NOVEL NEXT B2 Chapter 17
Harc still lounged, his feet propped on the desk, and called out to Angar. "Signal when you're ready for the cage to open. Be quick as we've got a Viscount and a few others to execute publicly, a purge to lead, skulls to crack, elders to bless, babies to kiss, and imperial order to restore."
Angar noted the Viscount still lived, so he hadn't slain him. He wondered who else Hidetada had singled out for the spectacle of public execution.
"Oh, and there's a Caitiff in there," Harc added casually. "The greenish, tentacle-headed one."
Angar's brow furrowed in surprise.
Fallen Crusaders at the second Realm, Saint, bore the name Blackguard, while traitors among the Ecclesiastic and Laity were deemed Caitiffs, that is unless they profaned themselves as Seraphs, then labeled Apostates.
So, this Caitiff was second Realm, over level 100, Hierarch or Paragon for non-traitors, likely early fourth Tier, fresh to the Realm, and weaker, or Hidetada wouldn't pit him against it. Probably.
Unless this was another of the Saint's damnable tests.
Angar was second Tier, also new to it, only third Rank, a Knight-Adept. Conventional wisdom held that any Hierarch or Paragon could shred him.
If this was a test, he figured Hidetada was gauging his intelligence and judgement, whether he'd be wise enough to refuse to battle a Caitiff.
"Do these have their energy still?" Angar asked.
"No," Harc replied. "No Psychics either, but those with malefica pacta will wield some fell powers. Don't worry about injuring the others here with me. The runes will contain Abilities and powers. Or should."
To the prisoners, Harc barked, "Remember our deal – try to flee, and I'll kill you. Beat Sir Angar, though, and survivors walk free."
A few of the brutes grunted, their eyes piercing into their soon-to-be victim.
So, this was another one of the Saint's damned tests. But Angar didn't see it as a gauge of his intelligence, or capacity to make sensible choices.
To him, it was a trial of duty and honor, of faith and oaths kept. The Lord thirsted. The Lord always thirsted.
None of the prisoners held weapons. Angar set down his power hammer. With a thought, his gauntlets retracted, forming into bracers, reinforcing his forearms, and freeing his leonine claws.
Crusader Armor was unyieldingly tough. He didn't crave injury or another bare-knuckle brawl, but without taking hits, the Vitalulum harness's free training would never hone his First Aid Skill.
Most of the nine Heretics wore armor, but none had helms. He removed his own. Fair was fair, and Angar still thought the fight was lopsided in his favor.
The bribe-takers had to be executed. Heresy could neither be tolerated, nor forgiven, lest it festered and spread.
But that slaughter had been very poor tribute, spilled without struggle or honor. This one would be glorious. A worthy and prideful tithe from a Mecian with the blood of kings and conquerors coursing through his veins.
There was also an achievement he'd like, its reward scaling like the ascension one.
Angar was more than bait. He was superior to all others. Hidetada, for all his cunning, still failed to see what was so clear, still unable to grasp something so obvious. Yet. But he would learn, as all would learn.
Before signaling Harc, he scanned all the Heretics, seeing what he'd face. Their hungry stares eagerly met his own.
The Caitiff was large, covered in expensive Redoubt power armor, only its face, hands, and feet exposed.
Its head was covered in tentacles where hair should be, and though they hadn't moved, Angar was certain they'd grow and try to spear him, or inject venom in him, or something terrible. Tentacles and tendrils always did. He hated them so much.
Its large hands and feet also looked tentacle-ish, with long fingers hanging limp and tapering as tentacles usually did, the same as the toes. He wouldn't be surprised if they grew longer and wrapped around him.
Beside it was a sinewy figure, also armored in a Redoubt set, possibly female once, grinning with black-veined flesh and fanged malice, its form grossly twisted, one side of its head enlarged with hundreds of bulbous growths.
A hulking abomination loomed in front of those two, unarmored in the usual sense of the word, but bone spurs jutting from its thick and rough looking hide, snarling with fell hunger.
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A gaunt, scale-covered wretch, unarmored too, twitched its claw-tipped hands, both aglow with malefica sorcery.
A bloated mutant oozed ichor from its armor's gaps, probably a light Savage set, its eyes blazing with defiant zeal.
As for the four unmarred humans standing among them, there was a scarred warrior in a heavy set of rune-etched Bulwark power armor, his gauntleted fists clenched, ready to fight.
Then a lean zealot, his frame taut with fervor, sitting in a Preservation set of non-power armor.
There was a wiry, older man in a robe who looked like a scholar, muttering maleficum chants that sparked weakly with forbidden power.
Lastly, there was a grizzled, unarmored brute, his head held high, his brows furrowed, his glare challenging Angar.
The nine Heretics were crammed into the cage, maybe four meters by four, with little room to move or fight. Angar wasn't sure if that would help or hinder him. He'd find out soon enough.
"I'm ready," he told Harc.
Harc glanced at Angar, helmless and hammerless, and shook his head with a derisive sigh, as if chiding his recklessness. "Alright," he said. "Opening now."
The cage's right front gate slid sideways, revealing an opening. Angar charged in, talons unsheathed, slashing, his foes rushing to meet him as the gate closed behind.
He targeted two foes with plenty of exposed flesh. As fists grabbed and pummeled him, his claws sank into skin, and his head was shoved down, punched, and scraped. He dug his talons deeper, then tore them free, ripping out chunks of meat.
Flashes of fell power lit the cage, but if any spells aimed for Angar, he couldn't tell, and they did no harm.
The cramped quarters smothered any hope of strategy or skill, devolving the clash into a frenzy of fists, claws, and rending slashes, maelstrom of raw, clumsy violence.
Bodies pressed tight against him. He pushed back against the press as fists, claws, and unseen limbs battered him from every angle, and he did the same to his foes.
The chaos blurred actions, and in the crush, it was impossible to tell what strike came from which opponent. He slashed out brutally, ferociously, ignoring the incoming blows.
Each second of the brawl was fueled only by savage instinct, Angar's claws slashing blindly, tearing through flesh, scratching off armor, while blows rained on his armor and unhelmed head. The cage rang with the impact of bodies, with thuds, with cracks, and roars.
The onslaught was relentless, leaving Angar unsure if he was dishing out as much punishment as he got. His senses drowned in grunts, snarls, thuds, and the ripping and rupture of flesh, while the scent of corrupted flesh and foul sorcery stung his nose.
A claw raked his scalp, a fist slammed his jaw, and something cracked against his neck, their origins lost in the frantic melee.
All he could do was drive his talons forward, ripping and tearing, trusting his Crusader Armor to take the blows.
Then a spell struck him. It didn't hurt much at first, but soon an acid-like burn seared into his skull. That was his cue, an end to him forsaking his own powers for the sake of fairness.
Lightning Strike ignited, encasing Angar in a protective shield before his body dissolved, unraveling into a storm of charged particles, Ground Current crackling into the floor. He aimed to reform in the center, but the packed bodies must've prevented that.
Instead, he coalesced exactly where he stood, lightning erupting in a blinding cascade, bolts shrieking down from above, tearing through the Heretics, chaining between their bodies in sizzling arcs that charred flesh and scorched armor, their agonized screams filling the confined space.
The lightning stunned most, but the Caitiff, the sinewy figure, and the hulking beast stood unfazed, shrugging off the stun. Their attacks never faltered, but only one could reach him, and that spur-fist flew, and more spells ripping through the cage, released by one of the two behind that beast.
Angar shoved forward, the bolt from Lightning Strike streaking down as he carved a path deeper into the cage.
As the stun faded, his leonine claws clasped, digits interlocking, and Tempest erupted. The Ability spun him into a whirlwind of zealous fury, his two-handed fist like a battering ram thudding into Heretics.
He spun, three times a second, a blur in the four-meter cell, his clasped fists smashing blindly as he tried pushing further in, wanting his hands to batter into all three abominations that had resisted his stun.
Lightning began crackling from his hands, searing into flesh and armor, making the cage a vortex of crackling light.
Even using Abilities, the tight quarters still made this fight a thing of brutal chaos. His shield didn't last long. There was no aiming. His fists smashed whatever was in their path, the Heretics striking back relentlessly, and he continued to will his spin toward the cell's rear, targeting what he saw as his most powerful foes pressed against the back bars.
Gauntlets pounded his Crusader Armor, claws raked at his exposed head, and malefic spells splashed against him. Whatever hit his armor did nothing, and what hit his head was dulled by Tempest's 90% damage mitigation.
A sorcerous flare singed his neck, and metal slammed his temple, the spin's blur making most actions and their source indiscernible.
The pain was just a distant annoyance. He tried pressing deeper as lightning scorched into unholy flesh and armor.
The man in robes crumpled first, his maleficum chants silenced as lightning nearly tore him apart, his body collapsing in a smoking heap.
The lean zealot in Preservation armor fell next, almost done in by lightning as his skull was caved in by a clasped fist.
A heartbeat later, the unarmored brute toppled, his twitching corpse wreathed in electric arcs. He had gotten many good punches in.
The bloated mutant in the Savage set fell at the six second mark, its blazing eyes dimming as a tick of lightning burrowed into it. He thought that thing's oozing ichor could be poisonous, and was glad it was dead.
At the seven-second mark, the scale-covered wretch and the scarred warrior in Bulwark armor nearly dropped together, both their bodies scorched and broken.
Tempest whirled to its end with one last furious spin, leaving Angar unbroken amid the carnage. His claws dripped with viscera, six Heretic corpses littered the ground, and their spilled gore turned the scant space into a treacherous mess.
Blood dripped from Angar's brow and some other head wounds, and the sting of the acid-like burn that had seared his skull still lingered.
A wave of dizziness washed over him, and his limbs faintly trembled. He was poisoned, he had no doubt. And that spiked fist had somehow chipped his cheekbone, or he thought it was the spiked fist, an impressive feat considering Tempest's 90% damage mitigation.
Before him still stood the three disgusting abominations that had shrugged off the stun, undaunted, their eyes still burning with unholy defiance.