The vibro-blade keened to life in Chagan's grip, thrusting at the giant Knight.

  Angar moved with unnatural agility, his strange hand seizing Chagan's wrist in a grip like an industrial clamp.

  Even with his heavy armor's amplifiers whining in futile protest, Chagan pouring every iota of strength into the struggle, he still failed to break free.

  His enemy twisted, forcing the arm wide until the blade hummed uselessly at an awkward angle.

  Chagan snapped a vicious left hook, the armored fist whipping through the air.

  Angar neither shifted nor slipped away. He met it square, only his eyes flashing with pain as the gauntlet pulverized his bandaged jaw.

  But the grip held iron-fast, unrelenting in its torque.

  Fury igniting in full as Chagan fired a powerful jab with his left. Angar dipped his head slightly, as if nodding, and the fist cracked high against his forehead, the thickest part of the skull.

  Skin split in a bloody spray, but Angar didn't even flinch. He kept wrenching the wrist until the vibro-blade clattered to the ground, its hum dying in a sputter.

  He released the arm and just stood there, the abyssal and cybernetic eye drilling into Chagan's soul, inviting the next strike.

  Rage boiled over like a cauldron spilling. Chagan stood back and unleashed a haymaker with his right, every servo-enhanced gram of his heavy-armored bulk fueling the blow.

  He targeted the left cheek, where crusted blood bled through the jaw's wrappings, the wound under the assumed reason for the bandage, seeking to inflict maximum damage.

  Angar shifted minutely, his forehead meeting the blow again. Another burst of blood, but the giant remained rooted, steady on his feet.

  Chagan shattered into an enraged frenzy, a tempest of fists and fury where every servo-scream was a prayer for redemption, for some justice.

  Uppercuts carved through nothing but incense curls in the air, crosses hammered voids, roundhouses whipped low with howls, knee strikes driving upward like pistons, all hurled in reckless sacrament.

  One true hit could etch absolution in flesh and vengeance.

  But Angar danced through it like a smoke wisp, dodging with impossible speed for a third-Tier Knight.

  He weaved through hooks that sparked off the prefab wall, slipped jabs that ghosted his ribs with heated wind, pivoted from kicks that stomped dents into the grating.

  Even after taking Chagan's best blow straight to the head, Angar had not only kept his feet, but was flowing around like a blur.

  Always an evasion, never a counter, like each dodge was a nod to his grandfather's misplaced trust.

  The priory’s foyer drowned the chant coming from the amplifiers with grunts, the whoosh of missed strikes, and armor clanging off prefab metal.

  Holy Fortification’s block dissipated. Time warped into a humiliating torment, minutes bloating into eons.

  Chagan's lungs burned as he sucked air through filters. His limbs grew heavy with fatigue, every fiber screaming for respite.

  He kept on, pushing through, emptying himself into the gale, a gunner's barrage turned inward, craving one solid kiss of metal to flesh, one hit to silence the guilt and ghosts.

  But nothing connected, not a glance, not a whisper of impact, leaving only more failure eating as his guts.

  Until, at last, the storm broke, and exhaustion won out.

  Chagan staggered rearward, his gauntlets slumping to armored knees, his chest heaving rough breaths through the helm's grille, the visor fogging with the steam of spent wrath.

  Exhaustion had whittled him hollow, left with nothing but the fire of unquenched vengeance.

  Angar strode toward the priory's exit, his metal feet clanking on the grating.

  The doors slid open, but he didn’t exit, instead calling the clergymen back inside with a wave.

  "God and Empire, Brothers. My apologies for your shop being commandeered," Angar mumbled through his bandaged jaw, the words coming out slurred.

  The clergymen nodded, but their faces pinched like they'd just bitten into something sour as they reentered their priory.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  He fished a fifty-credit chit from a pouch at his belt and pressed it into the nearest priest's palm. "For the inconvenience and damage done."

  The sour expressions softened at once.

  Then, with reverent care, he drew another item from his belt, the chapter token of the Zealous Few.

  As he did, something in his left arm clicked painfully, a subdermal ache pulsing along the graft-line where the bone-clamps held fast.

  He rotated the limb, testing the welds of flesh and frame.

  Medicae had warned against strain, just for a few more days until the resorbable braces broke down, and the fractures settled enough.

  But caution was a luxury seldom afforded life.

  The coin gleamed under the priory's dim lights, rarer than hyperon lattice shards, its favor an unbreakable oath that could change the fate of a world.

  "Brothers," he said, "instead of delivering this token to the Zealous Few, I charge you to safeguard it. Vow to protect it eternally, and etch 'redeemed' into its face. But first, bear witness as this Knight swears to accept it on his chapter's behalf, the favor granted being his solemn oath to forswear vengeance against me."

  Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Chagan stared, dumbfounded, his armored form frozen in the aftermath of exhaustion.

  No one squandered a chapter token on such a trifling matter.

  These artifacts could alter the course of wars, their value incalculable.

  The clergymen inhaled sharply, their eyes widening, no doubt wondering how a mere first-Realmer had ever acquired one.

  Why waste such a boon when Chagan's rage had proven impotent, futile even in a brawl so lopsided in his favor?

  Angar knew without doubt that even from afar, even with turret deployed and surprise on his side, the man would fare no better.

  Especially now, with Mechanosis kindled within Angar's form. It worked superbly.

  Better than superbly, its power alighting both body and mind.

  The gain in speed felt greater than a three-point rise in Adroitness could explain, likely due to the Ability boosting every installed augmentation.

  Yet here he was, expending the token regardless.

  He had a plan.

  Chagan's being of the Zealous Few seemed too serendipitous, too providential an opportunity to ignore.

  Angar had no wish to slay one of his own, nor a man pursuing righteous vengeance and some justice.

  And Holy Theosis had at last sent a missive untainted by scorn. He wouldn’t poison that fragile accord by heaping wrong upon wrong. He hoped the experience penalty would soon be removed. If so, he’d certainly reach Tier and Realm cap in short measure.

  "Quickly now, Brothers, the vow and his sacred rite," Angar added before the moment curdled and someone else chimed in. "We five Tributeans have a day of revelry and carnival ahead.”

  He still had Simo to track, and words to exchange, ending the silence between them.

  Missives awaited at the Budget Post as well, perhaps a package.

  But this was important too.

  Standing in line at the poetry event, Angar shifted his weight, the carnival's ruckus pounding a fresh ache behind his eyes, the drunken cheers from under frayed awnings and tents aggravating it, as well as the sizzle of charred meat over open flames.

  Chagan's entry was being read. Angar was next up, Garioch behind him, waiting to unload his own poetic effort.

  The contest had been Chagan's notion. Seban, Harion, and Nguri had barked laughter at it, calling poetry a woman's folly, soft words for those of a soft mien.

  Angar agreed, believing so too, but held his tongue. Not the writing itself, but sharing emotions? Laying bare foolish thoughts so shamelessly, and for others to know? There was something inherently unmanly about that.

  Such vulnerabilities stayed buried, like sinful secrets, unspoken and unacknowledged to any but a confessor.

  Still, fences needed mending with Chagan, and if a few verses were his hammer, Angar would swing alongside, ensuring the northern monkey kept to his sworn oath, turning foe to true brother.

  Garioch volunteering too? That was a surprise. He didn’t seem the sort for poetry.

  Once armored again, Angar had pinged him over comms, asking him to collect the token from the priory.

  It needed to be kept close at hand, the artifact that held Simo’s ‘death.'

  No doubt the priests would've hawked it by vespers. The worst of the Ecclesiastic ran such rite-shops, profits sworn to the Church, but all knew most were siphoned toward frolic and drink.

  Garioch had likely swept in like an inquisitor, his new High-Saint heavy armor cowing them.

  They yielded it without hassle, their pride salved by a hundred credits tossed for its temporary safekeeping.

  A deception, true, but one wrapped in mercy, for a good cause.

  Saving a brother’s life.

  It was more a lie of kindness, no different than telling a homely girl she was beautiful, sparing her hurt instead of stating the cruel truth.

  But a lie of kindness was still a lie, and he’d need to confess again before going back out to Crusade.

  Chagan stepped aside then, his excitement obvious in his stance, probably smiling under his helm.

  His poem had been good. Angar wouldn't be surprised if it claimed the prize.

  Nodding curtly to the Paragon running the event, an elderly woman in man’s attire, her augmented eye whirring as it scanned the sheaf of entries, Angar moved up, handing his scrap into her palm.

  He knew it fell short of Chagan’s entry of layered grief and professional cadences that clawed at the soul.

  But if Angar committed to something, he did so in full, pouring his all into it.

  And the best he could manage, in his view, ended up decently competent. Chagan thought so as well.

  Garioch's, though? Terrible. As poetry goes, absolutely terrible.

  The Paragon clutched the paper, her fake eye narrowing, then cleared her throat. "’Tribute,’ by Angar Mecia. Should be Sir Angar Mecia. You forgot your honorific."

  And she read it out in a steady voice, as one would a litany –

  “Son of sulfur and rust

  Son of duty and woe

  Glory and battle’s lust

  The only life I’ll know

  For God and Empire, I fight

  To war, again I go

  Once more into the night

  Till Hell snuffs out my light

  And drags my soul below

  This only life I'll know.”

  Angar watched her face, the crease of her brows easing into something like approval.

  She met his gaze squarely. "This is good, Sir. Solid bones to it. That fatal march rings true. If you take it back and tweak a few things, it'd vie for the prize.

  “Meter's even at six, mostly, but line five is denser and awkward. And the bookend refrain? 'The only life I'll know' echoes well, but it lands soft in the close. Sharpen that drag to Hell, make it claw back to the sulfur in the open, tie the noose tighter. Fix those, and I wouldn't wager against you claiming the sacred rite awarded for placing first."

  Angar felt a flash of pride, but he'd heard her say similar to others, and it said his piece as he wanted. "I'd sooner submit it as is, Paragon, if that's permitted."

  She huffed and slotted it into her pile with the others. "As you will, Sir. Clear the stall. The next entrant awaits."