NOVGO.NET Chapter 852: Seven Emissaries of Death
Chapter 852: Seven Emissaries of Death
The compound had been invisible for eleven years.
Nestled three hundred miles from the nearest city, buried in mountain terrain so hostile that satellites couldn’t find it and search parties couldn’t survive it, it existed in the spaces between maps—a black site that had swallowed secrets and soldiers alike without leaving so much as a whisper.
Twenty miles of unmarked wilderness surrounded it. No roads. No flight paths. No breadcrumbs for the curious to follow.
The only way in was through forests that had claimed more lives than anyone bothered to count, across ridges where the wind could freeze a man solid in minutes, through valleys where the shadows seemed to move with intentions of their own.
Fifty soldiers called it home.
Fifty men and women who had traded their names for numbers, their identities for purpose, their humanity for something they believed was greater than any single life.
They ran patrols in rotating shifts, maintained weapon caches that could supply a small army, guarded information so valuable that the penalty for speaking it was a death no one would ever investigate.
They were professionals. Veterans. The best their organization could field.
Tonight, they were prey.
The watchman’s coffee was still warm when the tree line emptied.
Seven shapes exploded from the forest three hundred meters out—not running, streaking. Black figures tearing across cleared ground so fast they left afterimages burning against the night, covering distance that should have taken thirty seconds in less than three.
His mug shattered against concrete. His hand shot toward the alarm—
The watchtower door detonated inward.
Reinforced steel crumpled like foil, blown off its hinges. The door caught his partner in the chest, crushed him against the wall with a wet crunch of snapping ribs. Shrapnel sprayed—a chunk embedded in the thermal array, another tore through the .50 cal’s ammunition belt, a third spun past the watchman’s head close enough to part his hair.
A figure stood in the doorway. Black tactical gear so dark it drank light. Featureless mask reflecting his terrified face.
Lean, compact, curves suggesting female beneath the armor—but radiating nothing but death. The suit clung to her like liquid shadow—high breasts straining against reinforced plates, narrow waist flaring into hips that moved with lethal grace, thighs thick and powerful beneath matte black fabric that shimmered faintly with unnatural light.
His hand found his sidearm. Weapon clearing holster, thumb flicking safety, barrel rising—
The figure crossed the room in a single heartbeat. One moment in the doorway. Next moment there—directly in front of him, black-gloved hand closing around his gun wrist with a grip stronger than iron.
He threw everything into breaking free.
His arm didn’t move.
The figure’s other hand pressed flat against his sternum—palm warm through the glove, almost gentle.
Pushed.
The watchman rocketed backward through the bulletproof glass—three-inch reinforced polymer exploding outward in crystalline shards. Night air. Spinning compound. Three stories of empty space.
His scream lasted exactly as long as the fall.
The impact was wet. Final.
The figure stepped off the ledge, dropped thirty feet, landed in a crouch that absorbed the impact like gravity was a suggestion she’d politely declined. Straightened. Turned toward the compound.
Six more shapes materialized from darkness—each one moving with the same impossible speed, same predatory grace, same faint shimmer of otherworldly light beneath their armor.
Alarms wailed. Spotlights swept. Soldiers poured from barracks with rifles up.
The leader raised one gloved hand. Made a fist.
The Seven Emissariesscattered.
The armory sergeant heard the explosion three buildings away. Twelve years of combat experience—he was already moving. Rifle from rack, magazine home, charging handle racked.
The lights died.
Every bulb. Every screen. Every backup. Darkness crashed down absolute.
Something whispered past his left ear. Close. Fast. Gone before his brain registered movement.
He spun. Squeezed the trigger.
Muzzle flash strobed—weapon racks, ammunition crates, nothing else. Empty air where something had been.
A hand closed around his rifle barrel.
He wrenched backward with everything he had. Six-two, two-twenty pounds of muscle.
The rifle didn’t move.
Emergency lights flickered on. Red. Dim.
The figure held his weapon with one hand while the other drew a blade from its back—curved steel, three feet, edge gleaming like fresh blood under the red glow.
The suit hugged her body like a second skin—breasts rising and falling with calm breath, waist so narrow it looked impossible, hips and thighs carved for both speed and devastating power.
The sergeant released the rifle. Reached for his sidearm—
The blade moved.
A horizontal arc through his neck. His head left his shoulders. His body stood there for two seconds, blood fountaining in a perfect crimson arc, before it got the message and collapsed.
The figure stepped over the corpse, blade rising, flowing through the armory door like smoke given purpose.
The command center had twelve soldiers when the ceiling exploded.
Reinforced concrete detonated downward. Two figures crashed through, landing in crouches that absorbed impacts which should have shattered legs.
A basketball-sized chunk caught the corporal at the nearest station, crushed his ribcage into his spine with a wet snap. A spinning piece of rebar speared through a private’s shoulder and pinned him to the wall—blood blooming across his uniform in a dark flower.
The two figures rose.
Black armor. Curved blades. Masks reflecting red emergency light like demon eyes.
One was unmistakably female—lithe, deadly, breasts straining against tactical plates, hips rolling as she moved, thighs flexing with predatory power. The other matched her—same grace, same impossible speed, same aura of something that had never been entirely human.
Twelve rifles coming up. Twelve fingers finding triggers. Even the injured man.
The shorter figure went left. Twin blades cleared sheaths—curved, identical, hungry—edges shimmering with an unearthly glow, like they drank light and spat back void. The blades hummed faintly, vibrating with a low, demonic resonance that made the air around them ripple like heat off hellfire.
The lieutenant had his sights aligned—
The blades crossed. A blur of motion so fast it warped space—leaving trails of shadowy afterimages that lingered like ghosts. His arms hit the floor. Both of them. Still holding the rifle. Still twitching, fingers spasming as if trying to fire from the grave.
Blood fountained in black arcs under red light. A blade took his head before he could scream—severing clean, the stump cauterizing with unnatural heat, flesh sizzling like meat on a infernal grill.
The specialist beside him fired—
The figure blurred—not moved, teleported in a flicker of darkness, shadows trailing her like loyal hounds. Bullet through empty air. Then the figure was inside her guard, blade punching through her vest, through organs, through spine, erupting from her back in a spray of gore and ethereal sparks.
The blade twisted—cruel, deliberate—ripping sideways with a wet, tearing sound. She came apart hip to shoulder, two halves falling in opposite directions, intestines spilling between them in steaming coils that writhed unnaturally, as if alive with dark magic.
The second figure went right. No blades. Just hands—gloves that pulsed with faint, crimson runes, fingers curling like claws from some abyssal pit.
The private at the far console squeezed his trigger—
The figure moved through the line of fire—bullets bending around her in impossible arcs, deflected by an invisible aura that shimmered like hellfire haze.
An open palm struck his chest. His ribcage imploded—sternum caving with a crunch like breaking stone, ribs snapping inward like demonic teeth, bone fragments shredding heart and lungs in a wet explosion of internal carnage.
Dead before pain registered, body ragdolling into monitors, sparks flying as circuits shorted in his pooling blood.
The sergeant got his sidearm up. Point blank. Squeezed.
The figure caught the bullet. Plucked it from the air with fingers that glowed faintly red—holding it up, examining it like a curiosity from a lesser realm. Flicked it aside—where it embedded in the wall with a sizzle, melting metal like acid.
The figure’s hand shot forward, wrapped around the sergeant’s skull, and squeezed. Bone cracked like eggshell under a hammer—collapsing inward with a wet pop, brain matter squeezing between fingers like gray putty mixed with blood, oozing down her glove in viscous trails.
Five seconds. Twelve soldiers.
Twelve bodies—mutilated, leaking, some still twitching with residual dark energy that made limbs jerk like puppets on severed strings.
The barracks held fourteen sleeping soldiers.
Held.
A figure came through the window in a spray of glass—forty feet straight down, landing with a shockwave that cracked the floor tiles. The soldier in the first bunk reached for his sidearm—steel whispered through darkness, blade glowing with infernal light, and his hand kept reaching, no longer attached to his arm.
Blood sprayed in a fan, painting the wall in crimson runes that seemed to writhe for a moment before fading.
The blade came back around and opened his throat—gash so deep it nearly decapitated him, head lolling back as blood bubbled like lava from hell.
The soldier in the next bunk sat up. A blade punched through his open mouth, through his skull, pinned him to the mattress with a wet thunk—blade vibrating, sending tremors through his body that made his limbs spasm in a grotesque death dance.