A voice pierced the stillness. “Angar.” It grated against the peaceful silence, tugging at his unconsciousness.

  “Angar,” the voice repeated. He tried focusing, understanding, but thoughts were too slippery to grasp hold of.

  “Angar.” The voice was soft, pleasant. He liked it.

  “Angar,” it called again, insistent, pulling him from the darkness. Grunting, his eyes cracked open to a vision of splendor, an expanse of endless, golden plains where bright green brambles shimmered in light, warmed by the glow of eternal peace.

  Above, a sky as impossibly blue as the one in the vision Spirit had granted him, filled with clouds like soft, white mountains, floating serenely.

  Then Spirit appeared in front of him, bending over him, looking concerned. Past her, the wonderful scene slowly morphed to one of terror.

  Suspended in stasis, the first frenzied, relentless waves of skinless horrors were pouncing through the air, claws stretched out, teeth bared, skinless faces locked in rage, nearly upon him.

  Amid the hundreds of horrors, one creature stood distinct. A twisted mockery of human form, its limbs disproportionate and skewed, its skin a clammy, pallid rot.

  Its face sagged, ancient and twisted, sunken eyes glinting with a cold and dead malevolence. The lipless maw with jagged teeth poking out gaped mid-yell, a shrill echo frozen in time.

  Even stilled, it radiated a sick hunger.

  It was hard to judge the creature’s height from this distance, but going from its size compared to the skinless horrors rushing around it, Angar doubted it was as tall as he was.

  It was turned sideways, caught in a timeless moment, waving the horrors forward.

  A thick metal plate, encrusted with those long, menacing needles he’d seen lining the spine of the Harmongulan, stretched from the ground to above its head, like a carapace on its back.

  Its hands were far too big, its fingers were elongated, ending in claw-like nails, holding some contraption in one of its arms, cords hanging down from various parts of its body.

  After Spirit finished putting her hair in a bun, she placed a hand on Angar’s face. “You stupid, foolish, reckless, brave, amazing boy,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I’ll do what I can, but it won't be enough. I can only distract the Homunculus for a little while. Whatever happens, don’t let its needles touch you. Remember to beware the needles! Now, you must dig down deep, really deep, and get up. Get up and fight!”

  Before Angar could reply, her lips pressed against his forehead, a searing kiss flooding him with the warmth of healing. Time began to move again, but slowly, no longer frozen.

  As the skinless horrors slowly advanced through the air towards Angar, Spirit turned on her far too thin legs, no longer floating, one hand rising above her.

  Then, her fist closed.

  Angar heard a low, resonating sound – boof. A wave whooshed outward, catching all the pouncing horrors in its path, sending them flying the other way, slowly, crawling through time.

  Spirit charged forward, her twig-like legs spinning through the air, catching the faces of horrors in her mad dance, sending heads flying from skinless bodies, blood left slowly slithering behind. She twisted around with an impossible grace in ways Angar had never imagined, corpses slowly falling to the ground in her wake.

  It was the most amazing feat of martial prowess Angar had ever witnessed, beyond his comprehension and imagination. She would land on her hands and somehow jump off them, her slim, stretched-out, frail-looking frame twisting in impossible ways, every graceful movement also a deadly attack.

  She cut a path straight to the strange creature, what she called a Homunculus, not a Harmongulan. Once she reached it, she kicked both legs up, twin feet battering its chin with a crack that echoed through the slowed air.

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  Her momentum carried her over the creature, grabbing the metal plate lined with needles with both hands as she passed overhead, doing her best to rip it off the monster.

  She partially succeeded, as the plate of needles hung off its upper back but was still attached to its mid and lower.

  Landing, she spun to its side, her frail fingers clamping its skull. Time quickened slightly as both the creature and Spirit shrieked in pain.

  Time then surged forward, their cries escalating into tortured wails. Light bled from her, flaring bright before Spirit shattered into a radiant cascade, leaving the creature clutching its head with both hands, dropping the strange device it held, its face twisted in anguish.

  Time snapped back to fully normal as Angar shook his head to clear it, sending blood spattering from his matted hair all around him.

  He went to clutch his maul, but realized it wasn’t anywhere near him. He had no idea where it was. He would have to make do without it.

  For a moment, he began to push off his hands to gain his feet before remembering he didn’t have to.

  Ground Current took him behind the waves of skinless horrors to his front right, depositing him on his feet, his knees almost buckling, unconsciousness nearly claiming him again.

  But he was a Crusader, son of Baraga, King of Mecia, and Laka, the Weirding Witch, descendant of Elaxada the Mighty, Mahtma the Conqueror, and the great Kondunean Emperor Xon Gheir the First.

  He wouldn’t yield to the blackness. He wouldn’t let it consume him. Not now. Not after he was gifted this chance. He kept his feet under him, and his eyes open.

  Without a maul, his monstrous hands were his weapons. He punched the horror in front of him, splitting its skull open. As the one next to it turned, he dug the sharp claws deep into muscle and ripped half its neck out.

  His claws slashed at the next to come at him, and he snatched up the next two to duel-wield as clubs once again, their bodies flailing in his grip, their bones snapping with each swing made.

  He battered away the ones he could until there were not enough remaining of the ones he held. He grabbed new ones, and Glory Thunders sent many splattering away in chunks.

  He relied on fist and claw for a while, each punch caving in parts of his enemies, each claw swipe ripping out vital pieces, each throw of a horror knocking all the ones it battered into down.

  He smashed through the skull of a horror trying to pile on him, its bone crunching under the force of his blow. With a swift motion, he slashed at another, his claws rending flesh and removing an arm.

  Then the press became too much. Many crawled over him, biting, slashing. He roared as he grabbed the legs of two of them and swung his makeshift weapons. Each impact made a wet, cracking sound as bodies collided.

  As he cleared a space, another horror leaped at him, its mouth gaping wide. Angar caught it by the jaw. With a heave, he tore its head clean off, throwing it at the oncoming wave.

  He dodged a swipe from a claw, his movements sluggish, fueled by sheer will, the blackness still trying to consume him. He kicked out, his boot connecting with a horror's chest, sending it sprawling back into others, knocking them down.

  When the press was too much and the pile-on too deep above, Ground Current got him free of it.

  He had no time to spare to look for the maul, and doubted he’d be able to see it through this horde anyway. He wondered when the Homunculus would join the fight. He grabbed another horror, lifting it off the ground, then slammed it down, its spine audibly snapping.

  As the horde pressed in, his claws found eyes, throats, necks, and any weak point he could exploit, turning each encounter into a brief, brutal lesson in survival as his willpower staved off the always looming blackness of unconsciousness.

  When the mob became too much, he spun into Tempest, his clutched fists slamming into foes, wishing the lightning hurt these things more.

  Tempest got many, but not nearly enough, and left him under a large pile of enemies. Glory Thunders helped there.

  The numbers were against him. They came at him without pause, a relentless swarm, but Angar met their mindless madness with equal ferocity, his body moving on instinct, his clouded mind locked on one goal – to endure, to remain conscious, to keep his feet under him and go on, to fight, to kill until he could no longer.

  The earth grew treacherous and slick with gore, his blood mingling with his enemies in a crimson mire. Each moment was a battle to stay conscious, to keep moving, to not let the darkness claim him.

  He wanted to use Ground Current, Tempest, and Glory Thunders strategically, to save himself when the press became too much, but that meant he used them as soon as they came off cooldown.

  But on he fought, even as the horde of skinless horrors seemed endless, their numbers hardly dented by his glorious slaughter, often buried in a mass of bodies, always breaking free, but more bloodied, more battered, his mind filling with zealous fervor, and his chest brimming with righteous wrath, two horrors in hands, swinging, smashing.

  And slowly, as wounds stacked upon him, a brutal tally, he clawed his mind free of the fog bit by bit, certain God watched this grand deed, reveling in this endless slaughter, laughing as Angar’s righteous fury bathed the field in crimson tribute, a river of blood given to his Lord.

  Then, nothing. The last skinless horror was swung into the ground with a crunch. Angar looked around. All his enemies had fallen.

  All but one – the Homunculus, still clutching its head and whining out in agony.

  He scanned the battlefield, looking for a glowing head of chert, unable to spot his maul still. He walked to his enemy, the last of them, the only thing left to kill.