Angar strode toward the Zealous Few’s section of the motor pool, each step forced through the malaise that ate at his being.

  The loss of Spirit clung to his soul like the dark taint of corruption. He felt like he’d been hollowed, made unworthy of the fire that had once burned within him.

  He’d heard Abyssalhome was in its terminal investment stage, that the Crusade just had to hold out for some chaotic weeks, and the world would be reduced to an Infernalis.

  But even the promise of carnage yet to come couldn’t lift the shadow from his heart.

  In these days at Fort Acre, he’d done the only thing he could for the imprisoned Spirit.

  Saint Thryna, who remained with Grand Marshal Hulmnir to Crusade, had visited him while he’d been strapped in the medicum machine, its sterile hums and cold probes knitting his flesh.

  She had relayed Saint Salvador’s displeasure for his reckless charge to save Harbinger Company, and doing so without asking permission or saying so much as a word, which rankled the old Seraph.

  But Angar had no care about that, and begged Thryna to get a comcap to Hidetada.

  She agreed, and had promised to deliver it to the Shattered Aegis’ camp, where they’d send it to their chapter hall, and in turn, relay it directly to a connecting station on the Zephuros.

  A small spark of hope in the darkness.

  The message had been cryptic, a necessity born of caution -

  Saint, when we first spoke, you guessed right about the aid and the fallout, though she’s severely diminished. Now, she’s a captive of her newly discovered evil counterpart at an unknown location, only stating she’s beyond reach or rescue. I’ll do anything if you can find and save her. Truly, anything. Please.

  Angar futilely wished he could use the Zealous Few’s token to rouse the chapter’s might, to have them scour the galaxy for Spirit.

  He wished he could tell others that the echo of Mi Alcyone languished as a ghost trapped in a machine, ensnared by her evil opposite from the Holy Joining, the spectral remnant of the Neural Nexus.

  They’d question how he knew all this, and what could he say? That the echo of the blessed Mother had told him?

  With all the powerful Seraph in the Holy Empire, why the revered and blessed Mother, deigned to visit a largely impotent first-Realmer like him?

  Because he’d detonated an ancient zero-point-energy container in a volcano, shattering a mountain range in a cataclysmic eruption, one that should’ve killed him, only for her Divine hand to shield his life, and set him upon the Glorious Path.

  That she had guided him, becoming his mentor until their paths diverged when he spurned her fanatical, foolish creed of forgiveness and peace toward those his duty demanded he slaughter.

  But, even after their schism, she had sometimes returned with short visitations to badger him, foolishly believing he, a devout paragon of righteous wrath and Holy virtue, was somehow lost to God’s true light, claiming he should let the good man inside of him free.

  Free to what? Replace the far superior man he’d forged himself into? Become lesser? Going from superior to merely good?

  And that he longed for her visits more than anything despite that, basking in her light, reveling in her grace.

  That he knew she loved him down to her bone, those visits like a sanctuary, a tangible vow that he was seen, her presence a fortress against indifference and neglect.

  To confess this would label him a lunatic, his sanity branded a casualty of darkness, his words dismissed as the ravings of a mind corrupted by the madness of unholy whispers.

  Only Hidetada would understand. Only he might unravel the enigma of her prison's location. Only he might find a way to free her from the spectral clutches of the Neural Nexus.

  With a grunt, Angar forced his mind to the present, donning his helm, clenching his fists as he approached the motor pool.

  Spirit wasn’t the sole reason driving his actions.

  He had sworn sacred oaths, vows etched in blood and eternity, duty to God, duty to his Empire, his immortal soul. He would earn his bliss in Heaven alongside his venerated ancestors.

  And even if Hidetada couldn’t free her, Angar would give his all to honor her vision, her dream of Hell’s defeat, the Holy Empire purged of enemies and Heretics alike, reigning peacefully. At least, for a time.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  His Armiger armor, restored to a pristine sheen by the chapter’s artificers, shone under Abyssalhome’s festering sky, its plates repaired, now as strong as when he first set foot on this cursed world.

  This was no patch-job of camp-followers at the fort’s foundry either.

  This was the work of the Zealous Few’s masters, highlighting their reverence and great aptitude for the craft.

  His tally of Glory Points had grown by 4 for felling over a thousand brutes, and 6 more for slaying one, ten, and a hundred soulreapers.

  The shared achievement for a thousand soulreaper kills had granted only 2 points instead of 4.

  He would’ve wagered anything he killed more than a thousand himself. It felt like he killed much more.

  Most of his points came from the Corona, his name for the new Electrokinetic manifestation, a radiant circle of electrical wrath that had erupted forth from him in a furious storm.

  For that galaxy-first feat, he'd gained 15 points tripled to 45.

  Though it was a mostly useless manifestation. He'd tested it once outside the fort's gates. It completely devoured all his Resilience, so it'd always remain a last ditch effort, taking as many enemies down with him as possible.

  Divine Theosis also praised his charge to the downed ship’s aid, a nice change from its constant censure, its criticisms of his many great deeds.

  Even with the praise, it still left the experience penalty in place. Angar wasn’t even halfway to level 76 yet.

  Fifty-seven points all added up, lifting his Glory Point total from 179 to 236.

  Sixty-four more, and he’d claim another Adroitness increase.

  But it all felt hollow.

  Points couldn’t buy back Spirit’s light and love.

  He shook his head and chastised himself. He would not succumb to despair.

  He took out the item he'd chosen from High Marshal Adenauer’s list, holding it in his gauntlet, turning it over.

  The list contained mightier rewards, but none that’d help him more than this. Or not immediately so, not as this would.

  Sacred Aegis, Hardware Armor Mod – Increases armor’s Toughness by 6 points and consumes one Charge every 12 hours providing superior shielding against physical and radiant attacks (non-physical-Ability, energetic, and thermic). Cannot be slotted alongside any mods increasing the same Stat or providing the same shielding effects.

  He turned the Sacred Aegis over in his gauntlet, its promise of increased Toughness and superior shielding against both physical and radiant assaults a welcomed boon, allowing him to consolidate three of his current mods into one slot, providing an enhanced benefit too.

  A truly powerful and fantastic item.

  But, for all its consolidated might, the mod’s efficiency in Charge expenditure was useless.

  He and Spirit's predictions had been mistaken, their early worries completely unwarranted.

  With Glory Thunders igniting his hammer, Energy Points and Charges flowed like a river, nearly inexhaustible, at least when facing large swarms of enemies.

  He could unleash his wrath, imbuing his weapon with graviton pulses until his body broke, and still the well wouldn’t run dry.

  The Ability Upgrades he’d squandered on Zeal, reducing Energy Point costs, were mostly wasted.

  He’d love a chance to rebuild himself, to scour away the inefficiencies Spirit had chosen or he assumed were necessary in those early days.

  Her guidance, wise then, was now a chain, binding him to a suboptimal path.

  He would never squander Glory Points on a Reset, as that’d compound the issue of waste, but if Hidetada were to grant such an item, Angar would seize it, reshaping his build, each point a precise strike against the unholy.

  Spirit’s choices, when she had made all his selections for the first Tier, had burned through a significant tally of Glory Points on Class and Ability Options and Upgrades, necessary to survive then, but he viewed them as waste now.

  By level 99, he would carry two unused Ability Options, a gross waste.

  He prayed Hidetada was able to help Spirit. The thought of her, the blessed Mother bloodied, tortured, trapped by Neural Nexus’ profane claws, threatened to drown him in rage.

  Mundane concerns of wasted points and extra Options paled against the loss of her light.

  He forced his mind to steel, to reject the effete weakness that ate at his resolve and duty.

  This life’s purpose was forged in suffering and war, a crucible for the faithful. Whether Spirit’s echo endured or perished, he’d meet the true Mi Alcyone in Heaven’s radiant halls.

  Until that day, he would endure, his maul singing hymns of slaughter, his spirit unyielding, his soul incorruptible.

  With another grunt, he turned to immediate concerns, the Sacred Aegis still unslotted, its promise of replacing the Armatura Solida, Scutum Kinetic, and Scutum Radians mods delayed until Salvador next returned to Fort Acre.

  High Marshal Adenauer’s command had been clear, directing him to the shuttle awaiting to transport him to his sector and companions. There was no time to install the mod or procure others to fill the empty slots.

  If the award ceremony had come days earlier, he could’ve had plenty of time to reconfigure his armor and purchase worthy mods, swapping the new ones in and the old ones out.

  The past four days, after release from the Aedificium Medicum, had been mainly waiting.

  First, waiting for his armor to be repaired, then waiting for the ceremony.

  The only actions of significance he’d accomplished during that time was attending Sunday Mass and giving confession.

  He was now certain, as the scry-captures of the Pontifex Maximus’ allocutions during Mass only ever spoke of victory, that the Holy Empire hid its defeats, keeping them from its populace.

  He assumed only those at the higher echelons, or the few survivors of the ordeals, knew the truth.

  Still, rumors abounded, if not of defeats, of the next galactic war spelling the Holy Empire’s doom.

  He'd do what he could, though his goal of making Spirit's dream come true seemed impossible. He was just a first-Realmer. In reality, what could he do?

  He’d also trained, of course, in those four days, honing his psychic might, his hammer swinging through rote forms, but he’d also wallowed, depressed like a lesser man, a weakling.

  He’d made some attempts to reach the Mindscape, but hadn’t been placed well enough in the hub-plane to make the portal.

  And in truth, he had little certainty returning would benefit him. That realm was pure madness. How could spending time there, among Grays no less, provide a benefit?

  And the Oracle's useless gibberish still angered him.

  The motor pool opened before him, past a sprawl of turrets and munitions under camo netting, the air changing, filling with the stench of fuel and oil.

  It was mostly empty, so the one idling shuttle stood out, with its battered hull and thrusters low.

  Angar’s gaze locked onto it, his heart stirring with purpose.

  The righteous slaughter of unending Hellspawn, the familiar call of blood and war, would clear his head, and set it right.

  He hoped.