A vision swallowed Angar whole. A city sprawled beneath a blackened sky, its towers shattered, streets choked with rubble and ash. No gateway was in sight, only a wasteland of ruin, the air thick with the reek of brimstone and decay.
Spirit stood alone at its heart, her lithe frame dwarfed by the desolation, unyielding. Her armor gleamed, a mix of silver, shadow, and old scars, her twin blades, one jagged, one curved, gripped tight in her hands.
Three demons stood before her, and all three were towering monstrosities.
The first was a hulking behemoth, its flesh a molten tangle of scales and spikes with eyes glowing like forge fires.
The second was a serpentine horror slithering on a coil of barbed tails, its maw splitting into a dozen shrieking jaws.
The third floated in the air, a gaunt specter wreathed in smoke, its clawed hands weaving threads of dark energy that crackled through the air.
They circled her, their roars shaking the broken earth.
Spirit moved like a storm. She lunged at the brute, her blades flashing in arcs of light with a deadly grace. Her jagged sword slashed its flank, sending thick and acidic ichor spraying, while the curved blade parried a spike-fist swinging at her with metal screeching against bone.
She vanished in a flicker, reappearing behind the serpent, and dodged its snapping jaws. She spun low with her twin swords, a whirlwind of steel slicing its coil over and over, then drove both weapons deep, twisting until black blood gushed out, splattering all over.
The specter unleashed a bolt of shadow. She tumbled aside, the blast cratering the ground, then hurled her jagged blade skyward. It struck the demon’s chest, pinning it midair, and she leapt, reclaiming the hilt to wrench it free in a spray of steamy smoke.
The fight raged relentlessly, Spirit moving with the same impossible grace and agility he had seen when she had helped during the Harmongulan fight.
The brute charged, its claws raking the earth. She sidestepped, slashing its legs, toppling it into the rubble. The serpent lashed out, sending its tails whipping. She vaulted over, landing atop it, her blades plunging into its skull over and over until it stilled.
The specter wove a cage of dark threads. She disappeared again, shimmering into view at its flank, and sliced through smoke as it blinked away. She rolled, closing the gap, jumping high in the air, and beheaded it with a single savage stroke.
Her breath heaved, her scarred armor had some more dents, but the demons lay dead at her feet, their forms dissolving into ash or smoke.
Then the air thickened as a shadow blotted the sky.
The shadow grew, sucking in all light and sound, and the earth rumbled and quaked.
Mammon emerged, Angar thought from the ground, but he couldn’t be certain.
The Demon Lord’s vast bulk dwarfed the shattered city, his golden scales glinting with cruel opulence. Giant horns curled from his brow, his eyes burned red, and his clawed hands flexed with power.
Spirit sighed. She squared her stance, blades raised, resolved, her face set in grim defiance.
He laughed a low, rumbling sneer that shook the earth along with the surrounding ruins as he released a thick beam of power from his palm at her.
Spirit dove and rolled, barely avoiding the beam. It continued, relentless, tracking her. She took off sprinting, the beam chasing, tearing deep gouges in the earth where it touched, sending up a cloud of thick dust.
Through the cloud, Angar could only see a blurry silhouette dancing around, dodging, and flipping, the beam getting close, but never hitting its target.
Long minutes later, frustration began to emanate from the demon, and he grunted in annoyance, ending the power.
A shadow was seen in the cloud of dust, growing larger, and Spirit emerged, unharmed, her face set in the same grim defiance.
The Demon Lord laughed again, waving his hand, sending out a wave of shadow to burn all in its wake.
She walked through this too, though she flinched, and grimaced, as if this energy burned her.
Faster than Angar would think a being this gargantuan could move, Mammon swung a massive fist.
She darted aside, her blades biting into his knuckles, sending sparks flying. He swatted again. She ducked, slashing his wrist, drawing a trickle of sickly, almost molten blood.
Mammon seemed amused. He stomped, the shockwave hurling her back. She rolled to her feet, undeterred, and charged, leaping impossibly high to stab at his thigh. Her blades sank deep, but he barely flinched, his laughter growing darker. A hand descended, and she flashed away.
She fought on relentlessly, the fight lasting for hours. She scaled his leg, hacking at sinew, dodging his massive swipes, and spun her blades around in a mad dervish dance, sending sickly blood splattering.
A blade lodged in the Demon Lord’s knee. She yanked it free, slashing higher, aiming for tendons.
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Mammon snarled, snatching at her, and she flipped away, landing in a crouch, then sprang again, driving both swords into his calf. He bellowed, more annoyed than wounded, and swung a hand faster than before.
This time, as she flipped, he snatched her from the air. His golden fist closed around her, trapping her like a bird in a cage.
She thrashed, her blades scraping uselessly against his scales. She flickered, as if trying to use a power, and it kept failing her, her strength waning in his grip.
Mammon lifted her to his face, his red eyes gleaming with triumph, and a laugh erupted, evil, deep, and final, echoing through the ruined city.
The terrible laugh faded into the hum of the Starwell’s walls as Angar jolted back to his room.
He was too stunned to do anything but wait for the vision’s grip to release his mind.
When he could, he wanted to praise her might, and state how he now understood why everyone worshiped her as they did, but he had a feeling she wouldn’t like that, nor would she want him to ask about what came after her capture.
Instead, he took his time mulling over the vision he was granted, the details of it.
After some minutes had passed, he spoke. “You still plan on using me up until I die horrifically?”
Spirit met his gaze, shame flickering in her eyes. She nodded.
“Good.” Angar’s voice steadied as relief flooded him. “The Lord desires tithes of battle and blood, and my desires align with His own. I hope my death grants your wish, a peaceful Holy Empire and an end to war, but not a moment before then.”
Spirit smiled faintly. “You truly are incorrigible. I’m starting to believe you have no idea what the word ‘horrific’ means. And we really need to work on your understanding of Catechisms. Stick with me and you’ll have your battles.”
She shook her head. “I truly thought your ordeal after the Homunculus would’ve at least dulled your spirit, but it seems I was wrong.”
Angar grunted. “You were right about that. As you said, that broke me. Many times, and often. It felt like endless centuries, and I regret every second of it. But you once told me it’s okay to fear. That bravery is overcoming fear. To let the fear come, but never let it stop me. And when Mi Alcyone tries to lead me away from certain darknesses, maybe I should listen a little more.”
Spirit laughed, and he loved hearing it. She added, “The Holy and the broken, Hallelujah.”
Angar shifted his feet in the faint hum of the Starwell in the silence that followed. He scratched a forearm with a clawed finger, hesitating before speaking. “Did the information we got from the gateway help? Seeing what’s through them?”
Spirit leaned against the rusted wall, her translucent form unbothered by its grime. “Me? No. That was for Theosis. I’m sure he’s piecing info together. He’s got a knack for that sort of thing. Nothing solid yet I’ve seen. We certainly learned that exploding something on the other side of a portal is a terrible idea that backfires spectacularly. So many have died. And it’s all my fault.”
Her sad gaze flicked to his hands, lingering on the monstrous claws. “I wish we could help with those too. Or knew more about what happened to them.”
Angar flexed his fingers. He wouldn’t say it aloud, but the vision she’d granted him moments ago felt altered. Gaps and skips where they shouldn’t have been. Movements blurred and effects veiled.
He was certain his own Class, Divine Storm, reflected some of the powers she had in life. That thought and what it could mean ignited excitement in his chest, though he kept his face still.
He asked, “Will you train me to fight as you did? All the flipping and hopping around so gracefully?”
Spirit arched a brow. “Sorry, but you’d need twig legs and a scrawny, stretched-out, frail-looking frame for that.”
Angar’s face began to burn. He knew she could read his thoughts, or some of them, but she hadn’t in so long, he thought she had stopped.
And since not thinking was impossible, he long ago resigned himself to not caring about it. But it seemed it had come back to bite him. “I…those thoughts…you have fine legs. Very durable and they hold you up well enough.”
She burst into laughter, the sound bright and unrestrained, bouncing off the cramped cell’s walls.
When she finally settled, she wiped a tear and grinned. “I’m teasing, Angar. Thanks for the laugh. I hardly laughed in life, but I never really felt anxiety or fear either, and I feel both of those now.
“Your style’s not mine. We’re built differently. We’ll lean into what works for you, not what worked for me. But yes, I’ll teach you. Ascension, prayer, meditation, catechesis, combat, all of it. Since we’ve got time to burn on this ship, we’ll start the lessons now.”
She straightened, her form shimmering with purpose, and gestured to the cracked data slate on the bench. “First, let’s talk about that. You’ve been digging into it. What’ve you found?”
Angar sighed. He was hoping to learn something combat or ascension related, but he picked it up, the screen flickering under his touch. “Old logs, things I think are star charts, some scriptures. Nothing all that interesting or useful yet, but I’m still learning how to work it and what else I can get from it.”
“Good.” She stepped closer, peering over his shoulder. “Knowledge can be a weapon too.”
As Angar prayed they’d move on to a better lesson, she gave him a look that was half amused, half exasperated. “Okay. Set it down. I get it. We’ll hold off on this and move on to something you’ll more enjoy. Let’s start with your stance. Let me see it.”
He grabbed his maul, got into his usual stance the best he could, the cramped room barely giving him space. He squared his shoulders, planting his feet firm, and held his weapon as he should.
Spirit circled him, her form phasing through the bench as she studied his posture. “Solid’s good. Your strength’s like a hammer. But you’re a mountain, not a storm. Too rooted. Faster enemies are an issue.”
She tapped his elbow with a ghostly finger. “Loosen here. Shift your weight. Left foot forward, right back. You want to be more like water and less like rock.”
He adjusted, the movement awkward at first, ingrained habit resisting the shift as the grated floor below the rug creaked under him. “This doesn’t feel right.”
“It shouldn’t,” she said, stepping back. “Yet. Patience. Patience can be a weapon too. It can win fights as much as fury. Imagine a reaver darting at your side. What do you do?”
Angar’s eyes narrowed, picturing it. He pivoted, the maul arcing low where the monster’s legs would be.
She had him repeat the motion over and over, making little adjustments, for hours on end. Then she had him equip what armor he had before moving on to other forms, strikes, blocks, and working on distance, timing, grip, and awareness.
“Better.” She nodded, a faint smile gracing her lips. “Now do it faster. Smooth it out. You’ve got power. Now make it flow.”
He repeated the motion, faster this time, the air whistling past the little space he had to maneuver and swing his maul. The room’s confines forced him to adapt, his bulk weaving tighter patterns.
Days later, he noticed a shift from brute force to something sharper, more deliberate.
Spirit clapped once, the sound echoing through the cramped space. “There it is. That’s your new foundation. Not the same as your people’s or the System taught, but this can be built on the same. And when you ascend, the System will adapt to this style when you next spend Skill Points.”
Angar exhaled, loving this. “And the flipping and hopping around?”
She smirked. “Maybe one day. We still need to get you some twig-leg implants first. But now we work on your meditation technique, then your first lesson on how to eventually advance your core and ascend to the second Tier.”
