The monk stifles his curses. He was no longer a shipscrew working for the Navigator Coalition; actually, he wasn't ever one of them; he worked for an outsourced company in service for the famous Navigator Coalition. How much he was fooled. How much he was drained to the bone, working in endless shifts, drinking stamina potions like coffee, and it indeed tasted like one ast least.
That job was pure slavery, and how many billions or trillions of people needed to do just that to keep the Navigator Coalition machine working? The coalition always gets its expensive fees and pays crumbs to the unqualified workers. These crumbs were their way of saying they didn't hire slaves or nulls, to keep their expensive fees, and to calm the most vehement protectors of liberty.
And who is to say that the workers are unqualified? They were unqualified for not being "blessed by the lines." I had a weak connection to the neutral line, but that didn't change how they looked to me the same way they looked to ordinary people.
I'm now free of the shackles, but how much did I need to be convinced to take out the shackles myself? It seems like yesterday that I entered the sacred halls of the monastery, guided by a whim, wanting to break the routine a bit. There, I learned that people weren't ordinary without a reason; they were ordinary because the price was too high to transform someone who wasn't blessed into one.
Why use the resources on weak people when you can improve the ones that are already blessed by the lines? Let them feed our machine. Slavery wasn't rare; in some places they were really open, and people just accepted; the ones that didn't were killed or worse. Even the autruistic groups know that the price of changing it through force is too high.
My monastery, one of the uncountable branches of Karma, knew the way to go. If you can't change the players, why don't you change the game? Sorry, they didn't say it exactly like that. I have to say that I really love to play some Truco, and trying to cheat my way to victory is my sin to bear.
So excuse me when I said that their objective was incredible appealing: if karma doesn't exist, why don't we make it real? They already accomplished in some sectors of the known universe enough for it to become strongholds; our monasteries could be cut down like grass, but they would sprout again with retribution. Some places knew that it was a job without end, so they just let them be, only trying to stop the emergence of new ones, although half of the time they were too late.
I'm still a lowly acolyte, but look at me; the karma line connected with me; my weak neutral line connection is broken, sacrificed. What I gained was the power I earned through my positive deeds, enduring suffering, and desire to change the universe. To think that a young, scrawny guy could face a Blight Squad head on, they weren't even a decorated official one, lacking a division, but nonetheless, my younger self would die from just a weak tap from one of them.
Sadly, I'm still not strong enough to fight in this state against these warriors; that missile launcher shouldn't reach the hands of the Emperor of Creation engineers. It took all of me to destroy it, losing my eye to power the spell alone. They could have had more of these weapons; they could have already sent the blueprint, but it didn't matter; destroying that one would save some lives.
A life that I wanted to save for sure was of that null, that look in his eyes, his way of acting; he looked like the numerous junkies I have seemed, especially in my past work, where people needed just a boost to keep on living. It didn't seem to be one that only gave him artificial pleasure, though; his power seemed abnormal and erratic.
The majority of companies use such tactics; they sell you the cure, but with a worse poison hidden within. The monk looks with his healthy right eye, a glowing energy surging from his brown irises, taking a glance at the Null, Orc, Farmungus, and the decaying golem of the Gemsteele. The group, even though separated and lacking any semblance of true teamwork, fought in unison, all desiring to survive and finish the Blight Squad warrior.
That is enough. The monk looks with wonder as their fighting takes a turn around, as the crystal golem makes the warrior throw his machine gun away, the crystal beast following the gun and pummeling it on the ground. Its punches fracture the ground and weapon alike.
"They did their work; it's time for me to do mine", the monk's glowing brown irises took on a red tint again. Glancing again at the battle he is part of, he sees a stalemate. Icaro recovered from his fall; when he was shot down by a missile, his body was badly burned and wounded, and his broken body needed all his strength to stay upright. Something about the weapon seemed to have an effect against regeneration; even after the monk gave him a potion, his wounds didn't recover much.
Anti-healing capabilities. Surprising. It's ridiculously expensive to do that for a tier-VIII weapon, unless it's peak. Most tier-VII weapons have at least some sort of effect against healing, a constant war of who has the better lance and who has the best shield. Why did they waste money on a lower weapon? I just wish it would not be cheap to replicate it if another sample of this weapon exists somewhere. Destroying it in the beginning is the right call.
The Gentlemen is throwing some punches at the armored warrior. The Blight warrior is evading with mastery, his red armor glowing and his movement fluid, like he isn't wearing the power armor at all. The warrior had time to counterattack and try to finish the behemoth, but each time he tried to, the two mages cast spells against him, arranting him to use the dome or evade.
Before, even with the wound on his thorax, he could give some counterattacks, one of which broke the leg of the lightning mage, but with the advent of the barely recovered Icaro, all he could do was take his time, waiting for them to tire out or the ice mage to die from his wounds.
I still wonder why the Ceruelean Baroness calls him The Gentlemen instead of gentleman; could it have a hidden meaning?
Stolen novel; please report.
The monk tried to walk furtively with the Blight warrior's back in sight. Concentrating his right eye with all the mana he could, after this shot he will become totally blind, death an obvious conclusion.
He could now take good luck at the fighters back, and that look was all he needed; an opportunity like that wouldn't show up again soon.
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Near the monk, in the opposite direction, another fighter tried to hold back the Blight warrior. Sparks flowed out of her hands; her lightning resistance was all but gone. The spasms and burning started to seep into her skin and muscles all over her arms. She didn't have hope to kill the fighter until she glanced beyond the back of the slave of the emperor at a red light that shone like a star. She knew what it could be.
Surprise and hope showed in her face, and before she knew it, the blight squad warrior changed his poise. No, dumb, dumb, dumb. Fearing the worst, the dark haired woman unleashed her spell, forgetting about control, mana consumption, and her wounds. She just let go.
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The Blight Squad warrior had already used most of his mana reservoir; the battle against these blasphemers was worse than he could imagine. The AI that administered the research station seemed to be corrupted. Could The Wrong filth reach even here?
The Ceruelean Baroness made a deal that John had no choice but to accept. He still didn't know if this situation was in her plans or if she underestimated the weapon's power. That wasn't the main part of the deal, though; he needed to confirm Maximilliam's suspicion about the research station, and he had thought that the AI herself showing autonomous control of the base would prove it.
He sent all he could infer about the AI and who would have made the alterations to her sacred code. His squad was sent here when all hell had already broken loose everywhere he knew in the universe, and probably in places he didn't either. What Maximiliam could do with the information he got was his problem; the AI cut John's communication again after he delivered his message, and now his only job was to survive this shithole.
I need to deal with this beast. John made a faint to the right, only for changing direction mid-swinging, a flaming scarlet energy covered the sword, amplifying the sword just enough to cut his head horizontally, half of The Gentlemen's head falling to the ground, its hat supernaturally still in place.
That will keep him occupied for a while. Before John could increase his advantage, he heard the sound of an electric current, just in time to swing his head and see the origin of it. The lightning mage didn't want to make it easier, especially now that she seemed to forego caution and cast a spell too strong for someone like her. I don't like that face. Is that hope, little heretic?
He activated his dome again, this time on full power. Defending against the sparks that rained like worms seeking shelter in the earth against the rain, these sparks, though, wanted to burrow themselves on his skin and flesh.
That wasn't what he was preoccupied with, though; what was most alarming was what his instints told him was behind—the look of the foolish mage only but confirmed. Spinning with all the dexterity he could muster, he saw a laser attack, thick as a young tree trunk, flying straight at his head. His curved posture and loss of a controlled stance, as well as the unphatomable speed of the projectile, made it all but impossible to evade.
With his control, which was above average for his incarnation, the blight warrior concentrated his mobility spell on his muscles, the power armor mimicking him and doing the same in its metal shell. His hand moves with the speed of a speedster, but there was a reason he didn't use both the armor and his spell at the same time, especially at such concentration.
Before the laser could even hit its gauntlet hands, his arm tore itself like a blender, his bones fracturing and winding up, his flesh looking more like grinded meat. The power armor is becoming a container for his arm; its automatic safety is already giving up on his arm, cutting it off and stopping the bleeding and the destructive force from continuing in the rest of his body. The warrior, with the help of the anesthesics implanted in the armor, endured the pain.
The laser finally hits. Foregoing precaution, he deactivates most of the dome, making it resemble a bowl of energy, and concentrates it against the laser. The sparks from the lightning, although lessened, found their way to his body, but he endured them even as wounds started to appear and his body started to spasm.
Again, the power armor helped administer the necessary medicine so he could keep fighting. It's a suicide mission, but they really didn't save on the coffing. As the last of the red light reached his arm, or what remained of it, he ignored the lump of metal and carbonized flesh and ran back as fast as he could as soon as he saw Icaro.
He had seen this ice spell before. One of John's trainers boasted about how many heretics he killed with it, an explendid spell that could ensure a strong enough Touched, to kill someone even in the early-Blessed incarnation in one hit. An arrow of ice that, in contact, would try to freeze solid anything that it touched, like an otherworldly corruption, a second, and something as big as a whale would freeze; the more powerful the target, the slower it is to spread, still fatal to anything beneath Blessed as far as he knows.
It had two downfalls: one was the low area of contact the arrow had, but it could be eliminated if the target was near, like he was. The second one: whoever watched it being cast one time would remember the first steps of the spell, and most importantly, killing the mage before they finished.
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Icaro looked panicked as the Blight warrior dashed at him. A small, silver-colored ball of liquid vibrated above his open hands; it wasn't enough time for the ice mage to finish casting the [Frozen Ice Arrow]. He is afraid of dying, but he was so much more afraid of dying without doing any damage to his killer. Even the lightning mage did some damage to the emperor's dog, even though what survived was her burned corpse.
Accepting his death, he squeezed the silver-colored liquid in his hand, looking straight at the warrior's helmet, flickering two droplets of the silver colored liquid that now started to glow. His body started to freeze solid, starting from his hand and expanding all to his body. The sword moved to cut his neck. Icaro wondered who would be first to kill him; sadly, the sword was faster.
Sliced through, Icaro's decapitated head started falling to the ground, and to his satisfaction, he saw two of the droplets fall on the warrior's chest, freezing centimeters of that area solid. The power of the ice arrow was greatly diminished, but at least some of the Blight warrior flesh and organs would be wounded.
I could do without these last moments of life. Now, seconds before dying, Icaro's head fell to the ground; his head position was good enough for him to see his group and what awaited them. The blight squad warrior neared the burned corpse; he walked slowly, like an old man. Icaro smiled at that, until the warrior pierced the lightning mage's head, killing her.
Icaro already felt the grips of death nearing, but an unexpected happening occurred before it. What's he doing?! In the next life, I will be a monk in your respect if you kill that bastard somehow; you fought well. See you soon. That was the last thought of Icaro as he watched the blind monk hug John from behind, a peaceful smile on his face—a world of difference from the murderous aura that the calm monk emanated.