NOVEL NEXT B3 Chapter 3
Angar knelt in the dim confines of his quarters aboard the Zephuros, the chants playing over the chapel's amplifiers resounding through the cramped space.
No one wanted this room due to the small size and it being abutted against the constantly noisy chapel.
There were nicer rooms specifically meant for Knights like him, but he forsook them. The search for comfort was a dangerous weakness, the desire for it a leech on the soul, warping the correct mindset and perspective.
People didn't understand. They also didn't understand why he performed servant work. He owed the Lord twenty hours of labor a week, and that requirement was only waived when preoccupied with war.
His quarters were spartan and scarcely larger than a cell. A narrow bunk hugged one wall, its sheets and blanket made up crisply.
The scant furnishings included a dented stand scarred by years of rough use, a weathered chest etched with what seemed to be battle wounds, and a battered dresser atop which rested a handful of slates and a typer.
A lone stool hunched nearby, required to utilize the typer effectively to create the endless reports Hidetada demanded of him, perhaps as a penance for Angar bothering his grand marshal with requests for his Tier 3 gear.
For slates, he'd been loaned works by elite theorists such as Michels, Mosca, and Pareto, as well as Carl Schmitt's 'The Concept of the Political,' and a handful of works by Leo Strauss.
Opposite the bunk, a small altar bore a wavering candle, casting erratic shadows that danced across the Trey, a golden pyramid enclosing the unblinking Eye of Providence, mounted above.
He crossed his legs beneath him, the furred claws of his hands resting palms-up on his knees.
Layered over the incense of the chapel, the air carried strong scents of sandalwood and myrrh, which assisted in achieving higher meditative states, or so was claimed.
Fresh scabs from Thryna's blade-fingers tugged at his forearms as he settled, a dull throb in his many punctured wounds and bruises flaring. He ignored them, the pain just another forge for his resolve.
He would force meditative transcendence, the cycles of energy, to bend to his iron will.
Understanding was irrelevant to his goal. He craved only to attain, reclaiming the Mindscape, where consciousness dissolved into infinity.
His breath deepened, each inhale drawing in the mana sacra that permeated the ether, even in this metal beast hurtling through the void in a gravity bubble.
Angar turned inward. He plunged past the surface clamor of his thoughts, the simmering wrath, the ache of loss, the suffering demanded by devotion.
He reveled in his feelings, letting them fuel the fire within. Hatred sharpened his focus, pride armored his will.
He was superior to the plodding men feigning serenity, pretending to be machines, who chained their passion. Where others faltered, he would conquer.
But for this, he needed clarity, so purged his emotions.
Cycling began as it always did, his Ignis Sanctum stirring in the core below his navel, a molten orb of gold, forged like no other.
He urged it upward, a helix of power threading his spine like a ladder to enlightenment, igniting channels scarred by battle and ordeal.
His Neurvux nodes flared, sparks of bio-electric synergy dancing along his nerves, syncing with the cybernetic enhancements in his legs and eyes.
The air in the quarters seemed to become hazy, thicker. Deeper he delved, seeking the Mindscape, seeking to recreate whatever mindset he had when he'd shattered reality, flinging him into that vast expanse.
He visualized the void where thoughts manifested as essence, where mind-presences loomed like colossal shadows.
He commanded his mind to ascend to this plane. His will hammered against the veil, a battering ram of unyielding resolve.
Sweat beaded on his brow, trickling down his face, his muscles tensing as if in the grip of a psychic storm. His split lips cracked open anew as his jaw clenched into a grimace, a trickle of blood mixing with sweat, the aches from his many wounds channeled into the task.
He focused on what he could remember, of reality shattering and going mad, the strange void, whispers of ancient Grays probing his intrusion, the staircase of blood leading to annihilation's door.
His core pulsed faster, energy coiling like a serpent devouring its tail, drawing from the prana of ancient Hindu lore, the chi of forgotten Buddhist paths.
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All doctrine, both ancient and modern, claimed the higher planes of consciousness could only be attained by mastering the meditative state, through years and decades of persistence, learning to truly still one's mind.
Just as a man couldn't pick up an instrument and play with an elite ensemble, the key always boiled down to three words – practice, practice, practice.
He pushed harder, his breath a ragged mantra.
I am unbreakable. I will not yield. I will attain the Mindscape.
Frustration ate at him, a growing ember in his chest, but he embraced it, letting it stoke the flames rather than douse them.
Clarity, the absence of emotions, had never worked. The teachings of the masters took too long. Not one of them had attained the Mindscape. If their ways didn't work for him, he'd come up with his own method.
He let his emotions flare. His wrath consumed the void. Purging it would be weakness. Mastering it was glory.
He probed, pushing deeper, exploring, like a beacon blazing in the gloom.
For a fleeting moment, he felt something. It was a distant pull, and very slight, like the gravitational whisper of a black hole at the galaxy's heart while at the Rim.
Something there, out of reach, a presence brushing against his consciousness, a gateway cracking open just enough to tease infinity's edge, but not enough to let him know where it was or how to find it.
His mind strained, synapses firing in agonized fury, his claws digging into his knees until blood welled. The quarters seemed to warp, the shadows lengthening unnaturally, the Trey's eye narrowing in judgment.
But the veil held.
Reality snapped back with a jolt, leaving him trembling on the floor, all three of his cores throbbing, especially the upper core, the third eye.
He exhaled sharply, his annoyance flaring before he squashed it, redirecting it into determination.
He had touched the threshold, sensed something like the Mindscape, but entry eluded him.
No matter. He would try again, and again, until existence bent to his will.
He shifted on his bloodied knees, the sting in his flesh a minor bother compared to the glory denied him. The chapel's chants droned on through the bulkhead, a relentless litany that mocked his failure, or so it seemed in the haze of his frustration.
He glanced at the hour in his Visio Aeterna implant. Harc had a breaching class scheduled for the crew at eighteen hundred.
He had plenty of time, but he couldn't miss that. The instruction proceeded at Angar's own insistence, as he knew breaches existed for those seemingly impenetrable Old Guard vessel doors, and he needed to know them.
After that, he had an appointment with Stek to pick two rituals to be taught.
Before then, Eeshek'tik's three promised lessons called. He knew he manipulated psionic energy incorrectly, and needed the guidance of a true master.
Not on how to do it right. He believed his way was superior, but it needed to be improved upon and refined, becoming more superior.
He sank back into position, legs crossed once more, claws splayed like talons ready to rend the veil of reality.
The sandalwood and myrrh wove into his lungs like threads of ancient prana.
The Terran masters had clawed at this threshold for millennia and failed. He would claim it the same way as he lived life, with unyielding purpose.
Breath steadied, he plunged inward again, diving as deeply as possible.
This time, the controlled inferno burning inside him fueled the method. Ignis Sanctum roared to life. His upper core throbbed in sympathy, like a third heart pounding against the confines of flesh.
The quarters warped again. The air grew leaden, hazy with something coalescing into visible motes, swirling like radioactive dust in a nuclear storm.
Angar visualized the Mindscape not as a distant plane, but as an enemy fortress he'd assault.
It took a while, but he felt that something, that slight pull, that whisper. He went toward it, blocked by some force.
He roared inwardly, growing his mental presence just as he grew his form battling the arch-druden, not stopping until it no longer grew, his will a titan slamming against the veil.
Sweat poured from him, soaking his clothes, his muscles seizing in spasms that dented the floor beneath him, and scabs ripped open, leaking blood.
Insane visions assailed him, and there were many, the only one making any sense at all was of crimson tides drowning worlds in Holy wrath.
But he pushed, harder, panting. He was unbreakable. He would not yield. Existence would bend to him.
Effort ignited into madness as the veil resisted, a membranous, adamant barrier, flexing but never parting.
His innards scorched, blood vessels bursting in his new Infernus Oculus eye until red tears streaked his face, pain lancing through him like Hell's fire.
His body, other than the spasming, locked rigid, the hydraulics and servos of cybernetic legs grinding in protest as if rebelling, trying to tear away from his flesh.
He felt the galaxy's weight pressing down, but it only fueled him, letting him know his method was working. Or doing something.
He battered. He raged against the invisible barrier, assaulting it and assaulting it again, then again, over and over, relentless, tenacious.
With a mental bellow that shook the stars, he channeled everything into breaking through.
He crashed against the veil like waves against a shore, nonstop, undeniable. He would not yield.
Reality shattered. Not with a crack, but an apocalyptic rupture, like a sick slurp of the temporal realm surrendering, like breaching the hull of existence itself.
The quarters exploded into delirium as walls melted into streams of liquid flesh, the floor a whirlpool of souls, the Trey's eye ballooning into a devouring maw that screamed gibberish in cursed tongues.
Colors inverted, gravity inverted, his body convulsing as if torn asunder by a pack of elder demons.
Whispers slithered into his mind, distant chants of infernal secrets, or something even more maddening.
His mind frayed at the edges, but he held, his will an unbreakable anchor, imposing sense on the nonsensical.
With a final surge, his cores aligning in perfect, volatile harmony, he forced himself through the breach.
It sundered like a building under a Demon Lord's bulk, hurling his consciousness free in a break of liberation, transitioning into oblivion's embrace, a momentary annihilation where self dissolved into the cosmic weave.
Then, clarity returned with a snap. And it was vast and terrifying.
Angar manifested as disembodied essence, a wavering and weak flame of will adrift in some sort of madness, the phantom echoes of his wounds fading in this ethereal realm, leaving only the flame of his resolve intact.
Before him stretched an ancient, desolate expanse that defied mortal geometry, a colossal realm forged from the bones of forgotten eons.