As Chiorou and Mirish moved out to engage, Manziholet considered the new hybrid. They had met the design many times before, although this one was much bigger, with its height reaching past the previous Quorathene beast.

It moved forward by rolling, rather than walking or slithering, in the form of a gleaming sphere of bronze. Streaks of blood and fragments of flesh, remnants of the unfortunate volunteers who had woken it up, clung to its metallic shell like decorative clothings to accentuate its murderous intent.

Evenly spaced circular openings dotted its surface, from which emerald green tentacles creeped out. Some were essentially its arms and legs, with their ends splitting out into strands that gripped and pushed against the floor. That way, the hybrid’s momentum was preserved and built up, fluidly propelling so much metal forward.

Chiorou’s Deathspine Lash bashed into the hybrid, sending out a shower of sparks and carving deep gouges into its bronze shell, but ultimately failed to halt its roll. “Not again,” she complained. Its smaller siblings had been protected by a layer of armor that took up a third of its inner space, and this larger variant seemed to boast that very same annoying perk as well.

It would take time to grind the bronze away, time they did not have as the hybrid accelerated, threatening to crush the intruders of its creators’ home under its sheer weight. Another whack from the whip reached the Quorathene sphere, before it collided with the Aquabound Spire.

Mirish stood firm, his spear having been braced for impact. The tip angled forward, while the butt dug securely into the floor beneath him. The entire shaft of hardened ocean water refused to bend, even as the Seraphist’s feet scraped along the ground backward upon receiving the collision, and so did his enhanced physical body. The musculature given after the encasement was neither just for vanity nor a visual aid for romance.

The shell had been stopped but the tentacles were still free. Whereas some of them were designed for grabbing and pulling, the rest were either embedded with a long thick metallic spike or a sharp leaf-shaped blade.

They erupted from the creature in a dense and overwhelming mass, their sheer number rivaling a forest canopy. As the first signs of the tentacles converging on him, Mirish swiftly disengaged and fell back.

“Release,” Raka’s voice rang out behind the Seraphists. His Fireguards, having cocked their crossbows, sent two volley of expensive specialized bolts flying through the air in succession.

As the bolts hit, incendiary liquid was released into the tentacles, sticking to them like glue and blazing hot. Its intensive heat was sustained by not only the hybrid’s own flora components but also the mercenaries’ secret formula, supposedly refined since ancient times and capable of burning bright even underwater.

However, trying their best as the flames were, the hybrid’s healing matched a Bastion Miracle on its own, resetting the damage faster than the heat could inflict it. To dislodge some bolts that pierced into its tentacles, though, the Quorathene sphere did stop its strike momentarily.

Manziholet reckoned a total of forty bolts had been expensed, with each costing roughly seventy thousand forisma. In terms of market value, that was the equivalent cost for a thrall’s life, buying enough time distracting the hybrid as Chiorou put herself behind it while Raka stepped up to reinforce Mirish.

<> manifested on Raka’s hands in a flash of fire. Manziholet knew the story that came with it. This type of Miracle had finished off the Body Walker who was about to demand an involuntary skin donation from Manziholet’s family.

Its base, deceptively simple in design, was a slender candlestick crafted from polished silver that could be found in any respectable dining hall. Intricate engravings coiled around its surface, depicting waves of flame intertwined with one another.

At its apex was a vivid and unnatural purple flame. Unlike its ordinary cousin, it ignited upward with fierce intensity, extending half as long as the length of the base, and gradually streamlined into the perfect shape of a lance’s tip. The flame burned not just to illuminate, but also to–

“Think long and hard before you try something stupid,” Raka said without turning his head back to Manziholet, who had walked up closer with his Vixtrian Rapier drawn. “Stay back. Only when one of us is severely injured, do you get it?”

Next to him, Mirish gave the novice a side glance. “Listen to your leader, Manziholet. Don’t push your luck.”

“Whatever you say,” Manziholet replied with a shrug and took a step back.

–but also to lacerate and penetrate. The very essence of fire had been sculpted into an Armament, ready to leave behind ash and whispered agony wherever it travelled and this time a Quorathene hybrid was blocking its path.

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

Raka put his weapon into a sweeping slash, severing a number of spiked tentacles that were thrusted at the Seraphists, followed by another from Mirish’s. The limbs dropped around them while drops of green sap covered their cuirass and plate armor.

Behind the hybrid, Chiorou sent out her whip again and again, its sharp bone spurs tearing through more tentacles and slicing chunks of bronze from the creature’s shell. The incendiary liquid had also burned out, and the Fireguards were not so eager, unlike a certain novice, to accidentally shoot their employers while they fought close and personal with their opponent.

Help was not needed anyway when the Seraphists were displaying a relentless harmony in teamwork, no doubt cultivated after years of covert missions for the Grand Archivist. Their attacks were deliberate and relentless, each strike building upon the momentum of the last. Few words were exchanged, yet every motion seemed preordained, as if guided by an unseen Overwatch Seraphist. They were steadily depriving the hybrid of its mass.

With each tentacle cut down, however, another took its place. Bronze spikes and blades might be outside the coverage of the biological regenerative mechanism, but the new ones did not make the sphere any less lethal, forsaking the weaponry for more thickness and weight.

The hybrid spun on its vertical axis and flared out its tentacles when Raka and Mirish closed distance to put their Armaments in range to chip away the bronze shell. Hidden among them was the leftover original tentacles with their metallic weaponry, which suddenly extended out further to catch the Seraphists off guard.

The plan failed with Mirish who, despite his huge body and bulky armor, deftly maneuvered himself out of melee range, but it did succeed with Raka. One of the bronze blades managed to drag its serrated edge across his gilded cuirass. Sparks flew, and so did flesh and blood.

The leader of the host staggered back with a wound deep enough to put any human into a state of deep reflection, often followed by unconsciousness. Yet, none of his companions bothered to stop their fight and went over to check.

They were not being inconsiderate, because it would have been a complete waste of time – a Second Sphere Bastion of Candle, as any decent Seraphists knew, unlocked this rather convenient Miracle called <>.

Like a Seraphist of Sun’s <>, it could convert fatal wounds from a death sentence to a reminder that those Bastions who went through the After-Death were no longer bound to pesky biological limits.

On activation, <> would produce a droplet of viscous, golden fluid at a location of the Seraphist’s choosing on their body, to be used by them or anyone else. Once ingested and absorbed, it swiftly healed wounds, cured illnesses, banished hunger and fatigue, and made physicians ponder if they should take up knitting.

As Chiorou and Mirish confronted the Quorathene sphere from two ends, Raka activated the Miracle, presumably right inside his stomach. One second he was hunching over and clutching his hand on the wound to stop bleeding, the next he was standing tall again, as if he had woken up from an incredibly energizing nap. A layer of wax had flashed over all his wounds before transmuting back into his flesh.

He took a moment to savor the sweet sensation of rejuvenation (which was one reason why the physicians should not worry about Bastions taking over their job; that kind of bliss, the feeling of everything imperfect purging from oneself, could leave behind a dangerous echo that demanded to be fed over and over again), before rushing back to resume the struggle.

Vaepor kept on being converted to draeg, fueling the three Candle, Bone, and Ocean Armaments as they chipped away both bronze and flora. The regenerative mechanism on this variant of Quorathene spheres seemed to work much faster, but on account of its creators’ lack of messing with Miracles, the hybrid possessed a fatal weakness called the law of equivalent exchange. It only had so much mass stored inside to sustain the healing.

The once-dense forest of tentacles was whittled down to a desperate few, thrashing futilely in their attempt to ward off the coordinated assault. Soon, even the Pyrolance Candlestick, known for its modest reach, effortlessly made contact with the shell. Its inherent concept of Sharpness, along with the heat of its purple flame, carved away huge chunks of bronze from the hybrid's spinning body.

Its spherical form was sculpted down unevenly, effectively disabling its ability to roll. Chiorou’s whip cracked again, slicing through another emerald appendage with a sound like tearing silk, while Mirish, taking full advantage of the thinning defenses, drove his water spear directly into one of the circular openings before unraveling it. The fight was a done deal, like a closing argument with no rebuttal.

The Quorathene who built this dwelling should consider implementing better security. Unpredictable and innovative as the hybrids might be so far, mortals with sufficient motivations or disregard for their lives would get through the dangers eventually, let alone Seraphists with their Miracles, and traps could be rendered useless after sending enough volunteers forward. A thick locked door might be more effective.

“Consider me envious.” Manziholet remarked, prodding the wreckage with his Rapier. “I was itching for a piece of that action.”

Chiorou and Mirish were leaning against the wall to catch a breath. Their Armaments had been dismissed while the menials went over to serve them refreshments. He wondered how much time left before they had to release their Ruin Scars. They must have done so before leaving TerraSol, but this level of exertion would have drained a significant amount of vaepor. It would be awfully inconvenient if they had to inside the–

“Seriously, Raka,” Mirish said suddenly, “you need to talk to the novice. He is getting dangerous.”

“Yes, impart him with your ancient insights, old man,” Chiorou added while receiving a glass of iced tea from a menial.

“I’m one year younger than you. Besides, old is just a state of mind. Anyway,–” Raka clapped both hands on Manziholet’s shoulders and turned him around face-to-face, “–novice, you are depressed.”