Angar closed in his final enemy, gore-covered and resolute, when the Homunculus raised a gnarled hand, palm out, with a halting gesture.

  The gesture stunned him, this plea of truce cutting through his battered mind. He didn’t pause, as he was Mecian, and mercy for enemies or halting battle to speak wasn’t his people’s way, but he half-expecting words from that lipless maw.

  As Angar continued to approach, the Homunculus dove to the ground, clawing for its device. A searing jolt erupted from it, lancing into Angar’s side with a white-hot echo of the lightning that had once struck his shoulder.

  Gritting his teeth, he surged with Ground Current, a crackling blur landing him next to the prone beast. A lightning bolt snapped down, and, to his shock, it scorched the creature, sending smoke curling from its pallid flesh as it shrieked in raw anguish.

  Angar lashed out with a boot, smashing the device from its claw. He swung his leg again, a fierce kick slamming its face. No crack resounded, just a dull, wet thud, his foot sinking into doughy flesh as if the beast were molded from rot-soft clay.

  The Homunculus grabbed Angar’s foot with its oversized hand and tried whipping him onto the needles on its back, but Angar kicked free and rolled away.

  Man and monster stood at the same time, eyes locked, and charged at one another, giving brutal battle with fist and claw.

  Angar, already far too injured and running on fumes, was forced to go on the defense, stopping attempts to pierce him with the needles, blocking punches from the oversized fists, dodging away to avoid swipes, giving back damage when he could, but not nearly enough.

  Not until Tempest came off cooldown again.

  He started spinning, his clasped fists hammering into the beast with futile thuds. Physical attacks did little or no damage, but the lightning flared, searing deep where physical blows failed, unlike with the brutes, skinless horrors, and the Harmongulan.

  Smoke poured from the Homunculus, its horrible shrieks rising with each pulsing burn, growing fiercer every second. It scrambled to flee, but Angar stuck close to its side, avoiding the needles on its back and attempts to stick him, his hands bashing into the creature with each swing, turning with it, lightning burning into it.

  Lightning that increased in damage with each passing second.

  When Tempest ended, the Homunculus was a dried-up, smoking pile in front of him, the large metal plate with needles running up and down it most of what remained.

  Angar’s heart blazed with triumph. His chest almost burst with pride. His mind filled with glory.

  He did it.

  He had done the impossible.

  Sure, he had a little help from Spirit, but the fact she had been so adamant he’d fail made this victory all the sweeter.

  He loomed over his smoldering foe with victory blazing through his chest. Then the needle-plate snapped upright, a blur too fast to track. Before his mind caught up, spines tore into him, ripping through muscle and bone with sickening crunches, pinning him mid-breath, holding him there.

  Each needle pulsed, sending a stream of torment flooding his veins with liquid fire, scorching nerves to ash. The venom surged deeper, a black tide searing his soul, each heartbeat pulsing anguish.

  Images of despair and memories of failure assaulted his consciousness, his victories now seeming hollow, his strength mocked by the pain.

  He tried to scream, but his mouth was clamped shut, and his voice was lost to the overwhelming flood of suffering. His body convulsed, fighting against the needles that held him fast, his muscles spasming in a desperate bid to either break free or mitigate the pain.

  The substance coursed through him, a venom that seemed to sear his soul, making each heartbeat a drumbeat of torture.

  Spirit had been right. He broke.

  Whatever was happening to him broke him almost immediately, and in ways he couldn’t imagine. Terribly so.

  If he could go back in time, he would heed Spirit's warning and stay as far from this creature as possible.

  Better to be an oath breaker, a coward, than this. Anything was better than this. Nothing could be worse than this. No shame came close to being as unendurable.

  Broken, Angar ceased writhing as the metal plate cranked downwards into place, clicking and grinding, as the substance continued breaking him in new and horrifying ways. When the plate neared its final position, it grinded loudly, repeatedly, but refused to click into place.

  Something tried sucking Angar through the needles, but failed, and he continued to break over and over.

  The Homunculus, now a charred, shrunken, emaciated husk, began to emit a whining cry, a sound both mechanical and chilling, devoid of any trace of humanity.

  One of its oversized hands stretched out, gripping the ground to pull itself forward. Then the other followed. It let out a long, mournful sigh before its head collapsed.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Then words appeared. Angar’s tortured mind realized Theosis had sent him a message, but he couldn’t move his eyes to read it.

  And he couldn’t move any part of his body to end dilated time. Not even a muscle could twitch.

  Like a cruel twist of fate, a malicious prank after his mighty victory, he was stuck in dilated time, enduring the substance's relentless assault on his body and mind as if time flowed normally.

  Time stretched, each second an eternity of torment, breaking him over and over. His mind was flooded with visions of failure and dishonor, each one magnified, twisted into gross parodies of truth, all negative, everyone hating him, scorning him, spitting on him.

  His body felt like it was being pulled apart, the venom from the needles not just attacking his physical form but his very essence, his spirit, each moment overfull with agony and despair.

  The pain was multidimensional, being of physical, emotional, psychological, each layer compounding the others into an indescribable frenzy of suffering.

  His thoughts became fragmented, memories of his loved ones, his victories, all turned into sources of pain, twisted, awful, corrupted. His body, once so strong, was now a prison of agony.

  And through it all, the awareness that this wouldn’t end, that he was alone, that no one could save him, that he was to endure this torture in dilated time forever, broke his mind in a new terrible way.

  It felt like centuries. Unending centuries of being broken and broken over and over and over again, Angar’s body and spirit smashed relentlessly in a brutal, grinding ordeal.

  It could've only been hours, days, or weeks, but it felt like long, terrible centuries. He had no way of knowing for certain.

  The worst part was that he didn’t die, though he hungered for it, he begged for it, the torment unimaginable, intolerable, a living, endless nightmare.

  The good part was that no matter how desperately he yearned for death’s release, he didn’t die.

  And as with all things, since it didn’t kill him, he had to endure it, endure the unendurable, and what was once a horrific nightmare, after what felt like centuries of agony, became his grim life.

  At any point, if he could’ve ended it, he would’ve in a heartbeat, falling to his knees in a blood-slicked heap to growl thanks that this indescribable torment had finally ceased.

  But since it didn’t end, he turned his will towards seeing if he could prevent his mind from breaking again, and after several more centuries of relentless struggle, he finally succeeded.

  Then, once he could prevent that, he began working on moving.

  First, he gained control of his eyes, finally able to read the message Theosis had sent him.

  Four Glorious Achievements!

  In an act of resolute valor, you, a lone servant of God’s unyielding will, have transcended the mere bounds of duty and oaths to achieve a feat of true grandeur. With maul in hand, your heart ablaze with righteous fury, you faced down a blasphemous Dreadfiend – the terrible Harmongulan.

  Unaided, unbowed, and undeterred, you stood as a solitary bulwark against this towering abomination of Hell, a testament to your unbreakable resolve. As its wretched form crumbled to ash, the infernal gateway shuddered and collapsed, sealing shut the abyss that threatened to drown your world in unholy damnation.

  Four deeds of honor shine as beacons amidst this triumph:

  The Courage of the Lone Stand – facing the unholy keeper of the gate to Hell alone, with neither brother nor armor to shield you, armed only with faith and fury: 10 Glory Points.

  The Slaying of the Gatekeeper – bringing low the unholy keeper of the gateway to Hell, ending the incursion of the infernal abyss on your planet, for now: 5 Glory Points (4 + 6 (/2)).

  The Slaying of a Dreadfiend – bringing low a Dreadfiend, the terrible Harmongulan, a deed to rival the champions of many Knightly Chapters: 15 Glory Points.

  The Closing of the Gateway – denying Hell its foothold, preserving a world for the Holy Empire’s light where lesser souls would have faltered: 5 Glory Points (4 + 6 (/2)).

  Let the Enlightened Scribes sing your praises, and let your name be etched in gold upon the Litany of Heroes. For in this act, you have not merely served – you have embodied the Holy Trinity’s wrath, a mortal vessel of our Divine retribution.

  Amid a Lesser Incursion that unleashed horrors worthy of a Moderate one, your points of glory justly split between the two triumphs.

  In the name of the Holy Trinity, this being the first bestowals of these sacred triumphs on this world, you shall twice receive laurels of renown for this honor.

  Glory Points bestowed: 35 x 2

  For God and Empire!

  He wrested his eyes to Theosis’ glowing words, their praise a faint ember. Clinging to it, he fought on. It took time and wasn’t easy, but he finally willed his arm to twitch.

  Time snapped free with a shuddering gasp. And he continued to work on regaining control of his body.

  At some point, he heard the footsteps of two people approaching.

  “Great Theosis!” exclaimed a man as they came closer. “Look at this! So much blood everywhere. What are these things? Like skinless people, but strange.”

  “There he is,” stated a different man. “Remember, we’re not to touch him at all.”

  The two men walked closer to where Angar was impaled on the needles of the metal plate. He couldn’t see much of them, just their feet.

  “By the Holy Trinity, look at him!” exclaimed the first man to speak. “I think he’s dead.”

  Both men crouched to inspect Angar more closely, and he could see their faces. He recognized both but didn’t know their names. Class holders, new imperial soldiers. One was the Ghelixian he’d seen with Mikhin after the battle with the brutes.

  The Ghelixian said, “Great Theosis, look at all those wounds. And those needles. No idea how, but he’s alive. He’s breathing, and his eyes are moving.”

  Both men stood. The first man asked, “What were our instructions again, Corporal? If we’re certain he’s corrupted, we’re to kill him?”

  “No,” replied the Ghelixian, the corporal. “We’re to protect him. Ensure the wildlife doesn’t get him until the other Crusaders arrive. They’re to judge that.”

  “I hate to say it, but I think you’re wrong, Corporal,” the other man said. “Look at him. Not his hands. He had those before. He’s got black veins running all through him now. His eyes are all black. His skin’s all corrupted-looking and falling off. Sergeant Optio said Theosis told him the Crusader was to be killed if he succumbed to corruption. Heretic, it’s called. We’re to kill those on sight.”

  The corporal sighed. “This man went to battle as we fled. Look at what this fight did to him. Have you ever met a Mecian?”

  “I haven’t, no.”

  “Well, we border them,” the corporal continued. “They’re fanatics, worse than Torminians. Bloodthirsty maniacs who think their Great Lord wants them to kill everyone. I hate them. I grew up hating them. I hate them more than I hate Konduneans. But this one? You’d have to kill me first to get to him. You saw him fighting those brutes, the same as I did. Leave it for the other Crusaders to decide, Trooper.”

  There was a long pause before the trooper said, “Right, Corporal. We can’t just leave him here then, can we? He’s got needles stuck all in him. I counted four in his face alone. Metal needles, they look like. The fog will eat them. Should we drag him to a cave?”

  “No,” the corporal replied. “Our orders were to protect him from wildlife and such, and not to touch him at all. He certainly looks corrupted, so this is as close as I’m getting. Let’s get settled in. Sergeant Optio won’t be here to relieve us for long days.”