As we prepared to advance toward the Helm, I turned to my companions, considering the battles that likely awaited us.

"Before we proceed," I began, "would either of you like a new weapon? Something more suited to the challenges ahead?"

Karlach let out a chuckle, hefting her spectral battleaxe with an exaggerated flourish. "Oh, he's serious," she said, amused by the skeptical looks Shadowheart and Lae'zel were giving me. "That's how I got this thing! He just—bam—handed it to me like it was nothing."

Shadowheart frowned. "Handed it to you? But... where exactly did it come from?", she asked, pointing at my shirtless form. "Those muscles are quite large, but they aren't well suited for obscuring hidden storage compartments."

Lae'zel scoffed, arms crossed. "We have no time for nonsense. We must hurry and take control of this ship before we all turn into ghaik."

Karlach grinned wider, her red eyes glinting with mischief. "I dunno what to tell you, but he asked if I wanted a new battleaxe, and then... poof! It was in my hands. You should humor him, trust me!"

Shadowheart glanced at her current armament—a standard-issue mace, worn from use and exposure. "Well, as long as you're offering... I could certainly use something more... effective," she admitted, then smirked slightly. "Though if you're just pulling weapons out of somewhere, I have to wonder what else you might be hiding."

"Very well," I replied. Mentally reaching into the pleasantly absurd space of my inventory, I grasped a decent looking weapon and drew it forth into the material realm.

In my hands materialized a Dragonbone Mace, which I promptly tossed over to Shadowheart. The weapon's massive head, fashioned from the skeletal remains of a dragon, bore a menacing array of jagged protrusions designed to crush and pierce with equal measure. The bone gleamed with a pale, almost luminescent hue, etched with intricate patterns that hinted at ancient draconic smithing lore. The handle, wrapped in supple leather, provided a comfortable and secure grip. In fact, the Dragonbone Mace was the best un-enchanted mace weapon in all of base-game Skyrim. Although I didn't forge this particular weapon myself, it would have had to be created by a Master Smith, since the minimum required smithing skill level to make it is level 100 (which also happens to be the maximum possible skill level obtainable without mods, cheats, or exploits). In other words, the masterpiece Shadowheart currently held in her hands represented the absolute peak of what a legendary mortal blacksmith could achieve.

And, it would seem, she could appreciate it too. Shadowheart's eyes widened slightly as she slowly moved the weapon around, testing its heft, and finding it surprisingly well-balanced.

"Thank you," she said softly, her fingers tracing the elegant contours of the weapon.

I then turned to Lae'zel. "And you, Lae'zel? Would you like a new weapon for the battle ahead?"

Lae'zel's posture stiffened, her pride evident. "Githyanki steel is superior to any human or elven forge," she declared, her hand resting confidently on the hilt of her sword.

An unfortunate answer -- but an expected one. Oh, Lae'zel -- if only you knew what good Skyforge Steel was capable of... But I nodded, respecting her choice. "As you wish."

As we steeled ourselves for the challenges that awaited at the Helm, the air grew thick with anticipation. The Nautiloid's grotesque architecture pulsed around us, its organic walls alive with a sickly, rhythmic throb. Each step we took resonated with the ship's unsettling heartbeat, a constant reminder of the alien entity that now held us captive.

Upon reaching the Helm through a round, fleshy "doorway" bearing an uncanny resemblance to a certain circular body part, we were met with a scene of utter chaos and carnage. The chamber was vast, its ceiling arching high above, adorned with pulsating veins that cast an eerie, bioluminescent glow. At the center of this macabre theater, two formidable figures clashed in a violent ballet: Commander Zhalk, a towering Cambion with two enormous horns wreathed in hellfire, and the Illithid Captain, its tentacled visage alien and unreadable.

Zhalk's presence was imposing; his crimson skin glistened with infernal energy, muscles rippling beneath armor forged in the deepest pits of Avernus. His eyes burned with a malevolent intensity, reflecting the flames that danced along the blade of his greatsword—the Everburn Blade. While nothing impressive by my standards, it looked to be a decent enough enchanted blade that emitted a constant, searing heat, its edge leaving trails of fire with each swing. The very air around it shimmered, distorting from the high temperatures.

The Illithid Captain, with its elongated limbs and eldritch, cephalopodic head, countered Zhalk's brute strength with expert psionic prowess. Waves of psychic energy emanated from the creature, distorting the space between them, causing the very fabric of reality to waver. Their duel was a clash of titans, each strike and counterstrike sending shockwaves through the chamber, rattling the very bones of the ship.

All around them, the Helm was a maelstrom of activity. Numerous lesser devils—imps and hellsboars—scurried about, their guttural snarls and screeches adding to the cacophony. Mind flayer thralls, their eyes vacant and devoid of will, moved with eerie synchronicity with each other and nearby intellect devourers, attempting to repel the infernal invaders. The scent of sulfur and burnt flesh permeated the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood.

As we entered, Commander Zhalk's gaze flickered toward us, his infernal eyes narrowing with something more than recognition. For a fraction of a second, there was calculation—an assessment of the situation, of how the tides had shifted.

"Well, well," he rumbled between swings, his voice thick with condescension and fire. "Karlach, it seems you've managed to escape on your own; though Zariel is sure to punish you for the mess you've made. Come, help me kill this thing, and let's get ba..." his burning gaze locked onto me, something akin to shock flashing across his face. "You? ....But… how are you here? The Suppression Chains..."

Karlach’s grip on her battleaxe tightened, her jaw clenching. "Zhalk," she spat in rage, her voice laced with fire. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not going back to Zariel." She took off at a run, charging directly at the Zhalk and the Illithid. "I am never going back!", she shouted.

Zhalk’s laugh was a crackling inferno, reverberating through the chamber. "Loyalty, Karlach. Something you will never understand. I was sent to retrieve you—to bring you home to the chains you are so thanklessly trying to throw away. And, of course—" his gaze slid back to me, flames licking at his teeth as he sneered, "to secure this thing. Do not worry, stranger, your time will co..!"

I didn't let Zhalk finish his monologue, of course. Instead, I decided to close the distance myself -- and, as it turns out, I was fast.

In the blink of an eye, I was behind both the Illithid and Zhalk, with only the wind and a crisp "pop" of the broken sound barrier heralding my passage. Feeling the surge of raw, unfiltered power coursing through my being, my face split in a bloodthirsty grin worthy of a battle maniac.

"I cast Fist."

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

Zhalk's eyes barely had time to widen before my fist met his chest. The moment my blow connected, the creature's entire torso exploded in a visceral eruption of bone, muscle, and burning ichor. Karlach was just in time to get covered with a face-full of devil guts. The remnants of the cambion's upper body splattered across the Nautiloid’s grotesque floor and walls, painting them in a gruesome tapestry of fire and gore.

A moment of stunned silence gripped the battlefield, but only for an instant. The imps, hell-boars, and two other cambions, hesitated, while the Illithid thralls -- ever efficient -- tried to capitalize. Unfortunately for them, I was already moving.

I spun, driving an elbow into the grotesque visage of the Illithid Captain, its skull shattering like fragile glass before a fountain of mind flayer brains and purple ichor mixed with the Cambion blood mist in the air in a smelly, macabre shower. I charged an imp next, and my leg shot out, kicking the creature and turning it into an improvised projectile. It slammed into two of its kin with a sickening crunch of broken limbs and hellish blood. Raising both hands, I wove together threads of destruction magic—motes of lightning and frost flowed between my fingertips before I unleashed a barrage of crackling energy and giant icicles into the hellish swarm.

More bodies fell quickly, charred and pierced through with spear-sized chunks of ice. I vaulted over a lunging hellsboar, gripping its tusks mid-air and twisting sharply—its head snapping off with a grotesque pop. Landing smoothly, I extended both hands, summoning a torrent of flame that roared forth like a dragon’s breath, rapidly reducing a half-dozen enemies to smoldering husks despite their innate fire resistance.

The battlefield was chaos, but I was a storm within it, a blur of fists, lightning, ice, and fury. In the eye of this storm, I was content – even happy. This was what I have been unknowingly craving ever since connecting with my character’s skill memories. This was where I belonged.

One by one, my enemies fell—each blow, from strike and spell alike, flowing together seamlessly, a beautiful symphony of destruction in which I reveled. Alas, and all too soon, the combat ended just as abruptly as it began, as I ran out of bodies to brutally dismember. The chamber quickly transitioned from a battlefield to a graveyard.

The Helm became still and silent.

The shattered remains of Zhalk smoldered weakly. The Illithid Captain was reduced to a grotesque heap of ichor and psionic residue. The devils, the thralls, the Mind Flayers… every creature that had dared stand in our way—was now a corpse. The only remaining movement in the room, other than us, came from the ship itself, its organic walls pulsing and writhing, its biomechanical nerves and veins struggling to heal the destruction we had wrought.

Without a word, I stretched out my hand.

Telekinesis flared to life, an unseen force sweeping across the battlefield like a storm wind, rapidly ransacking the fallen. Weapons wrenched themselves from limp fingers. Pieces of gold and enchanted trinkets lifted into the air. Scrolls, amulets, even Zhalk’s flaming greatsword—anything and everything of value was seized in a matter of moments, the artifacts and baubles spiraling around me before unceremoniously disappearing into my inventory without so much as a whisper.

Shadowheart, still gripping her new Dragonbone Mace, exhaled, shaking her head slightly. "You don’t waste time, do you?" she murmured. She took a moment to wipe imp blood from her cheek, eyes flickering between me and the carnage I had wrought. Her lips parted slightly, somewhere between awe and caution, before she settled on a smirk. "Remind me to stay on your good side. I rather like my insides, well, on the inside."

Karlach, still liberally spattered with Zhalk’s remains, let out a low whistle, shaking her head in admiration. "Gods above, Soldier... that was incredible. Next time, though, can you please try to aim better? This fucker left a bad taste even while alive, and I’d rather not get a face-full of devil guts again."

Lae’zel was... shaking and breathing quite hard. She wiped a streak of blood from her cheek with the back of her hand, her golden eyes flickering over me with something unreadable. As was seemingly becoming a habit for the poor githanki girl since we met, she opened her mouth, trying to say something.... but only succeeded in making a low sound that caught in the back of her throat. She quickly turned away from me, her posture unusually rigid.

Shadowheart stepped forward, glancing at the battered control console near the front of the Helm. "If this ship still functions, we should use it to get out of here," she suggested, running her hand over the strange, fleshy interface. "With the Mind Flayers dead, we may be able to steer it ourselves."

I nodded. "Do it."

She pressed her hands to the console, fingers hesitating over the writhing tendrils that pulsed above the surface like living veins before she connected one of the "nerves." The Helm's console hummed contentedly, its eerie, organic mechanisms reacting to her touch. A faint glow rippled through the ship’s structure, a low, droning hum filling the chamber as the Nautiloid responded, awakening to our command. If the game was any guide, "thrumming" the connected nerves should get us out of here!

Then, a sound—a deep, reverberating noise that was not of the ship, nor of anything natural. A tremor ran through the Helm, the very air trembling as an immense force approached. The glow of the console flickered, as if in fear.

The wall above the console was torn apart.

A deafening roar split the air, a bellow so deep it could be felt in one's bones. The armored plating and sinew of the Nautiloid’s hull ripped open like paper, and, in its place, a vast maw filled with short sword-length teeth pushed through the wreckage. A monstrous head, covered in thick, crimson scales that shimmered with molten intensity, forced its way into the Helm chamber, its golden, reptilian eyes burning with the raw fury of an apex predator.

A Red Dragon.

The sheer size of it was staggering. Its head alone dwarfed the control console, smoke curling from its nostrils, the heat emanating from its form warping the air itself. The creature’s vast wings loomed outside, their shadow engulfing what remained of the ship’s interior, casting us in an oppressive darkness broken only by the glow of its simmering breath.

For a heartbeat, everything was still.

***

Lae’zel

***

Lae’zel had lived her entire life in the presence of power. From the moment she could lift a blade, she had been trained to wield it with precision, to carve her way through the weak, to prove herself worthy of Vlaakith’s favor. She had fought and bled alongside Gith warriors, had cleaved through monsters, lesser races, and traitors alike. And above all, she had stood in the presence of dragons—the majestic steeds of her people’s conquest.

She had frequently seen the burning majesty of Red Dragons up close, had felt their heat singe the air as they took flight, their massive wings kicking up storms of dust and fire. Once, as a misguided youth, for a fleeting instant, she dared to meet the gaze of an Elder Wyrm—a beast so ancient and immense that to look into its eyes was to stare into the abyss itself. In retrospect, she was lucky to have survived the experience; that moment had been the closest she had ever come to knowing true, primal terror.

Until she met him.

When she approached him on the Nautiloid's upper deck, she had been so arrogant, so certain of her own victory. He looked strong, yes, but she had faced many strong warriors before. Strength alone meant nothing without discipline, without a honed technique and the will to dominate. Yet, in a blink of an eye, she had been rendered harmless, swept aside as though she were an untrained novice. The speed, the precision, the utter ease with which he had handled her had left her stunned, infuriated—and indeed, aroused --- in equal measure.

And then their minds had connected.

Through their ghaik parasites, she had seen into some of his thoughts, into the boundless ocean of his mind. She had expected resistance, rage, the desperate, flailing defenses of one untrained in psionics. Instead, her mind, her very sense of self, had nearly been consumed. Swallowed whole by the sheer enormity of him. His memories did not unfold in neat order, did not present themselves as the thoughts of a mere mortal. They were vast, tangled, endless. She had glimpsed moments of battle, of monstrous foes brought low with impossible ease. She had seen armies crumble beneath his hands. She had felt, for the first time, what it meant to be truly insignificant.

The Elder Wyrm encounter of her childhood had terrified her. But, compared to him? She would gladly stare a hundred Elder Wyrms in the eye rather than go through that experience again.

And yet, it was not only terror that gripped her. As she had pulled herself free from his mind, gasping as though she had been drowning, she had felt something else—something that sent heat surging beneath her skin, that made her fingers twitch against her blade. There was admiration. There was fascination. There was the undeniable thrill of knowing she stood in the presence of someone far greater than herself.

And then, she had watched him fight.

She had had the pleasure of encountering several Gish -- warriors who could competently wield both blade and spell -- in her lifetime, but never like this. He moved faster than thought, his strikes weaving seamlessly between destruction and precision. One moment, he was crushing a demon’s skull with his bare hands; the next, he was conjuring a storm of frost and lightning that obliterated his foes in an instant. His body was a weapon, his magic an extension of his will... And the way he moved ... there were no wasted movements whatsoever! Every motion had a purpose. Every strike, whether a physical blow or magical attack, flowed seemlessly into the next. He was not just absurdly powerful. No, the power she saw was honed to a lethal edge over untold periods of harsh training.

In short, what she saw.

Was.

Perfection.

Now, as she watched him calmly stand before the Red Dragon, as the others panicked or prepared to run or fight...

Lae’zel knew the truth.

The real predator in the room wasn't the Dragon.

It was the warrior standing in front of her, currently looking that Dragon dead in the eye.

It seems the Dragon had sensed this truth as well, for, as it met Harald's gaze, it suddenly stilled. Its massive form, poised for destruction, faltered. It did not snarl, did not bare its fangs in fury. Instead, it froze in place, like a disobedient child caught sneaking about after hours, or stealing sweets from a warlord’s table.

Lae’zel had spent all of her life around Red Dragons. She knew their arrogance, their boundless wrath. She had never seen one hesitate.

Harald calmly took a step forward.

The Red Dragon flinched.

The others could hardly believe their eyes. A beast that could destroy an entire village in a single breath—a terror to all realms—was recoiling. Its massive, clawed foot shifted backward, its nostrils flaring in visible distress as if scenting a predator greater than itself. Its immense wings twitched, as though preparing to retreat.

He spoke.

"Fuck. Off."

The words were simple, but the air around them reverberated with the presence of something deeper, something ancient.

As the fanged monstrosity expeditiously retreated, Lae’zel remarked to herself that she had never seen a Dragon move so fast.