The centipede-like monstrosity did not take kindly to the boldness of the metal-clad, tiny cat-like intruder and pounded on him in an attempt to swallow him whole, to teach the impudent thing to pay attention to the apex predator before him. Unfortunately for the self-perceived apex predator, for one with keen senses trained in the arts of war, such as Malcolm, the rudimentary charges of the beast did not amount to much. Malcolm quickly dodged to the side and sliced a few of the arm appendages, making the creature shrill in an ear-rupturing high pitch that threw him off balance long enough for the other, unable to turn in time and capitalize on the momentum in the form of a finishing bite, to throw his truck-sized body towards Malcolm, crushing him against the wall.

The monster relaxed, thinking the battle was over, and made a slow turn to have a good meal, but then a sharp pain coursed through his body as the rusted blade, blood-covered and now shimmering in the dim firelight, bisected it as Malcolm used the cave walls as leverage to make the cut even deeper. The creature, in a desperate attempt to recompose or at least flee with its life, put too much strain on the damaged tissue, and its body snapped like an old rope. The creature's innards spilled all over the floor, but the corruption had made it stronger and hard-willed. The sight of its own blood, the outrage of that minuscule thing looking at him with ridicule, was all it took to spark the savagery back to action. Malcolm held his own as the creature charged one last time. It knew it wouldn't survive this encounter, and that made it attack with reckless abandon, like a point-blank released bolt heading straight for Malcolm's head, the thing projected itself using its own blood to further propel the charge.

Malcolm was ready to meet the beast with his sword, the ferrous will of the warrior against the blind madness of the touched, a flimsy sword held in front of him that looked like a toothpick held in front of the aberration like a charm against a demon. Malcolm closed his eyes. At the very last moment, he sidestepped, and the creature blew itself apart against the cavern walls, making the whole system shake and threaten to collapse. The being was no more. Malcolm sighed and collapsed to the floor. The beast had certainly been resilient and thick-headed. He closed his eyes and rested for a bit.

As he imagined that instead of the hard, cold floor, his body was laying on a feathered mattress, a feeling of unease made him shiver; all those years in the trenches had made him develop a sixth sense for when someone, or in this case, something was observing him. His eyes opened reluctantly, and all the illusion crumbled apart as the grating sand feeling in his eyes and the stench of rot threw him back to the present.The little plagebringers where now looking at him (those who still had eyes to see) with a glint of admiration, soon they started to pour into the room and prostrated to their knees. Malcolm couldn't read their thoughts but his intuition told him that they wanted him to get rid from the beast from the get-go, and that's why they have been so generous.

He lifted his body from the ground and shuffled around a bit before regaining composture. He then, ignoring the newly adquired devotees, procedeed to look for whatever thing has so deeply affected the slaughtered being. While the thing was large enough to cause him significant trouble, it felt more confortable in small, enclosed spaces, so the room was actually quite small.

Nevertheless it took several minutes for Malcom to search, not due the darkness but because he throughly searching, high and low, papating the ocher rocks, and yet nothing appeared out the ordinary. As he roved the room, more and more creatures filled it, and along with them came the nauseating smell of disease.

Then it occurred to him, his vision shifted until resting above the bissected, crushed being. "It's not possible. It cannot be..." He mumbled, but a presence, an small whisper in the acrid air told him it was quite the opposite. Sighing, he made his way to the carcass, and looking away started to dig through the viscous remains. The gooey viscerae slip through his hands like a handful of gore worms, and while the task was revolting it soon payed off.

A shard of something, a dull crystal's hard texture stood out. Fishing it out Malcolm soon tossed it towards the one of the diseased. It resemblance a thin spike, very regular and smooth cracked in the end, somewhat like a dull needle. Still stunned by the revelation that The Source was lodged in the beast's brain, before even being able to concider the implicances of that, the diseased nearest to the shard grabbed it and jumped joyous, showing it off to the others. Malcolm's eyes widened as the creature stabbed itself with the shard, then... Nothing happened. No strange mutations, no collapsing on to the floor or drawining in a pool of its own blood. It didn't seem to have felt any pain thought that might have been partly due to the leper-like affliction that whitened its skin.

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Malcolm approached him and the plagued appeared distraught for a moment, he motioned to dislodge the shard out his body but he gestured him to stop. The others gave a step back and stared espectatly at Malcolm, who already familiar with handling punishments grabbed the shard-plagued by the arm and tossed him to the corner of the room, moving his hand to command the others to back away. Malcolm rubbed his chin, looking in deep thought

"I feel bad to just call you experiment #1, but you can't tell me your name. Well, if anything goes wrong you'll be the first martyr to the cause in the farlands, so (with forgiveness of my lord) a Martyr's name would be apt"

The plagued scratched its arm and a a piece of the flesh fell off, releasing a small spray into the air. He started pondering on a hero of great bravery but little wits, someone whose acts he recognized but a character that he didn't admire.

He recalled when the mundanes first pushed the residents of his hometown into what later would be known as Erebus.

The great fortress-city, Cermitas. It was a peaceful day within the city, partly thanks to the town's residents being more invested into farming and animal tending than other more devotional or warlike activities, when it all came down.

It was sunset, the setting sun dyed orange the horizon and the billowing smoke of a farm plot razed by the mundane army forewarned Cermitas defendors. A legion of well trained soldiers, all with specialties of their own, above those winged survayed the incoming army. The hell-hound-like mounts hoofed the ground as the enemy battalion approached, "Incoming!" shouted the scout, snow-white banners and silver-armored mundanes hastly marched towards the Tenebri army, undauted. There was a moment of great silence as both armies came into sight, and then deafening shouts and blowing horns cued the battle's commence. Arrows rained on the speeding chariot's and blasts of magic exploded in the middle of the battlefield Holy magic protected the invadors from taking great damage, and soon the defendor's party mounted troops were forced to engage. The sight of nightmarish creatures, multi-headed beings with viperine aspects whose bites could corrode the flesh so fast it would die and rot on that very moment would sent common enemy soldiers into hasty retreat, ghastly and regretful.

Then, with little effort the Tenebri would pick up those panicking troops from the rear. That's why the mundanes had never dared attack them, much less in such scale. Soon it became clear that fear was not something that the knight's of Divine Radiance Elyria knew.

Even if the battle started with the Tenebri forces ahead, the mundane battalions' fearless charge broke formation, and then all hell broke loose. Even though the moonless night had already fallen, a light started to come from the horizon: an unnatural glow surrounded the Knights, and their stoic posture was replaced by one of frenzy and bloodlust. Even through the closed helmets, the Tenebri could see the maddened, wicked laughter that possessed the soldiers. When their natural armor no longer provided any protection and their claws and fangs could not dent the Knights' armor, then the defenders realized that the False Gods were not to be trifled with.

Before they could tactically adapt, half their force had already fallen. An order had been sent by the major to evacuate the citizens through magic circles, but that would take time they did not have. The enemy forces were already at the gates when Captain Kantor of the ranged battalions took a decision little Malcolm understood, yet always felt guilty about: He commanded all airborne forces to deliver magic payloads as suicide squads, diving into the middle of enemy ranks.

The priest gave their blessing to the soldiers, and they did not hesitate, for their family lives depended on it. All the forces with Kantor spearheading sowed chaos in the battlefield, buying the city just enough time to evacuate most of its citizens. As little Malcolm was teleported away along with his aunt, he looked towards the blazing explosions and he cried, as if he was an accomplice to the death of all those men and women, as if he had pointed the finger for them to sacrifice themselves so that he could live. He still remembered his wails, muffled by the battle cries, magical explosions, and clashing steel.

He looked at the rotten little being, who still had the shard lodged in the middle of his chest, and half-smiled to himself. "Well, Kantor, I'll need you to stay here for now. You two, he doesn't move, got it? I have a few things to attend to" as he gave his back to Kantor, his gaze sharpened. His eyes weren't smiling