Phages are the starting point for most Seafarers, initially granting only minor use of the Stigmata or Tide. The lucky have Archies, granting a swath of knowledge and skill, and skip the starting line. The children of the supremely powerful may get a Chronism as a gift, bestowing years of technique in a moment. But that’s the limit of the talented. Any higher… And the soul will be devoured.

A person without any experience, skill, or Tide of their own will be washed away by a Thema. It is said only ten in history have managed to withstand such an inheritance through priceless drugs and opportunities. That’s not even to mention a Crux.

Though… It is technically possible. Technically.

However, I do not know who I pity more, the fellow who lives after such a battle in their soul or their enemies that must face them afterward.

* Of Phages And Cruxes, Circa 3500.

Lucius raced forward, his body instinctively tracking the unnatural pulse of the battlefield ahead. His sharp eyes glimpsed Dante in the distance, beyond the crew he had lived with the past few months, fighting with a ferocity that was nothing short of madness. The human progressed with rapid precision, dodging and weaving between the towering trees, each burst of his water throwing a tree off-kilter.

Astraeus was beside him, battling with the same relentless fury. They fought as if possessed, though the human was still aware enough not to throw away his life. He let the Dirge take point despite the bloodthirst radiating off of them. The two were a deadly pair, tearing through their enemies without pause.

Still, they were nothing compared to the woman Lucius had witnessed across the grassy valley. She moved like a nightmare, untraceable, uncatchable. Just seeing her sent chills down his spine.

But Lucius couldn’t afford to focus on them. His gut twisted, warning him of something else. He split his mind, tearing through it for the meaning of the sensation.

A moment later, he felt it. A presence stalked him and his group, unseen but palpable. There were more than just five senses. And the Martian had all those five raised to eleven on their own.

As such...

Lucius licked his lips as he dissected the feeling, running with his crew. The feeling was predatory, an icy sensation running down his spine as they rapidly approached the battlefield. He glanced around warily, and that’s when he saw it.

A figure lurked in the shadows, barely visible amidst the treeline they had just now left. The figure hunched over, its posture unnatural, and its eyes, wild and narrowed slits of dripping hunger, were fixed on them. A sense of dread settled over Lucius. He knew when he faced another predator.

This thing... it was like him. A killer.

The figure licked its lips, the motion slow and deliberate, a beast savoring the moment before the kill. This was a Dirge that lived to hunt, to maim, and to kill. It was not much, unlike Lucius in his youth.

Then, the figure noticed Lucius staring.

A grin, vast and grotesque, spread across its face. Bloodthirst with equal parts ambition flashed in its preying gaze. In an instant, it shot forward with unnatural speed, moving faster than Lucius could register.

Fast!

Lucius recognized the figure as it sped toward him. It was the Dirge from before that was dripping acid. It even howled as it rushed him down, “You can see through it, too! Yes! Let us prove ourselves!”

An instant later, the figure closed the distance, swinging an open claw toward the Martian as he contorted his body from his sprint. Lucius’s attempt to turn was cut short. A nail, no a talon, lashed out with acidic sharpness, tearing open his chest.

The force continued, too, and sent Lucius skidding backward. The man stumbled, only staying on his feet from his prodigious sense of balance and control over his body. Still, the force rattled his bones and left cerulean fluid dripping from him in rivulets.

Lucius raised a hand to the wound, feeling the lack of cell recovery he was used to.

Poison.

The soldier’s thoughts tightened in a battle, composing only what mattered most. And with his singular thought, he crouched, lowering his stance while the others ran on ahead. He had to fight this thing.

Otherwise...

It would kill the others. It would tear through them. It would be unstoppable. Only he was fast enough.

Nonetheless, he was only barely adequate not to die immediately.

The next strike came at his side before he could fully recover, a knee driving into his ribs with bone-cracking force. Lucius let out a sharp gasp, feeling the air leave his lungs as he was forced onto the back foot.

He lifted his rifle, but a swift slap to the weapon knocked it from his grasp. Then, he reached for his hatchet and swiftly had that dispatched, too.

His opponent countered every move he made in an instant.

The figure’s speed and strength were overwhelming. And it knew that. It lowered, matching Lucius’ stance with wide, open arms. Then, it mocked him, “No Tides? No Stigmata? Not even a lick of a droplet. Are you... No. You survived two hits. Hmm... Hide your secrets to your grave, then.”

It was as if Lucius were fighting Astraeus all over again—except this was different. More physical. More visceral. It was like the figure thrived on the brutality, each hit growing stronger and more savage.

And maybe it was; Lucius didn’t know much about Stigmata. What he did know, however, was this Dirge was a Miro who relied on its speed and dripping fluids. They used evaporating water to enhance itself and coat its strikes in acid.

With the next strike, Lucius ducked, avoiding a strike aimed at his head, but it didn’t matter. The Anathema followed up with a flurry of punches and kicks, each one more brutal than the last. The nails on his hands and the talons on his bare feet sliced into the Martian’s flesh, opening up wounds that refused to close.

He could barely defend himself, his tremendous muscles straining under the constant barrage. It played with him, waiting for Lucius to use his Tide or some other ability.

But Lucius didn’t have any of that. Now that his two chief weapons were knocked aside, he only had his body and mind. His eyes flicked to the gun and axe, but he shook the thought away.

I’m outclassed. Completely.

Lucius realized the truth, feeling the sting of reality sink in. He couldn’t win this. Not as he was now. Not as he would ever be. This being... it was unnatural, even more so than he.

His mind raced, searching for a way to survive as more blood flooded the grass below. Strike after strike, Lucius bore the hurt as he was built to. Even the Dirge’s face revealed surprise by the thirtieth second of the beatdown.

But through the haze of pain and the frantic pace of battle, he remembered Joan’s trade with him when he offered his Immortal Corpse. The syringe. The one thing he’d sworn he wouldn’t use. Its side effects were unknown and potentially lethal, knowing the psychotic doctor.

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But this wasn’t a battle he would win.

Lucius gritted his teeth, ducking under another vicious blow while its follow-up slammed into his chin.

The Martian was flung backward, head spinning through the air. His mind shook and swam inside his skull until he hit the dirt. There, he heard footsteps resound behind him calmly while the voice spoke, “How odd. Are you just buying time, then? A meat shield? Damn. The Romans sure are desperate. Maybe Father could take down Praetor Sun.”

The words dug into Lucius’ brain like knives scraping out tissue. He bit down hard on his jaw, then reached for his belt, drawing out the abyssal-tinted syringe Joan had given him. She had given everyone her expensive recovery serums, but this one was different. His fingers trembled as he fumbled with it, his nerves and muscles broken from the onslaught.

Then a hand took the vial from him, laughing as it did so, “You think this will kill me? I’m a Miro, dumbass. We’re immune to poison. Here, let me send you on your way.”

Lucius’ eyes unfocused as the blood loss sank in. Such a gaze allowed him to see the rest of his crew hurry onward toward the shimmering rift in the background. Claudius’ crew regrouped with Sonna, and, missing the Judge, seven Seafarers rushed toward Dante.

He could almost hear their shouts of aggression, of violence, as they slaughtered the false living trees in unison. They were the largest group, though, and other Dirge were taking notice. He could see their coming deaths should they continue as they have.

They needed to retreat. No one else could see reality. They were... They needed Lucius. But it didn’t matter. He had already failed.

Perhaps... I should have bit the bullet. Maybe... I’d see... h...

Mid-thought, a needle drove into his throat, the cold liquid flooding his veins almost immediately. It shocked his system with a shiver, and his eyes opened to their limits as he met the Dirge’s gaze for the first time.

Their souls conversed silently, words of malice shared with only a look.

For a brief moment, there was nothing but that stale silence and the Anathema’s smirk.

Then it hit him.

Power—raw, untamed, and wild—surged through Lucius’ body with a bloodstained torrent. His cells, already perfected engines, somehow enlarged, opening up to the world as they siphoned more energy where there was none to give. They stole from his life, trading years for this power.

His muscles condensed while ballooning, his bones cracked and reformed to fit the colossal fibers, and his senses sharpened to a painful degree. The augmented hearts pounded in his chest, faster, stronger, as the energy coursed through him. The weakness from the earlier injuries melted away, replaced by a searing, primal sensation that ignited every nerve in his body.

Lucius grinned darkly, feeling the rush take over. He felt young again, truly young. He felt as though he could kill anything.

His eyes locked onto the figure holding the needle in his jugular. Malice was once more shared, but one side had rediscovered their soul lost to the fathoms of grief.

A fist tightened and burst out, striking the Dirge directly in the chest. The man shot backward, bouncing off the grass and tumbling to a halt with a trail of broken earth. Then, a cacophony of chuckles entered Lucius’ addled mind, “Yes! You are strong! I am Zed, son of Balba of Clan Pestilence. Which House do you hail from?”

The Martian returned a snort, finding it amusing that Dirge were broken into families. He didn’t even know they had any such affiliations. He thought they were all monsters.

Lucius fixed his stance, rising back to his feet as the roaring wave within him began to reach its peak. He could feel it. This is the strongest he’d ever been. Joan didn’t lie. This could elevate an ordinary man to his near-supernatural force.

But for the Martian...

He smiled through the bloody teeth that lined his mouth, offering nothing to Zed. Instead, he plunged toward his opponent.

The boots beneath his feet left holes in the dirt, kicking up grass and hurtling him with a speed that matched Zed’s. Furthermore, the unhealing wounds finally closed, sealing the blood inside.

A fist swung for Zed’s skull as Lucius’ body moved on instinct, the raw power surging through his veins unable to be released in any other way. Zed raised his own claws and retaliated without missing a step.

Their blows collided like thunder, each hit sending tremors through the air and into the ground beneath them. Fists met flesh while claws slashed arteries, bone cracked, and blood spilled, but neither backed down.

Lucius swung another right hook, his fist colliding with Zed’s slimy jaw, the impact sending the Dirge stumbling back. But just as quickly as the strike had landed, the Anathema’s body seemed to shimmer with moisture. Visible to the naked eye, the wounds began closing, much like the Martian’s healing.

The Dirge let out a maniacal laugh, his face twisted in exhilaration as he charged back in, his nails slashing toward Lucius. A Miro could heal, enhance themselves, and... with Zed’s Clan, poison others whom his humidity infected.

Lucius twisted, narrowly avoiding the claw in the eyes, but the sharp talons still grazed his cheek, leaving a trench that hollowed out his left ear. It was impossible for him to fight with his typical agility. He couldn’t take advantage of his years of experience.

He could only fight like a caged beast, burning his blood without technique. Lucius’ heart pounded in his chest, and his vision swam from the force of the slash. He pushed it aside for now as the Biotic surged within him, sealing the wounds shut even as the pain gnawed at his mind.

The battle between them was feral. It was primal. They were two predators locked in a deadly dance, uncaring of the warfare a few hundred feet away. Neither retreated, neither slowed. Lucius’ body screamed with exertion, the Brute Biotic pushing his muscles and bones beyond their unnatural limits. But Zed met him equally, lashing out with wild abandon, thriving on the chaos, for his confidence in his own strength was unshakable.

His upbringing under the guidance of an Anacrux, much like Astraeus, equipped him with exceptional strength and numerous styles. Meanwhile, Lucius had nothing but the drug in his veins.

Zed’s fist smashed into Lucius’s ribs, sending him crashing into the dirt. Nevertheless, Lucius was moving before the Dirge could follow up, retaliating with a devastating low kick that sent Zed to the floor.

Both men healed nearly as quickly as they were hurt, their regeneration turning the fight into a brutal, drawn-out slugfest. Blow after blow landed, bodies crashing together in a relentless storm of violence. Blood sprayed the ground beneath them, but neither cared. The two lost themselves in the battle, now caught in the Inferose’s pull like all the others—lost to the bloodlust that gnawed at their minds, urging them to fight, to kill, to survive.

However, their conditions were not equal. Zed’s regeneration came in equal parts from his body and mind, honed by practice from his Tide and augmented by his Stigmata. Both empowered him as he fought while Lucius was losing ground. Second after second, the fuel within his cells dried up. The tiny, efficient structures fought with all they had.

Soon, there would be no more gasoline for the living engine.

Lucius rained blows upon Zed, each strike meeting flesh with a sickening crack, yet the Dirge pressed on, undeterred by the carnage. The Martian had even stolen his axe back, only to break it upon Zed’s innards.

The Anathema was relentless. No injury seemed to slow him. All they did was illuminate his eyes gleaming with excitement, his smile growing wider with every hit he took.

Zed reveled in the pain, feeding off the battle, his confidence unwavering even as his body tore apart.

On the other hand, the unnatural strength granted by the Brute Biotic was evaporating, and Lucius could feel it. His muscles, once pulsing with power, now felt sluggish. His own body was betraying him, for it had run out of gas and overdrawn his organs.

The meaty fists, which were sledgehammers swung by cranes, now struggled to close. The wounds that had healed so rapidly moments before were now lingering, the blue blood flowing freely.

He was running out of time. And he knew it.

Though Zed was wounded, his body marked by gashes and bruises, the Dirge’s relentless Tide continued unabated beneath his skin. A Miro excelled most at close combat. His laughter echoed through the clearing, a haunting sound that only Lucius heard, “You... are... strong... Tideless. No one’s pushed Battleheart this far before... You’ve shown me how to grow this Stigmata of mine... thank... you...”

Lucius gasped for breath as his legs buckled, his vision blurring with the world darkening. His body was giving out every ounce of energy spent. His legs trembled, barely holding him upright, and his fists hung at his sides, too heavy to lift. Zed loomed before him, bloodied but triumphant, the grin still plastered across his face.

The Martian fell to the ground, utterly devoid of energy. His mind went dark, and his soul teetered toward the end. Yet, within that dark, a pale light emerged. The brilliance was burning, etching itself into Lucius’ existence.

Through the darkness, a voice spoke to Lucius that he thought he’d never hear again. It was his wife. Yet, he couldn’t pinpoint where she was, only that she spoke to him in this nothingness.

“Lucius. It’s been years. Why are you still restraining that rage of yours? You did it for me, but… I’m gone. So are our twigs. Be free, my love. Be happy. Though, I know you. You need something to protect. That boy needs you. Watch over him. As you would for Zachariah or Hope. Or me.”

The darkness grew silent for a moment, with Lucius’ mind on the brink of collapse. He knew he was hallucinating, hearing things that couldn’t be real. But he didn’t care. He latched onto that voice. And it gave him strength.

“Rage, my grizzly bear. Tear it limb from limb. I did not marry you for your strength but for your ability to control it. Remove the reins. Rage. Show it a Martian’s fury. Show him our fury.”

A dead man’s fingers twitched, his fists slowly curling again despite the nerves screaming for him to stop. Lucius could barely see through the swirling blur of night in his eyes, but that wouldn’t stop him.

A boiling rage overflowed into his soul, the same kind as what he felt when he found his family’s massacred bodies. It was impossible to stop. The rage was something he had long forced down. It was something he had learned to control. To harness. But this time...

He wouldn’t stop it.

For Archimedes. For Meredith. For Zachariah. For Hope. This creature had to die here. It could not continue to hurt any more. It could not reach the blissfully ignorant crew.

Before Lucius could fall, his right foot caught upon the dirt with a splatter of scarlet. The final act of the man’s life had begun.

Zed lunged, his claws aimed for Lucius’s throat with a final mercy, but the Martian propelled himself just barely. His body protested every motion as he pivoted his hips, his joints locking up, but he swung his fist, catching Zed across the face with a brutal punch as the claw sliced open only the side of his neck.

Stunned by the resistance, the Dirge stumbled, but Lucius didn’t give up. He kept swinging, each punch slower, weaker, but he didn’t stop. He wouldn’t stop. The Martian’s vessel had long since given up, but his mind and will pushed him forward.

All beings had a name for their kind’s spirits. They venerated the willful and the powerful. There was, however, only one species that ever stood alone at the stop with their souls.

Like his ancestors and creators, the Martian hid something deep within himself. It was a nature that only they possessed amongst all the stars.

An immortal soul.

And more than that, he held a physique that none could naturally match.

The Martian’s secondary heart howled in uproar, delivering him the ultimate fuel of life that all his people would feel. It was the flickers of a firework, brightest in its last moment.

Each hit from Zed sent Lucius reeling, but he kept coming. His fists swung long after he had lost the sensation of both his heartbeats, long after his vision had gone completely dark. The Biotic surged one last time, burning through what little life force remained in him, but it was enough to keep him moving.

Even after his body had stopped living, Lucius fought.

And then... the hits vanished. Zed’s laughter faded into gasping coughs, and the sound of his joy evaporated. It was through that darkness and that silence that Lucius heard a noise.

It was a popping sound, swiftly followed by a high-pitched, orchestral voice that brought light back into his eyes, “Incredible! Absolutely fantastic! Yes. You’ll do mighty fine. A vessel of evolution, countless lives throwing themselves into a fiery battle for immortality!”

When Lucius’ gaze returned, he found himself kneeling before an upside-down corpse shaped like a blossoming rose holding up unseen stars. However, the thing that made his eyes widen was that the corpse was a thousand feet tall and rose into the heavens of a plane without a sky.

Burning roses encompassed the world above and behind as Lucius realized where he was. However, he remained unhealed. Only given aid.

What is—

Blood suddenly spurted out of his mouth and flowed from all other vessels as he crumpled to the floor, seizing from the effects of the Biotic. A pitiful, disembodied tone rang out once more, “Man... I really hope you live. None of those guys seem like a proper fit. I want to be like Nightshade! Oh! He has such a cool owner! Nandum didn’t even kill him for strength! You wouldn’t do that to me, would you? You wouldn’t. I’ll do what I can. Let’s get you away from the center.”

Lucius’ life drained from his body as he lay on an open field of lightly singed flowers, staring up at the corpse. Sanguine fluids, alongside sickly ones, dyed the ashes below. There, he noticed the body, staked into the earth by some root, was the being that had spoken.

Is that the Inferose?

Without an answer and only a pinch to his arm, he lost the light.