The portal’s will sank its talons into Angar, yanking him inexorably forward as Spirit’s fading presence unraveled like a fraying thread.
His hands and forearms, plunged through the shimmering veil, glowed under an unearthly light that was pale and ravenous, devouring his flesh with greedy, biting smoke.
The dark screams didn’t only persist, but surged, a swelling tide, louder, more insidious, seeping into his consciousness until they became a howling chorus of agony and dread reverberating through his skull.
He realized his own screams were now mingling with theirs in a sound of pure torment.
And mixed with his own anguished wails, Spirit’s cries pierced the ruckus with raw, tortured echoes as if the same unholy forces rent her apart, clawing at her essence with spectral hands.
Their connection pulsed like a tether stretched taut between them, connecting them, making them one. He could feel her presence flickering like a flame, her pain a sharp ache mirroring his own, her resistance a trembling shield against this unholiness.
It was a torment they bore together, a desperate struggle not only for his mind and soul but for the fragile remnant of her Divine spark.
The ancient evils that had once been a deafening cry were now a thunderous demand, seeking to claim them both, to make them part of their darkness.
His mind reeled, trying to maintain his identity against the onslaught. Memories of his life, of who he was, seemed to blur and fade, replaced by visions of what he was to be, of endless servitude to these unseen horrors.
As his foot lifted to step forward, Spirit’s presence rallied, flowing through him, growing, strengthening, halting his movement.
She was fighting back. And seemed to be winning. She forced his hands apart, to release their tight grip on the held-down levers.
The device began to slip from his grasp, moving in slow motion, as if time itself was being corrupted, or as if it was submerged in water, and the water itself was made of dark corruption.
The pressure of these ancient evils on Angar's mind was immense, like being crushed under rocks. Every thought was a struggle to keep his own mind, every breath a fight against the suffocating presence of these beings who demanded control.
The device came to life with electricity coursing through it, lighting up, emitting a long, sickly whine.
Spirit's voice, though weak, broke through the chaos. "Hold on, Angar!" Her words were a beacon in this storm of unholiness. But as he tried to respond, to hold onto his own mind and being, he felt like he'd become the very darkness he sought to fight.
A new malicious energy burrowed in, then this energy strengthened, rallied, much the same as Spirit had, and set his mind and body in a blazing inferno of wicked seduction and putrid malevolence.
Spirit attempted to pull Angar's hands back from the portal, struggling to release him. The tugs became harder, more urgent, then frenzied.
And as she fervently tugged, he felt her influence wane, and wane some more, until her presence within him faded to almost nothing.
“I failed. I’m so, so sorry,” she whispered into his mind, then her presence disappeared completely.
The ancient evils laughed. The murky haze he swam in cleared some. The device rang out again in warning.
Not far in the distance were row upon row of reavers. Around them, other creatures straight out of nightmare, legions of them, as far as he could see.
A dark brotherhood, one he’d soon be part of. He’d become more, a piece of something far greater.
This power was made up of many, and all within it had a single purpose – to conquer, to corrupt, to destroy, to end all that was good and Holy.
There was no stopping it. It was inevitable.
He was commanded to step forward. He had to obey.
But deep within, a stubborn ember flared, refusing to let him surrender so cowardly, so meekly. It roared that he was a Crusader now, forged in sacred oaths.
This ember summoned the weight of his bloodline. He was Mecian-born, son of King Baraga’s iron will and the Weirding Witch’s shadowed arts, heir to Elaxada the Mighty’s thunderous charge, Mahtma the Conqueror’s unyielding ax, and Xon Gheir’s bloody crown.
His father’s weathered face appeared before him, his eyes fierce, demanding, filled with contempt. “You dishonor your people, your ancestors, with this weakness.”
His father’s words sent shame flowing through him, as if burning away the darkness.
His end would not be this craven, this ignoble, shackled to such unholy filth and corruption.
He had sworn an oath unto death. He had vowed that with each breath until his last, he would fight, not submit.
Not submit so meekly as this.
He had vowed that his mind would ablaze with sacred fervor, that his spirit would be unbreakable.
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And his soul, incorruptible.
The device pulsed again, its blinking lights a staccato rhythm piercing the haze.
Angar’s heart thundered with the righteous fire of sacred wrath, a Holy inferno scorching away the tendrils of doubt, his great and unending hate for his enemies helping to free his mind from their fell grip.
He threw his head back and loosed a bellow of defiance, a primal, earth-shaking roar that bucked the portal’s claim.
His arms flexed, sinews taut as he pulled against its grasp, the ancient evils’ will lashing back like iron vines, their dark light slashing across his vision in furious streaks.
The portal clung to him, a living maw unwilling to release its prey, its screams rising to a shrill shriek.
His hands trembled as he pulled them back, inch by agonizing inch. With a guttural cry, he mustered his faith, the blood of his ancestors coursing through him, that of kings and conquerors, and ripped his forearms free, tendrils of shadow snapping like overstretched cords.
He reeled backward, his boots skidding through the ash, and collapsed onto his backside with his chest heaving from the terrible effort needed to break the gateway’s hold.
The instant his hands tore free, a scorching agony erupted through them, as if every nerve blazed with unholy fire, each strand of muscle and shard of bone twisting and reforming beneath the dark corruption’s relentless grip.
It wasn’t just physical pain. It was a profound, hideous sense of wrongness, as if his very essence was being altered, twisted into something alien.
And the pain wasn’t just at the surface but went deep, penetrating, like his bones were being reshaped. The sensation was compounded by a chilling cold that seemed to seep from the corrupted flesh, making his arms feel both burning and freezing at once.
The agony was so intense that for a moment, it drowned out all other sensations and thoughts, even his recent victory freeing himself.
He held his smoking hands in front of him. The sight was horrifying.
What part of him entered the portal had been transformed. The skin had turned a deep, mottled gray, almost like stone, veined with pulsing dark-red lines throbbing with a life of their own, not his own heartbeat.
His fingers had elongated, each ending in sharp, claw-like nails that glinted with a sinister sheen. The flesh appeared to be melting and reshaping, as if his body was struggling between what should be and whatever monstrous form this unholy taint desired.
The feeling as he tried to move his fingers was almost indescribable, a sensation of resistance, like pulling against a thick tar.
The skin felt tight, itchy, and unbearably hot, but the searing fire was relenting with each moment, as was the deep cold.
Then the earth shuddered beneath him, a wrathful growl trembling through the cracked lava-crust.
The portal reared upward, its edges twisting and stretching into a jagged, towering maw, radiating a menace that pressed against his chest like a storm’s weight.
As it loomed, words flared across his vision, golden and searing, etched into his eyes by Theosis’ unyielding hand, their Divine cadence clashing with the infernal ruckus still ringing in his ears.
Three Glorious Achievements!
Brave Holy Knight, your valor has surpassed all expectation, your saga now legend. Three new triumphs of honor shine as eternal beacons in this hallowed victory:
The Endurance of a Gateway’s Touch – having touched a gateway’s portal, your soul unenthralled by its profane whispers, a pillar of faith amid the gloom: 75 Glory Points.
The Unleashing of Righteous Wrath in Hell – casting an explosive device into the throbbing maw of the infernal abyss, rending its unholy core asunder with the Three’s might: 75 Glory Points.
The Piercing of Hell’s Veil – gazing unflinchingly into the portal’s depths with your faithful eye, wresting sacred intelligence from the horrors beyond to arm the righteous: 75 Glory Points.
Let the Enlightened Scribes raise their hymns in unending reverence, and let your name be inscribed in luminous gold upon the Litany of Heroes. All three triumphs for sacred victories that Theosis, the Holy System, our eternal shepherd through the long night, has sought with fervent prayer. Your exploits have not merely met but have shattered the chains of hope, drawing forth the most vigorous acclamations.
For these monumental triumphs, Theosis, the coming and arrival, the Divine will that guides us all, honors you by bestowing the maximum points of glory, not once, but thrice, enough to echo through our sacred Empire, bathing you in the unyielding light of the Holy Trinity.
You, who had no way of foreseeing the maelstrom of fury you would unleash upon our realm, stand innocent of betrayal. You stand now as a paragon of courage and faith.
Glory Points bestowed: 75 x 3
For God and Empire!
WARNING!
Hear this, stout faithful of this Holy Empire, for Theosis, the Divine System, warns of ominous events.
By the sacred Imperial Law, certain provisions of the hallowed Parousia Protocols shall be set aside in abeyance when threats of such magnitude arise demanding the clarion call of warning and the mass mobilization of arms.
Know this – a cataclysmic event has transpired, escalating all invasions of the infernal abyss by one category of severity, casting a shadow of blood across our sacred dominion, and shall be met with the full might of our faith and fury.
To our Holy Crusaders, our anointed blades of divine retribution – stand ready. Await the blessed commands from your Knightly Chapters, for your wrath shall be the hammer of righteousness upon the anvil of this unholy evil.
To all combat orders, branches, and sects not presently engaged in sacred missions – stand vigilant. New orders shall thunder down from your chains of command, calling you to the crucible of war.
To all who bear the mantle of our glorious Imperial Military, across every arm and branch – stand resolute. Your hour of sacrifice approaches, for your Holy wrath shall soon be unleashed.
To every Layman and Laywoman, you are hereby activated as part of the Imperial Reserve, under the iron guidance of your local Militia Command. Your lives are now consecrated to the defense of our glorious realm, to stand as the unyielding shield of our faith. Your duty calls, and God's gaze is upon you.
Our Empire shall be tested with a dire crisis, a threat that seeks to drown our light in unholy shadow. Despair not. We shall fight, as we have always fought, and we shall meet this storm with the fire of our zeal, under the Divine aegis of the Holy Trinity, united in our righteous fury, unbowed, unbreakable.
Cast aside fear, banish cowardice from your hearts. Face this darkness with the grim knowledge that many you hold dear shall perish, that if you endure, you will emerge bloodied, broken, forever scarred.
Yet know this – through your faith and sacrifice, the Empire of the Holy Trinity shall triumph once more, a blazing beacon of Divine light amidst the encroaching gloom.
March forth, towards blessed martyrdom, towards victory.
For God and Empire!
Angar tried staying in dilated time, giving himself time to think. Like with the volcano, his actions wreaked great havoc he had had no intention of unleashing.
But his hands twitched in pain, causing the dilation to end, and Hellspawn began pouring forth from the gateway.
Not reavers. These were bigger, and far more monstrous.
