Mikhin, along with those under his command, was eager to aid Angar against the Harmongulan, but Spirit made Angar demand they stay far away from it. Being anywhere near the Gatekeeper would mean exposure to overpowering dark whispers, corrupting and enslaving them in a heartbeat.
There hadn’t been time for idle talk or introductions. Once Angar alerted Mikhin to the crisis, telling him to have his warriors lead people southward as far from the Harmongulan as possible until the Crusaders arrived, Theosis tasked Mikhin with doing the same.
As Mikhin was the de facto military leader of Vefol, Theosis could assign him tasks, but only after he learned of the related event by some other means.
The 'Secrets Shall Always Remain Sacred' section of the Parousia Protocols was becoming clearer to Angar.
Theosis hadn't made itself known until Angar witnessed the reavers firsthand. It didn't say a word about his mother being a Heretic until she confessed it herself.
Every exception to this secrecy was due to Spirit's manipulation or an allowance made by Imperial Law.
Not that the Parousia Protocols making more sense mattered much now. Spirit was convinced that he was striding towards his doom, his path drenched in the inevitability of death.
Perhaps he was. If that was his fate, his end would be nothing short of glorious. The Lord would have him sit by His side in Heaven, and sing of his praises.
Spirit, seething with frustration at Angar's stubborn refusal to shirk his oath like a spineless coward, vanished in a rage as he marched to face the Dreadfiend in battle, chewing on food provided by the soldiers.
His high Resilience Stat, coupled with the Righteous Rebuker Feat, should shield him from the dark whispers of the Harmongulan, but not all the Gatekeepers means of corrupting and enslaving.
He believed Spirit spoke in truth, accepting that he was headed straight to his grave. If that was his fate, there would be no ascending to Tier 2, and no reason to hold onto his 454 Glory Points. And he prayed that how he spent his points would shift his fate, allowing him a victorious end.
In battles with the brutes, above all else, being faster would've helped the most. He wasn't going to battle an entire army, only one Gatekeeper, but a better ability to evade injury, to duck and dive through its attacks, and seize fleeting opportunities, would be the best way to spend his points, so he spent 300 of them on an Adroitness increase.
With 154 points left to spend, he’d be a fool not to take advantage of his special Capstone and how it functioned, giving him so many free Stat increases that, in turn, granted free Attribute increases.
He bought an Attribute Point for 100, and a Stat Point for 40, leaving him with 14 points he couldn’t do much with.
When he finished, his torn clothing fit tighter, and his boots became almost too snug on his feet. He looked through his changes.
ATTRIBUTES, STATS, AND ADROITNESS
(Each Attribute Point increases all Stats governed by that Attribute by 1. Applying 4 Stat Points to the same Stat will increase the governing Attribute by 1. Numbers in (parentheses) include increases from items.)
BODY (Physical Attributes): With 9 AP applied - 15
Physique (Size/Strength): With 9 SP applied - 24
Endurance (Stamina/Health): 15
Toughness (Physical Durability/Resistance): 15
MIND (Non-Physical Attributes): 9
Competence (Skills/Insight): 9
Cognizance (Awareness/Perception): 9
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Resilience (Non-Physical Durability/Resistance): With 20 SP applied - 29
SPIRIT (Metaphysical Attributes): 9
Power Level (PL) (Ability Damage and Effectiveness): With 20 SP applied - 29
Energy (Resource for Powers shown as Energy Points equal to 3 + (Energy Stat x 3)): 9
Charges (Increases the number of times certain Abilities can be used per combat): 9
ADROITNESS (Finesse/Reaction/Speed): 3
RESOURCES
Current/Maximum Energy Points: 30/30
Current/Maximum Charges: 9/9
His Resilience and Power Level began at 26. Adding one Attribute Point to Body and one Stat Point to Physique raised Physique by 2, increasing Resilience and Power Level to 28.
This also counted as 2 Stat Points each, nudging Mind and Spirit Attributes up by 1, settling Resilience and Power Level at 29.
He hoped it’d be enough. He’d much prefer victory over death.
He made his way to the routes stretching from Mecia to Ghelix with urgency, hunting for this Gatekeeper.
Lightning and skysparks perpetually lit the horizon. When Angar noticed a thundercloud hanging low, drifting southeast with eerie slowness, tracking the creature became much easier, as that cloud always floated above the Harmongulan.
Obscured by the fog, the creature at first seemed little different than a brute, a hulking form with a lumbering, awkward gait.
But as it approached, the true terror of its appearance was revealed, and horror gripped Angar.
Brutes were already giants compared to Angar, but the Harmongulan was a colossus, taller by a third and broader by far. Its shoulders were shrouded in heavy, jagged armor, making an exact measure of its width impossible, but it was clearly almost as broad as it was tall.
Its body was partially armored, with metal encasing its head, shoulders, and fists, but what was left bare was a nightmarish sight of bodies making up its mass, each contorted in silent screams, trapped in perpetual agony. The number was uncountable, but they numbered in the hundreds, at least, a grotesque tapestry of human suffering.
Its skin was not the smooth black of reavers or the tough bark of brutes, but an unholy union of writhing, tortured, desperate flesh.
From its neck, shoulders, biceps, and chest, seven tendrils lashed out, like serpents with a taste for death, searching for new victims.
From atop a cliff, Angar watched these cords dance through the air, their movements precise and deadly. He wouldn't be surprised if they could either pierce or snatch up prey, maybe bringing it into the writhing mass, condemning them to eternally scream in silence, part of it.
The Harmongulan paused, turning with a speed that belied its bulk, a tentacle snatching up a d'klar. The others, as if sentient, began to probe it.
Finding nothing of worth, the d’klar was cut in half and cast aside. But, while it was turned, Angar glimpsed a spine lined with long, pulsating needles, much longer than those of a bristle tree.
When it was close enough for Angar to discern the details of its face, there were none. No distinct eyes or mouth, just another mass of writhing bodies, each in perpetual torment.
Angar's eyes caught some patches of its armor corroding, and he felt a grim satisfaction. Vefol was as inhospitable to this monster's metal as it was to all.
It appeared the Harmongulan wielded no weapons beyond its massive, armored fists and those sinister cords, and Angar hoped this was true, assuming those weapons would be hard enough to handle.
As it drew closer, the air filled with maddening whispers, voices teetering on the edge of comprehension, threatening to plunge Angar into madness.
And as if these whispers had betrayed his position, the Harmongulan's face turned to him, a dozen bodies stopped writhing, their faces staring, their eyes locked onto a new victim, a voice piercing directly into Angar’s mind.
"YOU WILL JOIN US.” The voice of the Harmongulan was as terrifying as its appearance. When it spoke, its voice echoed with cold, mechanical dread, resonating through Angar’s bones. It was as if every robot he battled on the Steadfast had been possessed by an unholy force, all speaking in unison, each syllable a profane mandate from beyond the grave.
A great pressure followed the command, spreading through Angar’s mind, his body, his soul. His whole frame locked up, no longer his to control. He felt something slither its way into him, some dark corruption, hungering, seeking to warp, to devour, to dominate.
It probed, searching for what Angar wanted most, desires it could twist and exploit. But what he wanted most in life was to tithe his God with battle and the blood of strong enemies.
Enemies like this Harmongulan.
As Spirit had noted, he had a simple and pure faith, and the corruption found no purchase there.
And Angar had played this game before. He played it against powers far more ancient than this thing. His spirit was still unbreakable, his soul still incorruptible, his faith still unshakable, and he began to cut through this dark malaise and wrestle control back.
His sanctified maul in his monstrous hands grew warm, then hot. He gripped it tighter, the searing heat helping to clear his mind as smoke rose from his hands.
With a surge of will, he broke free. The Harmongulan, angered, lashed out with a black cord, aiming to ensnare or impale him, but it met only the chert head of a maul.
Another cord came, but with his enhanced speed, Angar evaded, the tendril embedded in the earth with a dull thud. His hammer arced at this second cord embedded in the ground, but the tendril merely vibrated with a twang, unharmed by the strike.
Angar looked at the Harmongulan, and knew he looked at his own death. He’d die this day, but he’d die fighting, on his feet, defiant until his last breath, not made a slave. He looked at his death and knew he’d die shrouded in glory.
He surged forward with the ferocity of a storm, his movements a blur as he deftly sidestepped more lashing cords. He reached the cliff's edge, launching himself into the air towards the Harmongulan.
His maul, glowing with sacred fury, was hoisted high above him, his back bent like a bowstring, and from his mouth erupted a primal war cry that echoed through the valley.
