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PRELUDE TO SEASON 3: INFLITRATION IN AMMONITOWN
🕑 Added 2025-10-20 17:10:59 +0000 UTCThey say Ammonitown was built on eternity.
Long before Bachué and Sugunsua shaped the first humans, these lands were an inland sea. When it dried, it left behind a white desert of salt and fossils — giant shells and bones of creatures older than the gods themselves. People still find them in the hills: ammonites, trilobites, teeth the size of a hand. The town took its name from those spiraled stones — Ammonite — symbols of perfection, of something beautiful preserved after death.
Centuries later, wealthy families decided to make this place their refuge. They built white villas, wide plazas, and called it a “sanctuary of heritage,” though most of its customs were invented only decades ago. Festivals, uniforms, and prayers written by advertisers replaced the old chants of the locals. Here, tradition is decoration — imported, polished, and resold as identity.
Now Ammonitown is the jewel of the highlands. Every summer, the elites gather for its Wind Festival, where hundreds of kites rise above the desert like colored stars. The event draws politicians, artists, businessmen — and those who want to be seen among them. To the rest of the country, Ammonitown represents culture, elegance, and progress.
But to those who look closer, it’s a monument to forgetting.
The streets are made of pale stone that glimmers under the sun, and the houses —white, symmetrical, too perfect— look like they were built to impress, not to last. The air smells of flowers and expensive soap, carried by a wind that hides the scent of the earth beneath it.
It’s the season of the Wind Festival, and hundreds of kites dance over the hills. Not handmade ones —no— these are enormous, embroidered, and imported from faraway places. The locals clap politely while photographers snap pictures for glossy magazines. Everyone smiles, but it’s the kind of smile that leaves a shadow behind.
A dusty beige car drives into town, looking like it doesn’t belong. The engine coughs twice before stopping near the plaza. Two people step out of the old car.
One of them is a tall, muscular man. The scars that decorate his body —especially the big one disfiguring the right side of his face— tell of countless battles he’s fought through the years. He doesn’t hide them —far from it— he wears them with pride, like medals. He’s dressed like a typical peasant: a white shirt, a gray ruana, black pants, and swamp boots.
The second one is a beautiful, petite woman. In contrast to the man’s rugged look, she appears fragile; her skin is white and delicate as porcelain. Her long, blue hair reaches her ankles, and an orchid adorns the right side of her face. Her golden left eye shines with calm and kindness. Her clothes are an unusual blend of two cultures: a top that resembles a kimono from distant lands, and a long black skirt like those worn by the local peasants. It’s a strange mix, yes, but she wears it with grace.
And the names of these two? Mauricio Aguirre and Yuri Aguirre — Ofelia’s parents.
Mauricio steps out first, stretching his back and looking around with a grin.
—Well, this doesn’t look too bad for a nest of snakes— he says, brushing the dust off his ruana.
Yuri comes out after him, elegant but practical, her hair tied back with a ribbon that flutters in the wind. She takes one long look at the plaza —the banners, the people, the endless kites— and sighs softly.
—Remember what Bochica said— she murmurs —we’re here to observe, not to judge.
Mauricio chuckles. —You’re asking a lot, love. Judging is half of what I do best.
She gives him a patient smile — the kind she’s been perfecting for years.
— That you truly do. But at least try to do it quietly. The sooner we finish this, the sooner we can reunite with Ofelia.
He laughs again, taking her hand as they start walking across the plaza
A golden banner waves above one of the old buildings:
WELCOME, BENEFACTORS.
Under it, the name of the guest of honor glows in bold letters —Antonio Vela.
Yuri lowers her voice. —He’s really made a religion out of himself, hasn’t he?
—And business is good— Mauricio answers, tightening his grip on her hand. —Let’s see how holy this place feels up close.
They walk past the crowd, blending in with the perfume, the laughter, and the sound of violins echoing over the cobblestones. They finally enter a local café and take seat.
The café smells of roasted beans and sugar. Its walls are made of polished stone, and the chairs—too expensive for their own good—squeak when someone moves. Outside, the music of the festival still echoes: laughter, tamboras, the faint rustle of kites in the wind.
A few minutes later…
Mauricio stirs his cup slowly. —You know, if Ofelia were here, she’d be out there trying to make the biggest kite of them all.
Yuri smiles faintly, her hand resting over his. —And probably giving it away to some kid she just met. She’s always been like that.
He laughs under his breath. —Yeah. Couldn’t keep a coin or a sweet for herself even when we barely had any.
They share a quiet moment, a warmth that doesn’t quite fit in the sterile elegance of Ammonitown. Around them, tourists talk too loudly, waiters move too fast, and everyone seems too proud of being here.
Yuri adjusts the orchid over her right eye, then looks at the door. —She’s late.
Mauricio takes another sip of coffee. —People like her can afford to be.
Around fifteen minutes later, a young woman enters. Her hair is tied in a perfect bun, her dress made of soft cream fabric that looks foreign among the rustic tables. When she smiles, everyone seems to notice.
—Señor Mauricio, Señora Yuri —she says, sitting down without hesitation—. I’m sorry for the delay. My husband keeps me busy, and today the hotel is chaos. Preparations everywhere.
Mauricio nods politely. —Don Nairo must be proud.
—He is. Maybe too much —she answers with a delicate sigh. Then lowers her voice—. The Benefactors’ welcome meeting will be tomorrow night. Antonio Vela himself will arrive before sunset. The guest list is… strict.
Yuri leans forward, her calm voice hiding a trace of concern. —And our invitation?
Margarita smiles again, but this time her eyes don’t. —Already taken care of. You’ll be part of the service staff. No one looks at the people who serve them.
Mauricio chuckles. —They should. Sometimes those people see more than anyone else.
Margarita stirs her cup once, hesitates, then whispers—Be careful. The Benefactors don’t forgive curiosity. Especially here, where everyone believes in progress, but no one looks up to see what it’s costing them.
—Excuse me, Señora Margarita —asks Mauricio — but sumercé are a benefactor, aren’t you? Why are you helping us?
—My husband is —she quickly replies —He’s a decent man, I swear. Despite our privileged position, he’s never lost his humbleness, but since he joined this new… cult, I’m afraid what could happen to him or our family.
—We’re not letting the Benefactor’s poisonous cult ruin sumercé’s life… anyone’s life.
—And I appreciate your help… Now, if you excuse me —Margarita stands up —I must leave. There’s still so much work to do at the hotel. I’ll be seeing you tomorrow. Please, order whatever you want. I’ll pay the bill later.
Margarita quickly leaves.
A breeze crosses the café, carrying with it the sound of distant laughter and the scent of wet earth.
Yuri watches the plaza for a long time before saying softly —May Bochica help us.
The next night…
The Grand Ammonite Hotel feels like a palace carved out of pride. Its marble floors shine like still water, and every chandelier trembles with gold light. The air smells of polish, wine, and quiet competition.
Margarita leads them through a corridor lined with mirrors. Behind a plain door waits the staff room —white aprons, crisp collars, and a dozen nervous workers adjusting lace and buttons before the great night begins.
—You’ll change here, Margarita says, opening a trunk filled with uniforms. —No questions, no mistakes. The Benefactors don’t forgive either.
Yuri lifts a folded maid dress from the trunk. The fabric is soft, darker than it should be, the skirt long and elegant, the neckline modest—at least in theory. She slips into it carefully, pinning her hair up with practiced grace. The uniform fits too well; the fabric traces her silhouette like it was tailored for her. The room falls into a brief silence.
One of the maids whispers with a hint of envy.
—She looks like she should be served, not serving.
Yuri only smiles, tucking her orchid ribbon above her eye. —Then I’m already doing my job.
Mauricio, on the other hand, struggles with his uniform. The waiter’s vest pulls against his chest, buttons protesting against muscles that refuse to hide. He sighs, adjusts the too-short sleeves, and gives up on trying to look delicate.
—You look ridiculous —Yuri teases with amusement glinting in her only eye.
—I look employed, he replies, flexing his shoulders until the fabric groans.
—You both look great —adds Margarita —. Ok, it’s time for me to go. I wish good luck.
—Good luck to sumercé too, Señora Margarita —the couple replies.
Later that night at the grand hall…
Crystal chandeliers shimmer above a sea of glittering gowns and black suits. The grand hall smells of wine, perfume, and expensive ambition. Music drifts through the air —soft, elegant, and rehearsed to perfection.
The orchestra strikes a brighter note, and the hall bursts into applause once more. The celebration begins —a night of laughter, speeches, and toasts, all shimmering over the quiet rot already spreading beneath the surface.
—He’s part of the staff? —someone mutters about Mauricio’s appearance.
—Looks like he should be guarding the door, not carrying plates.
—Or breaking them.
Mauricio pretends not to hear. He carries a tray of glasses with easy grace, his eyes are calm but alert. Beside him, Yuri moves through the crowd with practiced poise, her skirt swaying softly as she serves snacks. The scent of her perfume —orchid and cedar— lingers for a heartbeat wherever she passes.
The guests are all luxury and false laughter: polished teeth, polite cruelty. Antonio Vela’s name hums through the air like a prayer.
Yuri leans close to Mauricio while passing him a tray. —Remember, love. Just eyes and ears.
He nods. —No trouble.
Still, trouble has a way of finding people like them.
In the far corner, the ballroom doors open. New guests arrive, more elegant, more insincere. Among them, whispers of politics, money, and progress weave together like poison in honey.
Mauricio steadies a tray, feeling the weight of too many eyes and the strange pulse of something dark beneath the elegance. Yuri glances at him across the room; a silent question between them: What are we really walking into?
And above it all, the festival music fades outside, leaving only the hollow hum of violins and ambition.
Señor Nairo, the proud owner of the hotel and Margarita’s husband, steps up to the small stage at the end of the room, microphone in hand. His voice, trembling slightly from excitement, fills the space with ceremonious warmth.
—Ladies and gentlemen —he begins— tonight is not just another celebration. It’s the beginning of a new chapter for Ammonitown. For decades, we’ve trusted in the guidance of gods who turned their backs on us… but no more. Now, we take control of our destiny. And the man who has shown us the way —who’s taught us that progress needs no divine permission— is here with us tonight. Please welcome our visionary leader… Don Antonio Vela!
Applause roars through the hall like a wave. Cameras flash. The music swells.
Then, the tall wooden doors open.
Antonio Vela steps in —perfectly composed, his smile calm and assured. The golden lights crown him like a saint made of marble and ambition. His every step draws whispers; admiration and fear blend into one.
—Thank you, Señor Nairo —he says, resting a hand on the man’s shoulder— and thank you all, my friends. I see in your eyes what I’ve always believed in: Power, determination and thirst for progress and new changes.
The applause starts soft, then swells until it fills the room. People rise to their feet, clapping as if holiness has walked among them.
—Brothers, sisters —he begins, raising one hand. His voice is smooth, deep, touched with that false warmth that convinces even the ones who should know better—. How long has it been since we gathered like this? Since we stood together, not as strangers, but as the hands that built this nation?
The crowd murmurs, nods, drinks the words like wine.
Mauricio steadies a tray at the back of the room. He studies the man, every single gesture. Vela moves like a teacher, like a preacher who learned charm before conscience.
—They call us Benefactors —Antonio continues, his eyes sweeping over the crowd— because we gave light where there was darkness. We brought order where there was chaos. But what have they given us in return?
The audience stiffens, waiting.
—They called us oppressors. Parasites. Foreign blood. They, the so-called Purists, who cling to the past like moss on stone. But I say—
He pauses, smiling as if he’s about to forgive them.
—I say we do not hate them. We pity them. Because they have forgotten the simplest truth: that progress is mercy. And mercy comes from strength.
Polite applause rises again, louder this time. Mauricio feels his jaw tighten.
Yuri moves along the wall, refilling glasses. The words pass through her like cold water. She catches fragments as she works:
…our duty to lead… the strong guiding the simple… those who refuse must be protected from themselves…
Antonio’s voice grows firmer, darker.
—We are one people, but not all parts of a body are equal. Some build. Some follow. Some must be corrected.
A few guests chuckle softly, nodding as if he’s said something clever. Others raise their glasses high.
Mauricio looks at them —the pearls, the laughter, the perfect clothes— and wonders if anyone else can hear the hatred buried beneath the polish.
Yuri stops near the front table, close enough to see Antonio’s eyes. There’s no warmth there, no faith. Only calculation.
Then his tone changes. Lower. Sharper.
—For centuries, we’ve knelt to gods who turned away. We begged for miracles from idols that gave us silence. But no more. No more prayers to deaf skies. No more waiting for saviors.
He spreads his arms like a preacher offering blessing, though his words now burn.
—We will take the reins of creation itself. We will not be gods... no. We will be something better.
The crowd gasps —then applauds wildly. As if they hadn’t heard the blasphemy, only the promise.
Mauricio’s heart sinks. Yuri’s hand trembles around the bottle.
Antonio lifts his glass again.
—And so, my friends, as calm always rises after the storm, so will our new era. An era where our heritage, our blood, and our faith are no longer diluted by those who refuse to evolve.
The applause explodes. Some even shout his name.
Mauricio whispers under his breath—They’re cheering for their own chains.
Yuri’s lips barely move. —And calling it salvation.
Antonio bows his head with practiced humility. —To progress, he declares, raising a glass. —To those who dare to lead when others only follow.
The crowd echoes him in one voice: —To progress!
The sound rolls like thunder through the hall. For a moment, it almost drowns the whisper of doubt —the sound of two Demon Hunters realizing that this man, smiling and adored, may be more dangerous than any monster they’ve faced.
The crowd still hums with the echo of applause when Mauricio and Yuri slip toward the service corridor. The night air from the open doors tastes like rain and gasoline —a small mercy after so much poison disguised as hope.
—We’ve heard enough —Mauricio murmurs. His voice is low, steady. —Let’s get out of here.
Yuri nods, already glancing toward the exit. —Before my skin crawls off my bones.
They move fast, blending with waiters carrying trays and guests heading for the patio. They’re only a few steps from freedom when a calm, cold voice cuts through the noise.
—Leaving so soon?
Every muscle in Mauricio’s back stiffens.
Antonio Vela stands near the grand staircase, glass of wine in hand, eyes glowing faintly gold under the chandelier. The room falls silent. Guests part like curtains, whispering as he approaches.
He smiles —a serpent’s smile wrapped in velvet.
—You should have stayed for dessert. But I suppose Demon Hunters have no taste for celebration.
Mauricio exhales slowly.
—So, you knew.
—Of course, I knew —Antonio answers softly. —Did you really think I wouldn’t notice? A man built like a mountain in a servant’s uniform?
He chuckles, and a few guests follow his lead.
Yuri rolls her eye. —Told you those muscles would get us killed someday.
Mauricio mutters—And you didn’t help, walking around looking like a painting come to life.
One of the guests, a drunk man in a velvet suit, laughs and shouts—Oh, come on! It wasn’t him! Everyone’s been staring at her! No one hires a maid that looks like that!
The hall bursts into awkward laughter. Even Antonio smiles wider, clearly amused.
—You see? —he says, stepping closer, his tone dripping with mockery— I hardly needed to uncover your names, Mauricio and Yuri Aguirre. You two are walking distractions. But tell me… how is your daughter?
The words hit like a gunshot.
Mauricio freezes. Yuri’s breath catches.
Antonio tilts his head, feigning innocence. —Ofelia, isn’t it? From Harmony Town. Brave little thing. I heard she was there when it all came crumbling down. Imagine that —the daughter of two renowned Demon Hunters… and yet so insignificant.
The laughter dies instantly. Even the air seems to tighten.
Yuri’s grip on the tray trembles.
—You can insult me, señor Vela —she says softly but with a cold tone — but don’t ever touch her name with your tongue again.
Antonio raises an eyebrow, intrigued.
—Oh? Did I strike a nerve?
Mauricio takes a slow step forward. His voice drops, deep as thunder.
—You talk too much for a man who hides behind the shadows.
Then, without another word, he shrugs off his servant’s coat. The fabric tears slightly at the seams, revealing his broad chest and the scars carved across his arms —memories of every battle he’s survived. He cracks his knuckles, the sound echoing through the hall like a promise.
Yuri, beside him, exhales softly. Her tray clatters to the floor. From somewhere —no one sees exactly where— she draws a slender, curved blade. The katana’s crystal edge hums with light, faint and eerie like moon fire.
Antonio steps back, still smiling.
—Oh… this will be entertaining.
Yuri tilts her head, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. —You wanted a show, didn’t you, dear?
Mauricio’s eyes flash. —Then let’s give him one, “Crystal”.
Yuri chuckles.
—It’s been a while since you called me by my warrior’s name.
The chandelier flickers once. Then, darkness.
A deep, sudden black swallows the entire hall. The only sound left is the confused murmur of expensive shoes scraping marble, wine glasses clinking nervously, and someone’s breath catching.
—Yuri —Mauricio murmurs— don’t stray from me.
In the dark, her voice answers softly, teasing, like a whisper brushing his ear
—I never do.
Then… something moves.
Tiny lights begin to appear —one by one— until the room glows faintly in soft shades of blue. They drift like fireflies, spinning lazily above the tables and chandeliers, bathing the broken glass and spilled wine in ghostly light.
The tension fades for a heartbeat. People gasp in awe, mesmerized by the delicate beauty of the scene.
—Darling… —says Señor Nairo, the hotel owner, turning toward his wife— you didn’t plan this, did you?
Margarita shakes her head, her eyes wide. —No… this isn’t part of anything I arranged.
Mauricio stiffens. A faint vibration crawls under his skin. He mutters under his breath.
—… Mierda.
Yuri’s one visible eye narrows. Her voice turns sharp.
—… Karelias.
Mauricio’s heart sinks.
The lights —those fragile blue flames— begin to drift lower, circling the guests like curious insects.
One woman, entranced, reaches out a delicate finger toward one of them.
—They’re warm… —she whispers, smiling faintly.
—No! —Mauricio shouts— Everyone, get away from them! Now!
Too late.
The first scream cuts through the silence like a blade. The tiny flame that touched the woman’s hand bursts alive, crawling up her arm in a rush of blue fire. Then another. And another.
Panic explodes. Guests stumble, knocking over chairs and tables, but the flames multiply, clinging to suits, dresses, and curtains. Within seconds, the hall becomes a writhing inferno of ethereal fire. The screams echo off the high ceilings, muffled by the unnatural hiss of burning souls.
Yuri grips her katana, her face pale in the flickering light. —They shouldn’t be here, Mauricio. Karelias only spawn in cursed ground.
Mauricio’s jaw tightens. He can barely hear her over the chaos.
—Then this whole damn town’s cursed. The price to pay for excessive opulence, I believe.
From across the flames, Antonio watches calmly —untouched. His smile is faint, admiring, almost proud.
—Beautiful, aren’t they? —he says— A gift from Goranchacha. Proof that we no longer need protection from something we can control.
Screams, crackling fire, and chaos filled the ballroom. The chandeliers melted into twisted lumps of metal while the walls wept black smoke. Amid the horror, two desperate voices rose above the noise.
—Help! Someone, please! —Margarita cries.
She and her husband, Nairo, stumble across the burning floor, pursued by one of the Karelias.
Yuri’s eye narrows. She draws her katana in a single, perfect motion, releasing a sharp gust that slices through the air that vanishes the Karelia.
—Go! —Yuri shouts, taking Margarita by the arm and pushing her toward the door— Run and don’t look back!
—My hotel—! —Nairo tries to turn, staring helplessly as the flames devour the golden banners, the marble floor, everything he had built.
—Forget it! —Yuri barks.
They flee into the night, coughing and trembling, as the inferno swallows the hall behind them.
Antonio remains standing among the flames, completely untouched, watching the chaos unfold with almost divine serenity.
—If you know the Karelias so well… —he says, smiling faintly— then you must know what happens next.
Then the answer comes on its own.
The charred corpses begin to twitch. One by one, they rise—blackened bones creaking, flesh dripping embers, mouths opening in silent agony. Their eyes glow like furnaces as the smell of burnt skin fills the room.
Yuri’s hand tights around her sword.
—Oh no…
Mauricio cracks his knuckles.
—Gotta end this quick.
The creatures lunge.
Mauricio meets them head-on, smashing through burning torsos with bare fists, his strength shakes the ground. Sparks and ashes burst around him with every blow. Beside him, Yuri moves like a phantom—her blade cuts clean arcs of light that turn flames to smoke and burnt flesh to nothing.
Together they fight in perfect rhythm, covering each other, protecting every remaining survivor who stumble through the fire.
—He’s escaping! —Mauricio roars, catching a glimpse of Antonio calmly walking toward the exit, his white suit untouched by the flames.
—Forget him! —Yuri calls back— Our priority is saving who’s left!
Mauricio clenches his teeth but nods. He lifts a fallen beam with one arm, clearing a path for the survivors while Yuri deflects another wave of burning creatures.
Behind them, Antonio’s calm voice echoed through the smoke— You can’t stop what’s already begun.
And then, he’s gone.
Mauricio and Yuri manage to evacuate the few survivors left. The burning creatures keep coming, but they fight without rest, determined not to let even one escape into the town. Roars, fire, and the clash of metal fill the air for what feels like forever.
Finally, silence.
The last creature falls and crumbles into ashes.
Mauricio breathes heavily. His body is covered in sweat and soot. Yuri’s hair is messy and her dress stained.
—Is it over? —she asks without looking up.
—For now —he replies, watching the flames slowly die.
Hours later…
The first rays of sunlight rise over the mountains. The sky turns orange and violet as smoke from the hotel climbs like an open wound above Ammonitown.
Firefighters’ sirens echo in the distance. They arrive when everything is already lost. The fire has consumed only the main hall, and the few survivors watch in silence the place where they had been celebrating moments ago.
There’s no sign of Mauricio and Yuri.
They are already miles away, inside their old car, driving down the dirt road that leaves the town behind. No one speaks for a long while. Only the sound of the engine and the morning birds fill the quiet.
Mauricio finally breaks the silence.
—I don’t get it… what was the point of all that? He invites rich people, promises them a new world, and kills them anyway. What does he gain?
Yuri looks out the window, thoughtful.
—I don’t know, but if I had to guess… —she sighs— I’d say it was a message. Not just for the gods, but for us. For the hunters.
Mauricio tightens his grip on the steering wheel.
—A message of what?
—That what’s coming… will be worse, maybe? —she says softly.
—And let’s not forget something. Goranchacha helped him.
—Bochica’s hunch was true. The Benefactors are also Goranchacha’s doing.
They go silent again. The mountains fade behind them, along with the smoke of Ammonitown.
Mauricio reaches out and gently takes Yuri’s hand.
—At least we made it out alive.
Yuri smiles faintly, tired but sincere.
—Yeah. And we’ll finally see our daughter again soon.
The car disappears into the morning fog. Behind them, the fire is gone—but the echo of what happened still burns in the air.
Back in town, the ruins of the great hall are still smoking. Fire trucks and ambulances surround the place, and paramedics tend to the survivors. Among them are Nairo and Margarita, wrapped in blankets and drinking coffee from paper cups.
Nairo sighs deeply, his eyes lost in the ashes.
—That meeting was supposed to be magnificent… the most important event of the year.
Margarita places her hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort him.
—At least it’s only the ballroom, love. We’ll recover from this.
Before Nairo can reply, murmurs spread through the crowd. Heads turn toward the street as Antonio Vela walks closer, his white suit immaculate despite the smoke.
The survivors light up at the sight of him. None of them saw what really happened last night—none heard his twisted words to Mauricio and Yuri. To them, he’s still the great Antonio Vela, the man who gives hope where gods give silence.
Vela smiles with perfect calm, his voice warm and full of false concern.
—I’m so glad to see you all safe. Truly.
Nairo, still trembling, grabs his hands, tears falling down his face.
—I’m so sorry, Señor Vela… I failed you. I should’ve—
—Nonsense, my friend —Vela interrupts gently—. You have nothing to apologize for. You didn’t cause this.
He raises his voice, letting everyone hear him.
—What happened last night was not the fault of men. It was the work of supernatural forces… the same creatures the gods are supposed to protect us from. And yet, once again, they were absent.
Murmurs grow louder. People exchange worried glances.
Vela’s tone hardens, his charisma blooming like a fire catching dry wood.
—Worse still, these monsters were summoned by infiltrators of the gods themselves. The Purists. Those who fear progress, who cling to their old superstitions. They did this because they fear us. Because they fear what we represent.
More and more townsfolk gather around, drawn by his voice. He spreads his arms as if embracing them all.
—We don’t need gods watching over us. We don’t need traditions that keep us weak. We’ll take control of our destiny. We’ll build a new world—one made by human hands alone.
The crowd erupts in cheers. “¡Vela! ¡Vela!” they shout, raising their fists and voices. Some weep, others smile, their fear replaced by blind devotion.
Margarita stays silent, clutching her blanket tighter. Her gaze drifts toward the black smoke rising from what used to be the hotel’s great hall. Deep inside, she knows something terrible has begun.
Ammonitown has fallen completely under the spell of Antonio Vela.
NEXT – VOLUME 2
THE PATH OF OFELIA: HUNZA, CITY OF COLD AND CURSES
