NOVEL NEXT B3 Chapter 6
Time surged forward with a lurch, the Zephuros' growls roaring back to life, and Angar's halted stride betrayed him, his cybernetic foot catching on the grated deck, pitching him off-balance.
Simo, oblivious to the temporal glitch, collided into his back with a grunt, the veteran's solid frame rebounding like blaster fire off thick galvornium plate.
"Apologies, Sir," muttered Simo, steadying himself with a hand on the bulkhead.
"My fault entirely, Simo. Apologies," replied Angar, resuming his march toward the studio, Garioch falling in beside him.
As they strode, Angar pondered if he should tell Thryna that Iyita should be watched closely. Not anything specific, just watched. He'd keep his word to Spirit.
But if he resisted her unholy seductions, was there any real danger? Would she truly need watching?
This was where his great pride could trip him up. He assumed that if she were a Heretic, he alone would be her target.
But Harc could be a mark too. Women were a notorious weakness for the Paragon, or so it was assumed, given his infamous case of polygyny, one of the most scandalous in the Holy Empire's history
Long ago, Harc had remarried, believing his first wife centuries dead. But she lived, and upon discovery, demanded his execution for bigamy and infidelity. He barely escaped the canonical trials with his life.
It was supposedly the most sensational news of the era, with housewives across the Empire closely following the scandal.
But who else aboard could be her quarry? Not Hidetada, certainly not Thryna, not with their injuries, and not the other crewmen.
Garioch? Highly doubtful. That would require uncanny foresight, with Iyita somehow knowing the Saint would be aboard now back when she signed on.
And though the Saint towered over him by two full Tiers, a gap of power most could never overcome, Angar gleaned far less from their bouts than from Thryna's merciless tutelage. Garioch simply wasn't worthy enough to warrant such Heretical attention.
He did wield his axe with the precision of a master, and Angar knew his three Abilities intimately, their bursts of wrath tailored to reap multitudes, much like his own Class, a fury of slaughter designed for many opponents.
Ascension in the second Realm diverged sharply from the first's structure, commencing with the selection of an Archetype, a foundational choice that carved one's eternal path, just as Class selections in the first Realm.
Most picked Bastion, reinforcing Resilience and resistance to corruption, but Garioch had the strange modifications of the United Front, which fortified his resistance in strange ways, allowing him to forgo the usual.
He'd wager anything Garioch had chosen Speedster, granting an extra point of Adroitness and 15% mitigation of incoming harm while clad in light power armor, among other boons.
Without fail, the Saint donned his light Strider set for their sessions, as absent its shell, his movements grew too sluggish, offering Angar no real challenge.
Regardless, Angar looked forward to the match, his spirit still aglow from Spirit's visit.
He'd mull over whether to inform Thryna of anything during the spar with Garioch, letting the clash of battle hone his judgment.
At the studio's threshold, Angar stripped off his garb, leaving only his briefs to shield his modesty amid the coming storm of violence.
Thryna's bouts were lessons in blood and precision, her blade-fingers carving wisdom into his flesh, leaving wounds on garments that could be stitched and scoured clean of crimson stains.
But Garioch's Abilities burned fabric to ash and tatters.
Angar saw no point in squandering credits on such pointless waste, not when those coins could fund something far more worthy.
Hammer gripped tightly in his furred claws, he stepped into the studio's scarred arena, the hatch hissing shut behind him with a sigh. He locked it fast, sealing them in this sanctum of sweat and steel.
Garioch stood at the chamber's heart, a mountain of power armor and unyielding faith, planted amid the dented deck plates that bore the wounds of a thousand clashes.
The head of his axe burned with restrained malice, its edge aglow with a baleful crimson, buzzing like the drill of some infernal monster poised to bite deep into its victims.
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The weapon was a bastard copy of United Front savagery, the sort employed by their frothing Zerker forces, a power axe of the 'cycloblade' pattern, where brute force wedded ingenuity in a hymn of destruction.
This example, however, had been reborn in the Holy Empire's sanctified forges, its form elevated from Heretical scrap to imperial sanctity.
Its head was a brutal discus of twinned galvornium plates, clamped vise-like around a razor-edged core that turned into superheated plasma, a vortex of ionized fury that ignited and spun into a shrieking whirlwind when fed Energy.
The metal haft, long and etched with circuitry and Holy runes that glowed fiercely even in the bright chamber, channeled that sacred vigor, rendering it nigh unbreakable.
Infused thus, the plasma disc whirled at velocities unimaginable, a buzzsaw of annihilation capable of shearing through sanctified armor or the flesh of abominations as if they were cardboard.
But as a Hedge Knight unbound to any chapter, Garioch's coffers bled for every dent mended, so Angar held back from infusing his maul with graviton wrath, nor did he unleash his own Abilities in these spars. Usually.
"Ready, Sir Angar?" Garioch rumbled out in his loud and raspy voice.
Angar nodded, his digitigrade cyberlegs coiling like springs, ready to pounce.
No sooner had the gesture passed than Garioch invoked his primary Ability, what Angar had dubbed 'Holy Inferno.'
Holy fire erupted around the Saint, a radiant conflagration that blanketed the studio's floor in a blazing mandala, centered on the caster like a pyre of Divine judgment.
It burned for ten agonizing seconds, each pulse scorching foes and weaving a stacking aegis of ethereal armor over Garioch for every tick of pain inflicted.
The flames licked hungrily at Angar's cybernetic limbs, but as Holy damage, they gnawed less fiercely than they would at some Hellspawn or abomination.
His prosthetics shrugged off the worst, their hydraulics holding firm against the sanctified inferno as he charged like a lightning bolt, his hammer raised like a war banner.
Six meters out, instinct twisted his gut with foreboding, and Garioch's secondary Ability, what Angar dubbed 'Fire Spray,' unleashed.
It ignited in a conical blast of purifying flame, a roaring wedge of Holy fire that sought to immolate all in its path while stacking more shields upon the Saint for every enemy hit.
Angar dove canted, twisting mid-leap like a sinner evading penance, the cone's edge catching only his metal limbs, the heat blooming across the already hot alloy.
He rolled through the flames bathing the ground, his skin singeing as he powered through, juking left as Garioch's cycloblade-axe swept in a humming arc that would've bisected him.
Momentum carried Angar onward, his shoulder slamming into the Saint's midriff like a freight train. Garioch staggered, then toppled, the deck quaking under his armored bulk.
Hammer hoisted high, Angar telegraphed his intent, giving the fallen warrior time to rally. Garioch seized it, invoking his third Ability, what Angar dubbed 'Fortress.'
All accumulated stacks coalesced into a monolithic barrier, a shimmering veil of Holy grace that enveloped him like a Divine mantle, sturdy even from a single layer, nigh-impenetrable when fed by the flames' harvest.
It'd endure for eight seconds, channeling any fresh stacks to bolster its radiance, while a portion of incoming harm rebounded upon the assailant.
Angar brought the hammer down anyway, the uninfused blow crashing against the Fortress with a clang that resounded like a cathedral bell tolling doom.
Sparks of Holy essence flared, but the shield stayed firm, and some of the impact recoiled into Angar's chest, a stinging rebuke that set his nerves afire and drew a grunt from his lips.
Still, he pressed the assault, raining measured strikes as Garioch surged to his feet beneath the shield's aegis, his Strider armor grinding as he rose like a revenant from the pyre.
Fortress held, unbreached for its duration, its cooldown one full minute before it could be summoned anew. The Holy Inferno smoldered on its forty-five-second leash, its embers fading, but Fire Spray's shorter tether of fifteen seconds ticked down quickly.
Sweat dripped off Angar from the heat of the fire still bathing the ground, burning away into steam as they battled, a whirlwind of melee savagery where Garioch had something to teach him.
His axe whirred to life anew, its plasma edge a blur of spinning death, slashing in arcs that forced Angar to evade and parry.
The hammer met axe in clashes that birthed painful shrieks, sending sparks cascading.
Angar ducked a horizontal sweep, his cyberlegs pistoning him forward. Garioch sidestepped with grace, then struck with a downward chop that Angar blocked, the impact vibrating through his haft into his bones.
And the dance went on, the stench of seared flesh filling the chamber, Angar holding back, Garioch giving his all.
No longer a United Front Zerker, the Saint fought restrained, aiming for skill and precision over brute zeal, trying to bury his past. That was a mistake.
The few times Angar had really angered Garioch, the man had fought dangerously better. He needed to make peace with his Heretical beginnings, and let the beast raging inside him loose during battle.
Until he did, these spars, to Angar, were only a means to accrue minutes for his Vitalulum harness and Vinculeparo necklace.
The same cycles began anew, the fire bathing the ground extinguishing shortly before or after Fortress fell.
Garioch's visor glinted in the blaze, a faceless icon, his abilities forcing Angar to weave through heat mirages that warped the deck like a fever dream.
After fifteen seconds elapsed in a frenzy of feints and blows, Garioch's hand would rise as Fire Spray reignited, the conical blaze erupting once more.
For this blaze, Angar vaulted sideways as the Holy torrent scorched the area where he'd stood, the flames licking close enough to singe his skin like vengeful spirits, the ground's heat blistering his palms as he tumbled, tasting ash on his tongue.
The Saint pressed forward, axe sweeping in tandem with the pyre's afterglow. Angar circled, hammer arcing gently, careful not to damage armor.
As he could, he fought mindlessly, on autopilot, wondering why Saint Salvador hated Garioch so much. He seemed a good man.
The crew gave respect to Garioch's estate and rank, but not much to the man himself, or so it seemed to Angar. He'd never talk behind the back of someone he considered a friend, so he had no way of knowing for certain.
Come to think of it, he'd feel small talking behind the back of an enemy. He'd much prefer just fighting them, as a man should.
The fight raged on, a testament to their unyielding devotion to Holy War amid the studio's dented plates, Angar trying to work up the courage to ask about that scratched-out chapter sigil on Garioch's upper-right breastplate, but never quite getting there.