The video feeds bathed Rax's face in sickly light as he watched the unfolding chaos. His surviving lieutenants crowded around the hastily assembled command center, their augmented bodies casting strange shadows against metal walls. The sharp stink of burning circuits and antiseptic filled the air—byproducts of their recent "upgrades."
"Replay sector seven," Rax ordered, his cybernetic arm whining as servos tensed. The display obliged, showing him again the moment when that cursed alien tore through an entire five-man team of his newly Grafted elites. Golden light had flashed, and then...
Rax's organic hand clenched into a fist. The Stokrine's casual display of power made his own abilities feel hollow, a child's trick compared to true strength. But strength wasn't just about raw power—it was about knowing when to unleash it.
His mental probes brushed against the minds of his inner circle, tasting their emotions. Fear dominated—fear of him, fear of failure, fear of the changes wracking their bodies. Good. Fear was a leash he could use.
"Genn, Malik's latest batch of augments. How are they performing?"
The scarred lieutenant straightened, metal joints creaking. "The advanced squads are... unstable, sir. Three more soldiers lost to systemic rejection in the last hour. But the survivors..." A savage grin split his face. "They're everything he promised. Faster, stronger. The pain drives them harder."
Rax nodded, processing the information as he studied another screen. The northern breach still burned, but that Mara bitch's rebels were meeting stiffer resistance now. His "upgraded" troops fought with desperate intensity, their bodies pushed far beyond normal limits by Malrik's experimental grafts. Each lost soldier was a data point, another step toward perfection.
THE STITCHWORKS OF MALRIK
["The Naught Become Whole" — Trial by Graft (30/100 Subjects Tested)]
Objective: Test Malrik’s latest grafts and augmentations on unwilling subjects. The bodies of prisoners, enemies, or even soldiers who underperform should be used. Ensure their survival through modifications or, in failure, harvest their remains for Malrik's research.
["Adapt or Die" — Accelerate Evolution]
Objective: Capture and interrogate at least one rebel cultivator or higher-tier enemy. Incorporate their techniques into Malrik’s research and develop new combat-oriented graft modules. The captured subject’s survival is optional.
Malrik's presence scratched at the edges of Rax's consciousness, a reminder of their bargain. The Grafter's patronage had elevated Rax above common scavenger lords, but the price... The price was paid in flesh and screams, in loyal soldiers whose bodies rejected forced evolution.
But what were a few sacrifices compared to true power?
He glanced at his other open quests, checking their progress against what his monitors were showing him.
KĀLĪ'S MAW
["Blood for Blood" — Slaughter the Weak (60%)]
Your Objective: Personally eliminate 100 enemies—rebels, scavengers, deserters—it doesn’t matter who they are. Each kill earns her favor and amplifies the power of her boon. Get creative or brutal with your executions to demoralize enemy forces and rack up bonus progress.
["Let the World Burn" — Sow Anarchy (Progress 25%)]
Your Objective: Lay waste to major settlements or safe havens scattered across the scrapyard. Target resource hubs, rebel camps, or neutral enclaves. Use flames, explosives, or devastating weapons to ensure nothing is left standing.
["Purge the Faithless" — No Mercy]
Your Objective: Seek out defectors or weakened forces within your own ranks. Eliminate them without hesitation and reallocate their resources to strengthen the loyal units. Don’t shy away from infighting—it’s just another step in the cycle of power.
Even looking at the quests brought to mind images of fire and destruction, of settlements reduced to ash and survivors fleeing into the wastes. The Goddess of the Maw had been the first to answer his prayers, promising glory through devastation. Her influence had shaped his early conquests, teaching him that true power grew from the ashes of the old order.
"Sir." Another lieutenant—Vask, newly enhanced with prototype combat reflexes—gestured toward a tactical display. "Mara's forces are probing our southern perimeter. The mining clans she subverted brought heavy equipment. They could breach the maintenance tunnels."
Rax's cybernetic arm flexed as he considered options. The southern approach was crucial—not just for defense, but for his larger ambitions. The territory beyond held three minor clans he'd been begun to absorb, their resources already earmarked as tribute to Ares.
WAR HOST OF ARES
["Prove Your Might" — Conquer or Destroy (66%)]
Objective: Either force three minor scavenger clans to kneel or utterly annihilate their leadership. Demonstrate strategic acumen by consolidating power while minimizing damage to vital resources.
["The Empire Consumes" — Tribute of Blood and Metal (Progress 40%)]
Objective: Secure valuable resources for Ares. Pillage intact wreckage sites, seize hardware from rebel operations, and prioritize mana cores, weapons, or mech parts. Ares demands evidence that you can feed the War Host’s ambitions.
"Send Krav and Yelen," Rax decided, naming two of his most reliable elites. "Take our best advanced squads and sweep south to north. I want examples made. Show them what defiance costs."
The lieutenants nodded, but Rax felt their uncertainty. He pushed against their minds with practiced skill, threads of compulsion reinforcing their loyalty. The mental manipulation was subtle—not the brute force domination he used on common troops, but a delicate weave of suggestion and control.
"The strong survive," he reminded them, watching their eyes glaze slightly as his power took hold. "The weak serve or perish. This is the law of our world."
"The strong survive," they echoed, voices taking on the familiar drone of the mentally influenced.
Rax allowed himself a thin smile. Let the alien bring his golden light. Let Mara rally her rabble. Let the human and his strange weapon attack his walls. His power grew with every soldier who survived Malrik's modifications, with every settlement that bowed to his will. Soon he would have an army worthy of Ares, forged in chaos and blood as Kālī demanded.
Reports flowed onto his screens—casualty figures, status updates from his enhanced units, threat assessments. He processed them through the tactical overlay installed in his cybernetic systems, the data merging with his mental map of the battlefield.
His fingers danced across control interfaces as he coordinated responses. A squad of advanced troops redirected to reinforce the north. Automated defenses activated in sectors five through eight. Power rerouted to critical systems.
"Sir!" Vask's voice cracked with urgency. "Security breach in the data center. The operators are down."
Rax's mind snapped to full alert, probing outward for hostile thoughts. There—a presence that felt different, harder to read. His own elite guards, moving to intercept. And something else...
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The security feeds showed him a glimpse of fluid motion, a figure dancing through gunfire with impossible grace. The Stokrine's pet Human. Rax's organic hand curled into a fist as he watched the intruder demonstrate exactly how outclassed his regular forces were. Even his elite guards...
"Sir, should we—"
Rax's attention stayed focused on the security feeds as his men cornered the Human. Pride swelled in his chest at the sight of his elites finally gaining the upper hand, their augmented bodies moving with predatory grace as they stripped away the intruder's strange weapon.
His cybernetic fingers tapped the comm interface. "Take him to the Arena," he ordered, watching as his soldiers began marching their captive through the corridors. "Hold position there and await my word."
A thunderous explosion rocked the compound, whiting out the feed from his northern perimeter. Rax's organic hand gripped the edge of his command console, steadying himself as alerts flooded his tactical overlay. The blast had taken out three defensive positions and scattered his forward troops.
He pressed against the minds of his nearby lieutenants, tasting their mounting anxiety. Who to send? Krav was occupied with the southern assault. The remaining advanced squads were still integrating their augments...
"Yelen," he decided, reaching out to brush the elite soldier's thoughts. He would do as the next piece to move in this deadly game. "Take your squad through the secondary tunnels. Coming from the inner ring, cut off any retreat. Force them into the kill zones we've prepared. Do not underestimate your targets. Remember your training."
"Yes, sir." Yelen's voice carried the flat certainty of absolute loyalty—the kind that only came from mental conditioning and chemical enhancement. Good. He would need that dedication in the hours ahead.
Rax watched his elite guards march the Human prisoner through the corridors, their boots echoing against metal decking. The sight filled him with anticipation—here was a chance to demonstrate true power, to crush this upstart warrior who dared challenge his authority.
The arena waited ahead, its high walls rising into shadow. Rax had built it from the bones of an ancient cargo hold, transforming utilitarian space into a proving ground where he tested promising recruits. Today it would serve a different purpose.
His cybernetic arm whirred as he clenched his fist. The guards had stripped the Human of that strange weapon, leaving him with only a knife. Such a primitive thing against Rax's cultivated abilities. Against the mental powers he'd spent years honing.
He thought of Kālī once more. Yes. A duel would serve multiple purposes. His soldiers could broadcast the fight across the compound's systems, letting every rebel witness their champion's fall. Such a display would shatter resistance more effectively than any tactical victory.
Rax's lips curved into a cold smile as he reached out with his power, tasting the emotions of his gathered troops. Their anticipation, their bloodlust, their absolute certainty in his victory. He had shaped their minds carefully, binding their loyalty with subtle manipulations until they lived to serve his will.
The Human stood straight-backed despite his bonds, showing no fear. That would change. Rax would take special pleasure in breaking that composure, in demonstrating the futility of resistance against a true cultivator. Without his weapon, the Human was nothing—just another piece of salvage to be discarded.
----------------------------------------
Rax took slow, deliberate steps across the metal grating, drinking in the tension that radiated from his assembled forces. The arena's spotlights cast stark shadows, turning the gathered elite guards into a faceless audience as they ringed the old cargo hold's upper catwalks. His cybernetic arm gleamed with an oily sheen under the harsh illumination, each movement accompanied by the subtle whine of servos.
The Human stood near the center of the arena, his posture relaxed despite the heavy restraints binding his arms. No sign of fear, no nervous twitches or darting glances. Just an infuriating calm, his sharp eyes tracking Rax's approach with cold assessment.
"So," Rax drawled, spreading his arms in a theatrically welcoming gesture. "The Stokrine's pet warrior graces us with his presence." He reached out with his mental senses, probing the Human's surface thoughts. He pushed his [Identify Mark] ability hard. Information filtered in—fragments of memory, flashes of martial training, and... there.
Name: Blake Connover
Race: Human (Unknown Deviation)
Class: Knight Errant Archetype (Rare variation likely)
Titles: Transmigrator, Edgewalker, Deadeye
Tier: 3 (Estimated)
Strengths: Awareness, Adaptability, Resilience, Perception
Suspected Abilities:
* Gravitic weapon (Sidearm, apparent cooldown).
* Enhanced movement and combat analysis
* Agility & Perception based melee technique
Rax dismissed the tooltip with a mental flick, his lips curling into a cold smile. The game had just become far more interesting.
"Blake Connover," Rax spoke the name with deliberate relish, savoring the flicker of surprise that crossed the Human's features. "Such an unremarkable name for one who's caused me so much trouble. Though I suppose your kind has always had a talent for appearing mediocre."
Blake's response was a slight tilt of his head, his expression utterly neutral.
"Neat trick. I don't get names of people yet, though I imagine it will get there soon. Probably next tier."
The casual dismissal rankled, stoking the ember of Rax's irritation into something hotter. He dove deeper into Blake's thoughts, hunting for weakness—but where most minds were orderly fortresses to be besieged, Blake's consciousness flowed like quicksilver. Stats and surface data slipped through Rax's mental grasp: class designations, skill assessments, fragments about that peculiar weapon. But each time he reached for something substantial, Blake's thoughts seemed to shift and slide away, maddeningly fluid, refusing to be pinned down. The harder Rax pushed, the more elusive the Human's deeper secrets became.
"A Roadwarden," Rax mused, latching onto the class information and circling his prisoner. "How appropriate. Placing yourself between order and chaos, imagining you can maintain some delicate balance." His organic hand clenched as once more the human's mind slipped away from his attempts to push deeper. "But there is no balance here. Only strength and weakness. Power and submission."
"You practice that speech in the mirror?" Blake's tone remained infuriatingly even. "Because I've got to say, the delivery needs work. Maybe try it with more hand gestures?"
Rax's cybernetic arm whirred as his fingers flexed. Above them, camera drones hummed into position, their lenses focusing on the confrontation. Good. Let them all witness what happened to those who challenged true power.
"Your attempts at wit won't save you," Rax said, injecting absolute certainty into his voice. "Soon every rebel, every dissenter, every fool who dared stand against me will watch as I break their supposed champion. They'll see how pathetically outmatched you are without your toys and trinkets."
He gestured, and one of his guards tossed Blake's confiscated knife onto the deck with a metallic clatter. The restraints fell away a moment later, leaving Blake free to retrieve his weapon.
Blake rolled his shoulders, working out the stiffness from the bindings. His movements were precise, economical—a predator's grace that spoke of real combat experience. But what was experience against Rax's true cultivation? Against the power Rax had spent years developing?
"One chance," Rax offered, letting his mana manifest in crackling perriwinkle arcs around his cybernetic arm. "Kneel. Pledge loyalty. I could use someone with your skills, once you've been properly... adjusted."
Blake's response was to pick up his knife, testing its edge with his thumb. "I don't know what you think is happening here. Pass."
The casual rejection stoked Rax's temper, but he forced his expression to remain coldly amused. "Your death will serve a greater purpose," he declared, raising his voice to carry to the watching crowd. "When they see you fall, when they understand the futility of resistance, order will be restored. The weak will remember their place."
"Lot of talk about strength for a coward who ran from an archaeologist," Blake observed, settling into a loose fighting stance. "Makes me wonder what you're compensating for."
Rax turned toward the nearest camera drone, letting his anger cool into something more controlled. More theatrical. His cybernetic arm crackled with energy as he raised it, commanding attention.
"My people," he projected his voice with practiced authority. "Today you witness more than mere violence. This is tradition—sacred combat between two cultivators of opposing paths." He gestured expansively, playing to his audience. "Here stands a wanderer who would spread chaos through our streets. Who would destabilize the very order that keeps you safe."
The cameras hummed closer, their lenses catching the purple light that danced between his mechanical fingers. Perfect.
"I have given him the chance to yield with honor. To join us in strength. But he chooses weakness—and so we must settle this as the ancients did. Through trial by combat." Rax's organic hand brushed his chest in a formal salute. "Let all bear witness to the price of disorder."
He faced Blake again, noting the Human's steady stance and unwavering gaze. Such a simple mind, no doubt filled with brutish thoughts of physical combat. Rax's lips curled. He would take great pleasure in showing this creature the true meaning of cultivation, breaking him piece by piece with the power of his magnificent mind.