Death is nothing, but to live defeated and inglorious is to die daily

~Napoleon Bonaparte

Jaune groaned, letting the adrenaline slowly sink out of his body as he tried to regain his breath. The fight had been tough, doubly so when comparing his size to the Alpha but in the end, he had done it. He had slain the damned monster with a vicious stab to the underside of its chin. The heirloom jutted through the beowulf's skull, its mystical properties letting the black ichor slowly dribble off as the carcass slowly turned into specks and floated away.

The wreckage of the shed in the back surrounded him, the wood splintered and ruined as Jaune made himself comfortable on the pile of debris. He had done it, he had led the monster away from the home and from the cubby where his sisters were hiding in. He could feel his spirit slowly bleed out, his determination cooling as he felt content with his last act. The sharp sticks that poked at his spine were but a small backdrop to the fiery feeling that lit up whenever he moved his side.

Growls and howls sounded off like an unholy symphony from the nearby forest, the rest of the horde no doubt running as fast as they could to him. The young boy gingerly got up, mindful of the gash on his side and hissing in pain as his body creaked ominously with sounds no human body should make. He walked over to Crocea Mors and picked the blade up, the Alpha long disintegrated and the sword fell blade first into the ground where it stood like a stalwart defender against the tides of darkness.

He looked behind him at the long distance of open field that separated him from the outside and the inside of home. He could feel a small part of him, the little boy that was doing the work of a man, plead with his tired bones to run as fast as his legs could carry his remaining weight and find somewhere to hide and hope he would survive.

The rational part of his brain, the warrior that had shed demon blood seconds ago, told him it wouldn't do him any good to retreat now. At most he would get halfway before being brought down and torn apart and even worse, his screams might even reach his sisters.

No, better to die spitting in the face of the enemy than to be at their mercy.

The first beowulf came out of the trees with a snarl loose across its foul lips. The boy felt it once more, the burning determination to hold his ground and make these creatures of the night suffer for their meal. The boy met the snarl with his own, his shield arm flashing forth to deflect the heavy claw that would have cleaved his head in half before slashing wildly at the off balance creature.

The boy lost his mind to the fight, letting instincts take over as he rallied.

=R=W=B=Y=

Deacon was not having a good day.

Scratch that, he was having a rather shitty day.

First, his favorite robes were destroyed in a firefight with possessed cultists and he didn't have a spare. Or anything leftover to even be repaired. Second, his squadron was then ambushed by more aforementioned cultists who just so happened to be the ones that actually had some idea on how to use their new eldritch powers so he had a jolly good time chanting his holy scripture and combating the evil magics while watching good men and women die at the hands of these heathens.

And then finally, when all was said and done, he realized that this was only the first house he had breached and they had a reported sixteen more to go before the day's end.

So yes, he was having a rather shitty day. Normally his life would be filled with the Lord's work and doing his best to make Earth a better place but some days, he just hated his job.

Don't get him wrong, he would gladly be the one to give body and soul to the Lord as he laid righteous hellfire and smite all who would abandon the Lord's grace but on these particular incursions, he also felt disgusted how the losses significantly rose than in an average day.

Granted…acting upon the Vatican's call to arms was never done lightly. History may remember them as acts of brutal oppression but the hidden meaning for the crusades were never something to joke about or easy to get around…

Oh wait, wrong term.

He couldn't be calling it a crusade anymore, it was actually supposed to be…umm…peacekeeping! Yeah! That! He was no longer a crusader, he was a peacekeeper. Such a term change was proof enough of the stupid power of media influence.

In the end, he couldn't complain. He was the best suited of their generation and he did have the literal uncanny ability to wield fire and cleanse all those who had strayed from the path in its glorious burning embers. The Templars of the Hellfire Squadron were battle hardened veterans, wielding flames and scripture like it was their own arms and legs. The soldiers gave no ground and no mercy.

They were the last resort and the first line of defense. The enemy may swarm like a tide but it was the stalwart figures that stood like statues that broke the back of the beast. No opponent was too great or too strong, they were only kindling.

Like the group of cultists lying in wait after his squad had breached the next building. Deacon chanted his vows of fire and beheaded his enemies, an almost animalistic glee building up inside him as he cleaved his way through.

Within minutes, the cultists had all been massacred and the Hellfire Squad moved onward. What they found beyond the foul black magic line was a golden door, no doubt leading into the throne room. They tried pushing it open, but it was barricaded from the other side.

"Demo charges to the front! Now!" a one eyed man with skin the same color of charred wood shouted. Seconds later, a path had been cleared to the doors for a pair of priests who rushed along. The Templars withdrew to a safe distance as the priests began setting up the explosives.

"Demo charges placed, sir!" one of them shouted before they sprinted away from the door. "Fire in the hole!" that was the only warning given before with a push of a button, the doors went up in smoke and flames. Without even waiting for the smoke to clear, the armored men and women of the Light charged headlong into the unknown.

But what they found on the other side was not what they had expected.

There were no cultists blocking their path, because they were all dead. Their blood stained all surfaces of the throne room, and many of their corpses were placed on pikes in the center of the room, where a robed man was standing inside the foulest of symbols known to man.

The Five-Pointed Star.

"So at last do the Vatican's slaves come before me," The robed man proclaimed as he brought out a book from within his robes. "But you are too late to stop us."

"You sound cliche as fuck," Deacon growled, "Kill him!"

With no further bluster, the heathen opened the book and began chanting in a foul language that hurt one's ears. Having waited long enough, Deacon and his comrades raised their rifles and as one opened fire on the heretic. But their efforts were in vain, as a force field of some kind sprung up around him, deflecting the incoming fire.

"Ranged weaponry doesn't work on him, so we'll take him with Black Keys! Charge!" someone shouted. That was all the explanation the squads needed as they shouldered their guns and brandished their swords while charging. Deacon himself clutched multiple copies inbetween his clenched fingers, using them as a crude claw.

The sword was called a Black Key.

The church had many secrets but one of their well-known secrets was the Burial Squad. This select branch of militants was the legalized on paper group of enforcers that was used to strike down abominations and heretics that preyed on man. The Burial Squad were full of skilled fighters that utilized one tool. This was the Black Key. Each blade had been forged in holy rites, blessed every step of the way and was granted a limited awareness.

It was a blade made to hate all things inhuman. Be it a demon, an undead, an angel, or even an alien, they Black Key was made to effectively slay whatever non-human its holy steel touched.

And now here, it was to be used by the secret-secret group of Templars. Men and women who favored magicks and gunpowder over steel but did not disdain from using it.

But the heretic merely laughed at what he saw as a useless gesture.

"You fools! Your bravery will get you nowhere! I will tear your flesh from your bones!" he shouted maniacally before blasts of eldritch lightning lashed out from his fingertips. Dozens went down in an instant, their flesh being literally torn off the bodies by the demonic power.

Others were blown back by the explosions, some being thrown as far back as the doorway.

But Deacon never faltered, he charged on even as his comrades were torn apart all around him. There was no fear, no trepidation, no doubt. He was going to put an end to that foul heretic if it was the last thing he did in this life.

The one charging next to Deacon suddenly exploded in a shower of bones and flesh as the demonic powers ripped him apart and sent Deacon tumbling to the ground from the shockwave. He tried to stagger back up again, but unbearable pain was wracking his body and sending him into violent spasm. Some kind of psychic attack must have hit him. His vision grew darker, even as he heard with greater clarity as the maniacal heretic obliterated everyone facing him while laughing like the madman he was.

Those who were pushed back tried to rush back but the doors slammed shut, their thumping fists a futile effort to join their dying comrades in their last moments.

Then it all became silent again. The butchery was apparently over, and the heretic was still standing. The vile fiend gave an unimpressed scoff at the futile effort done by the Hellfire soldiers.

"Idiots. This is what awaits all who opposes the might of Hell," He muttered darkly to himself before he turned back to his blasphemous ritual. At those words, something stirred within Deacon. Even as pain tore him apart from the inside out, he found determination flooding his veins. This was not how it was going to end. Hell would not win, it would never win. Not as long as there were those willing to fight it.

With a monumental effort, Deacon forced his eyes open and rolled over onto his hands and knees. Even as the eldritch powers continued to press down on his tortured body like the hand of a god, Deacon stubbornly forced himself back on his feet, clutching his Black Keys tightly in between his fingers. Slowly, he forced one foot forward, then the next, then another step, and another, and another. With pure willpower did he push onward, every step bringing him closer towards the unsuspecting heretic who had turned his back on the slaughter he had just committed.

His goal became clear when the very air in front of him began to split and tear. Foul energy spilled out like oozing blood from the wound in reality. That madman was seeking to open a portal into the fiery depths itself. Step by agonizing step, Deacon drew closer to his quarry, until he stepped inside the blasphemous circle drawn on the floor. Only then did the heretic become aware that he was not alone as he spun around and beheld the approaching soldier in shock and fear.

"No! That's impossible! You shouldn't be able to stand!" he exclaimed frightfully. With the Hell Gate in the process of being opened, he could not divert his power to deal with this pest without getting dragged into Hell along the way. Meaning he was completely defenseless against this lone soldier. Closer and closer did Deacon draw towards the heretic, even as pain the likes of which he had never experienced worked to force him on his knees. But he would not bend so easily.

"Wait!" the heretic suddenly cried out in panic. "It doesn't have to be like this! I never wanted to call upon the Demons of Hell! I know of their evil, but your Vatican forced my hand in order to save my people! If you withdraw now, I'll break off the spell and never use it again!" his attempts at saving his life was in vain as Deacon raised his swords, making ready to plunge it into his black heart.

"Once again, with the cliches," Deacon said through gritted teeth, "Just save your breath, you need it to scream as you die."

"If you interrupt the ceremony now, Hell will claim us both! Do you understand me?! You will be dragged into the realm of daemons to be picked apart by its denizens! You'll never join your precious God in the afterlife!" the raving madman was now screeching out whatever he could think of to buy time, but Deacon was deaf to his words of warning.

"So be it," That was all Deacon said on the matter, voice as dead as his comrades, before he plunged his swords straight through the chest of the heretic and into his heart. A startled gasp was all that left his mouth before the Hell Gate began to writhe and crack, the foul energy it had been seeping out beginning to get dragged back to the pits that spewed it out. But Hell was not leaving the material plane empty-handed, as it began to drag with it the corpse of the heretic that summoned it, taking his killer as a bonus as well.

Deacon wanted to fight back, but there was no strength left in his body, and he had fulfilled his task. He was content with what he had accomplished, and accepted the cruel fate that awaited him. And so it was, that when the Hell Gate closed, it had dragged Hellfire soldier Deacon with it, to face whatever torture and madness that awaited him on the other side.

=R=W=B=Y=

Jaune was bowled over as an explosion shook the ground. He whimpered, wincing as his wounds were agitated and his blood continued to seep out an alarming pace. He had torn his way through the forest and lost most of his enemies through the trees but of those he fought, he had another mark placed upon him. Jaune no longer felt the will to fight, he no longer felt the courage of a warrior against the horde. Now, he truly felt his age. He was no hero who won at the end, he just a child that was hurt and aching and now wanted nothing more to be with his parents and be safe and for everything to go back to normal.

The growl broke him out of his thoughts. The swing is what lifted him off the ground. The impact is what truly shocked his mind back into reality.

Jaune cried out, his hands flying to the new wound. Unlike the previous ones, this one was deep and it was painful. He could feel something hard poking at his hands and it was with cold terror that he realized he was touching his ribs. The young boy turned and met the blood red eyes of the Ursa, the bear Grimm letting out a panting sound as it slowly trudged over and seemed to savor his pain.

The little child tried crawling backwards, dragging his tired body along the ground and leaving a bloody trail as he made to get away. The Ursa seemed to be laughing at his weakness now, it's large lumbering steps shaking the ground as it easily outpaced him. He could feel it, the tears running down his face as he cried.

He was going to die, he was going to be eaten and there was nothing to be done about it.

"HELP! SOMEONE! ANYONE!" Jaune cried pitifully, "HELP ME!"

The Ursa was upon him now, its hulking mass shadowing his tiny frame. Jaune felt the hot breath of the foul beast as it bought its maw close, open wide and teeth shining as the Grimm made ready to bite him in half.

"Please," Jaune whimpered, "I don't want to die."

"For the Lord will execute judgment by fire And by His sword on all flesh, And those slain by the Lord will be many," A man's voice coldly stated, "Isaiah 66:16."

Two black blurs impacted the monster. The Ursa was lifted off of him, the bear Grimm roaring as it suddenly became engulfed in flames.

"Burn, abomination. Let the flames purge your taint."

The Ursa let out one last roar before it collapsed and turned into ash. A half naked scarred teen stomped over, picking up his swords and hiding them on his person before he rushed over to Jaune.

"Kid? Kid can you hear me?"

Jaune felt his head drooping, his vision fading as blackness creeped at the edges of his sight.

"Damn it, all right hold still. This is going to hurt...but at least you'll live."

A burning sensation seized his nerves and didn't let go. The young boy felt his throat be stretched raw from his screaming before the pain mercifully ended and was replaced with a near calm warmth. The child curled up and tried to let the heat engulf him. It was strange, it was alien but it made him feel safe.

"Ok, let's get you somewhere sa- YOU!"

Jaune couldn't see from his prone position but when the warmth disappeared, he nearly whimpered. The child couldn't see past the torso of his new friend but he could hear the hammering of his heartbeat as the teen brandished his family sword at some unseen enemy.

"W-r-o-n-g...t-h-i-s...i-s...W-R-O-N-G!"

There was a moment of silence. A moment of utter stillness.

A long, vengeful howl broke it. It shattered the plane of reality and gutted the foundations of the world.

Pure black claws reached out. Grasped the edges of existence. Pulled.

Suddenly a great gust of wind seemed to whip about the two, the very ground they stood upon became engulfed and sucked into the yearning black hole. The stranger clutched him tight, jamming a sword into the ground and wrapping his remaining arm securely around him.

It wasn't enough. Jaune could feel them both be lifted up and slowly near the chasm that would consume them both.

"God be with us," Jaune could hear the whispers even as the very surroundings were torn up, "God be with us both."

The last thing Jaune saw before inky darkness took him was his home, off in the distance.

The fabric realigned itself just as fast as it was torn.

By the time anyone arrived on the scene, they would only find one peculiar blade, jammed into the ground as if to mark a grave.