On the other side, the place boiled with activity: soldiers unloaded fuel, pulled prostitutes out of the truck, or smoked while leaning against their rifles.
The large two-story beige house, its balconies overlooking the entrance, also housed unarmed workers. When they saw the brown-haired man enter, they greeted him cheerfully—until they noticed his missing arm.
Smiles vanished. Guns were raised, drugs and goods dropped to the ground. From the balconies, rifles aimed at the gate.
The doors exploded inward, crashing down on two men who were instantly reduced to red stains. Then they saw
him
.
Blood turned to ice as they recognized the figure crossing the threshold: a man over two meters tall, bare-chested, a golden pectoral gleaming over a jade serpent engraved on his chest. Slender yet sculpted like stone, his face serpentine, a forked tongue flickering between red, green, and golden feathers.
The god bared his fangs and roared. Ancestral terror gripped everyone; it was like facing the wrath of a divine father. One managed to shoot—and the rest followed.
Bullets ripped through the air at sonic speed, but Quetzalcóatl advanced between them, sprinting like a sports car, his macuahuitl tearing through bodies as he went. Wounds sealed instantly, blood spraying into a crimson mist.
While the men focused on the god, Camille moved like a shadow among them, slicing throats and arteries with impossible precision. Not a single bullet touched her.
Gunfire still rained from the balconies, but chaos ruled below.
Quetzalcóatl swept through the compound with divine fury, careful not to harm the prostitutes but unleashing his wrath upon anyone who served the cartel. Even so, the constant shots from above irritated him.
Camille dashed toward the god, and as if they had rehearsed it, Quetzalcóatl spun his weapon, offering the flat of the blade as a platform. She stepped onto the wood, and with a whip-like motion, the macuahuitl hurled her upward to the second floor.
Bullets whistled around her—but she deflected them midair. She landed on the balcony, slashing the throats of two men before touching down with insulting grace. Sheathed her sword, brushed a thumb across her blood-smeared face, her expression darkly focused, lips curling into a crooked smile.
Men aimed at her from the corridor. Camille brushed a lock of hair from her face.
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to wash blood out of your hair?” she murmured with a terrifying smile, her voice dripping sensuality that only frayed the guards’ nerves further. “You boys have been
very
naughty~”
“Surrender! Even you can’t dodge all of us in here!” one shouted, trying to sound brave.
Camille laughed—genuine, delighted. She crouched into a fighting stance.
“Just don’t aim for the face,” she said, touching her cheek. “This one can’t have any scars~”
Triggers clicked.
Bullets flew—slow as feathers to her eyes.
Technique of the Bow No. 1: Draw.
A blink. The air split. Bullets fell, sliced clean in half—and Camille vanished.
She reappeared in front of them.
“Number 5: Doubles.”
One sweep—and three bodies split in two.
She moved like a hurricane, cutting through bullets, steel, and flesh with lethal grace. When she hit the far wall, she exhaled softly, drenched in blood.
Too much fun… that rush, that pressure…
she thought with a grimace as she tried to wipe the blood from her hair.
But the mess is such a nuisance.
She approached the railing and looked down. The sight made her uneasy.
The floor was a red lake, bodies torn apart filling every corner. Desperate faces, terrified eyes—the prostitutes trembled on the ground. Though the god had spared them, they would never forget what they’d seen. Even the blood Camille had spilled overflowed from the balcony, dripping to the first floor.
A bloodbath
was the only fitting description.
At the center, Quetzalcóatl panted heavily, slowly returning to human form. His fangs receded, feathers falling to the floor.
Camille jumped from the balcony, landing with a splash of blood. She grimaced at the metallic smell rising around her—it made her stomach turn. She looked toward the prostitutes.
“I’m sorry you had to see this,” she said in clumsy Spanish, bowing her head with genuine remorse. The women trembled. “You can go. I can’t guarantee your safety if you stay here.”
They didn’t need to be told twice. They got up immediately and ran for the exit, passing by Quetzalcóatl, who watched them with exhaustion and pity.
The brown-haired man knelt on the ground, staring at the massacre of his comrades and friends. Nausea hit him hard; he bent over and vomited until nothing was left. When he lifted his gaze again, the house had lost its beige color entirely.
Quetzalcóatl stepped toward him. No words were needed. The man obeyed instantly, leading the way through the ranch toward where the boss must be.
The god and Camille followed, walking through the sea of corpses.
At last, they reached a wide open area where a ceremonial bonfire blazed—massive, almost the size of the ranch itself. But it wasn’t normal. Nothing about it was. Both Camille and the brown-haired man felt a shiver crawl down their spines.
Before they realized it, they were frozen in place. Camille couldn’t move; it felt as if her feet had sunk into the earth itself. Fear crawled up her body. Despite standing near the fire, her skin turned cold, and her face became pale as marble.
Above the blazing pyre rose a blurred figure — a being as tall as a building. Its form shifted constantly, a deformed cloak of darkness within which countless images flickered all at once: the moon, jaguars, war. Camille could have sworn she saw the massacre they had just left behind reflected in it.
When she dared to look higher, she saw a face — partly human. One half was a reddish skull, the other a slab of dark, gleaming obsidian. Staring directly at it only returned her own reflection. Blood trickled down from its dual lips, and a great Mayan crown completed the image of the god.
Quetzalcóatl was the only one capable of moving under the crushing weight in the air.
“Tezcatlipoca!” he roared.
The ground shook. The air grew so dense that Camille and the brown-haired man dropped to their knees, gasping. Each breath seared their lungs as if they were swallowing molten metal.
“How dare you use my name for your own ends?”
The monstrous being turned toward him. There was no face, no expression — only a pulsing void. And yet, everyone
felt
it smile.
A low laugh echoed like a cavern collapsing, seeping straight into their skulls.
“What a pleasant surprise,” it said — though its mouth never moved. The voice didn’t sound in the air; it existed
inside
their minds.
Camille clenched her teeth. The pressure forced her closer to the ground. Every word from Tezcatlipoca made her head vibrate, as if an invisible claw was prying her skull open. The brown-haired man gave a strangled moan and collapsed, unconscious.
“The feathered serpent comes to visit me,” the god continued, his tone mocking. “My old friend… care for a drink?”
A yellowish bottle appeared before Quetzalcóatl. The god frowned and smashed it with his macuahuitl. The liquor hissed on contact with the ground, burning through stone like acid.
“Bastard,” Quetzalcóatl growled. “Answer me. Why did you demand sacrifices in my name?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Tezcatlipoca replied, leaning forward until his enormous face filled Camille’s entire field of vision. His shadow seemed to breathe, to pulse. “Humans are far more willing to commit atrocities when they think a righteous god commands it.
You’re
the god of wind and mankind, after all. I’m simply taking advantage of your good reputation. Free publicity, you might say.”
The laugh that followed was so deep the earth split beneath their feet. Camille felt something warm trickle from her ear—blood. She tried to cover it, but her arms refused to move.
“That gives you no right,” Quetzalcóatl snarled, raising his weapon.
He struck, splitting the air, but Tezcatlipoca’s body distorted like smoke, still laughing.
“Coward,” spat the god. “You’re not even here. Why do you keep corrupting my children? Why meddle with mortals?”
“Corrupting?” Tezcatlipoca rose higher, his form expanding until his head brushed the invisible roof of the sky. “I merely play with the cruelty already inside them. I
need
the sacrifices — and you know why. The day is near. I can’t show myself to humanity looking like this.”
The temperature dropped instantly. The fire turned blue.
Within the flames, Camille thought she saw kneeling human shapes, weeping — some still alive. The god of the night’s voice grew lower, closer, until it whispered right beside her ear.
“Don’t worry. When the time comes, I swear by the heavens, I’ll tear you apart myself.”
Quetzalcóatl raised his gaze. A helicopter was ascending rapidly — inside, a man in a white suit stared down at him.
The capo.
The god lifted his macuahuitl, summoning the wind — but a heavy darkness swallowed his power.
“Don’t lose hope, old friend,” Tezcatlipoca murmured. “We’ll see each other again… before the invasion begins.”
The flames vanished all at once. A spiral of black mist rose above the ranch, and his voice echoed one last time — mocking, distant, and cruel:
“I’ll say hello to your sister for you. I’m sure she’ll be delighted to know you’re still crawling on the earth after what you did to her.”
Quetzalcóatl’s rage finally broke loose.
“Don’t you
dare
use my sister’s name, you son of a bitch!”
The ground cracked apart beneath his fury. The image of his sister — of what he’d done — made his blood boil.
The silence that followed was unbearable. Quetzalcóatl stood motionless, his face hardened by a wordless fury. The pressure lifted, but Camille was still trembling; the air reeked of ash and fear.
With stiff muscles, she lifted the unconscious man and ran. She didn’t think — she just fled. She leapt outside just before the final tremor struck.
Then came the roar.
A divine scream tore through the air like a thunderbolt of rage. Camille dropped to her knees, dizzy, as the ground shuddered and split beneath her. When she looked back, the entire estate was being swallowed by the earth. The air twisted around her, changing direction, pressure, form.
A tornado of debris rose like a column of fury. The scream of Quetzalcóatl fed it, guided it. Camille could only cover herself, frozen, as the storm of a god’s wrath tore the world apart.
The whirlwind broke away from the god, carrying with it the remains of the place—and the bodies. Camille thought, with a twisted sense of humor, that someone out there would have the fortune of seeing
viscera rain
that night.
Finally, the god descended, wrapped in dust and wind, his rage still crackling in the air.
Camille managed to stand again, glaring at him. The god approached, wearing an expression of frustration she hadn’t imagined a divine being could have.
“What?” she snapped.
“You almost killed me,
fils de pute!
” Camille grabbed a rock and hurled it at him. It bounced off harmlessly.
“I gave you plenty of time to escape,” he replied, indifferent.
“
Va te faire foutre!
”
The god turned his gaze toward the man on the ground, stepping closer as he raised his macuahuitl.
“Wait—what are you doing?” Camille asked, reaching for her weapon. “We made a promise. We can’t just kill him.”
“I believe we can.”
Camille stepped forward, positioning herself between the god and the mortal.
“Are you seriously going to break your word? I thought you despised deceit,” she countered.
The god clenched his jaw, staring directly at her. For a moment, he considered removing her from his path. Yet, still…
“I have a proposal,” Camille began, trying to reason with him. “Let’s take him with us. That way we can keep an eye on him. Besides, he saw Tezcatlipoca directly—after the massacre we caused, he’ll probably kill himself the moment he wakes up.”
“It was only an illusion. How can you be sure?” the god asked, his grip on the weapon loosening slightly.
“Because right now, I can’t stop thinking about slitting my own wrists,” she admitted, her eyes trembling. Her breathing came shallow and heavy, and life itself seemed to weigh too much on her shoulders.
The god froze at her words.
“It’s a horrible feeling,” she continued. “That damn god messes with your mind. Even with my high self-esteem and the mental resistance my blade grants me, the urge is still there. It’ll fade in a few hours—if I’m lucky. But we can’t assume he’ll be the same.”
The god understood instantly. Why risk breaking a promise, when the man might already be doomed?
Quetzalcóatl lowered his weapon. Relief washed over Camille, and her knees gave out beneath her. She collapsed, breathing hard. The god felt pity for her—for mortals, Tezcatlipoca’s presence meant staring into the darkest corners of their own minds.
“Very well. Let’s go,” the god said, driving the macuahuitl into the ground.
The weapon transformed into a massive serpent—over fifteen meters long. Its head was broad, its lips tinted red, and a mane of brilliant feathers rippled down its body as it hovered in the air.
“To where?”
“To China. I’m sure you’ll want to meet the master your order prays to,” he explained, leaping onto the serpent’s back. With a snap of his fingers, the air surged violently, lifting the unconscious man and laying him across the creature’s back.
“Wait—my legs are shaking like I just…” She stopped mid-sentence. “Ran a marathon.”
“Yeah, sure that’s exactly what you were going to say,” the god mocked, and for the first time that day, he smiled. It faded almost instantly, his face turning to stone again. Camille blushed faintly at his teasing.
“I repeat…
Va te faire foutre,
” she muttered.
End of Chapter.