrists. Ankles. A spear lodged in one rising angel's wing joint. The outer sanctuary film split first. The water veil over armor wavered, and the final barrier tried to repel the spear—but it was already too late. The joint buckled. The angel struggled to hold altitude. The light foothold trembled once. The fall was no mere drop. Barriers that had endured on the water wore down faster descending. The moment the light foothold vanished, disease—not sanctuary—struck first. And disease devoured from the wings. As water- and plague-soaked sanctuary gnawed through barrier layers one by one, the sustaining light flickered out. The angel plunged twisted-wing-first into the Septic Flower puddle-mixed waters. The flower burst first, then the flesh. Higher angels hastily cleared the surface upon witnessing the plunge. A few sanctuary films hurriedly redeployed, burning away flower patches like tinder. But fresh-rising water swiftly refilled the voids.
Outside the encirclement. I alternated glances between the gate above, the front line, and the flank battlefields. The angels weren't complete fools. Those who spotted the Septic Flower puddle hue strictly chose their footing. Two higher angels even stamped shallow light footholds over the water to skirt the puddles entirely. But more footholds meant the battlefield-spanning dome and rampart tightened further. The more they tried to escape, the deeper they were bound.
Gabriel... I glanced at the sky once more. So far, it felt like he'd been toying with us using sanctuary, ramparts, and water.
She won't descend on the second day.
Only after seeing how long we hold and how far we corrupt—on the third day, fourth day... then she'll wield holy essence and come down.
Turning the calculations, I dropped my gaze back down. For now, endure what's before my eyes.
Flank battlefield. Kama swung her sword through water up to her waist. Each time the blade tip rippled with the current, nearby demons synced their breaths a beat ahead.
"Devour."
"Now."
Shadows sliced the water in unison. An angel's shield flank. A split-second gap. The blade slipped between armor and barrier, into the side. Even as protection's authority shoved the sword aside, water and disease slowly seeped through the opened wound. Kama let out a chuckle.
"If numbers match."
"No need to cut deep."
"As Rak said."
"The cutter. The corrupter."
"Just match those two."
Each withdrawal of the sword made shallow wounds gape like water-sucking mouths. Septic Flower puddle rot-water quietly infiltrated the angels' bodies along those maws. Angels who had run unaffected at first began staggering in unison moments later. Knees buckled, spears dropped, and with each breath, rotten stench filled their lungs. Kama never missed that instant.
"Now."
The sword cleaved water once more. Shadows quietly sliced exposed necks, jaws, armor gaps. Angles precise. Blades struck only when breath, fear, morale wavered.
"The one whose flank balance breaks."
Morkan's voice came from the side. He picked only the finest gaps between water ripples and shield lines, lightly tapping angel ankles. Those already tilting toppled toward the puddles with that single nudge. Kama said curtly,
"Send them there."
Morkan nodded.
"Lost ones go to the flowerbed."
He heard the forward-lurch timing first, nudged first. He didn't chase falling angels to finish them. Corruption and plague would handle the rest.
Dusk. Inside Nova, the war room. Nas tallied second-day losses simply. The numbers lined up short. Clearly larger than day one. I rolled the figures once, looked down at the map. Water channels traced in red lines. Septic Flower puddle positions. Corpse mounds. Ironblood Shields' collapse points under pressure. Skyreavers' angel-drop zones. Kama and Morkan's flank-balance-break lines. Navriel added from the side,
"By prayer line standards, the heavens didn't dig deeper on day two."
"Flood encirclement snagged on corpse mounds and plague puddles, slowing movement continuously."
Astamar tapped puddle spots with a black finger.
"Angels who stepped here today will rot better starting tomorrow."
I exhaled once. Traced between puddles and corpse mounds on the map with a finger. The entire battlefield outside the gate was no longer heavenly sanctuary—a third place, hell and plague entwined. Even as I calculated when Gabriel would descend and with what face—
My standard was one. The line before the gate. One more line ahead. The thin divide between those to save and those to bind. Today, with the rotting sanctuary piled atop that line. And tomorrow, that sanctuary would rot deeper.