Mars Time: 23:11, February 17, 2295

  The Slumbering Mantis Inn, Dragon District, Xing Hong

  The inn's threshold groaned beneath Marcus Thorne's weight. He pushed through, bringing a gust of Martian night. The common room sprawled before him: scarred tables, bounty hunters absorbed with their drinks, mercenaries counting coins.

  Same desperate laughter as the pubs back in Sheffield. Same stink of bodies worked too hard. Same souls drinking themselves toward oblivion.

  He'd come to save them anyway.

  Marcus cut an imposing figure in the doorway. Six-foot-three of Covenant-forged discipline wrapped in silverite armor that bore the scars of a dozen battles. His L85A9 Gauss Rifle rode his back, folded dormant. The shield strapped to his left forearm—Bulwark—gleamed dull titanium, its surface marked by Skuggr acid burns that Manny couldn't quite buff out.

  Justice hung at his hip. The Zephyrium Longsword wasn't fancy, just good Covenant steel and better maintenance.

  But it was the watch on his right wrist that drew eyes.

  The Nucleus Watch glowed with crystalline light, silver-white casing catching the bar's glow. Not the civilian model. His was Covenant engineering, with quantum seals and psionic nodes. The watch face displayed the Cross of Zori in amber, pulsing in time with his heartbeat.

  A few patrons glanced his way. Credit chips hit the bar before they made for the door.

  Smart.

  Above the bar, a holographic display flickered with news feeds: FENRIS HORDE ADVANCES ON NORTHERN SETTLEMENTS. INCREASED SIGHTINGS OF FIENDS AND SKUGGRS. EVACUATION ORDERS ISSUED.

  And these people sat here drinking.

  "Right then." Marcus's voice cut through the ambient noise, Yorkshire accent flattened by Covenant training but never fully erased. "Listen up! I am Marcus Thorne, Stalwart of the Zorian Covenant, messenger of Zori—the True Mother, humanity's salvation!"

  Conversations stumbled. A few heads turned. Most ignored him.

  "People of Xing Hong! The Fenris Horde's advance is divine judgment made flesh." He jabbed a gauntleted finger toward the news feed. "Put down your drinks. Cease your visits to Leased Lilies—" several men flinched "—and join the Zorian Crusade. We need every soul who—"

  "Marcus?" The voice slid through the room like silk over a blade. "We talked about this."

  Shazmeen Vinh emerged from behind the bar. Deep crimson dress clinging to curves that had probably seduced less disciplined men. Dark hair falling past her shoulders. Eyes that knew him despite their past disagreements.

  "Iron Roach, if you would?"

  The cyborg with crimson sunglasses moved fast. Yán Kānghóng stood just under two meters tall. Six artificial hearts and biomechanical muscle fibers, the regulars whispered.

  The Imperial's shotgun stayed holstered, but his hand rested on its grip.

  "Lady Shazmeen." Marcus forced his gaze onto safer ground—the Cross of Zori glowing on his watch face. "Surely we can reach an understanding. These people need to hear—"

  "That's still no excuse to harass our customers." Roach's voice rumbled from somewhere deep in his augmented chest.

  Every instinct screamed to stand his ground. But Zori taught strategic withdrawal.

  "Then I'll remove myself from this den of—"

  "Hey, hey." Roach nearly laughed. "We're not kickin' you out. Just keep your stuffs in that church. Let people sin in peace."

  "Peace while the Fenris Horde advances. Peace while Skarn gathers his monsters. Peace while—"

  "Marcus." Shazmeen's voice softened. She moved closer, and he caught a scent like expensive incense. "You want people to listen? Show them you're not just words."

  "Show them, you say?"

  She gestured toward the door. "Bounty Board Seven is right outside. High-value contracts cycle through twice a week. Action earns respect faster than sermons."

  Roach nodded. "We're neutral here. We don't antagonize anyone who pays their tab and keeps the peace. That includes you."

  The logic calmed building anger. They weren't his enemies, then. Just neutral.

  "Aye." Marcus turned toward the exit. "I'll check your board."

  Bounty Board #7 stood on the street like a monolith, holographic postings shifting and scrolling. Contracts cycled past:

  SKUGGR NEST - Sector 4-B - $800 AD

  BONE FIEND PACK (12+) - The Karma Moor - $600 AD

  "None exceed a thousand." Marcus muttered. "Are these for hunters or fetchers?"

  Then something else scrolled by in red:

  ? HIGH-PRIORITY RETRIEVAL ?

  HIGH-GRADE ZEPHYRIUM (HGZ) - 5 kilograms, Designation U6-M9

  LOCATION: RED RABBIT WARREN, Sector 7-G

  REWARD: $50,000 ATOMIC DOLLARS

  ADVISORY: BOUNTY MUST BE COMPLETED BY A SINGLE HUNTER

  Fifty thousand Atomic Dollars. Enough to fund a small Crusade expedition.

  "By Zori's will." His thumb moved to the board's interface before conscious thought caught up.

  [ACCEPT CONTRACT?] [Y/N?]

  [WARNING: SINGLE-PERSON ACCEPTANCE - RECOMMEND EXTREME CAUTION]

  He pressed 'Y' hard.

  [CONTRACT ACCEPTED - MARCUS THORNE, ZORIAN COVENANT]

  His watch chimed, route markers blooming across its display.

  "Three hours on foot." He smirked. "Easy."

  Marcus turned back toward the inn. His reflection caught in the grimy window—broad-shouldered silhouette, shield and sword, the Cross of Zori glowing on his wrist.

  Zori had led him to this moment. Time for a proper supper before preparations began.

  The common room hadn't changed, but something felt different. A presence, like static charge before lightning.

  She sat at a corner table. Oriental garments in deep purple, fabric shifting with patterns that appeared and disappeared. Hair cut in a sleek bob that framed delicate features, but her pearl-like eyes felt wrong. Too knowing. Too old for the young face they occupied.

  A violet Spirit Lantern floated at her shoulder, defying gravity.

  Marcus's hand moved to Justice's hilt. "A Worm Witch of the Rakshasa Horde. You're from Proxima, then?"

  "How delightfully direct." Her accent carried Japanese inflections, but something underneath felt older. "Most people at least pretend not to notice."

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  "Your lantern's a bit obvious."

  "Ara, so it is." She smiled, and it wasn't kind. "Natsukawa Fuuka. And you must be the Covenant missionary everyone's been talking about."

  "The Radi-Mons are a test." Marcus moved closer. "Zori's way of separating the wheat from—"

  "The chaff, yes, yes." Fuuka waved a dismissive hand. "I've heard the sermon. Tell me, Marcus Thorne: if your goddess is so powerful, why does she need missionaries? Shouldn't divine truth be... self-evident?"

  Heat flooded his face. "A heretic like you would not understand."

  "Oh, I understand perfectly, ne." She stood in one fluid motion—no transition, just suddenly vertical. "Your Covenant preaches extinction. All Radi-Mons must die to preserve humanity. Very binary. Very...boring."

  "They're monsters that seek to consume all humanity. Why should we hold back?"

  "Some are monsters." Fuuka moved closer. "The Fenris Horde. Skarn's abominations. Indeed they should be stopped. But your doctrine makes no distinction. Kill them all, yes? Even the ones who mean no harm. Even the ones who could coexist."

  "Coexist." The word tasted like poison. "That naive toleration was how the Digital Era ceased to be."

  "Perhaps." She circled him slowly. "Or perhaps I've seen more of the Seven Realms than a shepherd's boy from Sheffield who thinks his goddess speaks to him."

  The jab stung. "I'm a Stalwart of the Covenant. We do not take to insults kindly."

  "How impressive." Fuuka's Spirit Lantern pulsed brighter, her smile widening. Several patrons were watching now. "But you're just a man who believes genocide is righteousness."

  The smart move would be walking away. Coming back with backup.

  But Marcus Thorne hadn't survived by being smart. He'd survived by being unbreakable.

  "I challenge you, Worm Witch." The words came out flat, Yorkshire accent thickening. "Here. Now. The laws of Mars permit dueling to defend one's honor."

  Silence crashed through the common room.

  Fuuka studied him, head tilted. Then she laughed. "That's either courage or stupidity, ne."

  "Does it matter?"

  "I suppose not." She tapped one finger against her chin. "But a duel should have stakes. Loser buys drinks for the winner's supporters. Everyone who stands with them after the fight."

  It was practical. Almost insultingly practical, reducing their ideological clash to bar tabs. But it also meant something tangible.

  "Aye, that'll do." Marcus said. "When I win, your Rakshasa dollars pay for honest drinks."

  "Ara ara, such confidence." Fuuka drew her ceremonial dagger, the blade catching lantern-light. "When I win, I hope your Covenant purse is deeper than your faith."

  Tables scraped back as patrons cleared space. The Spirit Lantern floated higher, its glow intensifying.

  "You should know, I'm offering you one chance." She gestured at the cleared floor. "Right now, you can walk away. No shame in it."

  The consideration in her voice caught him off guard. This wasn't the usual men-eating hag he'd expected.

  "A Stalwart does not walk away from threats to humanity."

  "Then we duel." Fuuka's ceremonial dagger materialized fully—ornate amethyst blade engraved with patterns from insect shells.

  Marcus drew his weapons. Justice gleamed in his right hand, Bulwark settled on his left forearm.

  "First blood, or until one of you yields," Roach called from the bar. "Agreed?"

  "Agreed."

  "Three—two—one—BEGIN!"

  Marcus charged.

  Three steps and a shield bash—that's how he'd opened every serious fight. But Fuuka wasn't there. She'd slid left, too fluid, and her dagger kissed his shoulder pauldron with a metallic shriek.

  He pivoted, bringing Justice around. It caught empty air.

  "Slow, ne." Her voice came from behind him.

  He spun, shield up. Her dagger tested Bulwark's surface. The strike rang like a bell. He shoved forward, but she'd already danced back.

  Marcus pressed forward, shield high, sword ready. Wait for the opening. Read the rhythm.

  She came in again, dagger low. He caught it on Bulwark's edge, pivoted, brought Justice around in a rising cut that forced her to give ground.

  "Better—you're not!" Fuuka actually sounded pleased. "Madhya Darsh?i!"

  Her Spirit Lantern flared violet. Marcus's vision stuttered. The world dimmed, edges bleeding to black. He could still see—barely—but everything was murky, colors muted to gray.

  Curse magic. His vision compromised, tracking a target that moved like smoke.

  "Vyālī? Prajvala!" The Devavā?ī words twisted in the air.

  Aubergine fire erupted from her palm—not normal fire. This flame moved like something alive, coiling and writhing as it streaked toward him.

  Marcus raised Bulwark. "Scutum Solis!"

  Golden light exploded from his shield's face. A barrier of pure Solar energy snapped into existence. Fuuka's serpentine flame hit it with a sound like meat on a griddle, trying to find a way through.

  The barrier held. Heat bled through, his shield arm starting to burn. But he held.

  The flames dispersed into smoke that smelled like sulfur and flowers.

  "You're not just a meat shield, ne. Most Stalwarts beg for mercy after that combo."

  Marcus let the barrier drop, conserving Aether. His vision was still dim but clearing.

  "The Covenant teaches more than swordplay. Zori's light protects the faithful."

  She moved again, faster. Dagger leading, coming in low while her free hand traced patterns. Marcus brought Justice down to parry, metal on metal, and she spun with the impact, back-kick catching his shield dead center.

  The impact rattled his bones. He staggered back.

  Fuuka didn't press. Instead she backed off, dagger twirling. "You're better than I expected, Marcus Thorne. But you're fighting someone who's had a century to perfect her craft."

  "Century?!" Marcus blurted out. She looked maybe thirty. "It's true, then? You witches eat men's organs to prolong your lives?"

  "Is that the version they teach nowadays?" She chuckled. "I like the old one better."

  She was moving again, something different in her posture. Less playful. More focused.

  Her Spirit Lantern flared—not violet this time. Toxic green, the color of poison and rot.

  "Meree yoni se baahar!"

  From inside her sleeve, something emerged.

  It came out in segments—thick, vine-like, covered in thorns that wept clear fluid. The creeper grew as it extended, six feet of animated plant matter that smelled like compost and chemicals. Bulbous sacs along its length pulsed with bioluminescence.

  The common room erupted:

  "Holy shit—summoning—a real fucking worm—"

  "A Poison Creeper." Marcus said, mouth going dry.

  Rakshasa summoning techniques. Living weapons.

  The Creeper struck, whipping toward his legs. Marcus barely got Bulwark down in time. Thorns scraped across titanium. Where they touched, the metal began to pit. Acid.

  But a son of Ordovox would not bow to Devavā?ī witchery.

  "Lux Caecans!" Marcus thrust his sword toward the ceiling.

  Blinding light erupted from Justice's blade. Pure white Solar radiance that turned the common room into a flashbang. Patrons cried out, shielding their eyes.

  The Poison Creeper recoiled, twisting away from the brightness.

  Marcus moved.

  Two steps. Shield up. Justice swept down in a precise diagonal cut that caught the Creeper's mid-section. The Zephyrium blade bit deep, Solar-blessed steel parting corrupted plant matter. Black fluid sprayed.

  The Creeper screamed—a sound like tearing vegetation.

  "Itai!" Fuuka's voice carried actual pain. She staggered, one hand going to her sleeve.

  The wounded summon retreated, slithering back into her sleeve in defiance of space and logic.

  Fuuka straightened slowly, one hand pressed to her ribs where the Creeper had been anchored. Her face was pale, sweat trickling down her temple. The playful mask had cracked.

  "Enough." She raised her empty hand. "I call it. Draw."

  Marcus stood ready, Justice still raised, Bulwark covering his body.

  Vision still slightly dimmed. Every muscle screamed, but his Resilience 8 kept him upright.

  He could keep going. Should keep going. She was Rakshasa—enemy of humanity.

  But she'd called the draw. Honorably. When she could have done more.

  She'd given him that out before.

  "Draw," Marcus agreed. He lowered Justice but didn't sheath it. "For now."

  The common room erupted:

  "Did you see that Solar spell—"

  "—the Creeper actually retreated—"

  "—that was incredible!"

  A handful of patrons approached Marcus. "Stalwart! You're a Stalwart!"

  A young man, Novian by his features, maybe twenty. "Where did you learn to fight like that?"

  "The Covenant trains all who come to Zori's light," Marcus said. Shazmeen's words echoed: Action earns respect faster than sermons.

  "Hey, man, I'm not a Valoran, but—I want to learn! Is there—do you have a church here?"

  "Zori sees no race. Only faith." Marcus declared. "All ethnicities are welcome."

  Others gathered. Questions tumbling:

  "—how do we join—"

  "—what are the requirements—"

  "—can anyone learn Solar magic—"

  "Opera District," Marcus said, addressing the small crowd. "Corner of Providence and Salvation streets. Gray building with the amber cross. Can't miss it." He met each person's eyes. "Services are daily at dawn. Training sessions in the afternoon. All are welcome who come with honest hearts."

  "Thank you, Stalwart!" The Novian man actually saluted—sloppy, civilian, but sincere.

  The group dispersed slowly, still talking among themselves.

  Marcus turned to find Fuuka still watching him, that dangerous smile back in place.

  "Well played, ne." She inclined her head slightly. "You've earned your audience."

  "It isn't over." Marcus said simply. "Whatever you are, whatever the Rakshasa plans—"

  "Ara, I'm counting on it not being over." Fuuka's smile widened. "We'll meet again, Marcus Thorne. I promise." She turned away, Spirit Lantern dimming. "Try not to die in that Warren before I get another chance to humble you."

  Then she was gone, slipping through the crowd, leaving only that flower-graveyard scent behind.

  Mars Time: 00:30, February 18, 2295

  Alfalfa Street, Dragon District, Xing Hong

  Night pressed down as Marcus stepped back into Dragon District's neon maze. Autocabs hummed past. He never needed them. A proper human walked.

  His Nucleus Watch displayed the route to the Red Rabbit Warren in precise detail. Four hours on foot. Fifty-thousand-dollar bounty. High-Grade Zephyrium that could fund new Covenant operations.

  Marcus turned toward Opera District, toward his small rented room with its narrow bed and weapons rack. Tomorrow he'd need proper rest. A good meal before setting out. Equipment check.

  Prayer. Always prayer.

  Behind him, through the Slumbering Mantis Inn's grimy window, he caught a final glimpse of the common room. Fuuka was seated once more at that corner table, speaking into a device he couldn't make out. Her expression unreadable.

  Marcus paused. Before he'd come to Mars, there were rumors. Elder Worm Witch of Shashan, the Covenant briefings had called her. Imperial woman with islander accent, wearing deep purple robes and wielding a toxic violet lantern. Rakshasa operative. Suspected in three disappeared missionaries and dozens of cannibalized men.

  Could Fuuka be the one?

  But she'd fought him honorably. Given him a chance to retreat. Called the draw before either seriously hurt the other.

  Marcus Thorne found himself looking forward to their next encounter.

  And prayed to Zori that this thought wasn't the first step toward sin.