Angar’s body dissolved into a cascade of charged particles, plunging into the cursed earth.

  The world blurred as he tore through the ground, untouchable, inviolate, immune to their unholy assaults.

  He traveled the Ability’s maximum distance, reforming closer to the Templar line, within the horde they held at bay.

  He erupted from the ground in a storm of wrath, lightning ripping down from the bruised sky, a cascade of white-yellow bolts that struck all around his exit point, searing into the spawn of Hell, blistering their foul hides.

  The lightning forked, chaining to new targets, cascading outward in a storm of righteous destruction that lit the battlefield, stunning the few foes it failed to kill outright, leaving the ground littered with smoldering corpses, their skeletal remains twitching as they dissolved.

  Angar’s maul swung as he reformed, infused with Energy, its graviton pulse exploding as it pulped a skeletal face.

  The Templar line was a little more than a hundred meters past the Hellspawn, but these vile creatures were relentless, already swarming to fill the void.

  And rage still boiled in his veins, despair in his heart.

  Spirit’s sacrifice, her final gift of this chance, seared his soul, consuming him, driving his fury.

  The blessed Mother.

  He wouldn’t waste the chance she’d granted, but he couldn’t contain his rage either.

  He bellowed out a mad roar that shook the air, and as the monsters swarmed, uncontrolled Electrokinesis unleashed from within him.

  Blue-yellow arcs erupted from his body, thrashing like tentacles in a radiant corona of Holy wrath.

  Psionic electricity lashed out, striking every living thing within reach, forking to new targets, stretching out further and further in a wide circle.

  As the arcs danced across the horde, Angar screamed until his throat was raw, pouring every ounce of his will and rage into the assault.

  Hellspawn fell in droves, their shrouded forms collapsing into ashy ichor, the ground scorched black beneath them.

  The manifestation's effort took everything, and exhaustion crashed over him like a tidal wave.

  As his roar faded, the electricity petered out, leaving the stench of burnt decay.

  His vision blurred, his body quaked, sweat and blood mingling on his clammy skin and quivering lips.

  Angar wobbled, nearly collapsing, but he refused to. He steeled his spine, his grip tightening on the hammer’s haft as warnings flared in his HUD.

  On shaky legs, he looked around at the devastation he had wrought, the wide perimeter of cleared earth, a mass of scythes and shrouds all that remained.

  He began walking forward with unsteady steps, toward the Templars fighting under the banner of the Zealous Few, refusing to fall, his tripod-claws crunching through the debris of the fallen, his corroded armor grinding with every step.

  The Templars’ fire roared on either side, their blasts tearing into the re-swarming horde as he staggered forward, his Resilience shredded to tatters, the whispers surging, drowning his mind.

  His maul slipped from his grasp as the whispers embedded deep in his psyche, and Hellspawn closed in.

  He roared again, rebuking the darkness.

  It would never take him. His soul was incorruptible.

  But he couldn't stop his vision from dimming, or the world from tilting, blurring into a fog.

  He collapsed, the cursed earth rising to meet him, his consciousness slipping away.

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  Six days later.

  In the shadows of Fort Acre’s camp for the Zealous Few, Vas stood rigid at attention.

  He was one of thirteen battered survivors of Harbinger Company, though only eleven stood in this formation, all in newly repaired armor.

  Marko, blessedly exorcised of dark taint in time, stood to his left, his suit shining under the roiling mess of Abyssalhome’s sky.

  The company was a husk now, its name soon to be struck from the rolls, its remnants destined for reassignment as slots opened in other bloodied units. Two had already been transferred.

  Discharged from the medicae two days prior, Vas was patched and whole. Or whole enough for service.

  They had waited for the last of their brothers to be medically cleared today, then gathering for this solemn moment.

  Before them, beneath the towering hulk of the Maiestas Divina Eius, his heavy-class cruiser, High Marshal Adenauer stood tall, the highest-ranking member of the Zealous Few on-planet.

  To the marshal’s front stood a young Knight, Angar Mecia, the brutal slab of consecrated steel he used as a hammer locked to his back, his helm grasped in his left gauntlet, revealing a face far too young for the deeds his body accomplished, with a jaw broad as a fortress' gate.

  Just third Tier.

  His Armiger armor, freshly repaired by the chapter’s foundries, strained against a muscular bulk that went far beyond the empowerment of Holy Theosis, giving it the girth of Cataphract plate.

  Just sixteen too. Madness incarnate.

  If the scuttlebutt were believed, Angar wasn’t just the sole Knight of his chapter, the Smallest Spark, here on Abyssalhome, but its only Knight period. A chapter of one.

  Its grand marshal, Saint Hidetada, a crippled and retired Crusader, was a well-known figure, though for being a wealthy tycoon.

  Some rumors claimed Saint Hidetada was the legendary Saint Ash, the Star of Fate, once grand marshal of the Black Aegis. That is, before its shattering at the hands of Mara.

  High Marshal Adenauer raised a gauntleted hand, gripping a chapter token, a coin of polished metal inscribed with Mother Mi’s burning heart.

  His deep voice rolled across the small assembly, cutting through the tortured winds. “Knights of the Zealous Few, brothers, we stand upon a world that writhes with unholy evil, but amid this darkness, one among us clung to his duty, rebuking that evil, becoming a beacon of Holy fire and wrath by preserving the bloodied remnant of Harbinger Company.”

  His gaze fell upon Angar, warm with pride. “Sir Angar Mecia, Knight of the Smallest Spark, you faced the profane tide alone, wielding your hammer against a swarm of soulreapers hungry for the souls of the faithful. Taking on great risk, your boundless valor saved these men standing before you, a sacrifice that echoes the martyrdom of the blessed Mother herself.

  “For this, the Zealous Few bestow upon you our chapter token, a mark of honor that binds you to our brotherhood. Present this, and any of our number shall grant you a favor, so long as it honors our vows and shuns the taint of Heresy.”

  Adenauer stepped forward, his cybernetic legs grinding into the cursed and ashy earth, extending a hand, presenting the coin.

  Angar bowed, then reached out with a gauntlet, his fingers closing around the disc with a reverence that this solemn award deserved.

  The survivors of Harbinger Company, in approval, as one, slammed their right boots into the ground, three resounding stomps that echoed like cannon fire as Angar slipped the token into a compartment on his belt.

  High Marshal Adenauer’s voice rose again. “But your deeds demand more than a single honor, Sir Angar. The Zealous Few offer you a choice, a second boon to mark your great valor.”

  From within his cloak, he produced a slate. “Choose one item from this list, our drops on this world.”

  The too-young Knight took the slate in hand, his gauntleted fingers dwarfing the device, studying the list.

  Award ceremonies like this would usually be grander affairs, but Abyssalhome was in its terminal investment phase, a dying beast lashing out with all it had, spewing acts of aggressive defense, rallying with desperate fury as it teetered on the brink of reduction from Hellworld to Infernalis.

  The Critical-rated portal that had birthed the soulreapers had caught the augurs blind in testament to the planet’s chaotic final throes.

  And in the weeks to come, it’d grow more dangerous and unpredictable in its death rattle.

  Angar pored over the screen, weighing the cost of each choice. At last, he tapped a selection with a thumb, his decision made, returning the slate to High Marshal Adenauer with a nod.

  “Present arms!” Second Lieutenant Regalis barked out crisply. Vas snapped the weapon from his shoulder to a two-handed grip, repositioned his right hand, then lowered the blaster until his left forearm was horizontal, the right arm fully extended.

  The line of Knights, the remnants of Harbinger Company, honored the boy who had stood against a horde to save them.

  Angar’s posture went rigid in the position of attention, then swiveled sharply to face the formation, returning the salute crisply with his right hand banging his chest.

  “At ease!” Regalis commanded, then, “Fall out!” and the line broke with a cry of, "We few!"

  Vas and the rest went forward, each man driven to clasp the hand of the Knight who had snatched them from doom.

  He'd heard some wild, impossible tales of Angar’s deeds. A Harmongulan and Abyssal Tyrant felled in the first Tier. A Nofelim Psychic matched blow for blow in the second Tier. A named Wraithlord slain on this very world.

  Lies, surely, each one. Or exaggerations warped to impossible grandeur.

  But Vas had seen the boy wade through soulreapers, his hammer a storm of righteous fury, standing alone against the tide, killing them by the score. He’d never believe that if he hadn’t witnessed it with his own eyes.

  When his turn came, he clasped Angar’s gauntlet, looking up to meet two cybernetic eyes.

  Even through the Infernus Oculus, that eye burned with an intense fervor that made Vas’ soul tremble. It was like staring too deeply into the abyss itself, and some ancient and unblinking evil stared back.

  Vas shuddered before steeling himself. “God and Empire, brother,” he stated, infusing all the gratitude he could into his voice.

  Angar nodded curtly, rumbling out, “God and Empire, brother.”

  As the remnants of Harbinger dispersed, Vas lingered, his gaze fixed on Angar’s retreating form as the crimson sky flashed with unnatural light.

  He had to learn more about this madman.

  This avenging angel, this blood-soaked savior.