Among Captain Vernost’s retinue were engineers, called technica, or, individually, technicus. There were four, but Angar only met Sthayi and a woman named Iman, a drone specialist and the captain’s operator, though Angar was unsure of her specific duties.

  Since Angar was shaped differently than other imperial citizens, Iman and Sthayi had cobbled together some heavy armor for him. Crude plates, not the power armor of the Crusaders or Sthayi himself, but stout enough to shrug off Vefol’s corrosive rain and fog.

  Just as she said, Spirit hadn’t shown herself again, but he remembered her saying he’d spend a Skill Point on Armor if he ever found some that fit him. He had earned more Skill Points since then, so felt safe purchasing the Armor and Heavy Armor Skills.

  SKILLS

  (7 Skill Point available)

  Armor, Heavy Armor

  Close Combat

  Close Weapons, Blunt Weapons, Hammers

  Meditation

  The difference in how the armor felt sitting on his frame before and after spending the two Skill Points was stark.

  Where the plates had once pressed awkwardly against his shoulders, they now settled like a second skin, his movements more fluid and less hindered. He couldn’t wait to test the Skills in battle.

  Sthayi had offered him a decent sized metal hammer. Angar was keeping to his maul for now, at least until he could check out a power hammer. His weapon was sanctified, had served him well against the Harmongulan, and was a gift from his father.

  He was ready to stand alone against the gateway’s tide. He’d prove his oath meant more than their misgivings, to let his actions silence the suspicions.

  The challenge beacon atop Mount Kimo still blazed strong, its light a lure that’d draw the blights south to it.

  The Crusaders had pulled their line back half a kilometer farther, giving themselves some extra space in case he failed to contain the Hellspawn. Or fell in battle.

  The two Crusaders armed with the longer, sleeker firearms he’d learned were called lancers, were keeping their weapons trained on him. If he turned to the Underworld’s side, they were ordered to fill him with holes.

  From passing through the line and hearing some comments, the Crusaders believed he was about to pull some elaborate ploy they were sure wouldn’t work, or that he was about to quickly die. No one thought he could face the gateway’s blights alone.

  Maybe he could, maybe he couldn’t, but he was done being seen as under the influence of those he swore an oath to wage Holy War against.

  Not far off stood the gateway, the third he’d seen, dwarfing the others in menace. Its arch was a maw of blackened stone, pulsing with a sickly crimson glow, its edges writhing like living flesh.

  Three hundred meters south of it, he waited, his new armored boots planted in the dirt, giving the blights room to spill forth and mass. The Crusaders watched on from over a kilometer away.

  A low, guttural hum shook the ground as the gateway flared, vomiting forth blights – black, amorphous horrors of unholy malice.

  They oozed out as sluggish blobs, glistening like tar, some hardening into jagged, crystalline spikes, their surfaces glinting with a cruel edge.

  They poured through in the dozens, a tide of corruption, their whispers clawing at Angar’s mind with promises of despair and power if he’d but surrender to their call.

  But he endured the Harmongulan’s far louder call and broken it, he survived the ancient evils on the other side of a gateway. These were gnats by comparison. He shrugged them off and tightened his grip on the maul.

  The blights surged closer, a seething mass of sludge and spikes, their numbers swelling into the hundreds.

  Angar waited until a dense cluster formed close enough, then said, “For you, my Lord, a tribute of battle and blood.”

  He roared a battle cry as Ground Current ignited, his body dissolving into a streak of lightning that burrowed through the crust. He erupted amid them, the Geomagnetic Phenomena Upgrade unleashing a storm.

  Bolts crackled down, slamming into every blight within three meters, forking to others beyond, then forking again. The air sang as electricity seared their forms, sludge smoking and spikes sizzling. None fell, but they shrieked out a chorus of rage and pain, then retaliated.

  Dozens flashed from ooze to crystal, launching black, razor-sharp spikes at him. Others, still distant, hurled their own volleys, a hail of obsidian death and acidic sludge. The one second of invulnerability given by Ground Current probably saved him as the barrage of spines clattering off his armor or skin, then the ground, the sludge ignored.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  The moment it faded, he grinned, his bloodlust rising, and spun into Tempest.

  His maul became a whirlwind of sanctified fury, thudding into soft blights with wet squelches, sending gobs of sludge splattering, and cracking hardened ones with bone-shattering force, chunks of black crystal flying like shrapnel.

  Thunderstorm erupted, lightning arcing from the chert head, stretching further each second, burning into every blight it touched, then forking, forking again, a web of wrath.

  Sludge smoked and spikes charred. The heavy armor he wore drank their attacks, spikes smashing against his plates, denting but not piercing, while Tempest’s mitigation dulled the sting of those that struck flesh. A barb nicked his cheek, another scraped his neck, giving superficial wounds, nothing to slow him.

  The blights were mindless, rushing into the maelstrom, drawn by bloodlust or stupidity. Six seconds blurred into a symphony of destruction, and when Tempest ceased, Angar stood in a circle of death, black sludge pooling on the ground, crystalline shards glittered, a rare few twitching survivors amid the carnage.

  The rest lay vanquished, the air thick with their acrid reek. He wiped sludge from his face with a clawed hand. His chest heaved, and pride swelled within it.

  The Crusaders’ distant silhouettes shifted, watching, judging.

  More blights were pouring from the gateway still, a relentless tide. A dense pack charged, their forms flashing from spiked to blobs, or vice versa, sending out hard obsidian or globs that burned like harsh acid.

  But he had dealt with acid burns his whole life, and with his high Body Attribute, this kind wasn’t all that hard to endure.

  Angar targeted the lead cluster, Glory Thunders surging through his maul. He swung downward, the shockwave exploding outward in a nine-meter cone.

  The ground quaked, air cracked, and dozens disintegrated, some sludges bursting, some of the spiked ones shattering into dust.

  The blast caught half the group, leaving stragglers reeling, but hundreds more swarmed, undeterred.

  Now came the risky part. Ground Current had six seconds left on cooldown, Tempest over twenty. No lightning, no invulnerability or 90% damage mitigation to save him. It would be just him, his maul, and his new armor, fighting without magic.

  A volley of black spikes and burning goop screamed through the air, dozens, then hundreds, a storm of death he dove and rolled away from the brunt of.

  Blights flashed closer, shifting, their crystalline forms lunging. He swung the maul, batting spikes aside, the sanctified chert cracking them mid-flight. A sludge oozed near, sending its tendrils lashing. He smashed it into a puddle, its ichor splashing his boots, the acid causing smoke to rise.

  A spike barrage followed, too thick to dodge. He raised his armored arm, the plates screeching as barbs embedded shallowly, one piercing his forearm’s gap, sending blood welling.

  Pain flared, but he roared through it, charging a hardened blight. The maul crashed into its chest, shattering it into a spray of obsidian shards that peppered his armor.

  Another lunged with its spikes thrusting. His sidestep was sluggish, a barb sinking into his thigh, deep enough to grate bone as goop burned exposed skin on his neck and face.

  He snarled, wrenching free, and pulped its head with a downward swing.

  The horde swelled, a black wave of sludge and crystal, their whispers rising to a maddening drone.

  Angar fought the old way, like his ancestors, brutal and relentless.

  A sludge-blight enveloped his leg, burning through gaps. He stomped it flat, then spun, his hammer arcing wide to shatter two spiked foes closing in.

  Shards rained. Three struck his chest plate, denting it, one grazed his neck, red blood mingling with black ichor. His armor held, but his wounds were piling up. Hundreds more blights spilled forth from the gateway.

  Ground Current ticked off cooldown. He seized the moment, dissolving into lightning, reappearing in a fresh swarm.

  Bolts erupted, searing the blights, forking through their ranks.

  Smoke rose, but they endured, flashing to spikes and firing. The invulnerability shielded him for a crucial second, sending spikes clattering off him, and he swung the maul, cracking crystalline forms, sending sludge splattering all around.

  A barb pierced his shoulder post-grace, sending pain lancing through his arm. He roared and smashed the offender into the ground, its remains left sizzling.

  The gateway pulsed, vomiting a new wave of larger blights, their sludge thicker, their spikes longer.

  Blood dripping from a dozen cuts, his armor was scarred and peppered, but holding. Tempest had about ten seconds left. He had been working his way closer to the gateway, so the bigger ones reached him quickly.

  A massive blight lunged, its tendrils whipping. He ducked, his hammer thudding into its core, splitting it in a gush of tar.

  Spikes followed, a dozen embedding in his back plate, one punctured deeply, biting into his calf. He stumbled, righted himself, and swung wide, crushing three more, their shards raining down. And on he fought.

  Angar grunted through the pain. Hundreds swarmed, a black sea, but Tempest ticked ready. He roared, spinning into the Ability, his maul a dimly glowing blur.

  Lightning lashed out, burning through sludge, shattering spikes, forking, forking again, a storm of zealous retribution.

  Blights smoked and fell, dozens at a time, their mindless rush feeding his slaughter. A spike grazed his helm, another pierced his arm. Damage mitigation dulled and reduced the injuries, but blood flowed freely from his many wounds.

  Six seconds ended, leaving a wider circle of death with hundreds dead, but hundreds more surged around him.

  A colossal blight emerged, twice the others’ size, its sludge rippling with crystalline veins. It hurled a volley of meter-long spikes.

  Angar dove, one breaking through his armor and puncturing his arm, tearing flesh. He rolled to his feet with Glory Thunders primed.

  He ran forward before a new volley could be released, smashing the maul into the giant’s flank on arrival. The shockwave erupted, rending it apart, sending sludge bursting all over, and spikes flying outward to impale lesser blights.

  The blast cleared a swath, but the horde closed in, relentless.

  These foes were rougher than he thought they’d be. He had hoped he’d do better, but it was as it was.

  He hadn’t been fighting for very long and was far more injured than he expected to be so soon into the battle.

  He was wounded, but far from done. And he had killed many hundreds and some sort of special type of blight.

  He’d kill many more still.

  And on he fought.

  Minutes later, his vision blurred as blood pooled beneath him, his breath ragged, his armor groaning under the strain. And the gateway flared brighter, more blights spilling forth.

  Martyrdom or glory, he’d give these Crusaders a show worthy of song, and his tithe of blood and battle would satiate his Lord’s lust for it, paving his way to Heaven.

  I love being a Crusader, he thought.

  Angar planted his feet, maul raised, chest heaving with pride, pain, and exhaustion. He roared the same war cry as his ancestors, and charging the next wave.