Mereque rounded the sharp turn and veered left into a longer hallway, its length unfurling before him like a pale tongue extended in mockery. The walls here glowed with greater intensity, a sickly luminescence that seeped from the stone itself, forcing him to dial back the sensitivity of his retinal implants.

  As he advanced, he triggered a subroutine in his cranial microchip, feeding sensor data into a growing schematic of the temple's interior—a three-dimensional map assembling itself in real time, corridor by corridor, chamber by chamber. It was a habit born of countless training simulations: never trust the unknown, master your surroundings.

  Those words seemed so long ago. They were from another world. A thousand light years away.

  The blueprint revealed patterns ahead: a dozen rectangular doorways lining the right wall, each an antechamber or cell, and midway along the left, a more ornately curved arch that promised deeper sanctums, more secrets.

  He gripped the Hammerhead with both hands, its crescent frame heavy and reassuring across his chest. The weapon's weight pulled at his augmented shoulders, a reminder of Hexabulous's primal forging. Training and experience guided his movements—knees flexed, breathing measured—as he anticipated the inevitable ambush.

  It came sooner than expected.

  His HUD flared briefly:

  ALERT: MULTIPLE SIGNATURES DETECTED

  COUNT: 20+ HOSTILES

  THREAT LEVEL: MODERATE

  — PRIMITIVE ARMAMENTS IDENTIFIED —

  RECOMMENDATION: ENGAGE WITH AREA DENIAL

  — MAKE IT COUNT SOLDIER!

  He wasn’t sure what was up with his HUD lately. It had been spitting out strange messages since his visit to the dragon’s den in their floating mountain home. He’d have to remember to run a diagnostic scan once he got out of this hell hole.

  A guttural chorus of rasps and moans leaked from the first doorway on his right. Mereque pivoted smoothly, stepping into view.

  Two dozen Sycophants—grotesque devotees of the Blanched, their skin bleached to translucent pallor, eyes milky with fanatic zeal—clustered within the antechamber. They brandished crude cudgels studded with bone shards and forked spears tipped in rusted iron, weapons that might have intimidated lesser men but were laughably inadequate against the augmented spaceman and his myth-forged ordinance.

  They saw him and shrieked, a keening wail that scraped against his audio filters like nails on corroded metal.

  Mereque did not hesitate. He leveled the Hammerhead and fired from the central bore, unleashing a fist-sized slug. It detonated midway into the pack with a thunderous crack, erupting into a storm of razor-edged fragments laced with arcing electrical discharge.

  Holy crap. He couldn’t help but grin on the inside. Hexabulous and RX knew their weapons.

  The air filled with the stench of scorched flesh and ionized blood. Limbs tore free in wet bursts; torsos ruptured as the shrapnel chainsawed through multiple bodies in unrelenting sequence. Those grazed convulsed in paralytic agony, nerves overwhelmed by the surging current. Screams twisted from defiance into raw horror as the Sycophants realized their ambush had failed.

  In moments, the antechamber became a charnel pit—scattered extremities, glistening viscera, and twitching remnants strewn across the floor.

  Mereque ejected the spent magazine from the central barrel, the casing clattering away as he slotted in a fresh one drawn from his backpack's myth-tech stash. The motion was fluid, mechanical, practiced.

  But the commotion had roused the hive.

  From the remaining doorways along the corridor poured a much larger horde—nearly a hundred, their pallid forms surging forward in a tide of mindless anarchy. Their cries overlapped into a deafening, discordant dirge, that even his headgear's dampeners struggled to mute.

  His HUD pulsed again (urgent amber):

  ALERT: HOSTILE SWARM INBOUND

  THREAT LEVEL: MODERATE-HIGH

  RECOMMENDATION: CLEAR THE LANE

  — BURN THEM OUT!

  Mereque slammed the Hammerhead's ammo into the secondary chamber and fired twice in rapid succession. A pair of discs launched with a resonant whoosh—flat, magnetically attuned projectiles that spiraled outward before curving back in.

  They danced in a lethal helix down the hallway—edges igniting—passing and repassing without colliding, slicing through flesh and bone with incandescent edges.

  Sycophants fell in bisected heaps, rags and skin burning as the discs' heat bled into their bodies. Only after carving a path of carnage did the double shot finally converge far ahead, detonating in a roaring fireball that engulfed the rearmost ranks.

  Flames roared through the corridor, consuming the Blanched in a cleansing inferno. Charred skeletons crumpled where they stood, smoke curling upward to stain the pearlescent ceiling. The heat washed over Mereque in waves, carrying the acrid reek of burned hair and fat.

  He stepped forward over the crunching remains, boots grinding blackened bone to powder. Stealth was a lost luxury now—between the thunder of his weapon and the crackle of dying fires.

  Ah well, the entire temple’s going to know they have an intruder.

  The walls shook with a thunderous clap, as if something massive had just hit the temple, more dust rained down around him.

  Or maybe not, he thought.

  Resolve hardened in his chest, pushing back the taint's numbing whisper. Grace was deeper in. Duty demanded haste.

  Mereque broke into a run.

  His boots pounded over the charred remnants as he approached a grand curved archway to his left—a yawning portal framed in weeping alabaster; its edges etched with runes that shimmered like fresh tears. He veered toward it without slowing, the growing schematic in his mind urging him deeper into the temple's heart, where Grace's presence flickered like a distant beacon amid the taint's unmapped fog.

  He crossed the threshold—and the air itself turned hostile.

  Three Blanched Knights materialized from the gloom beyond, their pallid gleaming forms hovering inches above the floor in unnatural silence. No footsteps, no breath—only the faint hum of the Wyrm's sorrow sustaining them. They raised gauntleted hands, and from thin air drew slender flechette launchers, unleashing a barrage of needle-like projectiles that hissed through the space he had occupied a heartbeat earlier.

  His HUD screamed (urgent red):

  ALERT: PROJECTILES INBOUND

  (EVASION MANEUVER EXECUTED)

  RECOMMENDATION: FIND COVER

  — COUNTER HARD

  Mereque dove back into the smoldering corridor, flechettes sparking against the floor where he had stood. Shards of alabaster rained like brittle bone. The Knights pursued without hesitation, gliding around the archway's curve, their featureless helms reflecting the temple's sickly glow.

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  He was ready.

  Mereque ejected the Hammerhead's crescent projector head—it detached with a resonant click, clattering aside as the weapon's core shaft extended into its melee configuration: the concussion maul.

  The first Knight flew headlong into the maul's oversized rectangular head.

  Mereque swung two-handed with all his augmented strength, driving the warrior downward in a devastating overhead blow. The impact trigger activated on contact—a pneumatic plate slamming forward, propelled by the bottled fury of the red dragon circulating through the shaft. Hexabulous had boasted about the weapons forging; Mereque appreciated the results.

  The Knight cratered into the floor with a sickening crunch, armor buckling, limbs splaying unnaturally. It wasn't unconscious—these things rarely were—but the force left it pinned, face ground against the weeping stone.

  The second closed from the side, its conjured blade flashing. Mereque pivoted, bringing the maul around in a horizontal sweep that landed into the Knights midsection. The blow hurled it into the archway's frame, cracking both alabaster and armor alike. A dark ichor seeped from the fissure, staining the pale surface like ink in milk.

  The third hung back, more cautious in its approach. It struck when Mereque's guard shifted—a thin, ethereal spear materializing in its grasp, plunging into the seam of his shoulder armor. Pain lanced through him, hot and immediate, as the blade bit flesh.

  His HUD pulsed (amber):

  INJURY DETECTED: SHOULDER PENETRATION

  — MODERATE BLEEDING —

  TAINT EXPOSURE : 28%

  RECOMMENDATION: END THIS QUICK

  — THIS IS A RESCUE, NOT A FUNERAL!

  The Knight twisted the blade, forcing Mereque to release one hand from the maul. The weapon's weight dragged downward, nearly pulling him off balance. With a savage yank, the enemy withdrew its weapon, spraying arterial warmth across his visor.

  Mereque staggered back as the Knight pressed, its next thrust grazing his faceplate before burying deep into his left thighbone grated against unnatural edge. He grimaced, the pain a sharp anchor against the taint's numbing whisper.

  Duty surged through the haze. He shoved forward, creating space, then swept the maul upward in a brutal arc. The head connected under the Knight's chin with explosive force, snapping its head back. A follow-through crushed its chest, propelling the body into the wall where it slumped, limp and broken.

  The clamor of battle drew fresh horrors. From the scorched corridor behind, another wave of Sycophants poured forth, their wails echoing like a dirge foretelling his end.

  Mereque lunged for the discarded Hammerhead crescent attachment, snapping it back onto the maul's shaft with an audible snap. He fired a single incendiary disc pair down the hallway—the helixing projectiles carving a fiery swath through the horde, igniting flesh and rag alike in a roaring explosion. Limbs tore free in burning arcs, the air thick with the stench of charred devotion.

  But the original two Knights had recovered.

  His HUD flashed (red):

  WARNING: CLOSE-QUARTERS COMBAT

  – IMMINENT –

  THREAT LEVEL: HIGH

  WOUNDS: ACCUMULATING

  AUGMENT STRAIN: HIGH

  RECOMMENDATION: DO YOUR BEST!

  They glided upon him in eerie quiet, blades redrawn from nothingness. Mereque parried the first strike with a gauntleted forearm, metal ringing against ethereal edge. He dropped the reassembled Hammerhead—too cumbersome—and seized the second blade barehanded before it landed, fingers clamping down despite the fresh cuts blooming across his palm.

  With a roar born of pain and resolve, he headbutted the nearest Knight, helmet cracking against helm. The enemy reeled, stunned. Mereque wrenched the sword free and drove it through his opponents exposed neck in a single, merciless thrust.

  The Blanched were formidable, but they misjudged him—saw the hulking frame, the heavy armor, and assumed sluggishness. He used that against them. Mereque moved with the precision and speed of Leopold Seven's finest, enhancements turning bulk into lethal speedy economy.

  The final Knight, in its arrogance, stooped for the fallen Hammerhead. It strained against the weight—myth-forged for augmented strength, not for sorrow-slaves—and fumbled uselessly.

  Mereque was upon it before it could react. The concussion maul descended in a final, crushing blow, flattening the helm and spilling viscous fluids—blood, perhaps, or something fouler—across the floor. The body collapsed beside its brethren, still at last.

  Silence fell, abrupt and heavy. The rush of adrenaline thrummed in Mereque's ears, heartbeat echoing in the sudden quiet. Blood dripped from his wounds, warm against cooling skin; the taint clawed at the edges of his mind, whispering of hopelessness. Whispering of defeat. Whispering of surrender.

  He pushed it down. Grace was close.

  Breath steadying, he retrieved his weapons, reloaded, and pressed on into the archway's shadowed depths.

  Pain throbbed in Mereque's shoulder and thigh, hot pulses that warred with the taint's creeping numbness. He paused, kneeling briefly. From his pack, he drew a field suture kit—Leopold tech, compact and efficient. Needle and thread bit into flesh, sealing the shoulder wound with hasty, precise stitches. The thigh would hold for now; blood loss was manageable; his augments were already stemming the flow.

  His HUD flickered, clinical as ever.

  INJURY UPDATE: SHOULDER STABILIZED

  MOBILITY: 92%

  THIGH PENETRATION: MODERATE

  — MONITOR FOR INFECTION —

  TAINT EXPOSURE: 32%

  RECOMMENDATION: PUSH FORWARD

  — RESCUE MISSION INCOMPLETE —

  Stating the obvious. When did the system develop a personality?

  He exhaled through clenched teeth, the dry humor in the subroutine's phrasing a faint echo of RX's programming. Could that be it?

  Weapons reclaimed—Hammerhead slung, maul configuration retracted, Wyrmspitter warm against his hip—he rose and pressed ahead.

  A pull guided him back through the archway from where the Knights had emerged, a subtle compulsion threading through the taint's fog. It felt as if something was drawing him along. Challenging him to follow it.

  The space beyond opened into a vast vaulted chamber, square and immense walls stretching a hundred meters around, ceiling twice as high.

  Opposite him yawned another archway, mirroring the one he entered, but his gaze fixed on the center: a colossal spiral staircase carved from seamless marble, gleaming white in the pervasive glow.

  It twisted both upward and downward, narrowing conically toward unseen heights, its wide steps unguarded by rails.

  From the depths below rose a rumbling moan, carried on gusts of unnatural wind that sighed through the chamber like breath from a colossal lung.

  The sound vibrated in his bones, a lament of infinite sorrow that twisted the air and stirred the taint within him. Mereque froze, hand tightening around the Hammerhead.

  This was it—the Weeping Wyrm's voice, even in slumber. The god of the Blanched, whose mere presence poisoned the world with grief. Terror brushed him, cold and primal, but duty anchored him firmer.

  Grace was not below, in that abyss. The pull urged him up. He needed to climb the stairs.

  Step by deliberate step, he ascended. Each footfall echoed heavier than the last, as if the staircase resisted, or perhaps something else borrowed his will to compel the climb.

  The taint whispered of futility, of loss—his wife's face flashed, Sommer, fleeting—but he crushed it, quickening his pace.

  Floors passed in a blur of identical vaulted rooms, the spiral carrying him through layer after layer of the temple's hollow heart. Higher, ever higher, until at last the stairs ended in a rounded chamber matching the vastness below.

  Silence greeted him—oppressive, predatory. The kind that fell over wild places when death stalked nearby, muting even the wind. Mereque's instincts screamed ambush as he stepped onto the landing, Hammerhead raised, sweeping for threats.

  The reason revealed itself in chilling clarity.

  Arrayed around the perimeter, motionless as carved idols, stood no fewer than two hundred Blanched Knights. Their pallid armor gleamed, ethereal blades half-materialized at their sides. They did not stir as he leveled his weapon, cycling targets through his internal tracker—lock after lock confirming, preparing firing solutions for a battle he knew might claim him.

  His HUD blazed crimson.

  ALERT: OVERWHELMING HOSTILES

  COUNT: 200+ ELITE BLANCHED

  THREAT LEVEL: CRITICAL

  TAINT SPIKE: 48%

  RECOMMENDATION: EYES ON THE PRIZE!

  But the Knights were not the true peril. They ringed the chamber like silent sentinels, guardians of the solitary figure enthroned at its heart.

  Halfway across the vast floor rose a stepped pyramid of translucent crystal, its apex a flat bench that caught and fractured the temple's light into prismatic sorrow. Upon it sat a lone figure—regal, radiant, and utterly wrong.

  Lord Athur Tarmour, the King of Tears. chosen avatar of the Weeping Wyrm.

  The nightmare sovereign of the Blanched Lands stared down with eyes like polished voids, his form both beautiful and profane, absolute grief expressed in marbled flesh.

  Mereque's breath caught. Here, at last, was the architect of the Crusade—the one who had taken Grace. He scanned the surroundings and couldn’t see her anywhere.

  Where is she?

  Duty burned through the taint like forge-fire. He steadied the Hammerhead, stubborn determination hardening against the impossible.

  If he couldn’t get an answer, he promised himself that he’d pound it out of them.