Eldritch Guidance-Chapter 139 – The Saintess In ‘Red’ And White

Steph knelt in silent reverence before the weathered stone altar, her pristine white robes pooling around her. The abandoned church stood in hollow silence, its shattered stained-glass windows casting fractured beams of pale moon light across the dusty floor. Once, this place had echoed with hymns to the Light—but no more. With deliberate hands, she had reshaped the altar, carving new sigils into its timeworn surface, defacing the old symbols of devotion. The Light was a lie, a hollow god who demanded faith but gave nothing in return. Her god was different.

At the center of the altar now stood a small, crudely carved figurine—a robed figure with arms outstretched in welcome. The icon of the Red Church. A god who asked not for blind worship, but for action. A god who did not only gave salvation, but who offered purpose.

Steph bowed her head, fingers interlaced, lips moving in whispered prayer. She did not know if her god heard her. The Red Church taught that their deity was not some omnipotent watcher, peering down from the heavens. No—he was a guide, a whisper in the dark, a hand on the shoulder of those who walked his path. Even if her prayers went unanswered, she knew he cared. His presence was not in grand miracles, but in the quiet certainty that filled her.

Prayer, to her, was not about begging for divine intervention. It was meditation. Clarification. A way to steady her resolve, to remind herself of the oaths she had taken. The Red Church did not promise its followers easy victories—only the strength to endure. And so she knelt, not in desperation, but in quiet affirmation.

Steph: "Guide me," she murmured. "Not because I am weak, but because I am willing."

The air in the abandoned church remained still. No thunderous voice answered her. No celestial light bathed her in warmth. But in the silence, she felt it—the faintest pressure against her thoughts, like a hand resting gently upon her own.

It was enough.

She knew that her god’s guidance was always with her.

Steph’s fingers brushed against the hidden weight beneath her robes—a secret kept close to her heart. With practiced reverence, she drew out the pendant, its silver chain glinting faintly in the dim light. The ruby at its center was carved into a perfect droplet, as if frozen in its descent, a sacred emblem of her faith. It pulsed with a deep, bloody hue, catching the fractured light from the broken windows like a living thing.

She brought it to her lips, pressing a silent kiss to its polished surface. The ruby was cool against her skin, yet it carried the memory of pain—of sacrifice, of vows written in blood and her salvation. Clasping it tightly between her palms, she closed her eyes and let her whispered prayers coil around it like smoke.

Then—a sound.

The groan of rusted hinges. The slow, deliberate creak of the church’s great doors parting, as if the building itself exhaled in warning.

Steph’s eyes snapped open. Her grip on the pendant tightened for the briefest moment before she released it, letting it slip back beneath her robes, hidden once more. The ruby’s warmth lingered against her skin like a brand.

She rose smoothly, her white robes whispering against the stone floor as she turned to face the people she was expecting. Her expression was calm, but her pulse was steady, deliberate—ready.

The figure in the doorway stood motionless, haloed by the pale glow of moonlight, their features obscured in shadow. But then—movement. More shapes emerged from behind them, fanning out with practiced precision along the edges of the church. Their boots struck the stone floor in near-silent rhythm, their forms clad in matte-black tactical gear, their weapons—rifles, sidearms, blades—glistening faintly in the dim light.

Steph didn’t flinch. She watched as they moved like wraiths, securing the perimeter, cutting off escape. The heavy wooden doors groaned shut behind them, the iron bar sliding back into place with a final, echoing thud. Trapped.

Then, the leader stepped forward.

The others parted for him, their postures rigid with discipline. He pulled off his helmet, and the dim light caught the sharp angles of his face—Yovis. The same man who had sent her here, who had spoken of desperate souls in need of salvation, who had promised her converts.

But there were no converts. Only soldiers. Only steel and gunpowder.

Steph exhaled slowly, her disappointment settling like a stone in her chest.

Steph: "Yovis," she said, her voice cool, measured. "I assume this isn’t the flock you promised me."

A flicker of something crossed his face—regret? Resignation?—before his expression hardened into the mask of a soldier.

Yovis: "No," he admitted.

The armed men tightened their circle, their weapons not yet raised, but ready. The air hummed with tension, thick enough to choke on.

Steph’s fingers twitched, her pulse steady. She had knelt in prayer, but now—now, she stood in the face of betrayal.

And the ruby against her skin burned hotter.

Yovis exhaled sharply through his nose. The dim light caught the cold gleam of his tactical visor under his arm as he shook his head.

Yovis: "Steph, there is no escape," he said, his voice stripped of its earlier pretense of camaraderie. "The entire building was flooded with Jinsil aerosol before we even stepped inside. You know what that means—no magic. Just you, us, and the truth." He took a step closer, his boots crunching on broken glass. "So let’s make this simple. Tell us how your healing really works, and who—or what—your god actually is."

Steph’s fingers twitched at her sides, the absence of her magic like a severed limb. But her voice remained steady, threaded with quiet conviction.

Steph: "Our god is not nameless," she said, her gaze unwavering. "He has a name. But it is not mine to give. He reveals himself to those he deems worthy, or to those in need. As for the healing… there is no secret. It is simply a gift, granted through his guidance. A tool to save lives. Nothing more."

Yovis barked a laugh, sharp and humorless.

Yovis: "A cultist still playing priest right to the end, huh?" He made a dismissive gesture, as if swatting away her words like gnats. "Spare me the sermon. We both know there’s something more to it. Something the Red Church doesn’t want the rest of us to understand."

For the first time, Steph’s composure cracked—but not with fear. Her brow furrowed, her eyes darkening with something far heavier than anger. Pity.

Steph: "Yovis," she said softly, taking a single step forward. The armed men tensed, fingers hovering over triggers, but she didn’t flinch. "It’s not too late. Salvation isn’t reserved for the faithful alone. Our doors are open to all who seek help—believer or not. It’s not about faith. It’s about humanity. And yours is still there, buried under all of this." She gestured to the guns, the armor, the calculated cruelty. "Please. If you take me away, the people of Coppa will be left with nothing but despair again. Is that what you want?"

Another step.

The gunshot shattered the silence like a hammer through glass.

Steph staggered, her breath hitching as her hand instinctively clutched her side. A dark, spreading stain bloomed across her pristine white robes—vibrant as the ruby pendant hidden beneath, as if her very faith had begun to bleed.

The shot had come from Gallen, the newest operative standing just beside Yovis.

Before the echo of the first gunshot could fade, the rest of the squad reacted on instinct. Rifles snapped up, barrels flashing in the dim light as they unleashed a storm of gunfire. Bullets tore into Steph’s body, each impact jerking her frame like a macabre marionette. Blood misted the air, splattering across the broken altar, the shattered pews, the once-sacred ground now defiled by violence.

Then—silence.

Steph’s body crumpled, collapsing onto the stone floor in a grotesque, motionless heap. A thick pool of blood seeped outward, red in the moonlight, swallowing the white of her robes.

Yovis whirled on Gallen, his voice a venomous hiss.

Yovis: "I gave a direct order not to fire until my signal!"

Gallen didn’t even flinch.

Gallen: "She was about to make a move," he snapped back, finger still tense on the trigger. "You saw her step forward—"

Yovis: "She was talking!" he snarled, stepping into Gallen’s space, his gloved hands clenched into fists. "Not charging. Not casting. Talking."

Gallen’s jaw tightened, his eyes flicking between his furious commander and the ruined corpse at their feet.

Gallen: "What does it matter?" he muttered. "Command said to eliminate her. That’s what we did."

Yovis dragged a hand down his face, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as if physically restraining his fury.

Yovis: "Her cult doesn’t just vanish because she’s dead," he ground out. "We could have pulled intel from her—locations, names, weaknesses. Now? Now we’ve got nothing."

Gallen’s expression wavered, but only for a second. He wasn’t sorry. He was just calculating whether this would cost him his place on the team.

Yovis already knew the answer to that. This was Gallen’s first op with the Light’s Shadows, and it would damn well be his last. The moment they got back to headquarters, Yovis was scrubbing him from the roster and tossing him back into remedial training—if he didn’t have him discharged outright.

A waste. A stupid, reckless waste.

Yovis: "Congratulations," he snarled, his voice dripping with contempt. "You just earned yourself cleanup duty. Wrap the false saint’s body for transport—and try not to screw that up too."

Gallen’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing, knowing he had already pushed his luck. The other operatives moved swiftly, fanning out to secure the perimeter. Rifles clicked as rounds were chambered, boots scuffing against the decaying wooden floors as they pressed themselves against the boarded-up windows, peering through splintered gaps for any sign of movement.

Yovis: "Steph’s Red Guard won’t be far," he warned, his voice low. "They would have heard that firefight. The second Gallen’s done, we move—deep into the swamps. Those fanatics won’t follow us there."

A grim murmur of acknowledgment rippled through the squad. The church was sealed tight, every possible entry point barricaded except for the heavy front doors they had come through. If the cultists wanted in, they’d have to break them down—and by then, the Shadow Operatives would be long gone.

Gallen exhaled sharply through his nose, unclipping a folded body bag from his gear. He shook it open with a sharp flick of his wrists, the thick plastic crinkling as he stepped into the widening pool of Steph’s blood. It seeped into the grooves of his boots, sticky and unnervingly warm.

He looked down at her.

Even in death, she was striking. Her face was serene, lashes resting against pale cheeks as if she were merely sleeping. The bullet wounds that riddled her torso and limbs were grotesque, but they did nothing to diminish the ethereal beauty that had made her so captivating in life.

Gallen: "What a waste," muttered under his breath.

If she hadn’t been some heretic leading fools astray from the Light, she could have been something more. A model. A nobleman’s wife. “His.” The thought flickered, unbidden, before he shoved it aside.

He reached for her arm, preparing to drag her into the bag—

—when a soft, wet bubble broke the silence.

Gallen froze.

His head snapped toward the sound. At the far edge of the blood pool, a single crimson bubble swelled, quivered, then burst with a faint pop. 𝒻𝘳ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝒷𝘯ℴ𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝑐ℴ𝑚

His brow furrowed. He took a slow step toward it, boots leaving dark smears on the stone. Crouching, he prodded the spot with his gloved finger, expecting—what? A leak in the floor? Some trick of the old church’s crumbling foundation?

Nothing.

Just blood.

Yovis: "What the hell are you doing? Secure the body and move!" he barked, watching in disbelief as Gallen crouched motionless, staring at some insignificant spot in the blood.

Gallen: "I'm on it!" he snapped back, irritation flaring—but before he could rise, the blood moved.

The spot he had been examining suddenly swelled, the thick crimson liquid bubbling violently—then parting, as if the puddle wasn’t just a shallow spill but a yawning, fathomless pit.

And something climbed out.

A nightmare of sinew and teeth erupted from the blood, its form grotesquely fluid, as though sculpted from the very essence of the massacre. It lunged before Gallen could even scream, slamming into him with the force of a feral beast. He crashed onto his back, his rifle skidding uselessly across the floor, his breath exploding from his lungs in a panicked gasp.

Then—teeth.

The creature’s maw—if it could even be called that—unhinged, rows of jagged, needle-like fangs sinking into Gallen’s throat with a wet crunch. A sickening rip followed, flesh and artery tearing free in a single brutal motion.

Blood fountained.

Gallen’s body convulsed once, his hands clawing weakly at the creature’s writhing form before going limp. His eyes, wide with terror, glazed over in seconds.

Every operative spun toward the sound just in time to see Gallen’s body collapse—and the thing that had torn his throat out raise its blood-slicked head from the kill.

The creature was a mockery of the human form—a grotesque marionette of stretched sinew and malformed bone. Its limbs bent in too many places, joints clicking unnaturally as it crouched over Gallen’s corpse. What might have once been a gown clung to its lower half, though now it was little more than a tattered shroud of flesh, stitched together from patches of flayed skin. It moved on all fours like a starved beast, its hollow eye sockets glistening wetly above a mouth crammed with needle-thin teeth. Worse still, it had no skin—only raw, twitching muscle, exposed veins pulsing black in the dim light.

For a single, frozen second, the operatives could only stare.

Instinct took over.

Yovis: "FIRE!"

The church erupted in gunfire. Muzzles flashed, bullets shredding through the creature’s emaciated frame. Chunks of muscle and gore splattered across the floor as the barrage tore into it, the thing’s body jerking violently under the assault. It let out a shriek—a sound like glass grinding against bone—before finally collapsing atop Gallen’s ruined corpse, its limbs splayed at broken angles.

Silence.

The operatives held their positions, weapons still trained on the twitching mass. Smoke curled from barrels, the acrid stench of gunpowder mixing with the copper reek of blood.

But the threat was not gone.

The pool of blood around Steph’s corpse convulsed, its surface rippling like a mirror before tearing open—and more of the grotesque creatures clawed their way into the world. They emerged in a horrific mockery of birth, limbs twisting into place, hollow eyes locking onto Yovis and his men with ravenous hunger.

The operatives opened fire, their disciplined volleys shredding through the first wave. The creatures fell, their malformed bodies collapsing in pulpy heaps—but the blood kept bubbling. More came.

They scrambled over the twitching corpses of their kin, their too-many-jointed limbs clicking against the stone floor as they charged. The gunfire was deafening, muzzle flashes painting the church in strobing hellfire, but the horde didn’t stop. They couldn’t.

One of Yovis’ men cursed as his rifle clicked empty. He fumbled for a fresh magazine, but the creatures didn’t give him the chance.

The horror lunged, its needle teeth sinking into his shoulder as clawed fingers raked down his chest, shredding through armor like paper. The operative roared in pain, wrenching a combat knife from his belt and driving it into the thing’s ribcage. The blade punched through withered muscle, red ichor spurting—but before he could finish it, another monster slammed into him, throwing its fallen kin aside like garbage.

The last thing he saw was a gaping maw of teeth.

One of the younger operatives—a mage from the Arcane Division—staggered back as his rifle ran dry. Panic flashed across his face as he instinctively raised his hands, fingers already twisting into a combat sigil. His lips moved in the first syllables of an incantation—

Nothing happened.

The realization hit him like a gut punch. Jinsil aerosol. The entire church was saturated with it—their own precaution to neutralize Steph’s magic. Now, it had turned against them. No spells. No fireballs. No last-minute wards. Just steel and desperation.

His hesitation lasted half a second too long. The creatures moved.

Another gaunt, skinless horror lunged, its distended jaws snapping shut around his outstretched wrist. Bone crunched. The mage screamed—a raw, animal sound—as two more abominations slammed into him, clawed fingers hooking into his armor straps.

For a single, horrifying moment, the operatives could only watch as their comrade was dragged down, his body disappearing beneath a writhing mass of teeth and talons. The wet rips of tearing muscle, the snaps of breaking bone—it was over before his screams were.

All that remained was a red smear on the stones.

And the creatures turned, their hollow eyes locking onto the next target.

Yovis’ grip on his rifle was white-knuckled.

Yovis: "Close ranks! No more gaps!"

But the horde was learning. Adapting. They didn’t charge blindly anymore. They slithered along the walls, the ceiling, herding the survivors toward the center of the church—where the blood pool was deepest.

The gunfire had become sporadic now—desperate, uneven bursts as the last of Yovis's men were dragged down, one by one. Screams echoed through the ruined church, each cut short too soon, replaced by wet, tearing sounds and the hungry snarls of the creatures.

And then, silence.

Yovis stood alone, his back pressed against the crumbling altar, his rifle empty, his knife slick with blood. The creatures circled him, their hollow eyes gleaming, their too-many-jointed limbs twitching with unnatural hunger. He expected them to swarm him—to rip into him like they had the others—but instead, they seized him.

Clawed hands gripped his arms, his legs, forcing him down to his knees in front of the massive, still-spreading pool of Steph's blood. His breath came in ragged gasps as he struggled, but their strength was inhuman.

Steph’s corpse, still and lifeless moments before, twitched.

Yovis’ stomach lurched as her fingers flexed, her shattered body slowly, impossibly, pushing itself upright. The gaping bullet wounds in her torso rippled, flesh weaving itself back together like invisible hands stitching her whole. Muscle reknit, skin smoothed, until not a single mark remained—save for the torn fabric of her robes and blood, the only evidence that she had ever been shot at all.

Yovis: "How...?" he whispered, his voice raw.

The Jinsil aerosol should have blocked all magic. It should have left her powerless.

Yet here she stood, unharmed.

Alive.

Steph tilted her head back, gazing up at the shattered stained-glass windows, the moonlight casting fractured colors across her face. Then, with slow, deliberate grace, she looked down at Yovis.

Her expression was the same as before.

Disappointed.

Not angry. Not vengeful.

Just... disappointed.

Like he had failed a test he hadn’t even known he was taking.

The creatures holding him tightened their grip, their hollow eyes fixed on their mistress, awaiting her command.

Steph: "Your faith is... misplaced, Yovis."

She stepped forward, her feet gliding across the blood-soaked stones without leaving a trace—as if she walked not upon the earth, but just above it. The tattered remains of her once-pristine robes clung to her, the fabric now more crimson than white, dyed in the blood of her martyrdom and rebirth.

Steph: "You had your chance," she continued, her tone sorrowful yet resolute. "You rejected the mercy of my god—who offers salvation to all who seek it—and instead clung to your blind devotion to a silent deity. A hollow Light that has never answered your prayers, never lifted a hand to save you or anyone else."

Yovis' breath came in shallow gasps as the creatures tightened their grip, their needle-like fingers pressing into his flesh. He wanted to argue, to spit defiance, but the words died in his throat.

Steph: "So I pray for you now," she murmured, clasping her hands together in solemn prayer. "I hope, for your sake, that your Light is real. That it will show you the mercy mine no longer can."

As she bowed her head, Yovis' eyes were drawn to her macabre beauty. The way the blood had soaked into her robes in intricate patterns—crimson tendrils curling across white fabric like some sacred script.

“So that's why they call her the Saintess in Red and White,” he realized with grim clarity. Not for purity, but for sacrifice. Not for devotion, but for the blood she shed—both her own, and that of those who opposed her god.

The air grew thick. The shadows deepened. From the corners of the ruined church, something stirred—something that had been watching.

Steph's prayer ended with a single word:

Steph: "Amen."

And then the darkness swallowed Yovis vision.