While his three companions were pouring their (quite literal) blood, sweat, and tears into dealing with the Quorathene colossus, Manziholet took the more scenic route. He climbed up the wall.

He had chosen a rather robust vine, not only to bear his weight but also a flamethrower tank with that he had borrowed from a half-breathing Fireguard, as well as a cocked crossbow with cloth tied around the body to keep the bolt from falling out.

It was a long way over as he hauled himself upward with hands gripping the vine while his legs braced against the wall. Fortunately, his Seraphist physiology ensured that neither limbs entertained the treacherous notion of quitting, not that the alternatives were any less attractive.

The colossus was no doubt having him in its field of view with its triple heads, and it would certainly make short work of him if given the chance. For now, its focus remained solely on finishing off his companions, which it was doing a fine job of. When Manziholet was a few meters away from the vaulted ceiling, he observed the colossus cut Chiorou at the middle of her thighs.

It was not a clean slice like from a human blade of refined steel. All the weight of bronze in the great sword, driven by the hybrid’s monstrous strength, brutally mangled flesh and bone alike. Her eyes were wide open from shock as her body fell away from the legs. The elaborate blue robe she wore, once flowing with grace, now clung to her as blood stained it while the lower fabric was torn in pieces.

With that much blood spluttering from her wounds, the likelihood of her staying consciousness was dwindling fast, but he trusted the Archivist to know what not to do in the situation: never yield to the rising sleepiness, because if she did, she would never wake up. She only needed to wait long enough for Raka to arrive in time with his <>, which he did not.

The Archivist looked as if he had just stumbled out of a Chainbreakers’ interrogation room. Before he could reach Chiorou, the colossus stomped down with its foot, converting the female Seraphist into a splatter of red that exploded outward in all directions. Motes of iridescent light bursted out and disappeared as her remaining vaepor left the Circuit. She never had the chance to even scream.

Manziholet frowned at the sight, before turning back to the task at hand and resuming his ascent. There was no point in mourning her death. Every single member of the host was aware of the risk when exploring the Ruin without the government’s support, though he could not help but lament the fact that her Circuit, seraph, and all the precious Genesis Shards invested in her had been dispersed into the fabric of reality upon her brain’s destruction.

Raka and Mirish, who were positioning nearby, might manage to absorb some of the dissipating vaepor but that was far less efficient than using Shards directly. The rest would be lost forever, as would the draeg bound within her ArchSoul. It was needlessly wasteful.

At least, the two instances of backlash had still left Raka’s Circuit functional to summon his Armament one more time and joined Mirish. The independent was losing ground, passively fending off and evading the colossus’s relentless attacks. The reinforcement from Raka alleviated the pressure, but the teamwork only added in a little more wiggle room. That was alright. They only needed to wait long enough for Manziholet to arrive at the very top, which he, of course, did.

By now, the colossus had fully dedicated one of its heads to the task of watching Manziholet, seemingly intelligent enough to realize the monkey was preparing to become a big nuisance, though watching him was all it was doing. He had counted on the fact that he had yet to display his offensive capability, therefore likely to rank lower on its threat hierarchy. And when he was already so high above the floor, it would not be able to reach up and attack him without exposing vulnerabilities to other Seraphists.

Observing the struggle below, with the advantage leaning sharply toward the Quorathene hybrid, Manziholet entertained the idea of letting one or two of his companions die first before acting. That would reduce the troubles later with keeping Gersimi alive and he might even keep the grand prize for himself. As usual, the idea was suggested by his inner psychopath. It was promptly outvoted by more rational voices.

With one hand securely gripping the vine, Manziholet used the other to unstrap the tank of incendiary liquid from his back. He worked out a calculation in his head, swung the tank, and released. As it hurtled downward in a tight arc, he quickly removed the crossbow on his belt, tore away the cloth with his teeth, then pulled the trigger.

The Fireguards always boasted that operating their complex gears demanded more brains than brawn, hence the exorbitant fees, but Manziholet found them to be no more challenging than the puzzles his engineering instructor made him solve for homework. Before the climb, he had already aged the outer casing with his Rapier and tinkered a little bit with the valves so that streams of the liquid already seeped out and coated the tank. Instead of detonating harmlessly on a durable casing, the crossbow bolt sparked a chain reaction that consumed the entire content.

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A bright fireball erupted high over the hybrid before embers of burning liquid rained down while a cloud of black smoke billowed outward. If he had allowed it to explode closer, the resulting damage would have been more apparent, but he could not risk the colossus swatting the tank away with its weapons. The heat only annoyed it anyway, as the Fireguards had tried. No, like the Seraphists below, the entire spectacle was another distraction.

Manziholet leaped off the wall. Gravity became his ally in the descent, pulling him past the screen of black smoke and toward the oblivious Quorathene colossus. Its eyes recognized the attack too late, and so did the attempt to bring its entire arsenal up to catch him.

The Vixtrian Rapier plunged through the grated helmet and pierced into the head of the hammer side. He gripped the weapon’s black ivory grip with both hands as the aeon blade dragged a line from one of its eyes to the mouth, all while absorbing his immense momentum. The muscle of his arms strained to break the fall before his legs made contact with the torso’s neck.

The colossus roared as its two other heads swiveled to the wound, but by then, Manziholet was already airborne once more, springing from his landing point to another position. The Vixtrian Rapier was left nailed in place so that its regenerative mechanism was exerted to compete with the poison that was aeon’s time acceleration.

He landed next to the head on its sword side. His left hand clutched a bar on its grated helmet as a jet of mist bursted out on his other hand. The Wispstrike Cutter manifested into physical existence. He crashed the gleaming edge into the bronze, cutting through it and into the vulnerable botanical components behind. Dark green sap dirtied his arm and clothes.

All of its eyes and its mouth suffered disfiguration as the head shook side to side while its upper body spun to dislodge him, but Manizholet stubbornly clung on. When the colossus brought its weapons over to wipe him away, he jumped to the next head.

Below him, with the pressure on them disappeared, the other Seraphists finally had room to focus on their planned targets. They ignored the fight above their heads as both sneaked to the colossus’s legs and put their Armaments to work. One after another, Pyrolance Candlestick and Aquastream Spire grinded away the thick armor on its left leg, which Chiorou’s bone spurs had once weakened.

Sooner than expected, the battered leg gave in to all the weight of its upper body. The colossus lurched to one side and crashed heavily into the stone floor, sending tremors through the chamber. Along the way, its heads were also caught in the vines on the wall, tugging them down and covering its vision.

From the dust, Manziholet stepped out and strode over to the rest of the host. “It’s all yours,” he said. “I’m sure Chiorou would want you to be the ones who deliver the final blow to her killer.”

[Seraph: 38υ of vaepor

ArchSoul: 64υ of draeg]

With his vaepor running low, discretion was a better part of valour anyway. It would be better to conserve strength for potential fights in the near future, though the two men had no need to know that. Raka, for his part, seemed almost grateful.

They cut off the colossus’s hands to disarm it then assaulted its shoulders. Thrashing and growing out organic limbs, it attempted to mount a resistance, which was all in vain now the height advantage had gone. The Quorathene regenerative mechanism was also greatly taxed as the two Armaments freely had their way with the hybrid, not to mention Manziholet’s aeon Rapier still lodging inside one of its heads, until the repairing was no longer sustainable.

Desperately, the hybrid began cannibalizing its own body, with non-critical organs withering away to seemingly funnel mass and energy toward preserving its most essential systems. That only brought death closer.

Standing over one of the torsos, with an angry yell, Mirish stabbed his spear down. Its chest bulged up and erupted as he unravelled the ocean water inside. The entire colossus then shuddered, its three heads spasming. If it had any mouths left, it would probably roar in anguish. Instead, it succumbed to stillness without so much as a whimper.

Upon the hybrid’s death, the floor at the gateway and the chamber beyond that sank back, once more revealing a passage that led up to the surface. That was one last problem solved. Amid the cheers of the surviving mortals, the two Seraphists slumped against the wreckage while Manziholet cut through its head to retrieve his Rapier.

“After this,” the independent said, “I’m begging my mother to raise me to the next Sphere and cutting off all service to you people. I’ve had enough of nonsense like this.” He tapped on the armor of his left arm, which had been deformed after directly taking a hammer blow. His blood vessels had also burst, but the bleeding had stopped.

“You do you, Mirish.” Raka grunted. The agony from the backlash seemed to linger, but he still had enough in him to offer a drop of nectar; later, of course, after the damaged armor had been removed. Leaving it on while the Miracle worked was akin to patching a roof while the storm still raged. Then with a deep breath, he pushed himself to his feet. Manziholet was beckoning them to come. “Let’s get this over with,” the Archivist said. It appeared that they had found the grand prize.