The Constable Adventures

by 3_04, PeanutinContainment

Summary:

Stories from the Constabulary Corps.

Chapter 1: This is a talk on national security

Waersha Fortress, 1st of Hunols, 1265

By now, most forums, village halls, and town squares had been outfitted with magicomm-radio stations. The Empire had ensured as much. The world, it was clear, had turned against them. And for that, the army had been reforged.

That was done.

Yet it was also clear that the world would stop at nothing to see them broken, buried, forgotten.

The Demonic Army could not be everywhere at once—and the Grand Circle of Realms knew it. They counted on it.

Two border barracks already laid in smouldering ruin. Along the frontier with Elrath, slaver shantytowns bloomed like ulcers.

Whenever a regiment moved in to eradicate them, the slavers would snatch their 'property' and, quite literally, hop the border, into Elrath, where safe haven awaited.

Something had to be done.

Then, on the 1st of Hunols, every single magicomm-radio in the country turned on at once.

“This is a talk on national security.”

The voice of Emperor Michael O’Shaughnessy, could be heard.

“It is my duty, Patrick’s duty, and the duty of the entire Demonic Army to protect you.

Your children. And your children’s children.

But we cannot do this alone.

Let me speak plainly: take the cartels. For every squad we send to crush a gang, three more rise in its place.

On the way to record this, here at Our Glory Radio, I passed a homeless family—broken, addicted to dewshrooms.

That is not their failure. That is ours. And for that, we offer no excuse—only apology.”

Then came Patrick Fitzpatrick, the fire to Michael’s steel:

“As we speak, the forces of the Demonic Empire are stretched to their final nerve.

Day and night, they fight—not for conquest, but to cleanse this nation of scum and villainy.

But the people bleed with them.

And so, to relieve our soldiers of this unending burden and to relieve you of fear, we announce the founding of a new force.

The Constabulary Corps.”

Michael again, grave and resolute:

“To defend the nation.”

Patrick, unwavering:

“To defend the people.”

Thus was born the Constabulary Corps.

Chapter 2: Failures.

Summary:

Yea, I think that's how the Constable adventure's'll go, two short stories every week.

Cinderfield Airport, 6th of Cynast, 1268

People sat stiffly on the cracked vinyl benches of Cinderfield Airport, clutching their coats, tickets, and nerves. The air smelled faintly of burnt oil and overbrewed tea. Children whispered. Boots echoed. Somewhere, a cleaning automaton hummed too loud for comfort.

It was another busy day.

Only weeks earlier, a group of Aulian terrorists had tried to hijack Flight-03091 en route to Waersha Fortress, planning to crash it into the Imperial Palace in a final, fiery sermon. The attempt had, of course, failed. The vengeance, of course, had not.

Now, security had metastasized.

Constables stood at every door, rifles glinting like surgical tools. They escorted janitors. They watched baggage clerks. They patted down couriers and ticket-takers. No civilian inside the terminal was without a shadow in uniform.

The Empire would not be caught with its pants down again.

“Flight to New Southshine will depart in ten minutes at Station-10. Flight to New Southshine will depart in ten minutes at Station-10.”

The intercom crackled like a tired god. People sprang to life—grabbing bags, nudging children awake, forming lines with the desperate orderliness of livestock.

Among them, a woman clutching a leather satchel approached the screening corridor.

A man stood by a strange, polished archway of alloy, marked only with glowing glyphs and a discreet label: MD-9. He wore no uniform, but his posture and the way he thumbed the holster at his hip made it clear who he worked for.

“This way, please.” He said.

“Why would I need to—?”

“You will go through this door.” The flatness in his voice was almost mechanical.

“But—”

A Constable stepped forward from the wall like a shadow that had grown teeth. His rifle stayed low, but his gaze didn’t blink.

“Go.”

“What’s the poin—”

He raised the gun a hair. She stopped talking.

She shuffled toward the door. It beeped once as she passed beneath it—a flat, unfeeling sound.

That was enough.

She was struck across the face. Someone screamed. She was thrown to the table with force only rage can refine into efficiency.

“HANDS ON THE FUCKING TABLE.” The Constable screeched, already snapping for his magicomm-radio.

“Constable-Corporal Arveme, 10-1-10, detector MD-9, potential 03-R, bomb team.”

The woman, coughing blood, was handcuffed. She said nothing. Perhaps because she couldn’t. Perhaps because no one ever listened.

A minute passed.

Then came the thudding arrival of the bomb squad: three ogres in armor thicker than tank plating, helmets etched with runes of resistance. They moved without hurry. When the lead ogre saw the bag, he made a low grunt, then tore it open like paper.

Inside: magic stones, carved with glyphs of combustion. And steel shards—just to scatter the flesh wider.

He gave a single, slow nod.

Constable-Corporal Arveme pulled his sidearm and shot her in the back of the head.

She died slumped over the metal table, her blood pooling beside a jerky wrapper and the stub of a boarding pass.

Across the terminal, mothers clutched their children. A man dropped his coffee, trembling. Nobody moved. Nobody wept. Nobody screamed.

“PROCEED AS USUAL!” the Constable roared, and the line began to shuffle forward again.

On the Road to Twuam, 24th of Ufiz, 1269

(69, nice.)

Four Meseans rode in a nondescript black carriage, wood paneling sleek but forgettable. They were dressed like pilgrims, humble and dull. Inside their boots and satchels, however, they carried poison, knives, false documents, and a mission paid for in Isbonian coin.

They didn’t talk about the job. They didn’t need to. For now, they watched the road roll under the wheels—four lanes wide, sun-drenched and eerily quiet.

Every highway in the Empire was divided this way: two lanes for horse-drawn traffic, the other two for mechanized vehicles—military cars, command trucks, armored transports.

Naturally, the Mesean driver had steered them straight into one of the car lanes.

“Good roads.” One of them mumbled. “Why pave it all the way from Ashcoast though?”

Another shrugged. “The demons work in mysterious ways.”

Before anyone could reply, the driver hissed. “We’ve got company.”

Indeed they did.

A pale blue strobe flared behind them, paired with an unholy keening siren. A sleek, six-wheeled pursuit vehicle pulled into view—no windows, no headlights, just a voice booming from its hissing speaker:

“TWUAM CONSTABULARY CORPS. PULL. OVER.”

The driver complied. Slowly.

(Note: For the following to make sense, the driver has to be in the cabin with the other Meseans, he normally would then be unable to steer the horses, he uses forest magic to control them. Only way it makes sense.)

The Constabulary truck stopped with clinical precision. Two figures emerged—tall, broad, unmistakably demonic. They wore exosuits styled after the standard Imperial Army issue but colored in a distinct, metallic blue. Their faces were visible, uncaring. Both wore odd, Grymenan-style hats. (Funny old timey British hats.)

One of the Constables approached the carriage and wrenched the side door open.

“Do you know why we pulled you lot over?” He asked flatly.

“No..?” Said the nearest passenger, trying not to tremble.

The Constable sighed. Loudly. Performed it, like a tired clerk.

“You’re in the car lanes. You fucking idiots.”

“Oh...” The driver managed.

“Who owns the carriage?”

“I—I do.” Stammered one of the Meseans.

“Aight. Your registration. And his license.” The Constable added, gesturing lazily to the driver.

“Excuse me?” The driver said, blinking.

“You need a registration to own a carriage, and a license to drive it. It’s the law.”

“I, uh—I inherited it. From my aunt. It was built before... all that.”

The Constable looked at him. Just looked. His face blank, eyes dead. His partner picked at a strip of bitterroot tucked in his cheek.

“Unregistered vehicle.” The second Constable said, not even looking at them. “Six months jail time. Five-thousand Imperial fine.”

The driver, trembling, reached into his coat and pulled out a forged license card. When he looked up—

“Hands in the air.” The Constable snapped, rifle already halfway raised.

He stepped forward, plucked the fake card, examined it for five seconds like it was an insult to his intelligence. Then he pulled out his own card and scanned the both of them.

'Amberial - Jim Letmein'.

The Constable sighed again. This time, it was the sound of impending bureaucracy.

“Alright. Everybody’s getting out.”

His partner reached for the magicomm-radio and clicked it open.

“Central, this is Patrol A-2-HW. Unlicensed, unregistered carriage, multiple suspects, possibly armed. Requesting backup—don’t think they’ll all fit in the truck.”

“Patrol A-2-HW, understood.” Came the reply. “Reinforcements en route.”

The Constable turned back toward the carriage.

Nothing happened. Nobody moved.

His partner, still chewing bitterroot, blinked.

“Hey.” The Constable said, voice suddenly sharp. “Everybody’s getting out.”

Inside, a young halfling’s hand twitched toward his boot.

The Constable fired a round straight through the carriage window.

The horses screamed. The suspects did not.

“OUT. NOW.”

A rat-folk woman lunged first—throwing a small knife that shattered uselessly against the Constable’s visor.

He shot her in the face. She dropped mid-scream.

“Anybody else wanna be a hero?”

The halfling, the driver, and two others scrambled out, weapons half-drawn. They whispered.

“We’re four.” The halfling hissed. “We’re armed. The second guy’s distracted. We’ve got a chance.”

They moved.

The halfling dove into the Constable, toppling him. The driver hurled a stone right into the man’s pistol hand. A Mesean with a spear struck next, jabbing the blade through armor plating into the Constable’s arm. The last Mesean, a poison-harpy, lurched forward, gagged violently, and vomited a stream of acid-green bile straight into his face.

The Constable screamed.

“OULIANOV YOU DIPSHIT, HELP!”

The second Constable stood up. He calmly drew his rifle and fired. The driver dropped. The halfling next.

He shot the harpy in the leg, causing her to collapse shrieking. The wounded Constable stabbed her in the throat while she writhed.

Only the spear-throwing Mesean remained. He dropped his weapon and raised his hands, shaking.

“I—I’m unarmed. Please...”

The first Constable stood up slowly, bloody and breathing hard.

“We’re not the Army, kiddo.”

He pulled the trigger.

The shot echoed over the empty highway.

Silence.

He clicked his radio.

“Central, this is Patrol A-2-HW. Situation dealt with. Cancel reinforcements request.”

“Patrol A-2-HW, this is Central, understood. Continue standard mission procedure.”

“10-4.”

They didn’t even bother moving the bodies.

The Constables climbed back into their truck. Bitter root still in cheek.

The blue lights faded into the distance.

Notes:

Bitter root is chewing tobacco, I'm internally debating whether introducing bitter root cigarettes.

Chapter 3: Investigation.

In a Ransby parking lot, 1st of Wreni, 1266

An old wizard eased his cart into a crooked stop, its bronze axles hissing softly as the wheels settled. The cart—a warped, rune-etched thing half made of living wood and half rusting steel—sagged as he dismounted, muttering a creaky spell to lock the reins.

He wasn't here for anything exotic—just manganese and roots. Nothing dangerous. Nothing political. Just... supplies.

It had been decades since he last stood on Demonic Empire soil. His exile had been long, self-imposed, punctuated by loneliness and the occasional assassination attempt. Now, after so many years and with the war finally sputtering toward some sort of grim resolution, he had come back. Ransby had changed in every way possible.

Nervous. That was the word. The streets seemed too clean, the air too silent. And the people—what few he passed—carried themselves like glass statues in a city of snipers.

He entered the small shop he’d been eyeing since morning. It looked almost too peaceful—paint chipping, an old Imperial banner fluttering above the door.

He stopped, breath catching.

The produce section was bizarre. Shiny metal stalls held neatly separated vegetables, suspended in thin layers of enchanted frost. Everything glistened. Carrots looked like relics from a museum. Ginger root steamed slightly in containment fields. There were no guards. No magic seals. Just... trust.

The staff clustered around a back stall that lacked merchandise, chattering quietly in tones far too conspiratorial for fruit sales. He tried not to listen.

With an uncertain hand, he plucked up a chunk of manganese and a small cloth pouch of dried soul-root—rare, but not restricted. He shuffled toward the only employee who made eye contact and placed his items on a strip of black rubber he assumed was the counter.

The clerk scrawled on a sheet of paper using a carbon-tipped stylus.

“Fifty-two Imperial Dollars, sir.” She said crisply.

He nodded and fumbled into his robes, producing a handful of slightly outdated bills. She accepted them—but then stiffened.

“Sir, are you parked in the main vehicle lot?”

“I-I think so.” The wizard stammered.

“Please verify. Then return.”

Before he could respond, she had already turned her attention elsewhere.

He shuffled back out into the winter sun, squinting toward the lot. Two Constables were standing beside his cart. Both wore the signature blue trench coats and smooth composite helmets of the Constabulary Corps, and both had the stiff, unsmiling posture of men trained to expect ambushes during routine parking disputes.

As he approached, one of them turned.

“Apologies, sir.” The Constable said, voice flat but not unfriendly. “Is this your carriage?”

“Y-yes.” The wizard answered, heart lurching.

“Understood.”

The Constable turned to inspect the vehicle. He crouched down, hand hovering near one of the rear wheels.

A sudden crack of air. A blinding shimmer.

The Constable was flung backwards with bone-snapping force, hitting a nearby brick wall with an undignified thud. He slid to the ground, groaning.

“Agh!... I'm fi-i-ine.” He called out weakly, one hand raised like a flag of surrender.

The wizard blanched, eyes wide. “That's—oh gods—that's my anti-theft system. I enchanted the axles. And the wheels. And the windows. And the seat. Hooligans kept stealing my cart, I—”

The second Constable had already drawn a long, stun-capable baton. The wizard lifted his hands, fingers trembling.

“I’ll dispel it! I’ll dispel everything! Just don’t send me to prison!”

The first Constable, still sprawled, laughed hoarsely. “Relax. First offense. And the paperwork’ll hurt worse than the wall.”

Phanmond Constabulary Headquarters, 27th of Pagols, 1271

Six Constables stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the steel-grey confines of Briefing Room 3. The air smelled faintly of ink, old gun oil, and stress.

Constable-Lieutenant Arrek stepped up to the front, crisp in his ironed coat, hands behind his back, voice clipped and cold.

“Gentlemen.” He began. “We’ve received a tip-off. There’s an illegal brothel operating down by the dockside warehouses.”

A few brows lifted. Someone muttered, half-joking. “Like old man Mitzan’s joint?”

“Not quite.” Arrek said, his tone sharpening. “They're using slaves. Sex slaves. Marked, collared. Certainly kept sedated in locked basements.”

The air shifted instantly—whatever humor had hung in the room was cut cleanly, surgically, by silence.

“I want this place shut down. You’ll go in, clear it room by room. Everyone involved in the trafficking—handlers, guards, clients—terminate them. Lethal force is not only authorized, it’s required. We’re not leaving anyone to rebuild.”

He let that hang in the air, eyes scanning the row of grim faces.

“Once the site is secure, contact the Ministry of Refugee Affairs. They’ll send trauma medics and reintegration officials to take care of the victims.”

The Constables nodded. There was no bravado, no smugness. Just clenched jaws and quiet fury.

As the team turned to file out, Arrek raised a hand.

“Oh—and one last thing.” He said. “Leave the commander of the operation alive. I want him. We need names. Supply chains. Contacts. Every last scrap.”

He paused.

“After that, you can shoot him.”

The Constables left without another word. Rifles slung, boots echoing like a drumbeat of judgment.

Phanmond Docks, That Night

The Constables moved like shadows, boots muffled under oiled cloth. Their rifles hung low and loaded, safety off, muzzles twitching like the snouts of hungry beasts.

The whole place had already been scouted. Floor plans secured from a confused old landlord who’d thought he was leasing to a textile company. Said the windows were kept sealed for “climate control.” Didn’t ask questions. Wouldn’t ask them again.

“Do we really gotta leave their chief alive?” One of the Constables whispered, adjusting the strap on his carbine.

“Yes.” another muttered flatly, eyes locked on the darkened building. No space for doubt. No room for interpretation.

Their leader crouched behind a rusting crate, voice barely above the buzz of flies.

“Lemaus and Krus, you go around back. Maek and Gedj, up through that window—the big one, over there. Nuvelt and I take the front. We breach on my mark. Once we’re in, make noise. Shots into the ground. Screech for 'em to get down.”

He paused, eyes gleaming under his helmet.

“Then we say, 'Tell us who your boss is, and we’ll let you live.' When they point, we shoot everyone.”

A tense silence followed. Then, a low voice:

“...Everyone? Even the slaves?”

The squad leader didn’t turn.

“No. Of course not, you fu—... Just shut up. Thirty seconds. Move.”

The Constables peeled away like blades from a sheathe, each vanishing into the wet dark.

Inside the brothel

The brothel stank of perfume, rotting fruit, and despair. Every surface gleamed with a false polish, like varnished filth. The wallpaper was velvet, peeling. The chandeliers were enchanted to emit a warm golden light that made the bruises look sepia.

Children, barely pubescent, wandered through the main lounge wearing nothing but jewelry. Every plate they carried—wobbling in tiny hands—was heaped with narcotics. Drinks glowed faintly in the dark—illegal everywhere but war zones.

Each child wore a collar of worked brass. Each collar bore a nameplate. But there were no names. Only labels:

“GIRL, 71 (12 IN HUMAN), DWARF. 850 DOLLARS / NIGHT.”

“BOY, 19, FELINE-FOLK-GOBLIN HYBRID. 420 / GROUP RATE.”

“GENDERLESS, 40+, RECONSTRUCTED ELF. SPECIAL ORDER ONLY.”

On the far side of the lounge sat the owner. A bloated man in a silk vest with a scarlet cigarette bleeding bitterroot smoke into the air. Two girls lounged at his side—mute, glassy-eyed, draped over him like furs. He was sipping Ar-An whiskey, probably the only legal product in the building.

Across from him sat a man in a black suit. Briefcase on lap. Eyes sharp and hands twitchy.

“New shipment.” The man said, tapping the latch of his case. “Fresh. Just catched.”

The owner smiled, teeth like piano keys gone ivory-yellow.

“What're we talkin' tonight?”

“Three ogre women. Muscles and big tits. For the 'strong but submissive' crowd... Or those who like getting dominated, though a legal brothel could probably offer better.” He snorted. “But anyway... Found a rat-folk boy searching for firewood near the ruins of Begdan. Scooped him up too. Oh, and a decommissioned Alalkhanan sex golem. Bought her for nine dollars at auction. Nine! Still got the manufacturer’s spellwork intact.”

The owner raised a brow, but didn’t reply. His eyes were fixed on the window behind the broker.

“Movement.” He muttered.

The trafficker glanced. “You're paranoid. This place has more wards than a royal concubine’s bedchamber.”

The owner didn’t answer, just leaned back and took another slow sip.

“So, who else?”

“Well, there's a cow-folk girl—rare breed, barely speaks a word of anything, customers’ll eat her up, maybe literally. Two human boys—siblings, nine and thirteen, picked 'em up from a burned farm outside Waersha. Oh, and a Monk Elf. Weird one. Quiet. Could be anything. Could be a damned Army car in disguise for all I know.”

He laughed. “Nine bodies. Think you’ve got room?”

The owner chuckled softly, reaching under the table for a small charm.

“For top product? Sure. They get rooms. For the rest, we stick a little 'Spell: Sleep' on 'em. Stack 'em in the cellar till they’re ripe.”

The trafficker opened the briefcase, revealing a slim contract and a glittering slot labeled 'MONEY'.

“Thirty-eight thousand dollars.”

The owner nodded.

“Oh, I’m not paying.” He said, voice velvet and venom.

The trafficker blinked. “What—”

One of the girls beside the owner moved. Fast. Silent. A dagger slipped from under her thigh and buried itself in the trafficker’s forearm. He screamed.

And then—

Boom.

The front doors exploded inwards, ripped from their hinges. Simultaneously, the windows shattered in a thunder of glass and boots. Constables poured in like a reaper’s storm, shouting commands, rifles up.

The brothel collapsed into a pit of screams, a panicked cage of writhing flesh and stomping limbs.

The chandeliers above rattled like death bells—then came the bark of a rifle. Once. Then six times. Glass shattered. Flesh thudded. The chandeliers fell in a shriek of snapping chains.

One crashed down in a brutal stroke of irony, crushing the owner and the two prostitutes beside him—turning their bones to pulp beneath the once-pristine glass.

But then—

Time jolted.

Reality folded like paper.

And they were outside again. Before the breach. Before the storm. Before the carnage.

The Constable in command blinked. His voice cracked.

“Wh–what the fuck was that?”

“You saw it too?” Lemaus stammered. His hands were trembling. “We stormed in. People screamed. Then... we’re here again?”

Gedj took off his helmet with a sharp exhale and fished out a bitter root cigarette with fingers that shook just slightly.

“Bastard pulled what we old helmets call a Lifesaver spell.”

“A what?” Lemaus asked.

“It’s an enchanted amulet.” Gedj explained, lighting the cigarette. The smoke curled around his horns. “Hold it when you’re about to die. If you do die, boom—time rolls back a few minutes. Everyone important’s got one. The Emperors, the Herald of the Grand Circle, even King Ratn.”

Maek swore under his breath. “So we can’t stop him?”

Gedj shrugged. “Only works once. The spell’s spent now. Unless the prick’s got a whole drawer of 'em, we got him locked.” He exhaled smoke like it was a tactical maneuver.

The commander pressed a fist to his temple. “So we go again.”

Gedj nodded. “Just—this time, don’t riddle the ceiling. That chandelier triggered the reset. Keep the roof intact, round everyone up. Civilians in the corner, no heat on the slaves unless they lunge.” He tapped ash to the ground. “Up to you, though. You're chief.”

The commander’s voice lowered to a grim whisper.

“Here’s how we do it. Storm in clean. No shots unless they’re trying to flee. Get every non-slave in a line—face down, hands out. We ask each their role. When they lie, or admit something foul—we shoot. One by one. Until we get to the owner.”

Krus fidgeted, gloved fingers twitching at his belt.

Nuvelt checked his magazine with a dry click.

Gedj flicked his cigarette to the mud and stomped it out—then slid his helmet back on. His face was still visible beneath the glass, but the move felt righteous. A theatre of justice. (Writing this, I remembered Constables have helmets without visors, so Gedj could've totally had his smoke with the helmet still on, he just wanted to be cool.)

“Roll out.”

This time, the door exploded first.

The slave never got to stab the trafficker.

No gunshot had to sound. The very image of six demons in full Constable kit, rifles leveled and eyes aflame with cold intent, was warning enough.

Panic stifled itself like a dying cough.

They rounded up the room—every trafficker, customer, guard, and bystander. Slaves were herded to a corner, collars trembling.

“Guard.” Bang.

“Customer.” Bang.

“I–I just do drinks, I don’t even look at them, please, I swear to the gods, I just pour—”

Verify with the slaves.

If true, toss her with them. If not, Bang.

“I’m just the guy who finds the product, I didn’t do n—”

Interrogate. Then shoot.

“I own the stills. Make the hooch. Don’t affiliate with the... this.”

Same as the barman. But when we’re done, ship him to the Meseans. Let the Grand Circle hang him clean.

The owner was silent. Watching. Smiling. A twitch in his jaw.

He slid a pill, no bigger than a teardrop, from under his collar and slipped it beneath his tongue.

One Constable approached another man.

He stood still. Met the owner’s eyes.

He knew.

“I whip ‘em when they disobey.”

Bang.

The owner bit down.

Reality cracked.

The air twisted. A snap like glass underwater.

Another reset.

The Constables stood outside the brothel once again, their boots crunching against broken glass from the last timeline.

"Alright." Lemaus muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "We know who the owner is."

"No." Gedj said sharply, the word slicing the air. "There was a delay. I shot the whip guy, not the owner. Took a second before everything blinked. Means he didn’t die—someone else did first."

"And that’s not even the main issue." The unit leader added, glancing sideways down the alley. His voice had grown taut, like a wire under tension. "We reset again. That means the son of a bitch has at least two Lifesavers. No way to know how many more."

"Guy’s either a archmage." Maek growled. "Or he’s smuggling divine relics like they’re candy."

Gedj exhaled like someone twice his age. "Then we make sure no one gets a shot at killin' themselves, or anyone else. We control the trigger. No panic, no falling chandeliers. I’ll go in alone."

The commander raised an eyebrow. "You want to walk into a slaver pit solo?"

"It’ll look less like a death raid and more like a nosy cop checking permits." Gedj said, already unfastening the collar of his coat. "Just me? They might talk. All six of us? They start reaching for knives and amulets and godsdamn suicide pills."

"And if you get killed?"

"You go in, guns blazing. We reset. You wait. Then we try again."

A long pause.

"...Alright." The commander finally said. "Keep in touch."

Gedj nodded and approached the brothel’s warped wooden door. Scents oozed from the cracks—sweat, stale alcohol, and perfume trying to cover blood. He knocked twice.

A small hatch slid open with a squeal of rust. Behind it, a demon with bored eyes and a scar across his snout stared out.

“What’s the password?”

Gedj held up his badge with a casual flick of the wrist. "Password’s Phanmond Constabulary Corps. Noise complaint. Got to talk to your boss before someone writes us a poem about corruption."

The guard grunted, clearly not paid enough to argue with a badge. The door unlocked with a reluctant thunk. Gedj stepped into a haze of smoke and dim red lanterns.

Inside, everything pulsed with lethargic sin. Music played from a cheap speaker enchantment in the corner—low, out of tune, and mournful. Several patrons looked up from their drinks, uninterested, until they saw Gedj’s badge. A ripple of unease passed through them.

The guard motioned to a table in the corner. Not the owner’s.

Gedj squinted, tracking movement like a wolf sniffing for blood in a thunderstorm. "Who owns this joint?" He asked, loud enough to carry across the room.

The patrons at the table froze. One of them—a slick-looking man in a wine-colored vest—moved his hand to his sword hilt.

Gedj didn’t hesitate.

Bang.

Reset.

The world snapped back like a slingshot.

Gedj stumbled slightly, his boots now once again outside, on the same broken glass.

"FUCK!" He bellowed, his voice echoing down the empty alley like a thundercrack. "I FUCKING HAD H- FUCK!"

Lemaus winced. "Gedj, buddy. Deep breaths."

"No deep breaths!" Gedj snarled, pacing like a caged bear. "I had the angle! I shot that smug prick between the eyes! And the fuckin' owner lives again!"

"This guy’s either got backups." Nuvelt muttered. "Or he’s got someone else carrying them for him."

"He’s using people as meat shields to trigger the reset." Maek said grimly. "Kill any peon who acts out, he loses nothing. But if he dies? Time rolls back. We’re playin' chess with a bastard who controls the board."

The commander crossed his arms. His voice was quiet. Cold. "Then we need to force a game he can’t rewind. Next time, Gedj, don’t ask questions. Don’t let 'em blink. Find the owner, mark him, then we come in with the hammer."

Gedj ground his teeth and nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, alright. We play this like a ritual. Clean, cold, clinical."

He slid another round into his mag.

"Next time the bastard dies, he stays dead."

Gedj went back in.

But this time, Gedj kept his eyes peeled.

He let the guard point, nodded as if dumb and compliant.

Then, he watched where he went.

He went to talk to a man in a black suit near the bar.

He walked to the table the guard originally pointed him at.

As he approached, he got ready to fire. Someone twitched—a subtle motion, fingers curling toward the hilt of a sword—

Bang. Reset.

They were outside again. Rain dripping down from some unseen rooftop. Constables blinking, swearing, readying again.

"Alright." Gedj exhaled smoke through gritted teeth. "I know where the bastard is."

"Really?" Nuvelt asked, already flicking off the safety of his rifle.

"Yes." Gedj’s voice was ice. “Table by the bar. Got eyes on him."

"Alright." The commander adjusted his gloves. “This time, we all go in. No shots. No casualties. We interrogate everyone. One more loop, then we pull the trigger on Judgment Day.”

“Sounds good,” Krus muttered, tapping a rhythm on the barrel of his shotgun.

They stormed in. Methodical this time. Like auditors of violence. Maek barked commands. Gedj pushed patrons to the floor. Nuvelt cuffed one slaver after another. Krus scribbled names and roles with cold precision into a little black notebook:

—Barman.

—Bottle runner.

—Slave handler.

—Product peddler.

—Guard.

—Whipper.

Everyone? Bang. Reset.

Outside again. The familiar silence of rewinded time.

"Alright, we got everything." Gedj said, lighting another cigarette. The flame flickered in his eyes.

"Then we go." The commander said, voice taut. “The guy?”

“Table next to the bar.”

“Three of us take the back. Nuvelt, Maek, you’re with me at the front.”

The Constables fanned out. With the kind of grim efficiency that keeps the Empire running a little longer.

"Nuvelt, you ready?"

"Always."

“Okay... LET’S GO!”

“ON THE GROUND! PHANMOND CONSTABULARY!”

A scream. A bottle crashed. Somewhere, a songbird in a cage died of fright.

The owner didn’t run. He couldn’t. One of the slave girls, her hands still bruised from the cuffs she’d worn, pointed directly at him. Her eyes said everything.

Nuvelt surged forward and yanked the man down, fingers moving quickly through his coat.

Silk, perfume, keys...

Nine smooth stones, tucked into a pocket sewn into the lining—gleaming faintly blue, like tiny comets trapped in crystal, five of them were seemingly broken, but held themselves together just fine.

“Got 'em.” Nuvelt said. He held them up like a hunter with the heads of snakes.

“Good.” The commander replied.

Gedj stepped closer to the owner, helmet still off, cigarette burning low.

“You’re out of rewinds, asshole,” Nuvelt muttered, slipping the ninth and final Lifesaver stone from the slaver’s pocket. “Welcome to your last moment.”

The aftermath was swift. The slaves were handed over to the Ministry of Refugee Affairs. Some wept. Some stared in mute disbelief. Some collapsed on the floor and kissed the Constables’ boots.

They were alive.

The employees not directly involved in the trafficking, the barman, the stable boy, the night watch, the storage manager, people like that, were quietly identified by the rescued slaves. Their fates were gentler: sent to the Ministry of Labor and Civil Rights for mandatory therapy, lengthy interrogation, and state review. Their testimonies were recorded, their loyalty—or cowardice—meticulously weighed. The brothel’s trial was coming. The Empire would watch it live.

The owner of the brothel, that smug little prince of filth, was beaten to a pulp on the way to the precinct—forcefully “resisting arrest,” as the report later noted. He was dragged to Waersha Fortress and tossed into the black dungeons carved beneath the Imperial Palace, a place built for men exactly like him: unrepentant, vile, dangerous. The scum of the Empire

The interrogations began that same night.

Within a month, the entire network collapsed. Safehouses burned. Bank accounts vanished. Politicians issued frantic denials. The owner? Executed. Quietly. Without ceremony. One bullet. In the shallow mass grave of Dulahad Fortress.

And that wasn't all.

A secondary warrant tagged onto the raid—the alcohol trafficker—bore fruit. He was arrested, tried, and deported to the Mesean Theocracy. The trial made headlines in the Demonic Empire and bile rise in the throats of every decent man in Phanmond.

They found:

26,389 liters of illegal hooch in the cellars, stockpiled like water in a desert.

Around 700 firearms, each a crime by itself. Possession of firearms was strictly forbidden to anyone outside the Demonic Army, the Imperial Constabulary Corps, and a very small list of Imperial-chartered, oath-bound organizations. This was not a gray area. This was black-letter treason.

And the real prize?

4,236 souls, stolen from every corner of Bayania. Children, elders, warriors, mothers, vagrants, scholars—freedom torn from them, sold by the pound.

When Our Glory got hold of the story, the reaction was volcanic. Entire cities wept. Neighborhoods formed militia patrols overnight. Corps across the Empire were flooded with money, recruits, and emergency authorizations. The Empire bled gold into the Constabulary.

And more importantly.

Disappearances started being taken seriously.

Even in far-flung places like Southshine, even in the dust-choked corners of the Shehian border towns, even in places where the Empire’s flag flew weak and faded—people paid attention. No one wanted another Phanmond horror show.

The Grand Circle of Realms, ever the indifferent chorus of jackals, managed to fumble even this moral clarity. In an act that disgusted even the most cynical Constables, they judged the alcohol trafficker not guilty, citing “cultural misunderstanding” and “misalignment of imperial export laws.”

He was hired by the Chian royal family three weeks later.

And in Phanmond, as smoke curled from the ashes of the brothel, the Constables just stood there—watching, silent, grim.

No medals. No ceremony.

Just another day of blood, reset, and justice.

Chapter 4: Not quite detective work, but it's something.

Notes:

I am very sick so I can't exactly write, so yesterday I wrote this, since I wasn't sick, here it is.

Next week It'll be as usual again.

Otamesh Village, 17th of Ufiz, 1272

“Come in, Otamesh Constabulary Corps, this is Region Central.” The voice buzzed through the static like a blade against bone. “A team of seven Constables has gone A.W.O.L. and torched Luves. Send a team A.S.A.P.”

Constable-Lieutenant Hague didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. He reached for his helmet’s magicomm and keyed in the channel, thumb slow, deliberate.

“10-4. Any idea on their current position, and armaments?”

“Survivor accounts say they’re heading west, toward Old Qwersha. They’re still in full Constable armor. They’ve kept their rifles.”

“Shit.” Hague sucked air between his teeth. “Understood, Region Central. Sending everything I have.”

A pause, then, like a sigh on the wind: “Good luck, Constable-Lieutenant.”

“Thanks.” He lit a bitter-root cigarette with fingers that barely trembled. “You too.”

He watched the smoke curl into the midsummer air, eyes distant. A funeral was coming. Not one with hymns or priests. The kind where body bags were zipped in silence and names were written in red ink.

He turned the radio back on.

“Patrols One and Two. Old Qwersha. Now.”

Later, Old Qwersha

Two army Humvees rattled over the dusty track into the dying village. Wheat fields turned to fallow. A scarecrow leaned crooked in the wind, one eye pecked out.

Eight Constables disembarked, boots hitting the earth like punctuation. Helmets tight, eyes grim, rifles across their backs, a blade each at the hip. One had a flamethrower unit slung like a sleeping dragon.

The mayor of Old Qwersha met them on the cracked steps of the town hall.

Only known under the pseudonym of the Archer. She was young for a village mayor—an elf with a bow strung across her shoulder, her brown hair tied with a red ribbon, fingers stained with ink and dirt.

“Are you the Otameshan Constables?” She asked, voice too calm for the moment.

“It’s us.” Said Sergeant Brin. “But we aren’t staying. Did you see the deserters?”

The Archer swallowed hard. “W-well... yes. We saw them. In the east plains—”

BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG...RA-BANG!

BOOM.

Gunfire. Bursts. An explosion that shattered windows and sent birds screaming from the trees. Screams, demon and human, from the east end of the village.

The Constables turned as one. Helmets locked in place. Safety switches clicked off.

Brin barked, “Positions!”

“On it!”

One Constable vaulted onto a rooftop, rifle leveled. Two sprinted down the alleyways. Another flipped the safety on her flamethrower, eyes stone cold.

The Archer turned pale.

Hague, who had just arrived in the third Humvee, looked at her sideways. “You didn’t mention they’d already arrived.”

“I—I didn’t know they had!” She stammered.

But he wasn’t looking at her anymore. He was watching black smoke rise over Old Qwersha’s grain silos like an omen written in ash.

The village square exploded into chaos—bullets shattering brick, wood, and flesh. One of the grain silos went up like a Roman candle, sending burning husks raining down in a golden hail.

The A.W.O.L. were already entrenched.

Three on the rooftops, two behind the old well, one inside the bakery, another in the collapsed chapel—an ambush, perfectly laid, executed with a zeal born of madness.

The loyalist Constables fanned out.

“Flank right!” Hague roared. “Get me eyes on that sniper!”

Sergeant Brin didn’t wait—he dropped to a crouch and bolted across the street, bullets chewing the dirt at his heels. A shot clipped his shoulder. He fell, rolled, returned fire. One of the rooftop deserters screamed and fell, tumbling through roof tiles in a spray of blood.

Seven became six.

The Archer stood still amid the chaos, cloak swirling, bow in hand, already loosing an arrow before Hague could speak. It pierced the neck of one the Constable hiding by the well. He dropped his rifle and flailed, blood gurgling.

Six became five.

“They’re fighting like they're possessed.” Someone muttered. Then someone screamed, and not from this world. The bakery’s door burst open, and a traitor with a sawed-off scattergun ran out howling, eyes wild, teeth red.

He didn’t make it far.

Constable Dwel shot him in the chest. Twice. The scattergun skidded into the gutter.

Five became four.

But they were still deadly.

Rikkar, the loyalist with the flamethrower, advanced too fast—thinking the chapel clear. He was wrong. A round from a precision rifle blew his helmet apart. He collapsed, screaming. Another round shut him up.

Eight loyalists were now seven.

“Suppress the chapel!” Hague ordered.

Four became three.

The Archer moved like water—silent, fluid, lethal. A rooftop A.W.O.L. tried to take her down with a bayonet charge. She ducked under the lunge, drove her blade up through his ribs, twisted. Then took his pistol and used it to blow open the head of another charging deserter.

Three became one.

The last man was the worst of them.

He stood tall, untouched, walking through the smoke. No helmet, just his face—pale, unblinking, righteous with something deeper than treason.

“Lieutenant Hague.” He called out, voice cold as snow. “I want you to see what your order has built. We burned Luves for the same reason you came here—to kill monsters. Only difference is, we killed the right ones.”

Hague stepped forward, raising his rifle.

The deserter tossed his aside.

“Don’t you see?” He said. “This world can’t be saved. It needs to be cut open. And we were your scalpel.”

Hague didn’t respond. He shot him through the gut.

The man staggered, laughed, and pulled a grenade.

But the Archer was faster. Her arrow caught his wrist, nailing it to the wooden beam behind him.

The grenade clattered harmlessly to the ground.

“Let me.” She whispered.

She drew another arrow. This one went through his left eye.

The Constables stood in silence as the village burned behind them.

Rikkar later died on the Archer's bed.

Notes:

The Principality of Sheh's language is (THE BAYANIAN EQUIVALENT OF) Haitian Creole.

Chapter 5: Worse

fuck i'm still sick
see you next week

Chapter 6: Back to normal

Summary:

Aulian and the Principality of Auly as a whole is France.

Notes:

ENLISTED RANKS
Foot patrols, first responders and ward enforcers.
Constable
Basic officer of the Corps. Patrols streets and enforces public order.
Lance Corporal (Ct-LCpl)
Junior non-commissioned rank, often second-in-command of a patrol unit.
Corporal (Ct-Cpl)
Usually oversees jailhouses and civic watch posts.
Sergeant (Ct-Sgt)
Commands patrol, handles logistics, or supervises multiple squads.
Staff Sergeant (Ct-SSgt)
Senior NCO rank; often involved in field training or special duties.
JUNIOR COMMAND
Command track officers, often from academy graduates or battlefield promotions.
Officer Cadet (Ct-OCdt)
Training rank for aspiring officers. Shadowing senior constables, usually beaten-up by higher officers and bullied by older Constables.
Second Lieutenant / Inspector (Ct-2Lt / Ct-Insp)
Interchangeable rank depending on role:
– Second Lieutenant for command track

– Inspector for investigative track
Lieutenant / Detective (Ct-Lt / Ct-Det)
Equal in authority.
– Lieutenant handles command of units.

– Detective specializes in criminal investigations and intelligence.
SENIOR OFFICERS
Field officers and commanders of districts, sectors, or special task units.
Captain (Ct-Capt)
Commands a station or precinct; handles district operations.
Neighborhood Captain (Ct-NCapt)
Local leader—often a community liaison with enforcement authority. Optional/Regional.
Neighborhood Watch Supervisor (Ct-NWSup)
Civilian-linked auxiliary rank, managing civilian squads of state-subsidized militia to assist the Corps.
(as such, there are the ranks of Citizen-Constable (Cz-Ct) and Citizen-Constable-Corporal (Cz-Ct-Cpl)
District Captain (Ct-DCapt)
Oversees multiple precincts in an urban district.
Colonel (Ct-Col)
Senior field officer. Leads large detachments or urban divisions.
CITY & REGIONAL COMMAND
Executive leadership over city-wide or regional Constabulary structures.
Adjoint Constabulary Commander (Ct-ACC)
Also titled 'Lieutenant Commander' depending on region. (Like in Entwitch)
Deputy head of a city Constabulary Corps. Manages logistics and operations.
Constabulary Commander (Ct-CC)
Commander of an entire city's Constabulary forces.
Regional Commander (Ct-RCom)
Commands a Constabulary Corps spanning multiple cities or a major zone.
Lieutenant Regional General (Ct-LRG)
Deputy to the Regional General, often handling special assignments.
Regional General (Ct-RG)
Supreme Constabulary authority for an entire region.
PROVINCIAL & NATIONAL COMMAND
Strategic command of the Corps across provinces or the entire realm.
Provincial Commander (Ct-PCom)
Leads all Constabulary forces within a province.
Lieutenant Provincial General (Ct-LPG)
Senior deputy to the Provincial General.
Provincial General (Ct-PG)
Top Constabulary officer in a province. Answers only to central command.
Supreme Commander (Ct-SCom)
Commander-in-Chief of the entire Constabulary Corps. Directs national policing, internal security, and civil defense, answers only to Ethemos, God of Law and to the Emperors.
UNRELATED TO STANDARD HIERARCHY/LOGISTICAL UNITS
Quartermaster (Ct-Qm)
Manages gear, weapons, vehicles and supplies.
Dispatcher (Ct-D)
Controls communications, magicomm-radios, alarm horns, and response timing.
Provost (Ct-P)
Oversees training, discipline, and internal affairs within the Corps.

Ar-An, 5th of Cynast, 1284

Patrol 3-3

It was a slow Cynast noon, the kind that begged for a second coffee and a lazy patrol. Patrol 3-3, assigned to guard the largest Black Line stop in the city (because the Train Guards guard the TRAIN, not the TRAIN STATIONS) had retreated to their usual diner at Jabachi's. A chipped little place with bad soup, good coffee and a authentic suit of Holy Elrathian armor from the Eastern-Pact/South-East-Bayanian-Coalition war.

Constable-Corporal Nickves, a dark elf, had just unwrapped his sandwich when his magicomm-radio crackled to life.

"Patrol 3-3, this is Ar-An Command. We need you to check up on 331 Artisan Street. Neighbor reported a loud boom, possibly explosion magic-infused magic stone or rogue alchemist. Followed by what sounded like prolonged crying. Unknown injuries. Confirm receipt."

Nickves set down his sandwich, wiped his hands on his exosuit, and thumbed the comm to his mouth.

"Ar-An Command, Patrol 3-3 copies. ETA ten minutes. Out."

Constable-Corporal Tazr groaned, mouth still full of half a meatball sub. "You serious, Niko? We’re off-duty. Lunch, remember that?"

"Artisan Street’s not even in our patch." Arith added, leaning back in the booth like a lazy noble. "Let the Kelp Street dicks handle it. I hear they love explosions."

Nickves sighed. "City Command didn’t call the Kelpers. They called us. That’s not a request, that’s an order."

Arith smirked, her voice oily with apathy. "No, no. You answered the call. Sounds like they called you."

"And as your commanding officer, I’m telling you I’ve got a leak to take care of." Arith stood, tossed a crumpled five-Imperial note on the table, and stretched like a woman with no intention of ever drawing his service weapon again. "Handle it if you want. I'm not getting paid enough to chase alchemists that cry when they make mistakes."

Constable-Lance Corporal Maxcense chimed in, not looking up from his plate. "I second the Sergeant. Not moving for anything short of a second Nathethond Market."

A tense silence hung over the table, thick with the stale grease of unspoken resentment. Arith ambled off to the bathroom, already humming a tune.

Nickves stood, slow and deliberate. "You know what? All of you can go to Hell. I'm taking the godsdamn car. If Command calls, tell them the rest of you were too busy pissing yourselves to answer."

He grabbed his helmet, his badge, his half-eaten sandwich and stormed out into the streets of Ar-An.

Nine minutes later

The 331 Artisan Street residence had a wide, yawning garage-stable with its doors left ajar, like a mouth half-open mid-snore. He noted it.

Didn’t go in.

Instead, he turned to 330. Nice porch. Bright red flowers in little clay pots. Probably poisoned.

Three knocks. Firm. Measured. Loud enough to signal authority, not panic.

“Ar-An Constabulary Corps. Open the door.”

It creaked open to reveal a halfling woman with white hair braided into a careful crown and a teacup already in hand.

“Ah! Officer.” She chirped. “This about the explosion next door, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Nickves said. “Tell me what you heard.”

“Oh, I do wish I could help, but I don’t know much. The elf who lives there keeps to himself. Doesn’t even make noise—well, except music sometimes. Lovely music.” She beamed. “Would you like a cup of tea while we talk? I just brewed some mushroom-and-thistle.”

“No, thanks.” He said, scanning the street reflexively. “What else can you tell me?”

“Well, he’s a charming young elf man. But again, they rarely leaves. Occasionally knocks on my door for gardening advice, imagine that!”

Nickves nodded. “Nothing out of the ordinary lately? No strange smells? Alchemy gear deliveries?”

“Mm, no. But he’s a musician, you know. Plays under the name Chibi Tree. You’ve probably heard him on the local broadcasts.”

Nickves paused, squinting. “Wait—you said 'he.' But earlier you said 'they.' Is it one person or two?”

“Well...” She looked away, as if caught with her hand in a cookie jar. “Around the neighborhood we think he’s... well, a faggot. As such I said 'they' because there’s also a demon man who comes around. Puts his horse in the garage-stable. Stays for hours. I suspect they’re, ah... familiar.”

Nickves blinked. Hard.

The awkward silence was not relieved by the chirping birds overhead.

“Right.” He said, dragging the word out like a corpse. “So the elf’s gay. And a musician. Which of those is more likely to cause an explosion?”

“Well!” She said brightly, “You know what they say about the gays—they get violent.”

Nickves resisted the rising urge. Had she been his size, age, and gender, maybe he’d have considered taking a swing. But alas. Ar-An didn’t need more paperwork this week.

“Anything else?” He asked, with the patience of a saint.

“Well... Those types of people, they’re into kinky things, I hear. It’s possible the demon put an explosion-magic stone up the elf’s rear end? That could do it, no?”

Nickves just stared.

A long moment.

Then, flatly: “Alright. Goodbye.”

He turned and left without another word.

Boots splashing through the wet stone, he quick-walked to 331.

He knocked the same way as before—three deliberate, sharp blows that cracked through the humid Ar-An air like a judge’s gavel.

"Ar-An Constabulary Corps. You okay, kid?" Nickves called out.

Silence.

He knocked again, harder this time. Still nothing.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, squinting at the lock with the resignation of a man who knew what had to be done.

He stepped back, angled his foot just beside the mechanism, and delivered a vicious kick.

(Note to any aspiring home invaders: aim next to the lock, not at the center. Don’t be a dumbass and throw your shoulder at a reinforced door, or jump at it. You’ll look like a dumbass and hurt yourself.)

The frame cracked, then gave. The door burst open with a dry gasp. Rifle raised, he swept inside.

Empty.

But the silence wasn’t clean—it was the kind that reeked of something not quite right.

He climbed the narrow stairwell to the second floor, careful and slow, his boots whispering across each wooden step. The tension narrowed to a point—and then he saw them.

Two bodies.

A demon, collapsed on the floor, limbs sprawled like discarded furniture, blood spreading dark and fast across the woodgrain.

And beside him, an elf.

Young. Pale. Eyes wide as sky, holding a Mesean flintlock with both trembling hands—one still on the trigger, the other half-covering their face like shame could be hidden behind fingers.

“Shit...” The Constable muttered under his breath.

The elf fell back in horror as if realizing only now that they'd been seen. “Oh—oh by the go—”

"Calm down." Nickves said, lowering his weapon just slightly. "What happened?"

"I—I..." The elf stammered.

"No point in lying, kid."

"I... my boyfr—my friend came over. He was angry. Really angry. He punched me. Kicked me. And—"

"Easy, kiddo." His voice was dry, but not unkind.

The elf blinked in disbelief. “You’re not—disgusted? That I’m—” He hesitated. “Not saying I am. But... if I were.”

Nickves raised an eyebrow. “I don’t care if you’re bedding a guy demon, a guy dwarf, or a cabbage with pronouns. Just tell me your name.”

"...I’m Meled’ar Rezter."

“Alright. Good. Now go on. Your boytoy hit you. You said he was angry. Why’s he bleeding out on your carpet?”

Meled’ar glanced at the body, then looked away fast. “He kicked me down. Got on top of me. I shoved him off. Then I—grabbed the gun. I didn’t mean to use it, I swear—”

“Where’d you even get that thing?”

“My uncle’s one of the Mesean military... I think the term is 'attachés'... He sent me the flintlock as a birthday thing. Said it didn’t work. I thought it didn’t work!”

Nickves frowned, scanning the weapon with professional suspicion.

"Not illegal." He muttered. “Not yet, anyway. Go on.”

“But I didn’t mean to shoot! I only wanted to scare him off!”

“Moving on.” Nickves barked.

Meled’ar flinched. “...I pointed the gun at him. Told him to get out. He lunged, tried to knock it out of my hands, so I pulled the trigger.”

“And it worked.”

The elf just nodded, small and shaking.

Nickves looked down at the demon, the slow pool of red inching toward his boots. Then back at the kid. The flintlock. The fear. The bruises already blooming on Meled’ar’s cheek and collarbone.

Meled’ar sat slumped against the wall, blood still dripping from the tips of his pointed ears.

Nickves crouched beside him, lowering his rifle completely. His expression, once hard with protocol, had softened into something stranger—concern, maybe. Or pity.

He murmured something under his breath, indecipherable.

“Let me see your wounds. Any recent ones? Other than...” He gestured vaguely at the fresh pool of blood.

Meled’ar nodded weakly and lifted his shirt. The sight made Nickves wince—bandages, if they could be called that, hastily wrapped in uneven layers, blotched with old blood. Purple bruises bloomed like ink stains across his ribs, and several cuts had clearly gone untreated.

“Shit...” Nickves muttered. “Worse than what I saw at that slave-hooker auction raid...”

The elf looked away.

“Any others?” Nickves asked. “Arms? Legs?”

“Yeah... thighs and upper arms mostly.”

The constable sighed, running a hand under his helmet through his greying hair. “Alright. I’ll stash the dead guy in the trunk. You just—sit. Breathe. Clean yourself up if you can give a damn.”

He hefted the corpse with practiced effort, carried it down the narrow staircase, and stuffed it into the trunk of his patrol vehicle with a hollow metallic thud. When he returned, Meled’ar was still where he left him, trembling slightly, eyes wide and empty.

Nickves climbed the last few steps and sat on the floor across from him.

“Look.” He said, voice low, almost conspiratorial. “You’re hurt. But not hurt enough.”

Meled’ar blinked. “Not... enough?”

“I’m five hundred years old, elf. Back in the 820s, I was living in old Isbonia. You know, back when people like you weren’t exactly hiding.”

The elf’s eyes narrowed. “I know the stories.”

“I remember the night it changed.” Nickves said quietly. “Some guy stabbed his boyfriend in the middle of a theatre. Panic. Overnight, all of it—love, queerness, whatever they called it—declared perversion. Death sentence. My sister died in an inn near the border. Slept too close to her orc lover. On the night they went illegal. They burned the building down.”

Meled’ar said nothing.

“I’m telling you this.” Nickves continued. “Because I’ve seen the pendulum swing. Doesn’t matter what year it is. 1284. 820. Shit circles back. And you killing your lover, no matter the context, is going to drag everyone down with you.”

“But I didn’t—he—he was trying to—” Meled’ar tried to speak, but emotion caught in his throat.

Nickves raised a hand. “Doesn’t matter. Media doesn’t care. Command doesn’t care. They'll paint it as another faggot gone violent. Say you're unstable. 'Unnatural.' All that shit. And the public? They'll eat it up. Then comes the crackdown.”

“So what do we do?”

Nickves inhaled sharply.

“We beat you up. Bad.”

Meled’ar flinched. “What? Why?”

“Because if you look bad enough... If you’re just another victim in an normal abusive relationship, then I don't even have to mention you fuck guys instead of gals in the report."

The elf stared at him. Silent. Processing.

“You ready?”

A long pause.

“Don’t. don’t hit my ribs too hard.”

Nickves gave a grim nod. “Ribs are fine. But your face? Too pretty.”

Meled’ar.

Nickves’s armored fist came down with sickening precision, cracking across the elf’s nose. Blood burst forth. Good. Realistic.

A few more punches followed—left cheek, right eye. Swelling set in quickly. A shiner was forming. He avoided the mouth. Teeth were too expensive to replace.

“Face done.” Nickves said. There was no satisfaction in his voice—just weary calculation.

Meled’ar whimpered, wiping his nose. He didn’t dare speak.

“Left arm.”

A few hard strikes with the butt of the rifle, nothing that would fracture, just enough to bruise deep and convincingly.

“Right.”

More of the same.

“Leg.”

Without warning, Nickves tackled him to the ground. The elf grunted in pain as he landed on the cold wood floor.

“You alright?”

A nod.

“Good. A couple more, and we’re done.”

The words came out flat, tired. Like someone clocking out after mopping up a crime scene.

By the time they were finished, Meled’ar was trembling—his breath ragged, his eyes glazed with salt and blood. His body was a raw sketch of bruises and magical burns. He whimpered, barely conscious.

Nickves took one last look, then raised a hand.

“Spell: Heal.”

A brief shimmer enveloped the elf. Bones cracked back into place, shallow wounds sealed, and his split lip vanished. Meled'ar shot upright, panicked and blinking—but the rush didn’t last. He slumped again, boneless.

Nickves sighed. “Good enough.”

He crouched and hoisted the elf onto his shoulders in a Fireman’s carry.

“Let’s go. Anywhere but here.”

Meled’ar was silent.

Nickves stormed out of the building and nearly made it to the car when the rest of Patrol 3-3 blocked his path.

Sergeant Arith raised an eyebrow.

“What the hell? Why’s this guy look like he just lost a war?”

Nickves grit his teeth and threw together the first halfway-believable story he could.

“Homemade magic fertilizer bomb. Misfired. Took out half his living room. Then he cried about his family portrait, right? That’s when I pull up and some jackass shows up to collect a gang debt. Elf throws another stone at him—blood gets everywhere.”

Maxcense squinted.

“But why’s he covered in bruises—”

“RIGHT, GONNA GO SEE A DOCTOR NOW!” Nickves barked, practically hurling himself past them. He shoved Meled into the car, locked the doors, and sped off before anyone could ask another question.

They pulled into a quiet parking lot behind an old doctor’s office, the kind with yellowing windows and a peeling sigil that meant 'healer' in three languages.

Meled’ar stirred. His voice was barely audible.

“D-do you... Leave me here?”

Nickves blinked.

“No. No, I just... I’ll go buy some bandages. Be right back.”

He ran inside, returned with a roll of enchanted gauze, and got to work patching up the worst of it. The elf’s skin was still trembling beneath the cloth, like it expected pain at any second.

As Nickves adjusted a bandage on his ribs, Meled'ar reached out—just lightly resting a hand on his arm.

“S-sir...”

“Nickves.”

“Mister Nickves... What if they say that... being gay makes me violent?” Meled’s voice was a shuddering whisper now. “Like, I’m covered in blood. They'll say, 'We can’t let queers get into relationships—they’ll kill each other.' That we’re too dangerous. That we’re not—”

Nickves froze.

His hands stopped moving. He stared at the gauze in his palm, then gently set it down on Meled's lap.

He turned toward the wheel, gripped it like it was the only thing holding him in the world.

Silence.

“...Mister Nickve—”

“FUCK.” The word exploded out of him like a gunshot.

He slammed his forehead into the steering wheel.

“FUCK. FUCK. FUCK!”

The horn blared: HONK. HONK. HONK. HOOOOOONK—

“NICKVE—”

“WHY DIDN’T I THINK OF THAT?! FUCK!” He pounded the dashboard, once, twice, three times.

He stared at the wheel like it had betrayed him.

Then—quietly, bitterly:

“...I can't let you walk outta there looking like this.”

[After a good while of stationary road rage.]

He turned the key again. The car growled awake. Tires screeched.

Nickves didn’t say another word until they pulled up in front of a towering stone building: flanked with banners, gold-leafed insignia, and a line of eager-looking youths under the midday sun.

The Ar-An Imperial Army Recruitment Center.

Meled’ar sat up slightly, confused.

“...Why are we here?”

Nickves lit a bitter root cigarette.

“"Because you're enlisting." The Constable said.

Meled’ar stared at him, eyes wide. “Wh-what? Enlisting? I-I’m not ready, I can’t—”

“You won’t have to be.” Nickves interrupted gently, already stepping out of the car. “I’ll pull some strings. Constabulary Commander Hewitt owes me twice over, once for hauling his ass out of that burning tower at Dulahad, and again during the Eastern Pact attack for it four years later. He’ll listen. I’ll get you a desk job, Southern Island. Something quiet. Somewhere far.”

The elf blinked rapidly, words catching in his throat. “But—”

“If it works out, you'll do nothing but shuffle music scrolls and pretend to be busy. Sit in an air-cooled room. Look pretty. Maybe learn the violin to add to whatever you already do. That's it.”

Meled’ar couldn’t help but laugh, weakly. “That’s not a soldier’s job.”

“Exactly. It’s yours.”

A long silence hung between them, neither one daring to shatter it too quickly. Finally, Meled’ar turned to him fully, his voice a breath. “Why?”

Nickves glanced away, jaw tightening. “Because I need you anywhere but Ar-An. Before someone with too much power and too little soul makes you a symbol and an example.”

The elf swallowed hard.

Their eyes met.

Then slowly, hesitantly, Meled’ar leaned forward and wrapped his arms around the older man’s waist, burying his face against Nickves’s exosuit. Nickves didn’t flinch. He hugged him back, one hand steady on the elf’s shoulder, the other gently resting atop his messy hair.

“Stay safe, kiddo.” He murmured.

Meled’ar nodded against his chest. “Y-you too, sir.”

Nickves didn’t answer. Not right away. His gaze was already on the sky, where clouds hung heavy with rain and war.

Nathethond, 6th of Cipast, 1267

Another room full of corpses. Another theater soaked in blood.

For a month now, each week without fail, a massacre had unfolded, always in a different theater or conference hall. Always the same pattern: bodies strewn like broken puppets and always, a eerie message daubed in fresh green paint.

Last time, it had read:

'Senkyèm, Papa lonbraj la ap tann sizyèm nan.'

The Nathethond Constabulary had contracted Our Glory, to publish the phrase and beg the public for leads. No results. Not even an anonymous whisper. Just silence, and more blood.

And now, the sixth scene.

Nathethond Constabulary, Station 09

Constable-Lieutenant Arrek stood before his most capable officers, boots spread wide, arms folded like a statue carved from years of bad sleep and cigarette smoke.

“Gentlemen.” He said, voice low. “We’ve got another one.”

Groans.

“This time I told the mayor to send Sanitary Services ahead of us. Told him to scrape the bodies off the seats before the press got wind of it.”

“Question.” Said Constable Hughes, arms crossed.

“Shoot.”

“Why?”

Arrek’s brow twitched. “Elaborate.”

Hughes's voice was dull and bitter. “This is the sixth time. Six scenes. Six phrases. No leads, no witnesses, no footprints, no gods-damned sense to any of it. What's the point of pretending we’re going to find something this time?”

Arrek looked at her, then around at the others. “Because someone has to show up. Someone has to say this still matters.”

A quiet passed over them. No one could argue with duty, no matter how futile it tasted.

“This time it's the Fantazis Theater.” Arrek added. “Try not to throw up in the orchestra pit.”

Fantazis Theater, minutes later

Sanitary Services hadn’t finished their job.

A man in rust-orange coveralls, stained in places where the mop couldn’t hide it, approached them near the lobby, stepping over yellowed chunks of sawdust and congealed fluid.

“Field Supervisor Pourriel.” He announced, lifting his faceplate halfway. “You’re the Constables?”

Constable Hughes gave a half-hearted salute. “Take us to the room.”

Pourriel nodded. “Not pretty this time. Nine corpses. Four disemboweled. Two decapitated. One—burned, we think.”

Constable-Lance Corporal Lec offered a firm handshake. “We’ll be out of your hair soon.”

“End of the hall.” Pourriel said, gesturing down the dim corridor lit by flickering gas sconces. “Left door. We haven’t touched the inside. Left it clean for your... forensic types.”

“We’re the forensic types.” Hughes muttered.

The team moved as one.

The door creaked open, and the stench hit them like a second skin.

The floorboards were slick with blood that had dried unevenly—some patches flaked and black, others still red and tacky. Velvet seats had been slashed, entrails looped through chair legs like grotesque garlands. There was a piano in the corner, keys stained crimson, as if someone had tried to play a sonata with severed hands.

But it wasn’t the corpses that made Lec stop in his tracks.

It was the wall.

There, in the same vivid green paint as before, were the words:

'Sizyèm, Papa lonbraj la prèske satisfè.'

“Shit.” Constable-Sergeant Trey breathed.

“Anyone here read Shehian?” He called.

“I do.” Said Hughes, stepping forward.

“Look at the wall.”

She looked. Then laughed, a bitter, ironic bark.

“I get it now... when it was published in Our Glory, I couldn’t understand a word. I thought it was just butchered Aulian.”

“Why?” Trey asked.

“Because Our Glory probably thought the original was a spelling mistake. They printed it phonetically, tried to clean it up. The editor probably figured it was some drunk poetry.”

She stepped closer and ran a finger just above the paint, not touching it. “But this is Shehian Creole.”

Trey swore again, louder this time. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Hughes nodded. “This isn’t just some serial killer. This is a message. A countdown.”

“Which means.” Lec said quietly. “There’s going to be a seventh.”

Sergeant Trey didn’t answer. Instead, he turned sharply to the rest of the team.

“Check the corpses.” He ordered. “Markings. Tattoos. Rings. Anything.”

The Constables moved as one, practiced and grim. The coppery stink of blood clung to their uniforms. Lec crouched beside a corpse with its throat opened like a gutted fish, pulling back the wrist of the man’s coat. A sigh escaped him.

“Same mark. Right hand.”

Constable Hughes found another. “Here too.”

And another. And another. Each body bore the same sigil scorched or inked into their flesh—the unmistakable brand worn by Elrathian slavers. In Elrath, it was a badge of class. Here, in the Demonic Empire, it was an open invitation to be executed on sight.

“They’re slavers.” Lec muttered, standing up. “From Elrath.”

Hughes exhaled. “Well. I ain’t gonna weep for ’em.”

“Can't help but agree." Lec replied

“What do we do now?” Hughes asked.

Trey stepped toward the wall and touched the still-wet paint with a gloved finger. It was pale, almost pastel, a soft green that looked oddly cheerful against the carnage. Mint.

He rubbed his thumb and index finger together, thoughtfully.

“This shade... Only one place in Nathethond sells it.” He glanced at them. “Pete’s Paint Paradise.”

Lec snorted. “Of course it’s got a name like that.”

“I’ll tell Pourriel he can start clean-up.” Trey said. “Meet me at the truck in a few seconds.”

(Sidenote, if you haven't yet read Iron Commanders, firstly : Why read this?, secondly : Emperor Patrick, in his love of army trucks, completely forgot to make cars, the Ar-An story from earlier is set in 1284, which is why Constable-Corporal Nickves has a car)

Later, Pete’s Paint Paradise

The Constables didn’t kick in the door, but they entered with the same energy—bodies squared, boots heavy, hands just shy of their rifle's trigger.

A short, burly dwarf stood behind the counter, polishing a shelf of glass jars with theatrical indifference. His orange apron read Color is Life!

Trey stepped forward, badge glinting. “Nathethond Constabulary Corps. You Pete?”

The dwarf turned with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Aye, that’s me.”

Trey lifted his green-smeared thumb. “Recognize this?”

The dwarf’s eyes flicked to the color and widened a touch. “Mint #34. One o' me finest. Best seller for murals, baby rooms, an' weddings.”

“Congratulations.” Lec said. “You may also be the preferred supplier for serial killers.”

The grin vanished. ,

“We’ll need to see your sales ledgers.” Trey continued, calm as death. “And we’ve got a few questions.”

“Wha—What happened?” Pete asked, already inching toward a drawer beneath the counter.

Trey’s hand twitched towards his gun. “No sudden movements.”

Pete froze.

“Bodies are piling up.” Lec said, stepping forward. “Elrathian slavers. Back alley executions, paint scrawled on the walls in a language most people here can’t read. Always this color.”

“And unless you’re selling this paint to every amateur street artist in town.” Hughes added. “Someone’s got blood on their brush.”

“I... I sell t’ contractors.” Pete said nervously. “Some independent painters. Couple o’ kids now and then want t’ do up their walls... I don’t ask for names unless it’s bulk orders—”

“Which this clearly is.” Trey said, tapping the dried paint on his glove. “How many people buy six buckets of mint paint at once, Pete?”

The dwarf blinked, slowly, as if processing the number through a fog. “One.”

Trey’s brow lifted. “Well, that makes this remarkably easy. Let’s see your ledgers.”

Pete fumbled like a man who’d just been told his house was on fire but wasn’t sure where the bucket was. His thick fingers flipped through a pile of paperwork until he produced a thin folio, the cover stained with a hundred colors.

BULK ORDERS FOR THE MONTH OF CIPAST 1267

Trey flicked it open, his eyes scanning the clean, empty pages.

“This one’s dry. Give me Stavalst.”

Pete hesitated, then reached under the counter, pulling out a heavier ledger and tossing it onto the desk like it was a dead fish. Trey caught it and began to leaf through, Hughes leaning over his shoulder.

Three names stood out:

Volbolk the Younger – famous painter. Three buckets each of red, yellow, black, and green.

Sataniel Favius – a boy, barely fifteen by the sound of it. One bucket of red, one of black.

Irénée Charles – Shehian. Eight buckets of Mint #34. No stated purpose.

Trey’s finger stopped on the last one. “Eight buckets... for what?”

Pete shrugged. “Wouldn’t say. Just paid cash and left. But they spoke proper, y’know? Polite. Not the shady type, far as I could tell.”

“Yeah, well, shady types don’t usually buy paint.” Hughes muttered.

Trey closed the ledger with a snap. “Alright, we’ll skip the questions. Thanks for the cooperation, Pete.”

“So I’m not in trouble?”

“Not unless you’re planning on drowning anyone in your #34 between now and dinner. You’re fine. We gotta go.”

Nathethond Immigration Center, five minutes later

The receptionist, a tall, sleepy-eyed orc in an ill-fitting uniform, barely had time to begin the formal greeting—

“Greetings, welcome to the Nathethond Immigration Cente—”

“Files.” Trey said, planting his hands on the desk. “Shehian. Name’s Irénée Charles.”

The receptionist tapped a finger against their cheek. “We don’t spend paper on individual individuals—” they chuckled at their own joke “—but we do have audio records. Here.” They slid a dull bronze badge across the counter. “Guest access. Audio Storage room. Last name search.”

Trey caught the badge mid-slide. “Appreciate it.”

Audio Storage, ten minutes later

The room smelled faintly of dust and copper wiring. Row after row of shelves held cylinders, each tagged with names and dates. Hughes spun the crank on a playback machine while Lec sorted through labels.

A thin, grainy voice filled the room. It was Irénée Charles—accent warm, vowels drawn out, the cadence of someone used to telling their story under suspicion.

They learned this much:

Irénée was a freed slave, formerly bound in the plantations of Sheh.

Currently lived in Foredge.

State-subsidized slave hunter for the Principality of Sheh.

Leader of a hunter circle that specialized in tracking fugitive Elrathian slavers.

Had killed before—more than once—but always claimed to follow his own strict code.

Intended to remain in Nathethond for just five weeks before heading north-west to the Elrath Empire for “fresh grounds.”

Swore, on record, never to harm anyone who wasn’t a slaver.

The machine clicked off, leaving only the hum of the building around them.

Trey leaned back in a chair. “Well.” He said, rubbing his jaw. “That’s either the profile of a dangerous man... or someone we should be buying drinks for.”

Lec folded his arms. “Maybe both.”

“Wait, Trey.” Hughes said suddenly.

“Hm?” Trey muttered without looking up.

“The tourism center.” Hughes explained. “They keep lists of hotels, theaters, places people like to go—”

“And the old Adventurer’s Guild.” Lec cut in, eyes brightening.

“You’re saying we just... visit both and see what turns up?” Trey asked.

“...Yeah.” Lec replied.

Trey gave a small nod. “Good idea. Let’s move.”

The Adventurer’s Guild and the tourism center both gave the same answers, almost word-for-word.

We recommend visiting the Tulvetre Circus.

...

The Fantazis Theater

, that just happened.

The Rathos Hall.

The Old Comedy Club.

Two other targets.

The Constables decided to wait. Let the hunters come to them.

13th of Cipast, 1267, Nathethond Constabulary, Station 09

Arrek summoned the team into the cramped briefing room, slapping a paper down on the table.

“We just got word, more bodies in Rathos Hall.”

“We know.” Hughes said flatly.

“...Then why the hell are you still here? Move!”

Sergeant Trey only shrugged and turned for the door. The others followed in his wake.

Rathos Hall

The smell of dust and drying paint hung heavy in the air as the Constables forced the double doors open with a thunderous crack.

Inside, half a dozen Shehian slave hunters froze mid-action.

“Vit, yo ap vini, ekri mesaj la.” One ordered in Shehian, voice low and urgent.

“Wi, wi, tann. Mwen panse sa a toujou ap viv... touye li.” Another replied, glancing at a prone figure

Steel flashed. The first hunter leaned over and drew a blade across the victim’s throat with a practiced flick.

“Bon, ou fin fini? Ale, yo fè pou nou pati!”

The second crouched, dipped a brush into a bucket of mint-green paint, and scrawled jagged letters across the wall:

'Rityèl a echwe, Papa lonbraj mande plis nanm esklavaj.'

The last stroke dripped to the floor just as Trey stepped fully into the hall, gun in hands.

[Note : The Constable team isn't just Hughes Lec and Trey, there's also Alpom and Gugha, but Alpom is mute and Gugha prefers to stay silent most of the time, and when I talk about Constables I refer to them by their last name, for example, Nickves's name is Aleksei Nickves IV.]

The Shehians bolted down the dim corridor, boots pounding against cracked tiles. But their escape was abruptly cut short—the Constables blocked their path like an unyielding wall.

Gunshots echoed, harsh and sharp, but none found their mark. The Shehian hunters dropped a dense smoke bomb at their feet, swallowing themselves into the mist and disappearing like ghosts.

As the smoke dissipated, Trey’s eyes caught a fluttering scrap of paper drifting to the floor. He bent down and snatched it up.

“It’s... a water bill.” He muttered, squinting at the ink-stamped address. “9631 Vladislav Avenue, downtown.”

Hughes's lips curled into a grim smile. “Well, we’ve got them now.”

Trey tapped the paper decisively. “We hit them now, or wait until the 19th? They’ll probably be there, planning their next move.”

“Wait.” Hughes said. “Better before the next attack. We catch them off-guard, disrupt their plans.”

Bingo.

The team melted back into the shadows, anticipation thick in the air. The 19th of Cipast promised to be a day drenched in fire and fury.

19th of Cipast, 1267, 9631 Vladislav Avenue

The team gathered quietly outside the looming residence, shadows lengthening as dusk approached.

Well, not just the team.

Constable Doorbreacher Olvène stood ready, a shotgun cradled in her arms, ram in hand. Beside her, Constable Shieldbearer Helvethe loomed, shield polished to a dull gleam, muscles taut.

Though the Constabulary secretly sympathized with the Shehian crusade against slavers, these vigilantes had overstepped — executing murders on Demonic soil without sanction. That was a line none could cross.

The plan was crisp and efficient:

Olvène would first blast the lock with buckshot. If the lock held fast, she’d swing the ram mercilessly until it gave way.

Should Olvène fail, half the team would fan out through the garden, closing all possible escape routes.

Once the door surrendered, Helvethe would shove Olvène aside, raising his shield to form a living barrier, holding the line long enough for the rest to flood in and secure the threshold.

Silence gripped the team.

A final nod.

Olvène leveled her shotgun, sighting down at the rust-pocked lock.

Ba-

Click.

Nothing.

She stared at the weapon.

“...Piece of shit jammed.” She muttered, tossing it to Hughes without ceremony.

Her hands were already on the ram. One deep breath, one step forward—

CRACK.

The old wood caved. The ram punched straight through the panel, its head disappearing into the darkness beyond. For a moment, the weapon just... hung there, like a spear stuck in the carcass of the house, then it fell in.

Everyone stared.

Alpom and Gugha were halfway turned toward the garden already.

“Don’t bother.” Olvène said with a half-grin, leaning through the gap. “I’ll just unlock it from the inside.”

Her arm plunged into the splintered wood; there was a few seconds of blind fumbling, then—click.

The door swung open.

Helvethe shoved Olvène aside and stepped in, his shield flashing up to cover the entryway, as per the plan. The hallway yawned empty before them, but from upstairs came a dull, urgent Bump!—like a chair tipping over.

Trey jerked his head toward the stairs. “Hughes, Lec—you sweep the first floor. Everyone else, with me. Upstairs.”

Upstairs

Irénée Charles’s eyes flew to the sword resting by his bed. The fresh batch of captured Elrathian slavers lay gagged and hog-tied on the carpet, their muffled protests swelling as boots thudded below.

The other Shehians were slower to react, groggy from sleep. Alphonse, bleary-eyed, rolled clean out of his cot and hit the floor with a grunt.

“Bariyé pòt la!” Irénée barked.

Downstairs

“You heard that?” Helvethe asked, already angling his shield toward the noise.

“Yep.” Trey replied. He nodded toward a shut door at the top of the staircase. “That one.”

They moved up in quick, measured steps. Trey raised a hand. “Hold. Let me—” He stopped mid-thought and turned his head. “No no no... HUGHES!”

“YEA?” Came the muffled reply.

“GET UP HERE. I WANT YOU TO NEGOTIATE WITH THE SHEHIANS!”

Footsteps pounded. “ALRIGHT!”

Luc’s voice chimed in from below. “HEY, IF SHE’S GOING I’M COMING!”

Trey waved without looking. “SURE.”

The two Constables came up, breathing hard. Trey leaned in. “Try to talk them into coming with us peacefully. We’ll take them to the Shehian embassy, tell them to ship 'em back to Sheh.”

“Got it.” Hughes said.

Behind the barricaded door

"Mwen ka tande yo, Irénée." Alphonse hissed. "Yo tou près dèyè pòt la... èske w sèten ke kabann lan ap kenbe yo?"

"Wi... Wi, nou se alye yo de tout fason." Irénée muttered. "Yo asireman pap gen kouraj pou yo atake nou."

Other side of the door

“Just tell them we’re not here to hurt them.” Trey murmured to Hughes. “Something like: 'Come with us, we’re your friends.' Keep it simple.”

“Yea, yea.” Hughes said, rolling her shoulders. “I got it.”

[Following is canonically in Creole, but in English so you can... You know, read it.]

Hughes rapped twice on the wood, her knuckles echoing through the tense stairwell.

"Nathethond Constabulary Corps." She called, voice calm but firm. "Open up, you lot. We’ve got you."

Inside, Irénée’s fingers whitened around the hilt of his blade. His eyes never left the bound and groaning slavers on the floor.

"We will make you pay for our lives dearly." He shouted back. "Go and save yourselves!"

"Hang on, hang on." Hughes replied, lowering his tone as if trying to soothe a cornered animal. "We’re on your side."

A bitter laugh came from the other side.

"Yea, that’s what your politicians say. But were that true, you’d be with us. You’d march with us into Elrath, not just dilly-dally."

"We would, if we could." Hughes said, leaning her shoulder against the doorframe. "But we’re knocking down Grymena and Chia first."

"Why? Elrath is the most slavers of all."

"But the smallest." Hughes countered without missing a beat. "And despite the fact they started it, we could flatten them in seconds."

"So?" Irénée spat.

"So we haven’t bothered butchering—" Hughes cut herself short, glancing at Trey, who was gesturing impatiently for her to wrap this up. "—Just open the door."

A pause. Then, cautious:

"If we open, you won’t kill us. Right?"

"Why would we?"

"...We’re murderers."

"Of slavers." Hughes said, her voice hardening just enough to make it clear where her sympathies lay. "Like us. Now open the door, we’ll take you straight to the Shehian embassy. Let them handle the rest."

The door opened.

Irénée had opened it, his eyes hard, jaw clenched as if expecting a trick.

Hughes stepped in first, followed by the other Constables, boots thudding against the warped floorboards. They moved with practised efficiency. Two steps, aim, squeeze. The bound slavers barely had time to register their fate before the room was filled with the deafening report of gunfire.

The smell of burnt powder lingered as Hughes holstered her weapon.

"Alright." She said flatly. "Let's get you out of here."

They led the Shehians down the stairs, past splintered doors and discarded ram, out into the grey light of morning.

By the end of the day, the group had been escorted to the Shehian embassy. Papers were signed, hands shaken with formal indifference.

Three days later, Sheh quietly mobilized them over to the Helmlandic government in hiding. There, far from prying eyes, the entirety of the Helmlandic royalty died, and Irénée's band kept fighting slavery in Helmland and, eventually in Elrath.

...

Thank you.

I've started to write this on the sixth, and I had to wake up at 2 today to finish it.

Its 7:47 PM.

Notes:

COMBATANT SPECIALISTS
Specialists are Corporals, if they get promoted to the rank of Sergeant or even Lieutenant, their role does not change, well, if they want, they can ditch their specialist job and become an officer.
Doorbreaker (Ct-Db)
Heavy breacher units trained to force entry with magical or mechanical means.
Often carries reinforced shields, rams, or explosion-magic gauntlets.
Flamer (Ct-F)
Carries fire-based weapons (magical or mechanical). Used for flushing out bunkers, cult hideouts, or cave insurgents.
Field Medic (Ct-FM)
Medical support in battle zones or riot suppression units. Often partnered with Doorbreakers or other shock units. Usually sourced from muscular or tall nurses and doctors.
Shieldbearer (Ct-Sb)
Defensive role in urban combat. Uses massive shields to shelter their comrades in arms and civilians, usually trolls or orcs.
Sapper (Ct-S)
Trained in demolitions, trap clearing, and subterranean breaching.
ENGINEERING AND TECHNICAL
Engineer (Ct-E)
Builds, repairs, and maintains fortifications alongside the Army sappers in urban environnements, when the Demonic Army conquers a city, Constables are sent alongside the standard occupation army to rebuild the city (it is expected that the city is to be greatly damaged).
Wardwright (Ct-Ww)
Specialist in magical barriers, anti-magic suppression fields, and protective sigils, often used to paint markings on Constable exosuits to protect them.
INTELLIGENCE/POLITICAL CONTROL
Commissar (Ct-C)
Senior officer embedded in army units to maintain order, loyalty, and discipline. Oversees Military Police (MP) detachments.
Archivist (Ct-A)
Gathers intelligence, records evidence, and maintains historical and legal records. Working alongside the Ministry of Records.
Handler (Ct-H)
Rarely seen in uniform. Manages informants, undercover agents, and snitches. Coordinates covert operations.
RIOT CONTROL UNIT
"You think the Constabulary Corps is a paramilitary organization? The Riot Control Unit is even worse!"
Riot Control Agent (Ct-RCA)
Deployed directly where and when riots are reported by other Constables when Ct-RCCs order them to, it is their duty to bring back order, lethal force is authorized, sometimes encouraged.
Riot Control Sergeant (Ct-RCS)
Commands their Ct-RCA comrades and gives the order to use lethal force when necessary.
Riot Control Lieutenant (Ct-RCL)
They give the order to use any and all chemical agents and weapons.
Riot Control Captain (Ct-RCC)
The Riot Control Captains do not see the battle field anymore, instead, they dispatch RCU squads where riots happen.
Riot Marshal (Ct-RM)
Supreme commander of the Riot Control Unit in a select city, they answer to the Constabulary Commander of said city, they have the authority to mobilize the city's military garrison, with the consent of the Ct-CC.

Chapter 7: The rage of the people

Chapter by PeanutinContainment

Notes:

Only one story a week now, I have Iron Commanders to write.

Ransby, 10th of Drocoq, 1296

Another wage cut.

Another firing spree.

This time, the people weren’t going to swallow it.

At first it was just knots of angry workers muttering in the streets, telling friends : “We’re on strike.” But as the hour crawled on, the crowd swelled until it was nearly eleven thousand strong.

That number alone wasn’t remarkable. Strikes in Ransby could fill whole districts.

What was different were the sights and sounds:

Red flags snapping in the wind.

Slogans painted on crude cloth banners: 'Share the money!'

A chant that carried the metallic edge of fury rather than protest.

Ransby Constabulary, Station 11

“I don’t like this...” Constable-Staff Sergeant Heinrich muttered into his coffee.

“Why?” One of the younger Constables asked, leaning on the counter.

Heinrich didn’t look up. “Too familiar. I was Entwitch Corps in the war. We shouted things like that at the Elrathians.”

“So?”

“We weren’t peaceful. We were looking for blood.” He set the cup down. “This... this is going to turn ugly. We should be kitting up now, not waiting for an order.”

Later, in front of a bakery

Three Constabulary patrols formed a thin wall between the crowd and the shopfronts, (dull) swords hanging at their sides, riot shields locked together. The air was thick with the rhythmic roar of voices, though the words had blurred into a single, pulsing noise.

They’d long since stopped reacting to insults.

The Ransby Riot Control Unit hadn’t been called yet. On paper, the situation was “contained.” By sheer luck, the RCU headquarters was only a few buildings away.

Inside, Riot Agents moved at an unhurried pace, tightening greaves, adjusting breastplates, fastening visored helmets. A few even joked with one another as they prepared, knowing their colleagues were already standing in that pressure cooker of a crowd.

Then-

BOOM.

Every helmeted head in the RCU turned toward the sound.

Something erupted in the middle of the Constable line: a deep, concussive blast that punched the air out of the street. A smear of black smoke clawed upward, its edges ragged like torn paper against the colorless sky.

The chanting fractured into screams. The mass of bodies swayed, then surged forward, a living tide slamming into the stunned Constables.

In seconds, the survivors were swallowed—shields buckling under the crush, formation collapsing.

The Riot Control Unit moved without order. Training was one thing, instinct was another.

Machine guns and maces were seized from racks, armor buckled halfway on or not at all. A few men used the hydraulics (again, hydraulics in a suit or armor is probably the worst idea I've ever heard) in their suits to vault from open windows straight into the street, landing like dropped anvils.

RCU Sergeant Twakes fired a short burst above the rioters' heads. The chatter of the weapon tore the air, startling the crowd enough to falter.

The Constables broke contact, dragging the wounded and the dead toward the RCU line. The juggernauts stepped forward without pause. Twenty armored figures with machine guns, shotguns, and sniper rifles pushing into the chaos like a slow-moving wall of iron.

The rioters, seeing them, wavered, but did not scatter. Some shouted defiance. Some picked up bricks.

Most of the RCU didn’t raise their guns. They holstered them deliberately, drawing instead the heavy maces slung across their backs. These weren’t for warning taps or crowd herding. These were built to shatter Elrathian helmets, not swat at Demonic protest signs.

They'd do just as well.

“FIND WHO THREW THE EXPLOSIVES!” Lieutenant Vadim’s voice ripped through the din like shrapnel, the order sounding less like a command and more like a verdict.

A small note: the Riot Control Unit doesn’t take volunteers. It takes the tallest, broadest and strongest in the Corps. And only orcs or demons make the cut. In a city like Ransby, where most people were human, halfling, or dwarf, an RCU deployment looked like twenty walking siege engines bearing down on a swarm of vermin.

And they marched.

Usually, that was enough. If the RCU hadn’t already shot the street into South-East Aulian (Swiss) cheese, the sight of them alone was enough to drain the courage from any would-be rebel.

Today, it wasn’t.

The crowd didn’t scatter. They armed themselves. Brooms and chair legs appeared. Shop windows were smashed for makeshift glass missiles.

“DROP ALL WEAPONS.” a synthetic voice screeched, amplified by a helmet speaker.

The front line of the mob faltered for a second, but the press from behind shoved them forward again.

The surviving, still-walking Constables moved in beside the RCU, shields raised and swords drawn, slotting themselves into the gaps between the armored giants.

Now, the two forces stood face to face.

Another note: RCU armor isn’t just better than Constable armor, it's better than Army armor. Which means the Imperial government considers a pack of angry townspeople more dangerous than a foreign army. Why? I don't know.

The juggernauts didn’t move. They didn’t speak. They stood so long that a few Constables, growing restless, started to lower their weapons and glance up at them.

They weren’t asleep, they were talking.

Their helmets carried short-range mics linked to one another, and to Riot Control Command. The rest of the square was quiet enough for the faint hiss of comm chatter to bleed into nearby Constables' earpieces.

“Constable-Riot Control Lieutenant Vadim, insurgents arming. No ID yet on the bomber. Crowd ignoring order to drop weapons. Requesting instructions.”

“Constable-Riot Control Captain Treblinka, demand again to disarm and identify the terrorist. If refusal continues, you are authorized to use lethal force.”

“Understood. Executing orders.”

A pause.

“Stand by. Condition of the Constabulary patrols sent before RCU deployment.”

“Injured and dead evacuated. Survivors joined formation. Current strength: thirty-five.”

“Understood. Procee-”

Treblinka's voice cut off mid-word.

Two RCAs exchanged a glance.

Then a new voice burst across all channels, loud enough to make nearby Constables wince.

“CONSTABLE-DISPATCHER KAUEN, DO. NOT. ESCALATE. I REPEAT: DO NOT ESCALATE. PLEASE.”

The voice in Vadim’s earpiece was calm, but brittle in a way that betrayed panic.

There was a long pause. Then, a new voice, harsher, rang through:

“Disregard previous order.” Treblinka’s tone had the weight of command.

“Specify.”

“Lethal force is authorized should the rioters turn aggressive.”

“Understood.”

“Advance.”

“Understood.”

Vadim gave a vague, almost lazy, hand signal. The RCUs began their slow push forward, guns and maces swaying like pendulums. The crowd’s murmurs fell to a low, animal growl.

The civilians didn’t move at first. They just stared, some with hatred, others with empty eyes.

Then, a human man stood, holding his ground a second too long. When he finally moved to let them pass, one Constable kicked him hard enough to send him crashing into a wall with a wet thud.

The mood shifted instantly.

People with spikes, pitchforks, and rusted spears stepped forward, forming a crude, jagged wall of points. Those without weapons melted backward into the crowd, clearing the way for the armed.

The RCUs saw the formation and adjusted, their own weapons coming to bear. The first clash was ugly and fast: Agent Rosen swung his mace down onto the head of a pike, the iron shaft vibrating with the blow. But another pike, angled low, thrust forward, aiming for a rare vulnerability. It found it: the narrow strip of unarmored glove between Rosen’s steel knuckle guard and wrist plate.

It was held by Albonse Trouyeux, a gaunt veteran of the Tahey Invasion. He had been in enough killing grounds to remember the old militia lesson: If you see skin, drive your pike forward until it stops.

The tip punched through leather and into flesh. Rosen’s grunt of pain twisted into a gurgled scream as blood welled under his gauntlet.

The Constables turned.

The RCUs turned.

And then, so did both guns and swords, all now aimed at the ragged wall.

Vadim was halfway to bellowing, “RUSH IN, MELEE!” when a firebomb burst at his feet. The flames leapt high enough to paint the nearby shields orange.

A second firebomb crashed against a shield and slid down, spilling burning pitch into the street. A third soared over the line and burst in the crowd, and the air filled with the sound of people screaming. One jet of fire flared so high that a visorless Constable caught the full brunt, his face lit in a brief, horrific instant.

Another Constable seized the burning man by the arm, dragging him backward with frantic, ragged shouts. The smell of scorched flesh cut through the stench of smoke and sweat.

Vadim didn’t waste a heartbeat. He ripped a magic flare from his belt, struck it alive with a harsh snap, and raised it high over his head. The unnatural green light bled through the haze, bathing armor and terrified faces in a sickly glow.

That was the sign.

Every RCU dropped their maces in unison, the dull clang of steel on cobblestone drowned beneath the sudden snap of holsters. Constables let their swords and shields fall from their grasp, hands moving in perfect drill to draw their pistols.

Vadim’s arm cut down like a guillotine.

“Fire.”

The first shots cracked through the smoke. Muzzles flared, the report deafening in the enclosed street.

The ragged spike wall shuddered, broke, and fell as men and women crumpled under the onslaught. Each blast punched through the riot’s chaos, shredding pitchforks from hands, tearing the fight out of bodies in moments. The air filled with screaming, then choking silence.

In less than twenty seconds, the street became a mass grave.

...

Later, as the Sanitary Services were throwing the bodies in their trucks, one of them noticed a dead Tiefling wearing a bomb vest.

A guard dismantled the bombs and found a note.

'They're at the tourist pier. Remember the plan,

-N.'

Notes:

It is, in my humble opinion, extremely funny that in the Demonic Empire, riot police have dull swords.

Chapter 8: Neshire.

Chapter by PeanutinContainment

Notes:

Forgive me being a day late, I was sick yesterday.

Neshire, Kar Empire, 26th of Stavalst, 1266

The battle for the old city had been grinding on for six days.

Motorcycles, bikes, horses, cars, trucks, tanks, IFVs, APCs, anything with wheels or legs, poured into Neshire across the blasted roads. Thousands dead on both sides, and the city refused to fall.

The Kar threw everything they had into the furnace. Desperate mobs in chainmail and rusted swords charged into rifle fire, and sometimes won. By sheer madness, or some cruel favor of the gods, they managed to lock the Demonic Army into a stalemate.

Control of Neshire, Sixth Day of Battle:

Kar Empire: 31.73 %

Demonic Empire: 56.98 %

Neutral/Anarchy: 11.29 %

It had dragged on long enough that the Neshire Provisional Constabulary Corps had time to mobilize.

South Neshire, Merchant District

A squad of Constable-Sappers and Engineers had taken shelter inside what used to be a lavish Mesean-style restaurant. The gilded walls were blackened, chandeliers shattered, and the scent of charred velvet clung to the air. Three Army sappers lingered with them, helmets off, ash in their hair.

“Fellas.” One Constable-Engineer said, brushing glass off the table where maps had been spread. “We’ve got a bridge to throw up. Link Ta-Karban to here, and suddenly the brass has an ass-ton of supplies flowing into the city.”

One of the Army sappers gave a dry laugh. “Word from upstairs is, Neshire falls if we push a little harder.”

“Yeah.” Another muttered, chewing the inside of his cheek. “...Supplies?”

“Six trucks.” Came the answer. “Full of steel and magic. Should be rolling in an hour.”

An hour later

The surroundings of the bridge, called the City Passage by both soldiers and civilians, had been 'evacuated and secured' on the second day of the battle. But 'evacuated and secured' in Bayania never truly meant empty streets and quiet ruins. It meant that every alley had shadows, and every shadow might hold a Kar partisan with a sword or a explosive magic stone.

The Constables knew this. So did the truck drivers. Practically every three hours, another ambush cracked against the thin guard lines.

Still, the convoy reached the Passage.

The trucks rattled in with engines coughing black smoke. The vehicles pulled up in a sloppy line, iron squeals echoing across the emptied streets. No one wasted time. Doors banged open, boots hit cobblestone, and cargo began to spill out in crates, steel sheets, and bundles of tools that clattered like bones on stone.

At about the same time, the Constable-Sappers arrived, helmets already slick with sweat, packs heavy with charges and wiring. They fanned out with the careful alertness of men who knew how fragile 'secured' really was.

The driver of the first truck broke away from the others and snapped a salute at one of the Constables.

“Supervisor Perez, Ministry of Industry, sir.” He said, his voice had the clipped dryness of a man reciting a ritual.

“Constable-Corporal-Sapper Alejandro. What've we got?”

Perez jabbed his thumb at the piled trucks. “Counting everyone, about sixty-two tons. Panels, braces, mana-circuits, tools, the whole jazz. Enough to finish the Passage bridge by morning if you don’t screw it up.”

Alejandro nodded, already half turned away to shout orders, but Perez barked at him.

“You need the blueprints, dumbass.”

The Supervisor shoved a thick roll of paper into Alejandro’s hands. The sapper unrolled it on the hood of a truck, the diagrams catching the fading sunlight. Steel arches, mana conduits, support struts, anchor locks, all neatly marked, impossibly tidy compared to the shattered city around them.

Alejandro grinned thinly. “Good work. With Constable-Engineer guidance, we can knock this up in two hours tops.”

His words carried confidence. But his eyes lingered on the shadows between the ruined buildings, where every second seemed to whisper.

An hour later

A good half of the bridge: standing.

A good half of the supplies: used.

A good half of the crew’s toes: acquainted with the blunt force trauma of falling hammers. (Thanks to the gods and the emperors, their boots were designed with steel caps, otherwise the ground would be slick with whichever color of blood their species leaked.)

A good entirety of the sappers and engineers: worn down to dog-tired grins.

It was time for a pause. The mandatory ten-minute kind where everyone collapsed into whatever passed for a seat.

The truck drivers, now (voluntarily) drafted into the workforce, dropped their own tools with relief and joined the general collapse. A fire had been coaxed into life from scrap wood, and around it Perez and Alejandro found themselves shoulder to shoulder, unwrapping ration packs like contraband delicacies. Beans bubbled in a dented pan, smelling faintly of smoke and desperation.

“Gunfire's getting closer.” Alejandro muttered, eyes flicking toward the muffled cracks echoing down the valley.

“Agreed.” Perez said, leaning on his knees. “If the Kar push up this far, we’ll be lucky to keep the bridge standing. You think we should rig defenses, or just keep building?”

Alejandro didn’t even hesitate. “Bridge. If it falls, we fall. If it stands, Neshire falls.”

Perez turned to squint at him through the smoke. “...You realize you sound like the lead actor in some tragic street play? All that 'if it falls, we fall', I swear you’ve been rehearsing lines from Pavel from 'The Play of the Mad Puppeteer'.”

“Ah, shut up.” Alejandro stabbed the pan with a fork, yanking out a greasy strip of pork. “Eat your beans before the engineers steal it all. Then we’re back to swinging hammers until dawn.”

“Dawn, or until the Kar blast us off this bridge.”

“Same result.”

Another hour later

Well, it looked ready.

A crate suspiciously overflowing with nails suggested otherwise, but no one wanted to linger on that detail. The sooner the bridge was declared finished, the sooner the offensive could roll across.

The engineers huddled over the blueprints one last time, when movement on the far bank caught Alejandro’s eye.

“Hey.” He said, squinting across the half-foggy river. “Those look like Flamers. What the fuck are they doing here, and not at the front?”

Perez followed his gaze. The silhouettes carried the distinct bulging tanks on their backs, glinting faintly in the moonlight. They walked like Constables, helmets standard-issue, step measured. Still... something felt wrong.

“I don’t know.” Perez muttered.

One of the engineers cupped his hands and shouted across the span. “HEY! BRIDGE AIN’T READY YET, YOU CAN’T GET ON IT!”

The Flamers didn’t answer. Worse: they unhooked small boxy shapes from the underslung fittings of their tanks.

“Shit.” Perez hissed. “Those aren’t tools.”

The truck drivers scrambled, pistols drawn. The Constables hefted rifles.

“FLAMERS, OFF THE BRIDGE!” Alejandro bellowed, his voice cracking against the night. “DROP THE BOXES AND FUCK OFF!”

Still no response. The Flamers padded steadily onto the half-built structure, set the boxes down at the base of pillars, and moved with a terrifying calmness that spoke of training.

Then, a single crack split the night: one of the truck drivers, hands shaking, had discharged his pistol by mistake. That was all it took.

The span erupted into a storm of muzzle flashes. Constables and drivers alike emptied magazines across the river. Sparks rained off the Flamers’ armor as they ducked into cover, and then—hiss-thump—strange stones skittered across the wooden planks.

They burst, coughing out a dense, swirling fog that stank of wet ash and magic. A cold wind carried the smoke up and over the bridge, blotting out the figures completely.

Alejandro snarled, waving his men down. “Hold fire! They’ve got fuel tanks, they’ve got fire! We risk hitting the boxes, or worse, their fuel. You wanna see this whole span go up? HOLD FIRE!”

The world narrowed to creaks of wood and the shallow, rasping breath of men in helmets. Nothing moved in the smoke. A minute dragged by like a year.

Then the haze thinned, just enough for Perez to glimpse a shape: a Flamer crouching low, pressing one of the boxes against a pillar. He caught the flash of armored gloves as the figure turned and raised both hands.

A sign.

Two hands, thumbs linked, fingers splayed, flapping outward like wings. A bird taking flight.

Perez’s gut dropped. He’d seen that signal before: Kar partisans, the sign for when they had finished rigging up explosives.

“FUCK! OPEN FIRE!” He screamed.

The Constables didn’t hesitate this time. Rifles roared, muzzles flaring bright in the mist. Tracer fire stitched across the retreating shadows as the Flamers bolted from the span.

Whether the rounds hit, no one could tell. Their armor, like R.C.U. armor, was thick: Flamer exosuits had back-plates reinforced so that they could survive exploding fuel tanks. The silhouettes staggered but never fell. One by one, they vanished into the underbrush, leaving only silence and the boxes clinging like leeches to the bridge supports.

Perez’s stomach twisted.

The Kar had stolen Constable armor. Picked the one set that would be the most useful when running away yet niche enough that no one would think to cross-check who the hell 'Constable-Flamer F. You' was in the barracks log.

The engineers gathered at the edge of the bridge, peering at the silent, humming boxes.

Just a few seconds later, the charges exploded and the bridge went down.

No one was injured, but the bridge was.

To be continued...

Notes:

(Ever since I became interested in Foxhole, I imagine the battle for Neshire as the battle that
I forgot what it was called, but Moidawg made a video in his series for War 83, I think it was one of the first four videos, where there is a lot of very violent urban warfare, Neshire was basically like that, but the Colonials ((WARDEN FOREVER, GLORY TO CALLAHAN)) have swords and magic)

Chapter 9: Yeah...

...Potentially never, school restarted, I'm always sick, I'm running out of explicitely Constable-themed idea and my motivation is drying up.

I am happy of what I did however for this.

If I ever want to/can, I'll write more for the Corps.

Stay tuned, and read Iron Commanders.

See you around, partner.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 5 of Iron Commanders