Dobroslav and four cadets raced toward the explosion's core while the rest scattered to their posts.
'Why now? One morning a week, two short hours, and fate chooses my training session to blow the place apart! Spy or not, what rotten luck!'
A calm voice broke into his thoughts.
'Well, don't be so angry, my boy.'
'Who—?' Dobroslav flinched. 'Enemy tech? Now?'
'I am no enemy. I am your ancestor, Bhalzar the Great. Call me grandpa.'
'Why should I trust a voice in my head?'
'Because if you don't, you won't survive the next minute. I sealed myself in that amulet centuries ago—for this exact moment.'
They skidded to a halt before the shattered doors.
'FINE!' Dobroslav snarled inwardly. 'I'm probably dead anyway. Let's gamble.'
The amulet blazed against his chest.
They burst into the chamber and froze. Severed limbs and torsos lay scattered in widening pools of blood; most were too mangled to recognize. In the center yawned a jagged tear in reality itself—a wound in the air, edges flickering violet and black, swirling with something that hurt to look at directly.
"They fucked up big, instructor Dobroslav," one cadet muttered, eyes locked on the rip.
The rest of the cadets and the regular soldiers finished checking their sectors and drifted forward, weapons half-raised.
"What do we do?" another asked.
'Like hell I know. Do they think I'm some kind of oracle?'
Something small and thin wriggled out of the tear. Oversized head, burning tail, leathery wings, curved horns—an imp straight out of a computer game.
"Looks like an imp from the old games," someone whispered.
"Soldiers—ready!" the station commander bellowed.
Rifles snapped up in perfect unison.
'Boy, listen carefully,' came the dry voice of ancestor Bhalzar inside Dobroslav's skull. 'Stay back. Wait for an opening.'
'Understood,' Dobroslav answered silently.
"Fire!" the commander roared.
Hundreds of rounds tore downrange toward the creature.
Dust and smoke choked the chamber for several seconds; only the rift's pulsing colors cut through the haze.
"Hihihi!" A high, mocking giggle echoed.
Swish—swish—swish.
A volley of fireballs streaked out, slamming into the front rank.
"Argh—fuck! Help! I'm burning!" a soldier screamed, rolling on the floor in flames.
The commander ignored him. "Concentrated fire! Don't stop until you're empty!"
Every rifle opened up again, muzzle flashes strobing the dark.
"Fire! Fire! Kill this shit!"
'What the hell is that thing?' Dobroslav cursed inwardly.
'That, my boy, is a tier-1 demon—an imp. Mortal weapons won't scratch it,' Bhalzar replied dryly.
'Do we run?' Dobroslav asked, eyes fixed on the creature as it danced through the storm of bullets unharmed.
The imp hovered above the gunfire, untouched, grinning like a child with new toys.
"Bang-bang!" it squeaked. "Missed!"
A fireball punched through a soldier's chest. He dropped without a sound.
"Burn, burn!" it sang, tail flaring.
Another soldier's helmet melted over his face. Screams cut short.
"Slow humans!"
It zipped low, claws raking. A third man's throat opened in a red smile.
"Next!"
The commander's magazine clicked empty. The imp landed on his shoulders, bit down. Spine cracked. Body hit the floor still twitching.
Dobroslav stepped forward, szabla already drawn, voice ringing over the chaos.
"Cadets! Disperse and circle! Bullets failed; steel won't. We cut this thing until it stops laughing. For Poland—for blood—charge!"
He broke into a run, blade high, the cadets roaring behind him.
The cadets roared forward in a ragged semicircle, szablas flashing.
The imp spun mid-air, delighted.
"Sticks now? Cute!"
It flicked a lazy fireball. A cadet's sleeve ignited; he kept coming, screaming.
Dobroslav, still sprinting at the front, slid his szabla home into the scabbard with a sharp click.
He threw his arms wide and began to chant, voice low and rolling like distant thunder:
"King of the fourth ring,
one who opens the way,
who sees the unraveling,
open the gates of hell."
The imp's grin faltered. Its burning tail dimmed.
"Master?" it squeaked, head tilting in sudden confusion.
Dobroslav closed the last step. The imp hovered rigid, eyes wide with terror.
Hellfire licked across his right hand, black-red flames that caressed rather than burned. Pleasure surged through him, sharp and intimate, like coming home.
He seized the imp's face with a wicked grin.
'Do it!' Bhalzar roared inside.
"Infernal Battle Law!" Dobroslav bellowed.
The imp shrieked as green light ripped from its body in pulsing streams. Skin withered, wings crumpled, bones cracked and folded inward. In seconds only a dry husk remained.
Dobroslav flung the corpse aside and laughed, low and savage.
"Hahaha."
He turned to the empty air where the imp had been.
"Who's laughing now, demon?"
From the original group of several dozen, only a handful remained, half-burned, blood-smeared, staring at Dobroslav with wild eyes. They raised shaky cheers. The sound was thin, hysterical, wrong, but they were alive.
Then the rift convulsed. It tore wider with a wet ripping noise, now large enough for three men to step through abreast.
Every survivor staggered, clutching their skulls.
"My head!" one screamed, dropping to his knees.
A psychic wave hammered the chamber; blood leaked from ears and noses.
'Not good! Run, boy, now!' Bhalzar barked, voice actually rattled.
Dobroslav spun and sprinted for the corridor. The pressure never touched him.
'Why am I the only one not affected?' he thought as his boots pounded steel grating.
Dobroslav kept running toward the surface. Bodies littered the corridors: most collapsed, clutching their heads, blood leaking from ears and noses.
Then the first changed one lurched to his feet.
A technician convulsed on the floor. Skin tore open with sharp cracks, flushing dark green. Muscles bulged and twisted; bones lengthened with sickening pops. Ears stretched into long, pointed blades while eyes bled crimson. Fangs erupted, uniform shredding across broadening shoulders. In heartbeats he stood tall, lean, vicious, a full-grown goblin snarling through a jagged maw.
More followed in rapid succession: guards, scientists, staff. Skin split, limbs stretched, claws ripped free, red eyes igniting. They rose towering and feral, dripping gore.
'The fuck is that?' Dobroslav thought, vaulting a corpse.
'Ashkenazi Goblins,' Bhalzar answered flatly. 'Their blood remembers the old strain. The rift woke it. Run.'