Angar could shift his limbs slightly more, though his body remained stiff and sluggish, barely his own. He could force out rough, wordless grunts from his throat, with speech still not possible.

  Since he had complied with the Crusader wielding the long, sleek firearm, not moving when commanded, and since he hadn’t reacted to the call of the Underworld with an open gateway, the captain ordered Medicus to treat him aboard.

  Two sergeants hauled him onto the spaceship, their armored gauntlets biting into his flesh. The captain strode behind, Medicus at her flank, trailed by two servant women.

  The sickbay, packed with angular machinery hulked against the walls, all sharp edges and flickering runes, hissed with steam and strange stenches. Dark tablets pulsed with arcane data, while twitching metal tendrils dangled from the ceiling.

  At the chamber’s heart squatted a massive tank, its reinforced glass clouded with bubbling green sludge, viscous and alive, churning with faint, shadowy shapes, its reinforced walls streaked with verdigris and etched with spiraling prayers.

  “How shall we treat him, Madame Captain?” Medicus asked, her voice clipped, clinical.

  Vernost swiveled her head. “Options? What stage is his corruption?”

  Medicus frowned, studying Angar’s marred flesh and monstrous hands. “By sight alone, the fifth stage, or nearly the fifth stage. Thrall. But the gateway didn’t trigger him or cause any visible reaction. He should be a puppet by now. I don’t know what to make of it, Madame Captain. This situation seems unique.”

  She passed a tablet into Vernost’s hands, its screen glowing with sterile light. “You can opt for basic treatment with minimal resource usage, or go all-in with every procedure we can give him, including posture correction, for a steep cost, Madame Captain. I’ve outlined multiple options with their resource costs on the slate.”

  “The Hellsign?” Vernost pressed, her tone cutting. “These options don’t address it.”

  “Apologies, Madame Captain, but I don’t know. Full gene modification and editing might strip some or all of it away, but there’s no way to know. The last pre-Holy Empire Terrans we encountered were in 322, from the Great Exodus, their world untouched by the infernal abyss. No records exist on how these treatments affect base, unmodified Terrans with Hellsign.”

  Vernost let out a guttural grunt, her annoyance clear. “Even Saint Baldris, the Roadworn Preacher, faltered before a Harmonguloth. Those monstrosities dwarf a Harmongulan in power, but he was a Saint. This boy’s a Tier 1 savage, guided by only an oath while unarmed and unarmored. Facing it was madness, defeating it was a miracle, and his reward was only a torment I imagine worse than death. We won’t stint on this boy…man, I mean. Do everything you can for him.”

  She wheeled on the two servants, her voice cracking like a whip. “One of you figure out how we can get reimbursed. The Holy Empire pays for this, not Dragon Company, not the Grim Martyrs. Understood?”

  “Yes, Madame Captain,” they chorused, voices tight, one running off after giving that reply.

  “You don’t need me for this, Medicus,” Vernost stated. “My sergeants will remain until he’s in the tank. Report the outcome when it’s done.”

  She pivoted on her heel, her armored boots clanging against the grated floor, her cloak snapping like a tattered banner as she stormed off into the ship’s gloom. The air seemed to lighten in her wake, though the oppressive hum of machinery remained.

  Medicus stepped forward, her silhouette sharp against the flickering lights of the sickbay. She gripped Angar’s chin with gloved fingers, tilting his head up to meet her steady gaze. “We’re submerging you fully,” she said, her tone clinical but edged with a strange warmth. “The liquid’s breathable, same as air, though your brain will scream otherwise. It’ll put you to sleep, maybe even before your first breath.”

  She flashed a smile, fleeting but reassuring. Then she turned, striding to a hulking console studded with runes and pulsing diodes. Her fingers danced over the controls, punching in commands. A low groan rumbled through the chamber as more machinery awoke.

  “Knight Sergeants,” she called, her voice rising over the din, “please, if you would, place him in the Vitaelux Apexium.”

  The two Crusaders holding Angar’s arms, his body still a ragdoll of exhaustion he had little control of, dragged him up a stairwell. His boots scraped the steps, each clang echoing around the room.

  He arrived at the top of the massive tank dominating the center of the sickbay. Within the top opening, he saw a bubbling morass of green sludge churning thick and luminously, like the distilled essence of some long-dead monster. Vapors coiled upward, acrid and faintly sweet, but holding an edge of menace, as if it might just as easily melt a man to nothing as heal him.

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  The Crusaders hefted him over the lip and dropped him in without ceremony. The sludge swallowed him with a wet slurp, its surface rippling briefly before settling into its relentless boil.

  Angar’s instincts recoiled. On Vefol, liquid was feared. Pools of acid and rain that blistered skin, underground streams of diluted rot barely fit for drinking and scrubbing wounds. No one knew how to swim. Submersion was terror woven into everyone’s bones, a primal dread older than memory.

  He knew these people meant no harm to him. He wanted to show his chest held no fear, but breathing this muck? The thought was too unnatural. His mind rejecting the idea with a ferocity his broken body couldn’t muster.

  The sludge gripped him heavy as molten stone, dragging him under. His arms flailed with a weak spasm of defiance, his mind yelling at him to head for a surface impossibly out of reach.

  His chest burned, his lungs screaming for air they’d never find in this green abyss. Panic surged, thrashing through his skull, but the sludge held him fast, its weight like a cruel embrace.

  He held his breath as long as possible, but, finally, bubbles erupted from his mouth in a silent scream lost to the mire. Then, as the first involuntary gulp flooded his throat, thick and bitter, alive with a tingling fire, his thoughts blurred.

  Exhaustion finally sank its teeth in too deeply. The terror faded, the world dimmed, and sleep mercifully claimed him.

  Angar startled awake as awareness flooded back.

  He lay cocooned in a bed so soft it felt like a cloud stitched from dreams. Thick padding cradled his frame, the blankets soft and cool against his skin.

  Beside him sat Spirit, her presence a quiet glow in the dim chamber. Her fingers caressed his cheek, light as a whisper. She seemed a lot more solid, more substantial.

  “Don’t speak,” she murmured, her hand pausing, warm against his face. “They’re monitoring you. I’d rather not waste my energy masking the feed. I’m still helping against the gateways and the Demon Lady Raga, and I need all that I have. They’re coming to interrogate you, so we’ve only a moment.”

  A smile split her face wide. “I’m so proud of you, Angar! So relieved you survived! I haven’t been this happy in a long, long while.”

  Her eyes, luminous and impossibly kind, shimmered with unshed tears. “And I’m so sorry, so terribly sorry, for the torment you had to endure alone. I couldn’t appear to you, to tell you everything would be okay. I was already stretched too thin before I did all I could with the Homunculus.”

  Angar wanted to reply, to tell her she had been right. He loved being a Crusader. He loved battling Hellspawn. But even now, finally free of that nightmare, he wished nothing more than that he could go back in time and not have been subjected to those indescribable horrors. He’d trade anything to unlive that event, to peel its weight from his soul.

  Since he couldn’t reply, he bit his tongue and tried smiling in response.

  Spirit’s lips curved gently in return. “I know it’s cold comfort, but your suffering wasn’t for nothing. Your torment wasn’t wasted. That crucible forged your mind stronger. And the Vitaelux Apexium worked wonders beyond what was expected. Check your Annals.”

  Angar’s pulse sparked with excitement as he summoned the System screens.

  ATTRIBUTES, STATS, AND ADROITNESS

  (Each Attribute Point increases all Stats governed by that Attribute by 1. Applying 4 Stat Points to the same Stat will increase the governing Attribute by 1. Numbers in (parentheses) include increases from items.)

  BODY (Physical Attributes): With 9 AP applied - 20

  Physique (Size/Strength): With 9 SP applied - 29

  Endurance (Stamina/Health): 20

  Toughness (Physical Durability/Resistance): 25

  MIND (Non-Physical Attributes): 14

  Competence (Skills/Insight): 14

  Cognizance (Awareness/Perception): 14

  Resilience (Non-Physical Durability/Resistance): With 25 SP applied - 43

  SPIRIT (Metaphysical Attributes): 10

  Power Level (PL) (Ability Damage and Effectiveness): With 25 SP applied - 35

  Energy (Resource for Powers shown as Energy Points equal to 3 + (Energy Stat x 3)): 10

  Charges (Increases the number of times certain Abilities can be used per combat): 10

  ADROITNESS (Finesse/Reaction/Speed): 3

  RESOURCES

  Current/Maximum Energy Points: 33/33

  Current/Maximum Charges: 10/10

  A spark of pride flared in Angar’s chest. Despite the lingering memories, the experience really had improved him. No strength could repay those endless, indescribable moments of dread that felt like centuries, but seeing how his Attributes and Stats had changed almost made it worth it.

  Spirit leaned closer, her scent, something he never noticed her having before, washing over him. “You’ve grown in ways no one could’ve foreseen. Tempered, not shattered.”

  Another small smile crept on her lips. “That torture increased your Mind Attribute by 3 and your Resilience and Toughness Stats by 9 and 5 apiece. The gene editing and modification increased your Body by 5 and your Mind by 1, plus the trickle effect of the Body increase. Not a bad haul, huh?”

  As he was told not to speak, Angar nodded in response.

  “You were submerged in the tank nearly three days,” Spirit said gently, “and you’ve slept two since."

  Her gaze held his, steady and searching, as if peering into the depths he couldn’t voice. Then, abruptly, her head tilted, her ears catching a sound beyond his reach. “They’re coming. Remember, don’t mention me. And if asked, say your Class is Fulmenifer. No, that’ll remind them…go with Fulmenicus.

  “And don’t give details about your build. No exact Attributes, Abilities, anything. And don’t lose your cool. Please. We’re almost clear and away from here, so stay calm and steady no matter what.”

  She smiled. “I’m not done using you up. You’ve yet to die horrifically.”

  Her fingers brushing his cheek tenderly once more. She bent forward, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Then she was gone, dissolving into the air. The room felt emptier, colder, without her.