“Camille. What a
pleasure
to see you…” Quetzalcoatl muttered, clearly irritated, as he lifted the corpse off the ground and slung it over his shoulder like a sack of rice. “You do realize those feminine-shaped armors are completely useless, right?”
“Well… if I’m facing weapons like yours, no armor is going to help anyway. So really, what’s the harm in looking pretty?” she replied casually, hopping down from the truck with the grace of a gymnast. She landed flawlessly, then wiped a small splash of crimson off the metal plate on her chest with her thumb.
“Look at that… You got blood on me,” she said with a fake, almost sweet smile.
To the god, Camille was the emotional equivalent of a numbed arm—interesting at first, quickly annoying, and something you just had to endure until the blood started circulating properly again.
“Shouldn’t you be painting your nails? Or double-checking if you’re pregnant? Or trying to figure out fractions?” Quetzalcoatl asked while inspecting the dead man's body.
“Mon amour,
I’m French. The dumb blonde American cliché doesn’t apply to me,” Camille replied with mock offense, placing a hand dramatically over her chest.
“In that case… shouldn’t you be checking if it’s your monthly bath day?” the feathered serpent shot back. Camille gave an exasperated sigh, which only made him feel better.
“That cliché does apply.
C’est pas mal, mon seigneur,
” she said, moving to stand beside the copilot.
He shivered slightly, then pressed the body against the side of the truck and grabbed the dead man’s face. The corpse twitched violently—his eyes snapped open, blood flowed again, and a horrific scream tore from his ruined throat. Every nerve in his body was on fire, every fiber screaming in agony that made him long for death again.
He turned his wide, terrified eyes toward the god and tried to pull away, but the grip was unyielding, and his broken body refused to obey.
“Getting a bit sadistic, don’t you think?” Camille murmured through her teeth. The god ignored her, keeping his eyes locked on the man.
“Your brain has just been reconnected. I’ve shut down all your pain suppressors, so you’re now feeling every cell of your body dying in real time,” the copilot explained, forcing an authoritative tone, though the victim was far too consumed by the pain to fully understand. “And as long as I’m holding you… the suffering will continue. Unless, of course, you tell me what I want to know.”
“Such a cliché line,” Camille snorted. Quetzalcoatl shot her a glare, his brow twitching with a visible vein. Camille stifled a giggle.
She stepped away as the screams continued behind her, circling the truck. She ran her hand along the bullet holes scattered across the metal. When she reached the door, the stench of blood from the corpse inside hit her.
Beside it, she spotted a pale girl trembling, barely covered by a blood-soaked, thin blanket. Camille crouched in front of her and quickly scanned her for injuries. The girl stared back cautiously, trying to shield herself. But there was nothing in her eyes—just emptiness. Quetzalcoatl had saved her with all the gentleness of a hammer removing a splinter.
Camille sighed and gently ran her hand over the girl's face.
“Don’t worry. It’s over now,” she said softly, her tone steady and comforting. “The ones who hurt you are gone. You can cry now.”
The girl seemed to obey her. Almost instantly, tears rolled down her cheeks, and her expression collapsed as a muffled sob escaped her. Camille allowed herself a faint smile. There didn’t seem to be any physical damage, but the emotional and psychological trauma… that was likely irreversible.
She stood up. Quetzalcoatl was still busy interrogating the poor bastard outside, so she climbed into the truck.
Inside, the last rays of sunlight filtered through the bullet holes punched into the metal walls. Camille had expected to find a massacre—but to her surprise, every hostage was still alive. Trembling, yes, but untouched. Not a single bullet had hit them.
“Must’ve been when he recited those words in his language,” she muttered to herself, impressed. She had been watching the fight from almost the beginning, still wondering what the hell the god of wind was doing here… though it seemed he had held back.
The people inside stared at her in fear, their skeletal bodies trying and failing to rise. One of the men managed to push himself off the floor and tackled Camille, though she didn’t seem bothered at all.
On the ground, the man started yelling.
“Free us, hijos de puta!” he shouted in a shaky, broken dialect. Camille sighed, lightly annoyed, but simply placed her hand gently on the man’s head.
A wave of calm washed over him, and he let her go. Camille, with care, reached for the sword at her side and drew it.
A thin, silver blade unfolded—held by a leather-wrapped hilt and a circular guard.
She cut the rope binding the man’s wrists.
“It’s okay. You’re safe now,” she said calmly.
The man believed her instantly. There was something in her presence, her posture, that inspired trust.
The moment was shattered by the sharp
click
of a weapon being cocked.
Camille turned and saw one of the cartel goons still standing, holding a young man as a human shield and aiming a Glock straight at her.
“I don’t know what the hell happened here,” he said, his voice tense, “but you’re letting me out, güera.”
He moved slowly, keeping his aim steady. Camille, however, kept her gaze calm, her expression softening with a small, disarming smile. That same calming presence pulsed through the gunman—but he didn’t lower his weapon.
“Come on,” Camille said gently. “All your friends are dead, and the man who did it is still outside. Just surrender, and maybe you’ll walk away.”
She took a slow step forward.
The man panicked.
And pulled the trigger.
With a movement almost too fast to see, Camille’s sword rose and sliced the bullet clean in half. Both fragments flew through the truck’s interior—yet not a single hostage was hit. Whatever effect Quetzalcoatl had cast was clearly still active.
The gunman panicked at the girl’s reflexes and quickly redirected his aim to the boy he was holding.
“One more step and this cabron dies!” he barked. The boy looked at Camille, eyes pleading. She sighed.
“Hey... you like Tarantino?” she asked casually. The man blinked, confused.
Camille raised her arm, and before he could react, a compartment on her armor's bracer opened, revealing a small built-in barrel.
The shot was soft—almost a
thud
—and the man dropped like a sack of bricks, releasing the boy. A clean hole marked the center of his forehead.
Camille lowered her arm and rolled her shoulder, trying to shake off the recoil.
“I hate using that merde,” she muttered, then continued cutting the rest of the hostages free.
One by one, they carefully climbed out of the truck.
Night had fallen outside. Several wept in relief. Others simply collapsed, too exhausted to move.
Quetzalcoatl approached Camille, wiping blood off his poncho.
“So? How’d it go, bad cop?” she teased.
“I got what I needed,” he said. “I have to go a few kilometers deeper into the valley. It'll take a few hours. Maybe you should head back.”
“Oh, là là, I can't go back without you, monsieur. Guess you’re stuck with the pleasure of my company,” Camille replied sweetly. His expression hardened.
Camille turned to the hostages. She reached into her pocket and handed one of them a phone.
“Call emergency services. I think it’s 911 here too,” she said, already walking off with Quetzalcoatl. “And let’s keep our existence a little secret, oui?”
They left the scene behind.
“I hope someone helps them,” Camille said, walking beside the god.
“Not my problem,” Quetzalcoatl replied flatly.
Camille sighed.
“Then why did you protect them?” she asked. “You know... who would've thought the great weakness of a divine would be lying.”
She smirked. He said nothing, eyes cast down. His steps grew heavier, thoughts weighed by something deeper—by the question of why he was truly going there.
The atmosphere began to shift as they advanced. It was subtle at first, but the further they went, the less control Quetzalcoatl seemed to have over the environment. The god clenched his fists in frustration.
That presence… It was familiar.
“You know, now that I think about it...” the god began. Camille looked up, curious.
“What are you doing here? I doubt you followed me all this way just for fun.”
Camille smiled, clasped her hands behind her back, and looked up at the sky. Her expression was hopeful—then, without warning, turned serious. That shift made Quetzalcoatl pause. He had never seen that expression on her before.
“Monsieur Hercules reached out to us,” she said.
Quetzalcoatl’s eyes widened. They hadn’t heard from the heavens in years.
“Your fears were right. Chaos is eating away at the heaven.”
He stopped cold and turned to face her. He knew the veil couldn’t hold all the gods forever—but still... the fact that Camille was here, annoying him in person, could only mean one thing.
“Let me guess,” he muttered. “Buddha’s little idea is looking more tempting than ever.”
He remembered well the first time the gods descended—how he’d had to work with that damned monkey and that tired old mortal just to hold them off long enough to force them back out of this realm.
But that had only been a temporary solution.
“Yes,” Camille said, her voice tinged with genuine worry. “We have until January 31st to prepare.”
Her hands trembled slightly, but she quickly hid them.
“Only two damn months,” Quetzalcoatl muttered. “That’s... problematic, to say the least.”
He turned again and kept walking, scratching his head as he tried to think. Camille stayed close, the atmosphere around them giving her chills.
“We need your help, mon seigneur.”
“You want me to fight dozens of gods?” he replied, voice grim. “I’m not exactly eager to die. And there’s no one left who can match the Three Supreme Ones.”
He looked up at the sky. The thought of the gods made him oddly nostalgic—of a time when he had once lived among them.
Camille caught the look on his face. For a second, she thought about saying something snarky, but held back. She wondered what it must feel like to be the last divine being in a world like this. What would it be like... to live for millennia?
“Maybe you don’t have to do it alone,” she said softly. “
He
came back.”
Quetzalcoatl didn’t look surprised. He simply glanced over his shoulder at her.
“Like he does every forty years. Dies, then reincarnates.”
“This time is... different.”
“Oh? For your little order, every time
he
is reborn, you call him the next divine savior,” he scoffed, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his voice.
But the strange sensation in the air was growing stronger.
Far ahead, a column of smoke rose into the sky—and with it, a faint light, slowly intensifying.
“This time he’s one hundred percent human.”
Quetzalcoatl didn’t find that particularly impressive, like foolishness on the Monkey King's part. But before he could say anything, Camille went on:
“And he survived a taste of the Peach of Immortality.”
That made him pause. His expression shifted slightly. For mortals, consuming food meant for the gods was supposed to be impossible—or at least exceedingly rare. The last one who survived it had been the original Sun Wukong himself.
“So, he’s got talent then,” Quetzalcoatl muttered with the faintest of smiles. “Alright. We’re almost there. You planning to stay behind… or actually be useful?”
“It’s been a while since I stretched properly. Can’t let this figure maintain itself,” Camille replied arrogantly, unsheathing her sword with a graceful flick and stretching her legs.
They continued walking for a few dozen meters. In front of them rose the winding dirt path of a rural estate. On either side, a few farm animals lay asleep. The scent of incense and sulfur thickened in the cool night air, now lit only by the stars above.
It was the perfect place for a ritual—remote, cleared of civilization, and under the name of a dangerous cartel. No sane person would dare poke around.
They didn’t go far before reaching the front gate. Two armed guards kept watch while several armored cars and black SUVs passed in and out. Quetzalcoatl sensed others—people tied up and packed into the trucks.
As a god of humanity, he had that kind of perception.
“I thought they only needed fifty,” Camille said, frowning. It was the first time she’d seen a ritual this well-organized.
“Pure sacrifices,” he cut in, keeping his voice low as they circled around the edge of the property to avoid being seen. “The ones entering now are probably enemies—meant to feed the flames. Or prostitutes. Most of the time, they just tie them up and throw them in armored trucks so they can’t know where the hideouts are.”
“You know a lot about this,” Camille teased, her tone shifting toward mockery. “Don’t tell me you played cartel boss in your spare time too.”
"How can you say something so cynical after what we just saw?" Quetzalcoatl snapped, frowning. "I’ve spent months investigating this. Every time I killed a trafficker and forced him to talk, by the time I reached the site, it was already abandoned. They’re cautious. That’s why I waited as long as I did. I’m just glad they haven’t realized what happened on the road yet. Maybe we still have a chance to stop the sacrifices."
“Mexica sacrifices, huh?” Camille muttered, her voice tinged with fury as she watched the guards and vehicles. “So… do we know who we’re supposed to kill?”
“It’s not that simple,” Quetzalcoatl answered. He closed his eyes, scanning for any trace of divine power. “But it’s likely a
capo
—a leader of one of the largest drug trafficking networks in the world.”
The sensation that overtook him was nauseating—of course it was. Who else could be behind this pile of bullshit?
Who else would crave the power of human souls just to manipulate a bunch of idiotic mortals?
Tezcatlipoca. The god of darkness and deception. There was no doubt. The presence he felt was unmistakably his—identical to the one that clung to that old man and the liquor he brewed.
Quetzalcoatl’s face twisted in fury and disgust.
A few reddish feathers burst from the back of his neck, his teeth sharpening into fangs, and his pupils slitting like a serpent’s.
He ran a hand along his back, and as it came around, the
macuahuitl
was suddenly in his grip.
“Mon dieu, what a terrifying face,” Camille said in a high-pitched, mock-damsel tone, clutching her hands dramatically to her chest.
“You almost look like a real god.” Her voice dropped back to its usual teasing rhythm.
“That bastard dares to usurp my name… and demand sacrifices in it,” Quetzalcoatl growled.
The aura around him thickened like a storm about to break. The dry soil beneath their feet began sprouting vegetation at an unnatural rate, and the air itself turned heavy—like breathing through a wet cloth.
Camille might’ve regretted teasing him if his reaction weren’t so fascinating.
“The god of night, non? Doesn’t seem very smart to face him when the moon is on his side, mon seigneur,” she said, nervously glancing at the sky.
“I don’t care. He’ll pay for this tonight.”
“So, it’s about your name being misused? I thought you were doing this to save the kidnapped people. That’s… kind of disappointing,” she admitted, not entirely mocking for once, though she was genuinely curious about his motivations.
“Thousands die every day. I’ll save the ones I can while I’m working. But like I said—it’s not really my problem,” he replied.
A chill ran down Camille’s spine.
She liked teasing the Feathered Serpent… but only because she was certain he’d never kill a human without reason.
Now, she wasn’t so sure. His face was full of emotion—but not a trace of compassion.
Still, she noticed something else too: a deep, exhausted weariness in his eyes.
The god marched forward. Camille hesitated for a few seconds before following. She really didn’t want to be there anymore, but she’d already said too much.
Irritation and unease flickered across her face, but she made sure Quetzalcoatl didn’t notice. She muttered under her breath:
“And you had the nerve to call
me
cynical…”