Four sets of footsteps approached. One set echoed faintly beyond the door, a steady tap growing closer, while the other three clanked loudly, a heavy trod of metal on metal.
Angar sank back into the bed, the softness of it completely indescribable. He had never felt so great. The clean and crips air, the lightness, the comforting chill.
His mind seemed off. It was hard to think through the cloudiness. But his dulled mind also felt wonderful.
The air hung thick with the tang of strange scents, amazingly free of any burning.
The room was a tight cell of shadowed metal, its pitted walls etched with runes that pulsed a dim green or crimson.
His bed jutted from the wall beside a boxy metal stand, scarred small table, and a dented, upright chest.
Above, on the wall to his right, dominating the room, a triangular icon glared down, its upward point framing a single, unblinking eye, stern and ever watchful.
The door hissed open. Four figures entered. Captain Vernost led the way, her crimson cloak billowed slightly as she moved.
Behind her came Medicus, her eyes hidden behind the tinted visor of her strange helmet, setting some device on the ground near the entrance. The third and fourth were a lieutenant and a sergeant, their helmets turning to sweep the room, their postures rigid with suspicion.
Vernost’s gaze locked onto Angar as she slung her firearm’s strap over her shoulder and removed her helm. Her hair, cropped short, framed a face that seemed too weary for being so young. She set the helm on the nearby table, and turned her attention fully to him.
“Sit up,” she commanded in a low tone that brooked no argument.
Angar would play along. If for nothing else, for Spirit. He tried sitting up, but found shackles clamping his wrists and ankles to the bed’s rails. They suspect corruption still, he thought.
Vernost stepped forward, her boots clanking on the floor, pressing something near his right hand.
The bed hummed, its upper half lifting with a mechanical whine to prop him into a seated position. The soft, gray blanket slid down, pooling in his lap, exposing his bare chest and hands.
The hands were still monstrous, dark black, but dull, unlike the reavers. He had hoped the green sludge would’ve fixed them. A pang of unease flashed in his chest.
He flexed his clawed fingers, the sight still jarring, but it no longer felt like they were moving through sludge, trying to disobey his will. They felt completely normal, as his old hands had, fully part of him, no different than the rest of his body.
He opened his mouth to ask a question, but Vernost cut him off. “Don’t speak,” she snapped, her tone iron hard.
“I like you,” she said. “I really do. I prayed for the Vitaelux Apexium to remove the taint of the infernal from you. This world…nothing is right, and by the blessed Three, I shall learn what is wrong and make it right.”
With a swift motion, she ripped the blanket fully free and tossed it to the floor, leaving Angar bare but for underwear. Her hand darted to her hip, drawing a small firearm that could be held one-handed. “Phase power, half a percent of max,” she intoned, addressing the weapon.
Two shots rang out, the noise bouncing off the walls. The first struck the top of his right foot, a sting that bloomed sharply, and blood splattering the sheets. The second hit the back of his right hand with a fleeting prick that barely broke the skin.
Rage blossomed in his chest, cutting through his foggy mind. He nearly used Ground Current to free himself and see how he’d hold up against these four.
Almost, but he clamped down on his anger. For now.
Medicus stepped forward, her gloved hands deft as she examined his wounds. She tilted his hand, then his foot, her brow creasing beneath her visor.
“Hmm,” she muttered, rising to face Vernost. “Your Repent Ability’s added Holy damage didn’t burn as it would corrupted flesh, Madame Captain. No searing, no recoil.”
Vernost holstered the small firearm with a clank, her gauntleted fingers drumming a restless rhythm against her thigh. Her gaze drifted, lost in thought, before asking, “How many exorcisms have you witnessed, Medicus?”
“Over a dozen, Madame Captain,” she replied, her voice emotionless and precise, “where the exorcee was possessed, cursed, or had visual effects on corrupted flesh and Hellsign.”
“And you’re certain the exorcism Sister Yuuga performed caused little of note?”
“Yes, Madame Captain.” She gestured to Angar. “It caused minimal shaking and convulsions, no dark presence was felt, minor blistering and smoking from corrupted parts, but his hands were left untouched. No screaming or writhing in torment. The acrid scent seemed much fainter than usual, but it was competing with this world’s natural stench.”
“Would you say Sister Yuuga performed this exorcism competently?”
“Yes, Madame Captain.”
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Vernost’s eyes narrowed. “Further thoughts?”
“None, Madame Captain.”
“So, he bears Hellsign that somehow isn’t Hellsign?”
There was a pause before Medicus responded, her tone measured and deliberate. “The Vitaelux Apexium worked the hands’ tissue with the same efficacy as the rest of his body. Genomic sequencing reveals near-perfect congruence with his baseline DNA, exhibiting none of the anticipated anomalous biomarkers or epigenetic deviations. I regret, Madame Captain, that my analysis yields little beyond this. The etiology and nature of this phenomenon remain uncharacterized.”
Vernost’s jaw tightened. “There has to be something. No idea on how he got them?”
“No clue, Madame Captain. We’ll need to ask Sir Knight that.”
The captain’s gaze swung to her lieutenant and sergeant, both still helmed and silent. “Ideas?”
“No, Captain,” the lieutenant said, her voice muffled but firm.
“None here, Captain,” the sergeant echoed.
“Fine.” Vernost’s tone hardened. “Medicus, hook up the Angufluxivator.”
Medicus retrieved the device from the floor, placing it on the stand beside Angar’s bed. Its lid snapped open, revealing a nest of cords she placed on his arms, chest, and temples. The cold tips pressed into his skin, a faint hum vibrating through them.
“Refuse to answer,” Vernost said, her voice dropping menacingly, “and this lights your nerves ablaze with pain. What’s your name?”
Angar thought about refusing to answer. He doubted the pain this machine would cause was such he couldn’t handle it well, but Spirit’s instructions were still fresh in his mind, begging him to play along.
If he was going to speak, he wanted to name himself as it should be done, listing his parents and famous ancestors, but checked himself, knowing he had to adopt the customs of these people. “Angar,” he said plainly.
“Last name, or first?” Vernost asked.
“My only name. I’m the son of Baraga, last King of Mecia, and Laka, the Weirding Witch.” He bit back the urge to list his lineage, the pride of his kin warring with his new restraint.
“Witch?” Vernost’s voice sharpened, suspicion flaring in her eyes. “A Heretic?”
Shame prickled Angar’s chest. He hated that these people believed he was under the influence of Hell. His mind was too cloudy to think well, but he wouldn’t lie. Not unless it was a lie Spirit ordered him to tell.
“She was a great woman,” he said. “Respected and feared by all. I hate to admit it, but she did turn Heretic shortly before she died. It wasn’t on purpose, but I killed her. I threw a Holy relic into a volcano, something I later learned was a zero-point-energy waste container. The eruptions wiped out most of Mecia. I unintentionally killed a lot of innocent people. And reavers too. Most of the initial wave to immerge from the first gateway.”
The four women exchanged glances. Medicus shrugged. “No veroevelo serum yet, Madame Captain. It seems Sir Angar’s not one to hold back.”
Vernost’s gaze snapped to his own. “Your hands changed during your battle with the Harmongulan?”
“No.” He kept his tone even, keeping to the truth. “I stuck them in a gateway to explode a device on the other side, an attempt to close the portal. When I pulled them out, my hands were like this, and the gateway grew and released brutes.”
Another round of looks was shared. Medicus stepped to the Angufluxivator, her fingers brushing its controls. “It’s…yeah, it’s showing as a truthful statement, Madame Captain.”
“How?” Vernost’s voice was full of disbelief. “No one survives touching a gateway. His story must be false.”
As Angar thought how to answer that question without lying but also not telling the full truth, Medicus said, “I’ve administered the serum. It takes a minute to take effect. I recommend asking again in a moment, Madame Captain.”
Angar became worried. Besides a slight dizziness, he mainly felt the same, his mind clouded no differently than before the serum, but hoped he’d be able to keep the secrets Spirit needed him to keep.
Time stilled, the world locking in place as Spirit materialized once more. A faint shimmer rippled the air around her, her form coalescing with a weary grace.
She let out a sigh. “It seems my fate is to exhaust my strength so I have less for Raga,” she murmured, her voice a blend of resignation and ire.
“This woman is stubborn, clinging to suspicion, torn between two hopes. The first that those hands mark you as some novel breed of Heretic, letting her neatly explain away the bizarre events she’s encountered. The second is that they don’t, as she wants you to be real. She wants you to have faced the Harmongulan and defeated it, free of true corruption, like a hero of old."
Her hand brushed the Angufluxivator, then pressed lightly against his temples. A surge of warmth flowed through him.
“You’re good now,” she said with a steady and reassuring tone. “Answer as we’ve discussed. Stay as close to the truth as possible, replacing me with tasks assigned by Theosis. That aligns with what Mikhin told them. Unless necessity forces my return, you won’t see me for a few days. Stay strong, Angar, and good luck.”
She vanished, and time jolted forward. The women resumed their silent stares. A minute crawled by, thick with tension, before Vernost leaned in. “How’d your hands change?”
Angar met her gaze, unflinching. “Same as I answered last time. I thrust them into a gateway to explode a device. My hands came out like this. The gateway grew, and brutes emerged.”
The four turned to each other once more. The lieutenant’s voice cut through, sharp and skeptical. “Impossible. If he’s a Vessel, Servant, or Emissary, he could’ve been granted enough power to trick the machine and lie through the serum.”
Medicus shook her head. “Apologies, Madame Lady Lieutenant, but Sir Angar wouldn’t show Hellsign then.”
“Heralds can have Hellsign,” replied the lieutenant. “And you said it wasn’t true Hellsign anyway, Doc.”
Vernost grunted. “Tier 1s don’t become Heralds, Lieutenant.” She fixed Angar with an unyielding stare. “From the beginning. Tell me everything. Spare no detail.”
Angar drew a breath, steeling himself, and complied with her order, sticking as close to the truth as possible. The whole truth when he could, Theosis’ name in Spirit’s place where he couldn’t.
Guilt gnawed at him with every lie and half-truth told. He hoped Holy Theosis would forgive the deceptions, consoling himself with the thought that he was told to do this by a different member of the Holy Trinity.
And he hoped the captain realized each word was a stone laid on the altar of his Knightly oath. He loved his new life as a Crusader, and he was no oath breaker.
The interrogation was relentless, a barrage of questions probing every facet of his existence. He told them Fulmenicus was his Class, steadfastly withholding further details of his build despite their insistence.
Curiously, his age sparked an outsized reaction among the women. He could understand if he stated it in Vefol years, but he used imperial years. He was clearly a man grown. And he was a Crusader, just like them. They couldn’t take that away from him.
When the ordeal finished, Vernost resumed drumming her gauntleted fingers against her thigh in a restless cadence, and Angar seized the lull.
“When’s the next invasion from the gateway?” he asked, his voice firm, cutting through the room’s lingering tension.
Vernost’s eyes narrowed as she turned to him. “Why?”
“Because I’m done being seen as under the influence of those I swore an oath to wage Holy War against. I’ll fight the next invasion myself.”
Laughter erupted from all the women, sharp and incredulous.
Vernost’s voice cut through it, and her voice was edged with mockery. “Then you’ll either ascend swiftly to martyrdom or just as swiftly turn traitor and raise arms against us. Either way, we’ll determine whose side you’re on for certain.”
Early stages are usually non-direct, happening in normal life, but could happen by succumbing to the dark whispers of low level Hellspawn
This is the initial stage where individuals are tempted with dark whispers, weak ones suggesting minor acts of disobedience or moral compromises. The influence is subtle but invasive.
Here, the individual starts to question their own morals and values, becoming more receptive to the dark suggestions. Small acts of corruption become more frequent, leading to a shift in personal ethics.
Mid-level power direct corruption starts here. At this point, the person is actively engaging in acts that align with the desires of Hell, though they might still resist in some areas of their life. Their loyalty begins to shift towards Hell, often without full awareness.
Bonded can have minor Hellsign
Higher-level power direct corruption starts here. The individual is now largely controlled by the forces of Hell, with most of their actions directly serving Hell’s agenda. They are deeply corrupted, their will significantly compromised, and they might start to gain dark powers or abilities.
Vessels have no Hellsign
Enslaved show Hellsign
The individual's prior identity (and autonomy for Thrall) is almost completely eroded, serving as a bridge between being bound by the dark forces and fully embodying them. Resistance is nearly impossible, and transformation into a fully corrupted entity is imminent.
Servants don’t have Hellsign
Thralls have Hellsign
Full corruption where the individual has become a complete servant of Hell, embodying its malevolent essence. All versions are now imbued with fell powers. Heralds and Emissaries often act as minions or leaders for Hell's temporal forces, fully dedicated to spreading corruption and chaos.
Avatars have Hellsign
Heralds can have Hellsign, but often don't
Emissaries have no Hellsign.
Maleficia and demoniacs use their real world definitions. For those unfamiliar I'll cover those terms and the one I made up for this setting named diabolics. This is also covered later in the story too.
Demoniacs are those possessed by an Underworld entity, often a demon, usually resulting in a warped and fiendish appearance once fully given over to the entity, though some rare instances prove this isn’t always true.
Diabolics are those influenced or guided by a being of the Underworld, usually through a pact, this entity rewarding the individual with fell power, often manifesting visibly, though these changes could be or are often hidden from through various means.
