Both men stood calmly by the gate. Inside the compound, things were starting to get tense—apparently a shipment had been delayed, and no one really knew what was going on.
"You think the sacrifice will get canceled?" asked one of the guards, lowering his cigarette and blowing out the smoke casually. His lightly tanned skin and short brown hair were barely visible in the dark.
His companion groaned as he squatted down, tired of standing all night.
"If we don’t pull off the Christmas Eve sacrifice, Quetzalcoatl won’t reward us," the other replied, keeping his eyes on the road. "And if we screw it up, Señor Martínez will make our lives a living hell."
The brown-haired guard shuddered at the memory of his boss’s fury, almost as bad as the insane tasks he handed out when pissed—urgent deliveries, political assassinations, bribing the police in three cities at once.
"I’d rather be home, you know?" the brown-haired one muttered with a sigh, the image of a warm dinner in his apartment giving him a brief moment of comfort. "It’s damn Christmas."
His partner nodded, eyes lowered.
"Me too. How’s your daughter?"
They kept chatting quietly as the wind began to pick up, whistling against the gate. It grew stronger by the minute, like a storm building up out of nowhere.
"Growing, I guess. I barely see her," the guard answered. "But I just have to stick with this bullshit for one more month. After that, I’ll have enough to take care of my wife and daughter all the way to college."
"You think the boss will let you go?" his companion asked, a bit skeptical.
"I talked to him," he said after a pause. He hadn’t really considered whether the capo might silence him or had lied outright. "If I talk, he’ll know. So, he’ll let me go… as long as I keep my mouth shut."
His companion laughed, a sound that echoed across the dead plane.
"Early retirement, free surgery, and in this cartel? Political protection, too. Is there
anything
this job doesn’t cover?"
"Pretty sure dentals included too," the brown-haired one joked, though it wasn’t far from the truth. "It’s kind of depressing when you think about it."
"I’m not complaining. It’s not my fault people love getting high, and my boss happens to make the stuff," he added ironically calmly, almost like trying to justify it to himself. "What a great country."
"¡Viva México!"
They both burst out laughing, their voices ringing through the night. After that, they resumed scanning the road.
The brown-haired one tossed his finished cigarette with a sigh. The other walked a bit off to get a better view down the road. Minutes passed. No movement. The night felt dead.
No animals approached—not even rats or insects. The air grew thick, hard to breathe. Both men felt their lungs struggling to fill. Something was seriously wrong.
Footsteps echoed in the dark. Instinctively, both guards raised their weapons, pointing in all directions, searching for any hint of movement. All they could hear was the whispering wind and a few rustling branches. Sweat trickled down their necks.
Then, they spotted a figure coming up the main path. A strange calm washed over them, yet the oppressive air kept their nerves on edge. The figure approached, glowing faintly under the moonlight. She wore what looked like silver armor, and her blonde hair shimmered with every step.
They raised their guns toward the woman. She approached with both arms raised in peace. They said nothing—the words caught in their throats, paralyzed by the weight of fear.
The brown-haired guard had grown up in a village near the border, raised on bedtime legends, many of which began just like this: a lone man in the dark, a woman appearing from the void, seeking vengeance for ancient grudges long forgotten.
That feeling lingered… until his partner seemed to relax. Looking closer, she really did just seem like a girl. Pale skin, vivid purple eyes full of life. She had both legs and hadn’t screamed
"¡Mis hijos!"
yet.
Still, the brown-haired guard couldn’t shake the dread crawling up his spine.
The girl reached the gate and brought her hands together, the way nuns do when they pray.
“Oh, nobles cavaliers,” she began, her French accent instantly recognizable, though her Spanish was flawless. Her aura was soothing, gentle—even charming. But that only made the hair on their arms stand straighter. “I’ve lost my way in the plains and don’t know how to get home. Might I spend the night here?”
She was not ordinary. Their instincts screamed at them. Why were they suddenly calm just from looking at her? They pointed their guns again, this time with conviction.
“Back off! We won’t fall for some güera de mierda. Do we look like idiots to you?”
Her cheerful expression dropped instantly, replaced by tight-lipped frustration. She bit her lower lip in irritation and stared both men down.
“What’s wrong with me today?” she muttered to herself, bringing her hand to her temple and letting out a short, annoyed cry. “And here I thought tonight would be easy.”
Footsteps echoed beside them.
They both turned, but neither managed to react in time.
Camille unsheathed her sword at an inhuman speed, slicing through the brown-haired guard’s arm. He screamed, his vocal cords tearing with the force of it, as blood gushed onto the ground. His weapon clattered uselessly at his feet as he stumbled back, barely able to keep himself upright.
The other man never saw what hit him. A figure emerged from the darkness behind him.
Quetzalcoatl swung his macuahuitl with terrifying force. The guard didn’t even have time to pull the trigger before the obsidian-bladed weapon struck his head, cleaving his body in half with brutal ease.
The brown-haired guard collapsed, horrified. Quetzalcoatl turned his gaze on him—pure hatred in his eyes. He stepped forward. The man tried to crawl away, dragging himself across the dirt, but the blood poured too quickly. His vision blurred, and strength drained from his body with every heartbeat.
The god raised his weapon above his head.
Camille watched him in silence, thoughtfully adjusting her blade at her side.
“Please… I have a family. A daughter,” the guard muttered weakly, pressing his remaining hand to the bleeding stump.
Camille narrowed her eyes. Was that really a reason to spare someone who helped enable all this? Her gaze flicked to the gate, a strange feeling creeping down her spine.
Quetzalcoatl lowered his weapon, releasing the pressure on Camille’s sword. She felt relief flooding her body. As she sheathed her blade, she noticed her arm was trembling. She didn’t even want to imagine the god’s true strength.
“You’re suggesting we use him… one of those…”
“Yes. One of those bastards. Killers. Cultists,” Camille finished for him.
“And why would he help us?” Quetzalcoatl asked, skeptical.
Camille glanced at the man, who was still trembling, pressing what remained of his arm with all the strength he had left.
“Because we can offer him one thing—his life. Just his.”
Quetzalcoatl looked at her, ready to argue, but Camille’s gaze was sharp and unwavering. Even if the god thought it was wrong, he couldn’t deny her resolve. Maybe she saw something he didn’t.
He turned to the man crouching on the ground. Their eyes met. The man looked like he was about to pass out. Quetzalcoatl lifted his weapon again and touched the man's forehead with the obsidian blades. A burst of divine energy surged through him. His eyes snapped open, and strength returned to his body. He looked at his severed arm—he was still missing it, but the wound had been cleanly sealed, as if cut by a surgeon.
“Do you know how to get to the boss—and to Tezcatlipoca?” Quetzalcoatl asked, his voice still filled with disgust at the idea of sparing him.
“Tezca… who?”
The god’s expression darkened. He tilted his macuahuitl forward, letting the jagged obsidian teeth rest under the man’s chin.
“You people know him as Quetzalcoatl,” Camille said, stepping in. The man gave a nod of recognition. Quetzalcoatl clicked his tongue in frustration and dragged the blade lightly across the man’s chin, drawing a thin line of blood.
“But you were tricked. That was another god.”
“No way…” the man whispered, eyes dropping to the ground. It made sense, though. Why would the god of humanity ask for human sacrifices?
“Yes. I know the way.”
“Perfect!” Camille beamed, slipping back into her usual, falsely sweet tone. “Then be a dear and lead the way.”
The guard walked to the gate and pulled out a key shaped like a skull instead of having teeth.
“I’m not entirely convinced a key like that actually works,” Camille muttered.
“It’s a Tezcatlipoca gate,” the man replied flatly. “He likes stupid theatrics.”
He unlocked it and stepped through.
On the other side, the compound was swarming with armed men—unloading fuel for the fire, dragging the women out of the truck, or simply lounging around smoking, unaware of what was coming.
They were all spread throughout a large two-story beige house, with exterior balconies overlooking the entrance. Some men didn’t even carry weapons—clearly just household staff or minor workers.
When they saw the brown-haired man walk in, they greeted him cheerfully out of habit. But their smiles disappeared the moment they noticed his missing arm.
Guns were raised instantly. Drugs and crates dropped to the floor. Break time was over. The men on the balconies rushed to the rails, setting up their weapons in position.
Then, the doors exploded inward—blown off their hinges as if carried by the wind with surgical precision. They crashed down on two men near the entrance, leaving only red smears on the tile where bodies used to be.
And when they saw who—or what—stood behind the gate, the blood in every mortal body ran cold.
A man over two meters tall stepped inside, bare-chested, wearing a golden pectoral collar that led down to a jade carving of a feathered serpent resting at his nape. His body was lean yet sculpted with muscles like stone. His macuahuitl had grown—now as tall as he was, obsidian blades glinting in the low light. His face had lost all human softness. No eyebrows. A faint hiss behind clenched teeth. His black hair bristled with red, green, and golden feathers that now sprouted all along his body.
The god bared his fangs and unleashed a guttural roar that shook the house to its foundations. No one understood what they were seeing—but their instincts screamed in panic. A primal terror clawed into their spines, the kind of fear one only feels before a furious, divine father.
One man managed to break the paralysis. With a trembling cry, he opened fire. The others followed, unloading bullets at supersonic speed.
Quetzalcoatl’s crimson eyes narrowed as he charged forward—unfazed.
He moved like a sports car, slicing through men with brutal efficiency. Blood erupted in his wake as his obsidian weapon tore flesh and shattered bone. Bullets punched through him easily—some clearly enhanced by the influence of Tezcatlipoca’s domain—but the god didn’t care.
Every wound healed in seconds.
The scene grew surreal, like a nightmare made real. Blood sprayed into the air, forming a reddish mist. While the soldiers focused everything on the advancing god, Camille weaved through the chaos unnoticed—an elegant shadow between screams and gunfire.
She struck with surgical precision—stabbing, slashing—each movement efficient and deadly. Faster even than the god, her blade danced through hearts and spines. And though a few men spotted her and fired, not a single bullet struck home.
One by one, the room was being emptied of life. Upstairs, men on the second floor emptied their clips, reloaded, and fired again, staring in horror as Camille deflected bullets with impossible ease. Her arm blurred with every strike—one moment slicing through the air, the next buried in a man’s chest.
Quetzalcoatl swung his weapon with devastating force, cutting down multiple men with each blow. He moved with precision, careful not to strike the captives—especially the women who had clearly been forced into this. But he showed no mercy toward the unarmed men who were part of this vile machine. Whether or not they pulled the trigger, they supported this mockery of everything he stood for. It was the wrath of a god that crashed through that place.
Even so, the gunfire from the balconies annoyed him. Camille sprinted toward him and—almost as if they'd rehearsed it—the god twisted his weapon sideways, offering the flat of the blade as a springboard. Camille leapt onto the wooden edge, and with a flick of his arms, Quetzalcoatl snapped the macuahuitl like a whip. She shot upward like a missile.
The men tried to shoot her out of the air, but she deflected the bullets mid-flight. As she landed on the balcony, her blade swept through the necks of two men in one fluid motion. With insulting grace, she touched down, resheathed her sword, and ran her thumb across her blood-smeared cheek. Her face was a mask of cold, surgical focus—lips parted slightly, eyes wide and unblinking.
She had landed in one of the corners, so all the remaining men were facing her. They immediately raised their weapons, waiting for the slightest twitch.
She casually brushed a strand of blonde hair behind her ear.
“You know how hard it is to get blood out of your hair?” she asked with a terrifying smile. Her voice was smooth, sensual, but it only made the men more tense. That eerie, calming aura she usually gave off wasn’t working—not here. Frustration flickered behind her eyes, but she kept up the act. “Tsk, naughty boys~ you deserve a punishment”