Helmless, Garioch's features were revealed, displaying a bloodied face contorted in berserk ecstasy, eyes wild with fury.

  Its flesh bore an unnatural strangeness gleaming under the gore, shiny like nothing native to the Underworld or the mortal realm, unyielding even as fire should've blistered and burned it to a crisp.

  This was a mark the Swarm had beheld before, borne upon a subset of mortals, some of those decreed he should spare in his trials, while preying upon those the Holy Empire empowered with Tiers and Realms, as this mortal also was.

  Such a paradox stirred no concern. Only his own edicts held sway over his actions.

  Garioch lunged forward bare-handed as Grubin swung the greathammer in a devastating overhead smash.

  Some primal instinct alone preserved the mortal from oblivion, propelling it to weave aside from the lethal strike with a manic grace its mangled form should’ve long forsaken.

  The hammer's descent cratered the mire in an eruption of muck before Garioch latched upon the warlord's outstretched limb like a rabid beast, its gauntleted fingers burrowing in like clamps.

  It propelled both armored feet against the outstretched limb in a brutal stomp, the impact resounding like the fracture of a gate under siege, cracking bone with a loud snap.

  The warlord bellowed in pain and fury, the claws of his free hand raking across Garioch's armored back in deep furrows that exposed muscle.

  The mortal laughed, unnerving Grubin, who spat another gout of abyssal fire, the inferno engulfing it in blistering agony that seared skin and scorched lungs.

  With a roar, Garioch wrenched free of the claws and hauled itself up the broken arm, sinking its teeth into the warlord's constantly melting and regenerating face, ending the infernal blast, ripping a chunk of churning flesh free, chewing rabidly as Grubin screamed in horror.

  Talons rent the mortal's flank in the warlord's frantic bid to dislodge the lunatic assailant, carving wounds that poured out crimson.

  But Garioch heeded neither the attack nor injury, and went in for a second serving, plunging forth for another ravening bite, burying its face in the warlord's throat to tear free a ragged chunk of undead meat in a fountain of warm ichor.

  The Swarm's wrappings fluttered in an unseen wind of delight, his heart inflating with unholy exhilaration at the spectacle, this profane inversion of the natural.

  A fragile mortal devoured the mighty Grubin, the Devourer.

  And in a battle pitting chaos versus chaos, no less, brute force versus blood-drunk fury.

  The warlord thrashed wildly but impotently as the mortal continued feasted upon him.

  The fifth savage excision from the neck felled Grubin in a collapse that trembled throughout the forsaken village.

  Garioch remained astride the fallen colossus like a conqueror upon a throne, its maw delving deeper into the banquet of horror, the poisoned meat causing its strange skin to pale, black veins spreading under its unnatural shine, growing like fractures in glass.

  Vicious tears of flesh ravaged the throat without mercy, teeth grinding through the ceaselessly regenerating chaos, too quickly to reform, thick, dark ichor gushing forth in torrents to mingle with the muck below, pooling like spilled secrets.

  Grubin's panicked screams devolved to gurgling wails as he lashed about frantically, his abyssal eyes widening in the uncomprehending terror of a mortal feasting upon an undead.

  Until at last, with enough of the flesh gone, the mortal dug its fingers deep into the ruined neck, and ripped the warlord's head free of the body, unlife fleeing in a final spew.

  True to the vow it had yelled out earlier, it plunged its good arm into the ragged hole, its fingers clawing through the torso until it gripped the heart.

  It yanked it free in a spray of foul ichor, then consumed the organ with savage bites, blood smearing its face.

  With no new targets for its rage, the berserker wrath finally began to ebb, leaving only ruin in its wake.

  Surprisingly, it collected its axe and staggered back toward the church, blood and ichor trailing behind, its movement growing more and more jerky as sanity slowly returned, the accumulated injuries taking their toll.

  With its body a pyrrhic wreck of wounds, its belly stuffed with poisoned flesh, its breaths rasping in blood-flecked foam, it took some time bit it at least reached the battered building.

  It knelt, pressing a bloody gauntlet against the weathered stone, head bowed in fractured prayer, face twisted in agony.

  For a brief moment, the greataxe's Holy runes flared brighter, then the mortal slumped sideways into the mud, victorious.

  Gloriously victorious.

  The Swarm’s chest filled with pure joy at the splendid carnage he'd witnessed.

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  This was the second majestic example of glory forged in agony.

  The second radiant surprise that defied his eons of dominion, another blood-soaked reminder that even he could err in the grim calculations of doom.

  He lingered in the afterglow of the ordeal's unforeseen twist, savoring it, wishing he could claim both survivors as undead.

  But he couldn't. His edicts were ironclad.

  They'd won fairly, honorably.

  Three impossible victories.

  Also, pursuers had closed in, and he’d been found and bound.

  Guests were knocking, demanding he test them, too long ignored while lost in observing this glorious, lovely battle.

  He dissolved into shadow, eager for more violence, eager to summon forth prior champions.

  This time seemed different.

  He so rarely had a chance to stretch his old legs, and he might just get the chance this day.

  The fabric of existence warped with a nauseating lurch, a malign convulsion that spat Angar back into the dank and now doorless antechamber, his left arm hanging like dead weight, numb and unresponsive at his flank.

  Pain wracked his whole body, blood wept from his ravaged face, tracing crimson rivulets to drip onto the stone, the caps that had bound his claws now vanished.

  No sooner had the Swarm's hold dissolved, than Garioch coalesced in a crumpled mass on the cold flagstones, the Saint convulsing as he vomited forth a vile slurry of half-digested meat that seemed to writhe.

  His axe lay discarded at his flank, while the mangled wreck of dented steel and fractured visor that was once his helm rested nearby.

  Black veins streaked beneath his plastic, blistering skin, while crimson blood streaked his armor like profane graffiti, the plates crushed and rent in countless gashes, life seeping from a grievous wound in his flank like a cursed offering

  His face was a mask of crisped flesh caked with black fluid, the ichor drying in foul crusts.

  But life clung to him with stubborn tenacity, the victor of his trial, though at great cost. He'd clearly taken Angar's advice and embraced the rage.

  The grip of dread around Angar's heart loosened, a ragged breath escaping him at the sight of his companion's survival.

  He wanted to reflect on his battle-wrought revelation, but there were far more pressing matters.

  He knelt to offer medical aid, his own wounds protesting in agony, when Simo's corpse flickered into being beside them, lancer, pistol, and shattered drone beside it, lifeless eyes staring upward from a face pulped and bloodied, his skull cracked open, blood pooling beneath his head.

  His leg armor and cybernetics were crumpled in a straight line, as if dropped from a great height and having struck a ledge in the descent.

  Though he knew the Paragon had failed his trial, the sight struck Angar roughly, a harsh blow, his guilt rising in a black tide to rip his soul asunder.

  This doom was his doing, his alone, Simo's death the grim price exacted.

  Garioch, no longer retching, stirred then, his gauntleted fingers fumbling at his belt with dogged persistence. From its pouch, he drew forth the Puteus Vitae, a rare and coveted System reward, an injectable healing serum.

  "Try this," he croaked out in a gravelly rasp. "It may save him."

  A surge of relief flooded Angar, crashing through him like a wave, and his gratitude swelled for the Saint's sacrifice. This item was prized highly among the Holy Empire’s elite, its worth commanding no less than twenty thousand credits.

  It could sometimes snatch the recently departed from the grave's embrace, though only if the fates aligned, and never upon the truly cold and too-long forsaken.

  Saint Thryna had employed one upon Angar himself, after Azgoth had laid his chest open, a desperate stay against the inevitable, buying some moments of life, nothing more.

  They wrought no true miracles, merely provided potent healing, and though he hoped, he doubted the injection would or could help Simo.

  Still, he accepted the item from Garioch's outstretched hand with solemn reverence.

  "My thanks, Saint," Angar stated with sincere gratitude. "Your generosity will see recompense, its full value in credits, upon my honor."

  His mind raced ahead, charting contingencies should the serum ignite life's spark anew.

  Only having the use of one arm would make this more difficult. For ease of access, he spread out the necessities from an advanced medkit on the stone nearby.

  "You spoke true, brother," Garioch rasped out, his voice rougher than usual, as if his throat was sore. “I had to surrender to madness. I unchained the beast I bind so fiercely, embracing what I am, both a Crusader reborn in Holy fire, and a Zerker forged for rage, to drown in mindless bloodlust in the storm of melee’s crush.”

  "Conserve your strength," Angar replied softly, but brooking no dissent as he laid out items and prepared. "There'll be ample time for reflection once we save Simo and escape the Swarm."

  "It watches us," Garioch stated, his gaze adrift in the shadowed vaults overhead.

  Angar craned his neck, and there it loomed, the Swarm, suspended high above the vestibule like a malediction given form.

  Its presence oppressed the air, eyes ablaze with infernal malice, the tattered bandages that swathed its desiccated form fluttering.

  "Three entered," the Swarm rumbled out, its grinding voice echoing through the antechamber. "Three of my warlords fell in a glorious test of battle. The mortals Garioch and Angar may beseech a boon of me before their departure. A blessing, perchance? A powerful weapon forged of fell sorcery? A session of personal tutelage in the arts of combat? Speak your desires, mortals, and quickly."

  "We crave nothing from Hell’s filth save their slaughter," Angar growled out sharply.

  The Swarm's sun-parched skin contorted into a smile, cracks widening like fissures in forsaken earth. "Oh? Nothing at all? Not even your fallen companion restored? That injection and your ministrations won’t save him."

  Garioch's gauntlet seized Angar's arm in a grip fraught with worry, urging in a hoarse whisper, “Deny it. Spurn all its unholy rewards, especially any that profess to aid Simo. It’ll come with a hidden toll, inevitably leading to corruption and damnation."

  Angar would never traffic with the unholy forces of the Underworld. He knew the tales, and the outcomes, well enough.

  But what choice lay before him?

  Simo was dead, ensnared in this nightmare by Angar's own hand, his folly the architect of his friend’s doom.

  "Decide swiftly," the Swarm commanded, its tone fraught with impatience. "Battle demands my full attention, but you two have afforded me rare delight. I would see such victory and valor rewarded."

  Angar's mind roiled like a sea in a storm, torn between his hatred of Hell pitted against this desperate pull to save his friend, duty and damnation warring in his chest, locked in savage strife.

  After too long a silence passed without response, the Swarm exhaled a sigh that wafted through the chamber like the last breath of a condemned soul, and its gaze bored into them like twin suns. "I’m disappointed. Indecision is a flaw as great as cowardice, both fatal maladies absent in true warriors.”

  With a contemptuous snap of its taloned hand, it decreed, “As your boon, since your trinket alone cannot reclaim your fallen companion, I infuse it with a measure of my power, ensuring Simo's revival. The choice to wield it rests with you.”

  As it began to dissipate in smoke, it added, “For now, linger in this sanctuary, as ejection would court peril. I battle meddlesome interlopers who confuse me with my hundred, blind to the truth of who I am.”