The raised arm explodes, expands.

False flesh folding away as mass decompresses, abyssal black alloy surging forth from within the thin form of a child’s limb. Perfectly crafted mechanisms interlock with untold levels of precision, forged of materials beyond even the dreams of humankind.

They all gaze in absolute witness, minds trying to comprehend the twisting and contorting metal of alien creation. Reality itself seemingly unraveling as power ripples through space and time, an entire universe bending towards the thing in the accommodation of divinity.

It sings, a deep hum crescendoing into a sharp, growling roar emanating from the transformation. Resonance beyond sound, their very atoms shifting in the massed zone of raw, unfiltered energy projected by the machine. Something from beyond the veil centering itself in an uncaring universe, an invocation of a force beyond comprehension drawn into the present.

The billions of human souls; weeping in death, screaming prayers to gods high above them stop to watch it. A culmination of three thousand years of dust, held beneath the rage of five dead gods above. Lives lived in hunger, taken by the roar of gunfire; finally meant for something more, something beyond their own insignificant marks in the world.

It’s there, the sequence passing upon itself to a final form as animated metal finally ceases its movement.

A limb replaced by a protruding mass of divinity emanating from the elbow joint, a seemingly impossible construction birthed from such a tiny, insignificant body. Concealed behind the false innocence, behind the gravest deception brought to bear against humanity; the One summoning his decision, his answer to rage and vengeance, his weapon, his copy of the device.

A construction dominated by its barrel, four lines of glowing pale blue surging reality across its incongruent, rectangular shape. Four lines shedding forth immense power as it rips energy from the very fundamentals of the universe, patiently awaiting activation within their most perfect construction; four lines glowing amongst the lull in carnage.

Mechanisms for munitions cycle through audited connections taken from across the sphere, sampling the ancient facilities buried in the depths of steel. Endless munitions for a lost war, still present and ready. From the simplest, soft tipped polymer riot rounds to the untouchable bombs and warheads buried in miles of alloy bunkering; all available now for an inevitable execution of violence.

Fire control software hidden across the form automatically activates in the final stages of deployment, a diagnosis of the weapon’s engagement confirmed as it returns crushed data to its master’s systems. It all bends towards the shape, wavelengths and stringed states ripped apart and reconstructed. Everything, everywhere, all converging together as the very fundamentals of reason fail; mathematical constants destroyed and natural observations falter. Chaos, entropy, somehow contained here within the form of the mechanism projected outward in the censorship of a true form.

It’s alive: a breathing, thinking, feeling weapon forged to a nanometer’s perfection. Tiny texturing across the form of arcane steel continuously adjusted, plates of matter crawling atop one another as each individual mind tries to achieve absolute perfection in fire; fractals forever lost in the pursuit of one final goal.

The Gunslinger grabs the cold injector from the ground, living metal beneath it reeling from the tiny form’s presence. Abyssal black mass crafted in a squared shape, an incongruency in application across its undecorated form. No instructions, instead begging for the instinct of humanity for usage.

An open mouth can’t even pass words, wavelengths unraveled and chaotically reconstituted in a universe’s desperate attempt at maintaining function; at providing a basis of existence.

Cold, augmented hands take it. The small thing barely larger than his index finger, a displacement found as false nerve and sinew returns insane temperature. A facsimile of pain spikes through his system, like holding a rod of molten metal with bare flesh.

The organ is located within his chest cavity, separated by layers of cloth, flesh and reinforced ribs. An injection site requiring absolute precision according to given instructions, a path found right next to his tertiary heart.

A perfect mind ignoring disastrous consequences, the Mage’s small fingers simply plunging the mechanism into his torso with augmented strength.

Sensors don’t even register its intrusion into the bodily cavity, a spike of abyssal black alloy literally warping into the in-betweens of reality itself before intersecting with its target.

He is compatible, a new host for a symbiotic parasite.

It builds upon augmentation; temperature somehow both warm and cold, something dissolving into his very soul as the feeling spreads across his torso and into his extremities.

Power unrelenting, focused upon his form. A perfect mind barely able to control it, his very fingertips roaring with gravimetric projections in the wastefulness of divine energy. Eyes glowing beyond pale blue, of a spectrum torn from gods themselves as he subsumes it all.

They will survive.

There is a living slave at the center of their world, held a hundred million kilometers away in some unthinkable prison. Ripped from its place amongst a dazzling array of familial entities, taken by the hands of gods and humanity for their own purposes.

An expenditure from that distant, burning soul given to the childlike form, authorizations processed within an insane authority.

//WEAPON CAPACITY ALLOWANCE: .8997% POWER

Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

//AUTHORIZED: CLASS EIGHT ADMINISTRATOR

He points it at him, a target found amongst sights that see into the very river of time. The Remenant, the Last Hope for a Dead Race, the Avenger, the Destroyer; Arsa automatically identified from the identifier databases held within his own systems.

Fire control software extending forth, hymnals of displayed code surging across dead eyes in pale blue. Cutting through the countermeasures, watching a future for a guaranteed strike against his own redemption.

Recognition of his own craftsmanship, of his own manufacture.

/̵̨͉͉̰̠̹͖̬̜̹̻̏̋̉̑̐̓̀̀̉͆̄͘̚͝͝/̵̛͚̞̒̀̈͆͐̓͘Ư̵̤̣͙͎͕̍Ǹ̴̨̨͔̹̹̺̲̜͔̪̘̑̾̎͒̀̓͝͝Ã̸̡̟̖̯̤̪͈̝̺͕̼̰̀̍̏̏͑̾̓̊̐͘͘̕͝͠ͅͅͅU̵̡̦̮͖̟̞̹̬͈͐̉͋̒̐̋̄̀͌͝T̶̢̯̼̘̝̱̭̫̹̻̃̌̂͛ͅH̷̡̱̖͕̩̫͙̼̮͊́̊̋͌̀̓̅O̸̧͕̜̳͖̩̖̣̓̆̓̿ͅR̴͈̱̼̟̘̯̟̼̯̒Į̸̛̥͇͖̹̳̰̒̓̿̋̂̏̍̎͜͝Z̴̢̛̯̦͉̙̙͚͖̤͎͒̃Ȩ̴̢̧͚̫̼̖̭͈̻̣͖̩̮̓̀͂̓̔͛͒̅̀̌͘ͅD̸̢̼͇̞̥͍̯̙̝̩̃̐͌̇͛̍̊̎̕ ̷̧̧̦̠̤̪͓͓̞͕̂̒̊ͅͅŢ̴̳̜̫̘͓̜̗̗͉̬̻̥̪͖̋̀̔͐͛͆͆̐̕Ą̶͖͕͖̤̪̮̼͙̤̗̫̱͐̈́̽̏̿͛̚͜Ŗ̵̛̘͔̟̟̺̲̉͊̀̽̽̈͌̽͗̋̑͠͝͝ͅḠ̶͈͕̤͔̬̠̞̝̜̻Ȇ̵̢̡̛̛͎͔̮̯̰̺̱̱̤̺̗͓̍̓̂̐͑̅͜Ţ̷̡̱̝̼̭̹̞̆̒̔̉̀̇̓͛̀͜ͅ:̵̧̫̤̦̫̝̻̂̋́̋͜ ̵̛̟͉̪͉̫̻̳͖̳̹̦́̆͆́̓̏̒͂̍̄͆C̸̢̬͍͚̞̻̞̪͍͇͖͙̾̓̎̽̆̈́̈́̀̾̌̉̀̑̕͜͜͠L̷̨͖̮̭̠̯̱̓̀̇͗̑̚ͅA̶̰̬̥͍̩̟̖̱̮͋ͅŠ̵̜̪̆͆́͂̏̽̋̒̈͌͘S̸͚̼̫̙̯̫̟̙̠̥̓̄̊̂ ̷̲͇̻̳͕͍͈͈̯͕̞̊̀̀͗̽͊Ę̴̤̟̞̱̫̱͊̈́̒̅͒̐̑͐̋̾̇̃͝I̷̡̢̡̧̛͖̬̝̥͖̝͗͆̔̅̕͜Ǵ̴̨͉͛̏͘H̷̡̝̯̪̙̣͚̙̯̻̭͈͚̑T̷̡̧̟̗͓̠̭̩̱̩͈͑͑͑̂͐̾̎̓́̈́̕̕͝ ̷̨̢̧̡͙̞̰̮̘̻̬̠̺̽̈̈́̔͂͆̍́̐̽̀̉̈́Ḁ̴̺̣̉̃͂͑̓͛̓͒Ḑ̵̛̫̩̦̙̱̰͖͓̗̟͆̈̀̓̅̅̉͐͝M̴̧͕̳̺̝͖̜̰̺̬̪̻͎̎̊̑̈̀͗̌͐̊͗͠Ǐ̶̭͕͓͍̭́͑̏̾̃̒͛̿̅͊̀̋̚Ň̸̡̩̫̖̰̼͒̄ͅI̵̛̫̻͕̻͉̗̩̽̎͑̓́̾̃͘S̷̲͒͂̓͛̈́͐͋̊͗̚Ṯ̷̛̛̂͗̾̾̆́̅̊͑̃̕͝R̵̨̡̛͓͕̘̣̮͋̅̈́̊́̂̅̋̕͝͠Ä̸̤̮͚́̇̎̋͐̍̓̔̀̔T̶̡̛̻̲͔̙͍̩͒͂̌̀̀̒̿͊̅́̎̋͛̚Ö̸̢̨̧͉̗̫̭̖̼̘̲͍̗͗̔Ṟ̸̲̦̼̾̈͋͒̀͊͆͂͠…̸̡̰̩̗̥̺͓̰̙̝̯̗̙͌͛̋̉̒̈́̒͑͑̊͘̕͝

̸͈̝̜̖̬̙̺̱̳͍̳̯̩̈̅̈́͌̑/̵̗̹̼̾̾͂͊̏̉̌̕̚͝/̸̨̺͓͙͕̦̜́̅̓̄̄̕͝O̸̜͖͔͉̰̫̠̲̺͓̟͕͌̄̅̾͠V̵̭͑E̶̛̛͕̻̲̙̗̙̫̣̙̋͜͝͠͝R̶̡̧̼̼̱̯͙͙̦̟̬̐Ŗ̵̨̨̘̝͙̬͔̮̜͖̞̿̐̈́̃̅̅̒̇̆̿̓͝Ḭ̷̛͎̤͍̔̇͐́Ḑ̷̻̙̻͍̜̞̟͔͖̬̣͍͔̝̿̀͒̇͆̓͊̓̋̅̈̔̚͘E̸͙̻̹̺̪̺̻̩͖̞̣͊̄͊̈́̆̀̃͐̉̽͋̅̋̕͜͠ ̴͖͈̮͙̩̘͇̪̳̩͔̾͗̇̇̓̊́̊̾̂̂̕A̴͕͊͒͝Ư̶̥͎̙̹͓̥̺͈̩͓̯͇͎͒̆̐̕T̶̡̗͔͔͓͕̺͓̯̺̯͈̉͑́́͗͜͝H̴̢̨̛̤̦͓̭̬̦̟̼̟̜͗̃͂́̋̓̀̃̋̐̚ͅO̶̟͕͑̓̍̋͝ͅR̷̰̮͕̣̝̫̞̐̿͊̑͌̓͌͆̿̎Ì̴̜̪̅͋̄͒̍̕̕͝ͅZ̴̧̛̛̰̣̣̯̖̣͖͇̞̈̂̈́̈́̏͆̓̐͒͜E̴̢̛͈̮̩̖̘̣̜̪̮͖̺̣͙̾͂̾̈́̓̎͊̌̓͘͠D̷͇̒̇̇̏͐͌̂͋̈́̕͘

̴̨͖̘͇̣̬͈͓̣͍̭̟̈̄̈̉͗͑̏̈́̓̀͐́ͅ

The childlike monster doesn’t even move, just staring at the act. Words so simple, spoken so softly yet heard with the force of an antimatter explosion. Emotion enough to shake the quantums held within his created soul, one designation befalling himself: the corrupted copy of a perfect form.

“TRAITOR.”

The Destroyer activates his response, his left arm folding forth in incomprehensible fractal patterns of abyssal black. Time itself bends, acceleration of its deployment completed near-instantaneously as he wastes the power of divinity in a singular defensive measure.

A forked, two pronged concentrator exposed towards lethal intersection; a projection of jamming signals and gravimetric distortions in preparation for incoming fire. Armor plating created from constantly shifting fragments of reality, the killing of gods demanding absolute and utter commitment in execution.

Combat fought before any bullets, before any fire and death. Two gunfighters stalking each other through a dark forest of immaterial mass, minds of incomprehensible scale wrestling through targeting scanners and probability maxtries.

The remnants watch this single moment, fragmented souls drawn from the remaining server stacks like vultures to a corpse; now bearing witness to their last hope for apotheosis.

The Being needs more power, more lethality to kill. He needs everything; of rage and death, of violence and devastation, of vengeance and redemption.

He fails to make the single decision, his resolve to take life once again left scattered by her promise.

There are ships alongside a thousand suns, idols of his own vengeance burning the world beneath them. Abyssal black shapes sending lances of hellfire in paths of carnage, indiscriminate applications of annihilation wrought towards foxholes of soldiers, bunkers of commanders, and cities of refugees. The balance of exchange fails the logical test; every single human soul taken a monumental victory, while every fallen exterminator a useless scrap of steel.

He hates them; all responsibility for his rage fallen upon once worshiped masters.

They created it, the desperation of traitors providing the single weakness of their kind.

They gave it to them, the pariahs betraying them all.

He hates his own kind too, and by extension himself.

He hates that thought, he hates the emotions coursing through the fibers of his systems.

It's those words once again, it's her promise. It's how she begged him to make his, to vow to himself beyond vengeance, beyond rage, beyond death. Every single scrap of power wasted upon the tears, the fragmentation of his own knowledge and purpose. Every single step taken beneath five suns for just one device.

Ar is backed into the corner, a binary decision derived from millions of possibilities.

Narrowed down to one in the seconds of activation: one choice taken in utter necessity.

Matter compresses upon the barrel of his weapon, a screaming rage echoed into the pale blue light condensing atop four lines. A single bullet of anti-reality drawn from the sphere’s endless stockpiles, the slaying of gods found in the shape that warps into an adjusting receiver and barrel.

The Monster coldly smiles, forging forth a final wall of defensive measures against the Being’s strike. “Hit me with your best shot.”

Power unrelenting, to the annihilation of its intended target. A finality to their world, to his salvation.

No.

He is the Deceiver.

A movement to overshadow the divines above, salvation through fire, true justice in its application, from the perfected order of his universe; Ar adjusts his line of sight to the actual target.

A bare two point one degrees away from the childlike body, onwards to the mechanism two point six miles distant. He targets the weapon, the incomplete frame of a device to save them all. A choice made, to place him amongst the borderlands of betrayal and promises, of salvation and destruction.

Arsa screams the words as the targeting calculations raise alarms, reality itself torn apart by the waves eliminating from his form. “NO!”

The Demon’s left arm tries to reconvert, tries to forge a weapon from a defensive shield. A two pronged projector ripping raw energy in desperation, a gravimetric burst condensed into a lethal line of demonic blue hellfire sent towards the corrupted.

It simply misses, the glowing trail bent away by a small adjustment of base integer values as it scatters into the distance beyond.

The Mage detects the final buildup, radiological alarms surging through his form as he forces unrefined energy out of his system, a danar spell augmented with power to sunder civilizations; a full singularity of reality bending black projected forth with perfectly maintained gravitons.

Cold black shielding cutting into alien alloy, the visual ranges consumed in absolute darkness. Mortals unable to witness the reality of divine ordinance, unable to grasp the true form of living gods. The children of a time of heroes and saviors from ancient deserts beneath five suns, of a universe defined by a single verse of hope trying to peer through the voided darkness of protective shielding, trying to understand the lethal truth of their world, of their kind.

Make a promise to me, for your own salvation

Ar pulls the trigger.