Deep down, Adam was a survivalist. When fate threw him a bad hand, he’d survive. When faced with countless opponents, he’d survive. When forced to kill, he’d survive. No matter who got in his way, he’d survive. Because it was the only thing he could do. He’d been stuck without a want for so long that all he could live for was the next day. That was no way a human could live, but it was how he had lived. Hope for a better day, a day better than today, had long left him.

When he had nothing to hope for, he survived.

Now, of course, he did have one hope. He longed for that thing he’d had only last night: normalcy. Being treated as what he believed himself to be; a human. In other words, he did have hope. But for the last few minutes, the past hour or so where he’d just stood over the place he wished to live in, he’d almost fully lost that hope.

His mind, at this very moment, was not set on survival. He had not made that switch. Every move he made, he did so with hope for a brighter tomorrow in mind.

It was in this state of mind that he painstakingly raised his right hand. It felt heavy and dull, less like an appendage and more like a thing connected to his body he had no actual sensation in. As if somebody had lopped off his arms and replaced it with a hunk of metal. That is the thing that he now lifted, every ounce of strength in his body willing the massive limb to move up into the air, straightening out, until it was in position.

Palm stretched out over the group of three strangely-dressed people, red ant not included. That little item was still standing quite close to Adam’s face. No, the people just underneath his hand were Bro, an angel-looking character, and a… stripper-sorceress?... Whoever they were, they were now covered in the shadow of his immense hand.

Helios peered up at the glorious limb now blotting out the sun. It was certainly a beautiful thing, dainty and graceful yet clearly possessing power that proves its title. The only detriment to its beauty was the flaking skin of it, but even this added a certain form of aesthetic appeal to it, of the same kind as a flaking old painting might. If he tried, if he summoned the Spears of Behelt and shot them at it, he might be able to stall his dear master for a moment or two. Sadly, this idea was flawed in that every aspect of this God was poisonous (aside from his studious personality, of course) and so, the resulting rain of acid and poison would surely kill them.

But no sorcerer worth their salt was so simple as to attack the first sign of danger. No, a prerequisite of a sorcerer’s arsenal was their readiness for any situation. Best be mediocre at a thousand things than proficient at one, as they say. Following this, Helios, the respected sorcerer he was, could easily summon a barrier of some sort to defend them, or use his element as it should be and blind his God, allowing them a moment to escape.

All of these plans, as good as they were, had one single flaw.

If his God willed his demise, so it would be.

Sure, at first, when Helios had joined the cult, he hadn’t actually been that hyped for the God himself. No, the real reason Helios had joined, was, well… Most renowned sorcerers and scholars were in it. Getting in contact with another scholar doesn’t sound like that big of a deal, but at times, scholars can isolate themselves for weeks on end to read old unknown tomes or do research of a secretive kind. In that way, getting in contact with them can at times be quite the challenge.

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The cult changed that.

Meeting famous and distinguished sorcerers now became a weekly occurrence. As it turns out, if you just approach the right cultist, they can be extremely interested in whatever project you’re working on, even if it may seem trivial. Discussing with higher cultists and getting higher up in the rankings of the outside world became effortless.

And after a while of this, he picked up a role helping to set up the feast that took place after the Ritual itself, after the God had left. Soon, he picked up more roles, and after a surprisingly short time (only about two dozen years) he’d gained the role of Superior Cultist. It was a great honour, the kind that outshined even his outside accomplishment. It also came with directing the entire cult, being the personal contact with Diabolus Himself and the God’s personal servant (he had only seen one, but he’d been informed there had been a few before).

It was fun, exhilarating, and every time he met a fellow cultist on the street and they did that particular salute with that knowing smirk, he felt like more of a person.

Somewhere along the way, he picked up something else, too. Faith.

A reverence for that God he gave Magick to every week. Every time he’d spoken to a cultist above him, he’d learnt a bit more about his God. It wasn’t a hallucination or a Magick apparatus, it was a scholar. A creature that used Magick not only for surviving, but for living. For creating spells and the like. Merciful and calm, it was not like the other barbaric or plain heinous Gods, no, it was a true God. Neither good nor evil. Just like him.

He became devout in his adoration. This was Fernigus Platos.

And if his fate was to be crushed and killed under the hand of his God…

So be it.

It was only right to at some point to return the joys and successes he’d been given.

Unbeknownst to him, this was not actually Antenora’s - Adam’s intention. He was really just trying to spook them into shooting fireballs or something at him. If he’d known one of his devout followers was in the crowd, he would definitely have prompted to just reach out to them, instead of… at them. Bro’s presence just cemented the fact that he didn’t want to hurt them.

But, being barely able to even lift an arm, keeping it reached out turned out to be more of an arduous task than first thought. His arm trembled and shivered, strength leaving it faster than the can focus on it and not the little Diabolus’ child right in front of him. Speaking of the red ant, they seemed split between running to stab his face and running to protect their teammates.

The eldritch abomination version of lactic acid started building up in his arm, burning his flesh and chewing at his non-existent bones. If he’d had the strength to move it, he wouldn’t have hesitated to shift his other arm to support his raised arm. But keeping it in the air was the most he could do. At least, for now.

Panic crept onto him, slowly building up in his mind. If he didn’t move his arm to the side, or bring it back down, it would definitely fall and crush his remaining hopes, there were no questions about that. He felt like cursing, but he couldn’t, at least not out loud. And swearing in one’s head always felt less impactful than truly articulating it.

If he’d had teeth, he would grit them. His lack of mouth was more obvious and infuriating than ever.

Exhaustion dulled his panic, but only barely. And as a bonus two-for-one deal, it also dulled his senses as a whole. White dots blinked in and out of his vision, covering up little people and details, darkness shrouding his mind in mist. His hand trembled like a leaf in a terrible gust, and his main body threatened to collapse fully. If that happened, his arm would be first.

Something in the way its eyes started blinking lazily as if it couldn’t see anything clearly tipped Sikrat off that things were about to go awry. There was a shake to its body, a tremble to its limbs that hinted at something deeper, an exhaustion that shouldn’t be present in any inhuman body.

Sikrat was not the type to let things happen to them. When they saw what this creature was up to, they were hardly willing to just let it happen. But for it to go from passive and placid to outright hostile in less than a minute… Unusual. Even more concerning, although it held its arm out as if to slam it down and hurt someone real bad, it was clearly not doing so. If anything, it seemed to be trying its darndest to keep its hand from falling at all.

As if it was waiting for them to make the move.

And he was.