“B͕̋y̵̘͌ t͏ĥ͠e̸̥̯ ̧̼͔S͐e͕͔ͦ̌v̡e̶n̒,̧̈ͬ” he began, his voice resounding through the tunnel. The warriors encircling them seemed to stop at the words. Or perhaps, was it the intent behind those words that stunned them?

“Silence, heretic! Your empty eyes hold no spirit, you have no right!” the Ecclesiarch roared. Armless continued, further increasing the volume of his voice, “I̴ ̬̟h̝̾erèb̞̄y̯̰ͦ̽̚ͅ ͜i͚ͬn̼ͫv͍̮͐̏ó̵̍ke͙̥̰ ̣̩̥͛̂̈́th́e ̸Rͦ̍̂î͛g̶̮̮͛͆h̦̗͋̃t ̂ọf ̰ͥH̖̜̉ͫe̫̫̮r͜e̸̝̦̟sy͢,̠̘̗̆̾̓” and the Ecclesiarch continued roaring orders, gesticulating wildly. “Warriors! End this farce at once!”

His warriors lurched back to movement, continuing to encircle them even as Armless spoke. He finished the sentence with "͇͙̃ͪle̡st͏̠ ́y͗̈́̄e̢͓ ̶̘̗͓b̦̻̙̓ͫ͊e̠͓ ̶dị͙̟ͬ̅̒s̽h͚̠̺ơ͇̟n̛ö͈re̲̿d̗̩͚ ͛for̛ a̵͔̮̤ͫ̍̑l̳̦̣ͬ̄̅͡l t̖̦̺̓̐͌͜i̪̚m̢̻ͮé̀.̘" as instructed and the warriors which encircled him lowered their weapons, as though impelled by some unconscious impulse. Even the Ecclesiarch seemed to shrink back, as though the words had some sort of ingrained power over him. Anger and frustration evident in his tone, he growled from within his armor “You. Will. Burn for this. Choose your stand-in, heretic. We shall battle at the town hall, so that your defeat is for all to see. ”

He continued, now issuing commands to his subordinates. “High Chaplains, fetch the Old Dragon and lead the workers to their living spaces,” he said. Disdain towards the Word-bearer for his perceived betrayal and murderous intent towards Armless seethed from his voice with each word. The two warriors that stood just behind the Ecclesiarch walked forward, the one to his left heading towards Nesgon’s quarters, while the one to the right began leading the workers further into the tunnel and separating them into groups with flatly stated instructions. Both of them gave the group disdainful stares as they passed, clutching their weapons. The fourth, unadorned warrior stepped out from behind the Ecclesiarch, taking up a stand to his left. His face was concealed by a helmet, but his disdainful gaze felt familiar. All too familiar. “I wish to be your second, Holy One,” a distorted, artificially deepened voice echoed from his helmet as he made a request of the walking church mural to his right. The Ecclesiarch acknowledged him with a surprising amount of kindness, stating in plain terms that “Your enhancements haven’t fully healed yet.”

He continued with a promise of “But you’ve proven your faith. I shall consider your request,” which seemed to satisfy the unadorned warrior. Meanwhile, two thirds of the warriors surrounding the group moved past them, taking up guard positions and helping corral the workers. The remaining third, all of them clad in full casements, returned to the lift.

One of the High Chaplains returned within less than a minute, Nesgon walking alongside him. His movements were deliberate and stiff, he cast a “disdainful” gaze in Armless’s direction as he passed. He was putting on a show. The group boarded the cargo lift right after the Ecclesiarch’s subordinates situated themselves, effectively taking up half the floor space, while Armless’s group took up the other half. The Ecclesiarch gestured, and two of his guards pulled the levers at either side of the elevator. The ancient machinery lurched upward, and began raising them towards the surface.

Armless began routing as much of Apeiron’s power output as he could into himself in an attempt to accumulate as much energy within himself as possible without expelling it. He felt a powerful sense of anticipation, even anxiety. It was numbed like the sound from a blown-out speaker. Nevertheless, the feelings running through him were intense enough to affect his mental state. Memories of the town that he, a stranger with no name and no past walked into. The town that accepted him and even placed their trust in him. Those who viewed him as a comrade, a friend, not just for what he was. Even those he’d fought against, whether they had fought him of their own free will or because they were choked by the Ecclesiarch’s puppet-strings.

Everyone he’d met since he'd awoken, everything he’d seen, where he’d been, what he’d done.

It would all serve to fuel him in the coming struggle.

With each passing minute, with with each metaphorical milestone in the journey back to the surface, the tension rose. Those present gripped their guns tighter, eyed their perceived enemies with greater suspicion, waited with bated breath for any sign of aggression. All but Armless and the Ecclesiarch.

Armless felt the noble’s gaze upon his body, scanning him. He was trying to find something recognizable and succeeding, but dismissing the signs that suggested Armless was a human as little more than his own mind playing tricks on him.It felt like an eternity, a limbo, an absolute silence before a coming storm. Each passing minute posed the same question; whose legacy would be swept away in the deluge?

When the lift reached the top and the Ecclesiarch’s forces turned to begin their march down the main street and towards the cargo lift that led to the town hall, Armless and his group were faced with what the Ecclesiarch must’ve seen every single day. Rows upon rows of men, women, and children; warriors, thinkers, and builders, all perfectly united in unwilling worship. “Calling this a theocracy would be an insult to theocracy,” Armless thought, true disgust rising within him for the first time since he awoke. “This is mind-slavery.”

He waited until the Ecclesiarch and his subordinates reached the main square and rounded the corner before he began walking himself. While he waited, he spoke to his comrades, gazing out over the kneeling masses that were once this town’s bustling people. “Red-eye, will you be my second?” he asked. Armless could tell Rika wanted to question his choice, but she wasn holding her tongue. He decided to alleviate her concerns with “If we both die, make sure to drink for us too.”

She let off a forceful huff at his gallows humor, a faint chuckle echoing in her throat.

With that, they stepped off the cargo lift and began walking down the road towards the town square.

Left. Right. Left. Right.

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As they walked, they saw that, every so often, one of the people praying would raise their head or move an eye to look at them. They would usually return to a face-down praying position in seconds, but some were more strong-willed than others. He even saw Auntie among them, and she saw him. She managed to wrangle control of her own body and mind free of the Ecclesiarch’s blessing for but a few seconds, but what she did with those precious seconds would serve to impel him with yet greater urgency. She raised her head and glared directly at Armless, a sense of angered desperation evident in her eyes. She hissed “End this, human.” ever so quietly before the Ecclesiarch’s blessing could force her back into a pose of prayer. She said it so quietly that, of his group, only Armless could hear it. He didn’t know how, but she knew what he was. She knew, and she believed in an ideal of mankind. The nameless stranger from lands unknown, come to set the townspeople free.

Left. Right. Left. Right.

Once they reached the town square and turned the corner towards the rightward cargo lift, they heard and felt the impact of ten-hundred bodies rising up and moving in unison. The townspeople flowed around them, scrambling up through the town’s system of walkways towards the town hall. At the cargo lift, two guards were waiting for them, ready to throw the switches and impel the mechanism upwards. They boarded the lift, and began the ascent. The lift was slow, slower than its diagonal counterpart, but it still reached the town’s top level in only a couple of minutes thanks to the relatively short distance.

They walkway in front of the town hall was lined with dozens upon dozens of Truthseekers in formation, some in servo-suits, some in full casements, some with implanted armor, some wearing no armor at all. He recognized many of their faces, having seen them up on the town walls less than a day prior. Even that short walk from the lift to the town hall’s doors felt like an eternity, only fitting that it would be ended by facing what felt like infinity. For when those double doors slid open and he stepped across the holoshrouded precipice, he was faced with the true sprawl of the town hall’s interior.

It truly was a great hall in every sense of the word. It had a single massive room in the center, the ceiling high enough to contain four or perhaps five floors, flanked on either side by three rows of long tables stretching front to back. At the back of the hall, there was a slightly elevated podium, a shorter table upon it. There were three large chairs behind the table, the center one opulent and almost throne-like in its imagery, symbols and gibberish words in a hieroglyphic Old-World alphabet carved into its polymer surfaces.

In the very center of the hall, there was what seemed to be a fighting arena. It was a circular pit, several dozen meters across, nearly as deep as a warrior-caste was tall, just deep enough that one could climb out of it with effort. It was partially filled with black sand and separated from the rest of the hall by incredibly thick stone slabs that served as its walls, of which two opposing ones had indents carved into them, with bulky metal ladders sat within. The rungs were bent.

Left. Right. Left. Right.

He stepped into the hall, his comrades following. As they walked through the hall, the people they’d seen only minutes prior frozen in prayer flooded in through a number of double doors at the sides of the hall and quickly filled the chairs. Those who wouldn’t fit sat on the ground, creating two semi-ovals that flanked the pit on either side. They weren’t nearly as stiff as before, looking around and even shifting in place. They just couldn’t leave, a captive audience for what the noble thought would be an execution. The Ecclesiarch stepped in through a door situated directly behind the “throne” and thus partially obscured by it, followed by Nesgon, the High Chaplains and the Unadorned Warrior. He sat in the center, Nesgon to his right and the Unadorned Warrior to his left, and the High Chaplains stood to either side.

“The heretic has arrived!” the Ecclesiarch proclaimed. His hands were balled into fists on the table, metal grinding against metal. Even through his helmet’s distortion effect, one could tell he was growling his words through his teeth. Straining as though he was compelled by some deep-seated instinct, rather than his own choice. His gaze shifted towards something on the table, and he began reading out loud in strained monotone. “As per the Rite of Heresy, the hͥͩe͊ͬr͔͛e̢t͏-͓ͯ”

His voice gave out before he could finish the word “heretic”. The Ecclesiarch struggled to regain his composure and continued reading, “the challenger or their stand-in shall face the ruler’s champion either in single combat. Should the ruler’s champion be defeated, the h̙̦̠̔̿͋er̹̲-̺̤͋̅ challenger shall face the ruler in single combat to death or incapacitation. The challenger shall be provided sufficient time and resources to recover their strength before facing the ruler.”

With each word spoken, every step Armless and his comrades took towards the pit, every damnable syllable, the Ecclesiarch struggled more. A pause.

It seemed that he had managed to stop reading there, but some sort of inner urge made him finish.

“The challenger, if victorious, shall take the ruler’s place for no longer than ten waking-rest cycles while a people’s council takes place to choose the new leaders, and the ruler is to be exiled for no less than ten cycles. The ruler, if victorious, retains his position.”

The Ecclesiarch let out an exhalation, the tension released from his form. His demeanor now somehow blended resigned acceptance, and righteous indignation. “Supreme Chaplain, please descend into the arena,” he said. No, he requested. Despite his seemingly autocratic authority, the man must’ve still held a reverence towards the Old Dragon. Nesgon got up and began walking towards the pit, looking Armless in the eyes all the way.

Left. Right. Left. Right.

Passing among the audience, the comrades garnered occasional looks of anger, fear, hatred, even hope. The eldest among the audience seemed most inclined towards a positive outlook on the strangers who had come to challenge their so-called messiah, having lived long enough to remember a time before his arrival. The young, however, had no such perspective. They knew only the Holy One, his splendour, his divine authority over all things in the desert. Who were these heretics to challenge his authority? Surely they must’ve invoked blasphemies most vile, performed rituals most profane to be stripped of his blessing and wrenched from under his influence.

They gathered around the pit, Armless at the edge and the others flaring out around him in the same formation as before, Red-eye and Rika to his right, Vezkig and the Word-bearer to his left, the Marksman at his back, ready to step forward once Armless enters the pit. Before Nesgon could even reach the halfway point of what he thought to be his death march, the Unadorned Warrior leaned over to the Ecclesiarch and said something. At that distance, Armless couldn’t tell what it was, but it had clearly swayed the Ecclesiarch’s opinion in favor of allowing the unadorned one to represent him alongside Nesgon. Whilst Nesgon continued walking at his measured pace, the Ecclesiarch piped up. “I wish to present you with an offer, heretic,” he said, not waiting for a response before continuing with “My protegé wishes to do battle with your stand-in. If you allow this, and you both emerge victorious, I shall concede of my own volition, this I swear upon my honor. Should one of you be defeated, I will do battle with the other to resolve the Right of Heresy. Is this acceptable to you?”