Lord Athur Tarmour rose slowly from his crystal throne, helmetless, his features flawless in a way that unsettled more than it impressed—marble-smooth skin, eyes like twin voids reflecting infinite sorrow. He gazed down at Mereque as one might regard an insect pinned for dissection, cold judgment etched into his face.
Mereque felt it: the vast, oppressive presence that had drawn him upward through the temple's hollow heart. In his mind's eye, it loomed above them, a colossal unseen mass filling the chamber's vaulted expanse—grievous, malicious, peering straight through flesh and bone into the core of his soul.
What the hell, is the Wyrm a ghost?
He was closer to the truth than he knew.
The Weeping Wyrm's greater mind co-inhabited this remade vessel, its aura a stifling weight that saturated the air, thick and cloying, oppressive and smothering.
Mereque's response was instant. Sub-vocally, he triggered a cascade of commands through his cranial microchip, relinquishing gross motor control to the mirrored combat algorithm—a digital ghost of his own battlefield prowess, woven into neural pathways by surgeons long dust on Leopold Seven.
Prudent, as it turned out.
The nudging presence—that sorrowful force which had compelled his ascent—surged forward, attempting to flood his thoughts, to seize the reins of his body.
His HUD blazed (urgent red):
ALERT: MENTAL INTRUSION DETECTED
SOURCE: UNKNOWN
TAINT SPIKE: 65%
COMBAT ALGORITHM: ENGAGED
— MENTAL INTRUSION NUTRALIZED —
RECOMMENDATION: FIGHT!
Mereque's frame trembled involuntarily, a primal shudder beyond conscious control as the foreign will battered against his augmented mind. The taint amplified it—numbness creeping deeper, whispering surrender, evoking buried grief in fleeting, cruel flashes.
"You are ours now, foreigner," Tarmour intoned from atop the pyramid, voice resonant with pleasure mixed with sorrow.
Mereque's tongue lay heavy, speech stolen—or so he wanted them to believe.
Then the algorithm asserted itself.
His body launched upward in a blur of enhanced power, soaring from the chamber floor to the dais summit in a single explosive bound.
The Hammerhead roared in his grip, all five boreholes unleashing a cataclysmic salvo as he closed the distance.
The air detonated in a maelstrom of fire and fury—central shock-shrapnel blooming outward in electrified chains, flanking incendiaries erupting in gouts of flame, razor fragments peppering the crystalline steps and distant Knights alike. Arcs of wild electricity lashed the space between, illuminating Athur Tarmour's flawless face in strobing blue.
The Anointed One rose fluidly, unharmed. A shimmering barrier surrounding him, deflecting the onslaught in a ripple of god-tainted energy.
For the first time, Tarmour's unflappable demeanor cracked—features twisting into genuine puzzlement, irritation flaring naked in those void eyes. How could this heretic move? The Weeping Wyrm's had invaded his mind; subjugation should have been absolute.
They could not comprehend the alien augmentations buried deep in Mereque's flesh—digital relics from a lost branch of humanity, enduring across the stars while Earth withered.
But Mereque pressed the advantage without pause. He released the crescent head of his weapon mid-flight, letting it clatter down the steps, reconfiguring it into the melee concussion maul.
Using the lingering detonation as cover—smoke and sparks veiling his approach—he brought the weapon down in a devastating overhead arc.
The maul's head shattered the barrier in a cascade of fracturing light, then connected with Tarmour's chest amid a spectacular, bone-shattering crack.
Mereque landed atop the pyramid in a crouch, maul gripped tight, breath steady amid the ringing silence.
Lord Tarmour—avatar of grief incarnate—hurtled backward off the crystal dais in a graceless arc. He struck the far wall with shattering force—alabaster crumbling in a cloud of pale dust—before plummeting to the chamber floor below. Yet the Anointed One landed upright, knees flexing with unnatural poise, his body did not move like it was even pretending to be human anymore.
Tarmour's flawless face tilted upward, impassive cruelty etched in those void eyes as he regarded the intruder now perched atop his fractured throne.
The encircling Blanched Knights stirred at last. Ethereal flechettes materialized in swirling clouds—thousands of needle-sharp projectiles conjured from grief-tainted air—hissing toward Mereque in a lethal storm.
He crouched, arms raised to shield vital areas, augmented plating bracing for the onslaught.
His HUD flared crimson (red):
ALERT: MASS PROJECTILE BARRAGE
INBOUND — IMPACT IMMINENT
TAINT SPIKE: 72%
COMBAT ALGORITHM: EXECUTING
RECOMMENDATION: RELAX
— YOU ARE NOT IN CONTROL —
As the flechettes rained into him, a terrible sound rolled through the chamber—a deep, bone-rattling boom originating from beyond the temple walls. The entire structure shuddered violently, vibrations coursing through stone and crystal alike, as if the earth itself protested.
He felt a dozen shards pierce his skin (painful, nothing crippling), but far more than that failed to reach him, their aim thrown off because of that was happening.
Knights staggered, their hovering forms disrupted; many toppled to the floor. Mereque gripped the ornate remnants of the crystal throne to steady himself, knuckles whitening against the quaking dais. Debris rained from the vaulted ceiling—fine dust and jagged shards sprinkling everything in a choking haze.
The tremor subsided only briefly before a second, far more ferocious shockwave struck. The temple groaned like a wounded beast; cracks spiderwebbed across walls and floor with sharp reports. Mereque clung tighter as the stepped pyramid under his feet.
This was no natural quake. Raw kinetic fury—immense, directed—pounded the city from without, each impact releasing energy enough to shift the ground itself.
This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.
A third cataclysmic blow followed, and the chamber surrendered. Half the room collapsed in a deafening roar—sections of wall and ceiling shearing away into abyssal drops, carrying at least two-thirds of the Blanched Knights into the void below in a torrent of pallid armor and screaming silence.
Mereque remained atop his perch, though the pyramid's ramp had been severed clean—half sheared into nothingness, leaving him teetering on a fractured ledge.
Tarmour rose amid the ruin, supernatural might flaring. With a dismissive wave of his hand, he repelled tumbling slabs of stone hurtling toward him—deflecting one massive block straight at the spaceman.
The combat algorithm seized control once more. Mereque released his grip, dropping freely to evade the improvised missiles—one hand grabbing up the maul as he went. Behind him, the crystal throne exploded in a spectacular burst of prismatic shards as the slabs pulverized it.
He struck the chamber floor hard, landing awkwardly on one hip. A sickening crunch echoed through bone—fracture confirmed—but neural dampeners muted the pain to a distant throb, while augment overrides preserved full mobility.
His HUD pulsed clinically (amber):
INJURY DETECTED: HIP FRACTURE
PAIN SUPPRESSION: ACTIVE
MOBILITY: 88%
RECOMMENDATION: CONTINUE COMBAT
— IT’S NOTHING WE CAN’T WALK OFF!
"You dare bring those two here!" Tarmour screamed, voice fracturing into layered echoes—the Wyrm's despair surging dominant. His accusing finger trembled; those depthless eyes welled with promised torments, grief weaponized into rage. "Into my sacred sanctuary!”
The avatar was a fusion, yet distinct essences warred within: Tarmour's cold fanaticism yielding to the Weeping Wyrm's fountain of self-loathing and hatred.
Without his augments—the digital bulwarks shielding mind and nerve—Mereque would have crumbled the moment he entered this chamber, lost to the entity's overwhelming might.
But the Weeping Wyrm's fury betrayed its fear. Those "two"—Hexabulous and RX—were outside, unleashing the cataclysm he felt in every tremor.
The red dragon's fire and the machine's precision likely carving ruin through the Shimmering City even now.
Mereque steadied himself, using the maul like a crutch before slinging on his back, hip grinding with each shift of weight—a dull, mechanical ache beneath the neural dampeners.
Tarmour's outburst echoed in his mind. There was history here, deep and venomous, between the Weeping Wyrm and the guardians—Hexabulous's volcanic fury and RX414's cold precision clashing against this ancient sorrow for reasons Mereque could only guess at.
If he survived this temple, he vowed silently, he would pry the truth from the dragon's boastful maw or the machine's cold logs.
What crystallized clearer with every tremor was the Wyrm's dual existence: its mind coiled within Tarmour's flawless vessel, yet its colossal body slumbered still beneath the temple's foundations—stirring now, restless in its poisoned dreams. The quakes were no mere side effect of the guardians' assault; the entity itself shifted in the abyssal depths, amplifying the chaos above.
Even muffled through layers of alabaster and taint-soaked air, Mereque sensed the city's unraveling: distant cries of the dying, the cracking of stone, the roar of fire and the chaos of war.
Grace. She was foremost in his thoughts.
Where is she!
He still had to find her, get her away from here—do something, try anything.
"I'm happy to take them away from here," he called across the fractured chamber, voice steady despite the strain, "once you hand over Grace! Then the four of us can leave you in peace!"
A bluff, thin as the cracking stone beneath his boots. He held no leash on that irrepressible pair—Hexabulous's chaotic glee and RX's methodical devastation were forces unto themselves, rampaging through the Blanched ranks with impunity, but the enemy didn’t know that. It was worth a shot.
"No... no, no!" Tarmour's response fractured into a duo-toned hiss, beauty and foulness warring in that perfect face—sorrow's harbinger wearing marble skin. "You will not leave here alive! I need you out of my dreamsss!"
The words slithered through the air, laced with the Wyrm's stirring rage—and undid that hope.
Mereque's hand moved to his belt, fingers closing around a compact chaff grenade from RX's eclectic stash. He tossed it toward Tarmour.
His enemy extended a hand—unseen forces seizing the device mid-flight, holding it suspended before it could land.
But Mereque had prepared, tweaking the ordinance subtly. A remote trigger, linked wirelessly to his ocular implants. No impact required. He held the switch in his head.
A single thought sufficed.
The grenade detonated. It burst in a roiling cloud of black particulates, dense and lingering, engineered to baffle even enhanced vision. Mereque could only speculate at the myth-tech suspending them—magnetic fields, perhaps, or some draconic alchemy.
The debris field bloomed, rendering him a shadow amid shadows—obscured from enemy eyes.
His HUD pulsed softly (green):
CHAFF CLOUD: ACTIVE
ENEMY SIGHT: DISRUPTED
STEALTH ADVANTAGE: CONFIRMED
– USE IT OR LOSE IT!
Opportunity seized, Mereque advanced through the choking veil, boots silent on fractured stone, closing the distance unseen.
The taint clawed deeper with every step, whispering of potential loss, but duty—and the faint, cheerful beacon of Grace's presence somewhere in this ruin—held him firm.
Tarmour's frustration echoed through the haze, a layered snarl building toward fury.
Closer now. Almost within striking range.
Mereque wasted no time drawing Wyrmspitter from its holster—it felt like it leapt into his hand. He would swear its scaled exterior bristled with excitement.
His HUD pulsed softly (amber):
WEAPON DRAW: WYRMSPITTER
(POTENTIAL) SYMBIOTIC LINK: ACTIVE
PROJECTILE GUIDANCE: OPTIMAL
– THIS IS SECOND HAND INFO –
– DO WE TRUST THE DRAGON? –
OBSERVATION: THIS THING IS WEIRD
– I THINK IT’S HUNGRY!
No time for regret, he wasn’t steering the ship anyway.
He moved forward through the lingering cloud; the dragon gun raised for the kill shot.
But Tarmour was not where he expected.
Laughter echoed from the haze—close, mocking—as Mereque erupted into clear space only to meet a wall of pallid armor.
A dozen Blanched Knights were waiting for him, ethereal blades and other weapons in hand—not all of them had been lost to the fissures.
His HUD pulsed urgently (red):
ALERT: AMBUSH DETECTED
HOSTILES: 12 (DIRTY SCOUNDRALS)
THREAT LEVEL: CRITICAL
RECOMMENDATION: ENGAGE
— NO MERCY!
The nearest dropped when he unloaded Wyrmspitter for the first time, half of its torso vanished in a blink, producing a crater sized hole.
Two more were gone in the next instant, the serpent shaped launcher seemed to hiss gleefully with every squeeze of its trigger.
By the time they could react to close the short distance on him, a third, fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh fell.
Those bodies slowed the last five, three of whom attempted barrel over their brothers, only to face the same fate.
The fourth, more clever, used the others as a shield to flank him, but wasn’t nearly fast enough to avoid the shot that came for him.
He saw the fifth break and run into the chaff cloud. Pointing Wyrmspitter in that direction he pressed the trigger a final time. The sound of a body hitting the ground followed.
His weapon was practically singing to him, scales undulated under his fingers—and for some reason that made him feel better, lighter, stronger.
His HUD pulsed softly (green):
WYRMSPITTER PERFORMANCE: NICE
ADRENALINE SPIKE: +22%
KILL COUNT: 12 (DEAD SCOUNDALS)
– FEELS GOOD, DOESN’T IT?
Mereque was stunned. He thought the Hammerhead was impressive. This weapon was in a league of its own—but it also frightened him.
He carefully locked Wyrmspitter back into the magnetic holster. Safer there, for now. Reaching back, he unslung the concussion maul and held it between both hands.
Tarmour was nowhere to be seen. He retreated the instant the chaff bloomed. Cunning bastard. Where are you?
Mereque went quiet, focusing on the ruined room around him, seeking for his foe.
He did not have far to look.
Tarmour flew into him in a dizzying rush—faster than Mereque's augments could track, bursting through the haze.
The impact drove the air from his lungs in a explosive gasp. Mereque hurtled backward, slamming into a wall with bone-jarring force. Stone cracked behind him; vision blurred as he slid to the floor amid settling dust.
Pain flared through overrides this time—piercing, insistent. His combat program stuttered. Lord Tarmour loomed, void eyes burning with layered malice.
The maul slipped from his grasp.
Consciousness swelled in and out.
The taint surged triumphant, whispering that this was the end for him.
He wanted to scream in defiance.
Nothing came out.
