Captain Vernost stood at the pickup point, sulfuric wind clawing at her cloak, eager to be rid of her strange new brother.

  Free Agents were coming to claim him. Free Agents weren’t tasked with delivering cargo from one world to another. The System didn’t work that way.

  And they were tasked too soon. Far too soon.

  They had to be tasked with snatching her new brother from Sulfuron 9’s ashen grip long days before her boots had even touched this cursed rock. That wasn’t how it worked.

  It made no damn sense. None of it did. Nor did the fact that both halves of Dragon Company had been dispatched for what was billed as a Minor invasion.

  An error, but one that saved many of her sisters’ hides.

  She’d take the win, but the strangeness and wrongness gnawed at her. This wasn’t how things worked. Nothing about Sulfuron 9 aligned. Nothing added up. Reason twisted here, a knot of wrongness she couldn’t untangle.

  At least this boy was one major source of strangeness she could offload.

  Whatever his future held in store, he wouldn’t have an easy go of it. Not with those black, clawed hands shrieking Hellsign, yet somehow wasn’t.

  No one survived touching a gateway. No one. That is, no one besides the blessed Mother herself. And detonating something on the other side? Impossible. It never happened before, and much stronger Crusaders had tried for long millennia.

  Yet here he stood, stranger than anything else on this accursed rock.

  He had to be level 33, stuck there, clueless about ascending to Tier 2, but not once mentioning or asking about it.

  Grand Marshal Thakur had sent a comcap telling her to nudge Angar about ascension. It didn’t feel natural, the way he said it. It didn’t seem impromptu or organic. It was too stiff, like he was reciting words he was told to say.

  How Vernost figured it was that some high-up bastard with a lot of clout wanted the strange boy hamstrung. If he ascended to Tier 2, the Grim Ordeals would be off the table.

  As things stood, the boy would already have to wade through enough muck to be allowed the Grim Ordeals. She wouldn’t have a hand in handicapping a brother, one that was just a kid.

  “The Starwell approaches,” Iman’s voice rasped in her ear.

  “Class?” Vernost barked in the operator channel.

  “Corvette.”

  She turned to the boy, still finding his broad frame impressive, his eyes burning with a fire she hoped her own still held. “Good luck, and Godspeed, brother. May the Three bathe you in light as you walk this Glorious Path.”

  “Thank you, Madame Captain,” he replied, his voice clear despite the bandages wrapping all his terrible wounds. “To you as well. May your battles be many and your death splendid, drenched in the blood of enemies.”

  She grinned, a rare crack in her iron mask. She really liked this kid. “Those outside our Knightly order call us ‘Sir’ or ‘Madame.’ Just call me ‘Captain.’ Or ‘Knight-Exemplar.’ Brother or sister works for your peers or those of lower rank.”

  He dipped his head respectfully. “Understood. Thank you for everything, Captain.”

  “You’re welcome, brother.”

  She studied him, still wrestling with his age. Fourteen, yet a Holy Knight, stronger than any Novice had a right to be. He had faced the third gateway alone, armed with little more than his sanctified stick and crude plates, no proper Crusader gear.

  True, he’d have died if she hadn’t hauled him out, her company charging in. But he’d done it. He stood like some Seraph from the old hymns, defiant against a tide that should’ve swallowed him whole in seconds. She’d seen it with her own eyes, and still hardly believed it.

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  The sight set her blood ablaze, heart thundering with zeal, mind drunk on glory. One man, a boy still, holding the line against Hell all alone.

  He had been torn up and barely standing, with gashes and burns from the blights marking his flesh all over, but it was still the stuff of legend.

  With the reimbursement, Solace had gotten bogged down and nowhere, so Iman, her operator, had got involved.

  Iman was neck-deep in bureaucratic muck, fighting to recoup the Vitaelux Apexium’s cost, and it wasn’t looking great.

  Until reimbursement came through, Vernost wasn’t dunking this boy again, no matter how his battle sent her chest thumping with righteous zeal.

  She liked this kid a ton, but resources weren’t infinite, and the Vitaelux Apexium was for her company.

  But since she liked the boy so much, she added to her farewell, “Your posture’s been corrected, so hold your head up high, always. Hold your chest out proudly, always. Don’t let them knock you down. Don’t let them rob you of this spark that burns so righteously within you. Stand defiant, shrouded in zealous faith, always.”

  He met her gaze, and the steel and fire in his eyes told her he didn’t need the pep talk. “Understood, Captain. Thank you for letting me fight the blights.”

  Vernost sighed, guilt chewing her insides. She wanted to hold back these spoils until the Holy Empire paid up, but she couldn’t play games with this kid. This boy had felled a Harmongulan, an impossibility dwarfing even his stand against the blights. He’d earned this with blood and valor.

  “Here,” she said, removing a bag from her shoulder and handing it off. “These items were collected from the Homunculus. That’s the Hellspawn that becomes and controls the Harmongulan. Its strange rifle, clothing, what’s left of its venom, and a ring. When powerful enemies are defeated, the Divine System generates an item or two, and the ring is this reward.

  “The rifle and clothes aren’t worth much. The venom will fetch you a ton. The ring increases the duration of channeled Abilities by 20%. It’s extremely valuable and rare. If I’ve got your spin pegged, that six-second whirl of yours jumps to 7.2 with it equipped. Or will.”

  He took the bag, peering inside. “Understood and thank you, Captain.”

  “Equip the ring now,” she said, her tone sharpening, “so it doesn’t end up missing. You can’t trust Free Agents. Stay alert and aware around them at all times.”

  “Understood, Captain. Thank you again.” Angar fished out the ring and removed a gauntlet. He slid it onto a clawed finger with a faint clink, its dull metal catching the sulfurous light.

  She nodded, wishing he did understand. He knew too little. He wouldn’t have an easy go of it. But he was respectful, and that’d help him. Somewhat. Besides, he was mad with bloodlust and suicidal, so she doubted he’d live long. His path would be glorious, but short.

  He was in for a rude awakening if he thought any of the major chapters fighting Hellspawn would take him. She’d bet none would look at him with that weird Fulmenicus Class of his.

  The Starwell’s hum swelled, a low growl cutting through the sulfuric haze. Vernost squinted as a dark speck bloated against the ashen sky, her helm’s optics barely piercing the murk.

  The corvette touched down twenty-five meters or so ahead, its rear ramp slamming into the brittle dirt with a metallic screech, kicking up a cloud of corrosive dust.

  She looked at Sir Angar’s hands, checking that his gauntlets covered all the corrupt flesh.

  They trudged toward the ship in silence, Angar’s bandaged bulk limping beside her. The ramp’s whine faded, and a Free Agent stomped out, clad in an expensive Vindicator suit – medium armor, sleek and predatory. Matte green plates, scratched and streaked with grime, flexed over a half-ton frame, hydraulic joints hissing.

  The helm’s violet optic slit glowed, masking the face, but a mechanical feminine voice crackled from it as she waved an expensive Doombringer lancer around. “God and Empire to you! Wow, this world sucks! Sucks as bad as a Hellworld, or how I picture one, seeing as I’ve never been.”

  Vernost’s lip curled. She hated this Laywoman on sight, reinforcing every rotten stereotype about Free Agents. There was no reason for her to be armed and armored for a simple pickup. Only Crusaders stayed battle-ready always.

  A second figure leapt down, a hulking man, bigger than most Laymen. He screamed Grim Ordeals survivor, but his position marked him a washout. Failed the Divine Crucible or rejected Knighthood. Either way, a coward in her book.

  At least he wasn’t armed and armored like his annoying companion, wearing a civilian power-armor harness, she guessed for an Aegis suit, with a sidearm holstered at his thigh.

  Vernost hated that this Free Agency mixed genders. It was grossly inappropriate. Unless they were married. She’d bet they weren’t, and that the crew constantly succumbed to lustful fornication and many other unholy sins.

  The man ignored Angar, his eyes flicking to Vernost’s rank. As he went to speak, a voice shouted from the ship, “Told you it’d suck! Its gravity alone sucks. Let me see what it looks like on the ground.”

  A third figure hopped out. This man smaller, wiry, dressed in fancy clothes, a grin splitting his stupid-looking face ear-to-ear as he gawked at the view.

  As the big man opened his mouth again to speak to Vernost, blood, brain, and jagged bone slopped all over his face and harness, drenching not just him, but splattering over everything and everyone.

  It took a moment for Vernost to process what happened. Angar’s maul had crunched through the shorter man’s grinning skull, leaving a pulped stump dangling above his neck, twitching in the sulfurous air.