Chapter Two Hundred Forty-One: 'The Calamity at Uego...'

As the machines began to appear, the mechanical tendrils that were keeping Asad in place started to move and shake with violent force. They were not just tendrils, he learned. They were connected to hulking figures beneath the sand--figures with so many different and moving parts that he scarcely knew what he was looking at.

And there were so many of them. Dozens, at least. Just one of them was holding onto him and the two scouts, while still having more tendrils and body parts to spare.

The noise they made was particularly unsettling. Given their size and shapes, they seemed like they should have been incredibly loud, making all sorts of clanking and whirring sounds.

But they weren't. They were quiet. Asad could only make out muted puffs and hisses, faint sliding noises, the light tapping of many small footsteps on sand, and the swiping sound through open air whenever their tentacles moved quickly.

These things hadn't been slapped together haphazardly. They were thoughtfully crafted--and deadly efficient, most probably.

Only two of them moved to engage Parson Miles, while the one holding Asad skittered closer to Morgunov, who was just watching with a big smile on his face.

Miles zoomed up into the air, leaving a sand-whipping twister beneath him for the approaching machines. They both got yanked off the ground and sent flying, and for a second, Asad thought that was it for them.

But it wasn't. Not at all.

Their appendages all retracted into their bodies, and they both became balls. Large jets appeared in place of their missing limbs, adjusting their trajectory to stay with the tornado and ride it up toward Miles.

The machines zoomed after Miles, who in turn flew away, no doubt wanting to put more distance between him and them. A flurry of visible bursts of air surged out from Miles' hands, and the machines zigged and zagged between them.

Asad could hardly believe his eyes. Their mobility was absolutely absurd. The way they could react and dodge so quickly in midair--he'd never seen any machine do that, much less ones that seemed to be operating autonomously. Perhaps they had pilots flying them remotely. Asad found himself hoping that was the case, because the alternative meant that the Mad Demon was even further ahead technologically than he'd imagined.

The captain general was at least managing to stay ahead of the flying death machines, but he was clearly struggling. Finally, one of his air bursts connected, knocking a machine off course and sending it into the side of a dune, kicking up a giant cloud of sand.

Morgunov was still chuckling, though, and threw a glance Asad's way. "Glad he's not making it too easy on 'em! They'll never improve, otherwise!"

Miles seemed to be turning the tables on the remaining machine, zipping around it and launching an even more furious surge of blasts at it, battering it around. Even if he wasn't quite landing a solid hit yet, it seemed like only a matter of time now.

But Asad could see the sand dune being disturbed again, and the machine that had been knocked down came blasting out of it, this time boasting a new adjustment.

A red flash cut through the night sky in an instant. A laser. Followed by several more, rapid fire. They nearly hit Miles, getting closer each time, until he noticed and began evading, which unfortunately meant that he had to stop attacking the one that he'd had on the ropes.

And Miles must have noticed, because the tornado burst apart just as they were getting close to him, and they were both sent careening away.

Until their jets adjusted and they caught themselves, growing wings and propellers.

Morgunov clicked his tongue. "Hmm, I wonder if the targeting system is off because of that hit it took or if it just needs some more tweaking in general..." He raised a hand, and two more machines leapt forth from the crowd surrounding him. "Experiment time! Hooray!"

Now there were four robots going after Miles, all deploying jet propulsion and lasers. The sky began to light up with each bright red beam, and it wasn't long before the captain general was no longer able to avoid them.

A beam skewered him through the side and severed his right arm completely. The man went tumbling down toward the ground, seemingly trying to catch himself but only managing to angle and slow his descent. He still left a large cloud of sand behind when he landed.

The machines didn't let up, though. They dove into the screen of sand, and Asad could no longer tell what was happening. More wind arrived, turning the screen into a whirlwind, then a twister, then finally a full blown tornado.

Its massive funnel just kept growing in size, obliterating dunes left and right, tossing more and more sand in the air.

Then the tornado divided. Into two. Then into three. Then four.

Four tornadoes of equal size, whipping up winds so furious that Asad could see several of Morgunov's stationary robots beginning to rattle, struggling not to get pulled in.

And the winds only kept increasing. The nearby machines had to dig into the sand with their tendrils in order to remain where they were.

Morgunov, meanwhile, was just stroking his bare chin thoughtfully as he kept observing the scene with a smile.

The flying sand was so ferocious now that Asad could feel it pelting him and starting to activate his tattoos. The slight pressure and golden glow told him that these winds had enough power behind them to tear through a normal person, and his thoughts immediately went to the two scouts.

They did have protective gear on, so hopefully they would be fine, but he wanted to add a layer of quartz armor to them, just to be sure. To do that, though, he would need his materialization.

He tried again to summon it but nothing happened. His ability was still being suppressed by the Mad Demon's overwhelming soul power.

And with his movement completely neutralized, what else could be done? Nothing. He was powerless.

All he could think to do was beg.

"Morgunov!" yelled Asad over the howling wind, drawing the madman's glance. "Please! Don't let my men die in this storm!"

The man stared at him for a moment, perhaps thinking it over. "Hmm! Now that you mention it, yeah! This is pretty callous of the noble Vanguardian over there, isn't it?! Let's see how he--!"

And he kept talking, but Asad wasn't able to hear him over the raging winds. The tornadoes were so close now, threatening to yank Morgunov's robots right out of the sand despite how dug in they were.

Then, amid the increasingly dense swirl of sand, Morgunov disappeared from Asad's view. He couldn't tell where or how he'd gone, just that he'd vanished. More of the machines began to disappear, too, and again, Asad couldn't tell how. Had they dug even deeper in? Or just been yanked into the air by Miles?

He could hear faint traces of screaming, cutting in and out between the sand-riddled winds. And to his horror, he realized that it was the scouts. He caught glimpses of them, of their gear being shredded, of blood flying.

They were dying.

And all he could do was watch.

Desperate, he and Qorvass activated pan-forma, hoping that it would allow him to materialize again. But it was in vain, as they both knew it would be.

Asad raged in place. He struggled, wanting to thrash his way to freedom, at least, but even with undead strength, the mechanical tendrils held him fast, preventing all but the smallest movements.

The thought occurred to him that they might be better off if Qorvass tried to use this opportunity to flee, while the Mad Demon was possibly too distracted.

But neither of them really believed that he would be able to slip away. Morgunov had more tricks up his sleeve, no doubt.

And indeed, they soon saw another one.

The hellish winds ceased.

All at once and without warning.

They just stopped. The four tornadoes each burst apart like popped balloons, and within seconds, there was no wind at all anymore.

Asad searched for some explanation, utterly confused until he saw Miles in the sky with a machine wrapped around him like a spider that had just caught a fly.

Or at least, it looked like Miles from this distance. It was made more confounding by the fact that Asad noticed another figure that could have been Miles, too. And then a third. And a fourth. He could only make out their vague shapes, but each one could have been the captain general.

Regardless, they'd all been caught, seemingly in unison. One machine each.

Morgunov, meanwhile, also reappeared in his view, on the ground. He was in the middle of where the four tornadoes had been just a few moments ago, and he was staring up at his captives. He crouched down briefly, then leapt up into the sky with enough force to explode the sand beneath him. The nearest robot released a captive just as the Mad Demon passed by and skewered the figure through the chest with his face.

And when the figure vanished, leaving no trace behind, Asad understood that Morgunov had just obliterated a clone made in pan-rozum. Morgunov landed on a distant dune with a booming thud, then leapt back up to do the same thing again, leaving only two.

As he watched with utter incredulity, it seemed entirely clear to Asad that Morgunov was still just having fun. The fact that he was jumping at the clones in midair--that seemed especially ridiculous. Asad obviously didn't know the full extent of the Mad Demon's powers, but given everything that he'd witnessed thus far, he had to imagine that the madman had some means of flying at his disposal. And yet he wasn't using it. He was just jumping.

Instead of destroying the third clone of Miles, however, Morgunov grabbed him by the head, palming it like a basketball while the clone's body ragdolled wildly around him. Perhaps the clone was flailing on purpose, struggling to counterattack in the midst of that absurd situation, but Asad couldn't tell; and it didn't take much longer for Morgunov to leap after the fourth and final clone, closing in at rocket speed.

Just as his flying robot let go of the fourth clone, the Mad Demon took the third in hand and quite literally dunked it down on top of the fourth. The impact between the clones was strong enough to send an audible shock wave through the air, and one of them was obliterated while the other got spiked into the ground with another sandy explosion.

Asad felt the reverberations from both hits and saw the sands all around them tremble, too.

Morgunov, meanwhile, was still up in the air, sitting on one of his hovering robots and laughing his head off. "Is that one point for me or two?! Or maybe it should be four, since there were four of you?! Eheheheh!"

Dear merciful gods, Asad thought. This really was just one big game to him, wasn't it? He'd known that all along, but somehow, it was never more obvious than right now.

As the sand settled, the figure of Parson Miles stood back up. The man's bones were still visibly realigning as he glanced in Asad's direction with a haggard look on his face.

Morgunov crossed his legs as the machine he was sitting on descended slowly. "So how much longer until one of your bosses shows up to play with me?!"

Miles tried to brush the sand off his coat and did not entirely succeed. "Any minute now, I'm sure."

"Ooh! Think you can last that long?!"

The captain general made no response.

Morgunov gave another laugh and snapped his fingers.

More mechanical tendrils burst out of the sand beneath Miles' feet. He leapt away with a surge of wind, but two of the tendrils still caught him around the upper leg. His whole bottom half vanished into thin air, and Miles nearly slipped free again until another robot came down on him from above and wrapped itself around him.

The tendrils reaffirmed their grasp on him, too, and Miles got pulled beneath the sand, disappearing entirely from Asad's view. More shock waves arrived as the desert itself began to quake and tremble.

An eternity seemed to pass while Asad waited and watched. Miles would pop out of the sand, thrashing and wrestling with two or more machines, only to be dragged back down again. And this just kept happening. Over and over. Until at length, Morgunov apparently grew bored of it and had the machines let the man go. They dropped him off in a battered heap in front of Asad and the small crowd of robots surrounding him.

Morgunov scratched his brow as he floated closer. "Any minute now, you said?"

On all fours, Miles tried to say something but just spat up blood, instead. He was still struggling even to stand.

"Oh, what's the matter?" said Morgunov. "Problems with your regeneration?"

"W-what did you do to us?" said Miles between hacking coughs. He tried to push himself up but wasn't able to.

"Me?" said Morgunov. "That's very presumptive of you! What makes you think I did something? Maybe you're just getting slow in your old age, eheh!"

Miles rolled onto his side, revealing a large gash in his back that didn't appear to be closing.

The Mad Demon hopped off his robot and landed next to Miles, tilting his head at him. "Don't you think it's a little unfair to everyone else how we can just shrug off mortal injuries like they're no big deal? And then sleep off the pain and exhaustion later? How's a normal person supposed to live with peace of mind, knowing there are all these unkillable psychos out there in the world? And don't even get me started on hyper-states! Talk about scary!"

"What--what nonsense are you--?"

Morgunov squatted down and put a hand over Miles' mouth. "Shh, shh. You should probably save your breath, right now. Don't worry. I'll talk enough for both of us!" He motioned one of his robots over and then opened its chest cavity to retrieve something.

Black and red chains. Morgunov tossed them on top of Miles, then rolled him over with his foot until the Vanguardian was wrapped up. Morgunov fused the chains together with one hand and hoisted the squirming Miles over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

"Man, those bosses of yours sure are taking their sweet time, aren't they? You don't think they abandoned you, do ya? Buncha honorable and noble guys like them? No way, right? Yeah, they're probably just waiting until the absolute last possible second to jump in and rescue you! For maximum dramatic effect! That's what I'd do! I'm sure they're--"

And the Mad Demon paused, staring at the robot in front of him. It was emitting a low, repeating beep, and its eyes were flashing yellow.

"Ah, y'see? Looks like I was right!"

Morgunov clicked his tongue, and the robot in front of him crouched down, allowing two others to climb on top of it.

Then something else happened that Asad could hardly believe.

The three machines unfolded themselves in countless different ways, clanking and scraping against one another, until they reformed and became one, much larger robot.

Now it was the size of a van--and very bulbous looking, besides. Its "head" was still domed and bearing blinking "eyes," just like all the other robots, but its body was so much larger. And judging from the way the other robots appeared to function, there was no telling what kind of mechanical tricks it might be concealing within its black-and-gray frame.

Its giant chest cavity opened up, and Morgunov tossed Miles inside. The chamber slid shut with a shunk, and the Mad Demon smiled again, waving the robot off. It responded by rocketing away from the ground and soaring into the night sky.

Then Morgunov turned to Asad. "Enjoying the show?" he said, motioning to more of the robots. "Sorry, you probably shouldn't be here for the good part. For your own safety, you understand. Wouldn't want some emotional teenager to accidentally kill ya! You know how they can be, I'm sure."

The machine that was holding him crouched down, too, and two more robots piled on. Just like the ones from before, they unfolded and began merging into a single machine--only this time, they did it while maintaining their grip on Asad. The inner chamber of the robot quickly formed all around him, until all light disappeared, and he was sealed inside.

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Morgunov tingled with excitement as he watched the Robert Mk. III launching away with Asad Najir and Qorvass inside it. Not only were the packages secure, but things were finally about to kick off for the first time in a long time.

A long, long time.

He'd almost forgotten what it was like, this feeling just before a big fight--the kind of fight that he wasn't a hundred percent sure he could win.

There was a time when he hated this feeling. That was only normal, after all. The fear alone tended to overwhelm the inexperienced. The unenlightened.

Fear was the catalyst. The focal point. The most beautiful and fleeting feeling of all.

Even at his age, the effects of fear on the body were remarkable. The fight-or-flight response. Such a marvelous achievement of evolution. It deserved so much more appreciation than it ever received.

In many ways, that was Morgunov's greatest philosophical motivation for everything that he did. Every goal he chose to pursue in the world, every change he tried to bring out.

The spreading of fear. There was no greater teacher than fear. Everyone seemed to loathe it, but the more people who came to appreciate it, the better off this world would be. On that point, he held absolute conviction.

Perhaps one day, the world would come to understand that and commend his efforts.

Eheh. Okay, yeah, probably not. But it would definitely remember his efforts, at least. Maybe that would be enough.

At the moment, however, as he watched the Mk. III dwindling into the distance, the only thing on Morgunov's mind was who would appear next. Who would it be? Who had come to challenge him? Iceheart was the most likely candidate, of course, but he was hoping--

His head twitched as he sensed a surge of power in the distance. Something bolted across the sky. Not a person. Just a pocket of power moving at lightning speed.

It struck the Robert Mk. III with Asad in it.

Morgunov saw the distant explosion, then the Robert tumbling down into the sand.

And the Mad Demon's smile, the expression that normally came so easily to him, disappeared. His brow lowered, and he squinted.

This was another thing that had not happened in a very long time.

He felt irritated.

Genuine, unmitigated annoyance.

Whoever had just done that... they were about to have a bad day, Morgunov decided.

If he inspected the crash site later and discovered that Asad and Qorvass had just been killed because one of those damn marshals was too stupid to realize their own ally was inside the robot, then Morgunov was going to be a lot more than just annoyed.

He was going to be angry. And that was something he hadn't felt in an even longer time.

There wasn't much left in this world that could set him off, anymore. He'd learned long ago how to take things in stride, to just enjoy life. But one thing that he'd never quite been able get past was that special Vanguardian blend of hypocritical moralizing combined with utter incompetence. There was just something so keenly unbearable about that habit of theirs.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

So if that mixture ended up being responsible for the premature conclusion of an experiment that he had very much been looking forward to, then Morgunov could already tell that he was gonna have to do something quite mean-spirited to the Vanguard before he would feel better.

For now, though, it was just irritation. If Asad was still alive, then everything would be fine. And with any luck, the Mk. III would keep possession of him.

In the meantime, he would have to deal with these challengers.

Yes. Multiple.

He could sense them now, in the distance. They were arriving in even larger numbers than he expected, and thanks to Bool's memory, most of their souls were familiar.

And it was quite a party. He recognized Lieutenant Generals Wes, Kehl, Harisson, and Vernon. From the rank of General, he noticed Lawrence, Min, Edward, Fremont, and Calvin. And from the Captain Generals, he spotted Jules, Eckard, Malinda, and Meris. Combined with Parson Miles, that was a sizable chunk of the Vanguard's top brass taking part in this operation.

They must've known who they were dealing with.

But of course, it wasn't the generals that he needed to worry about. Sure, they could become a problem if he let them, but it was those two at the front he needed to take seriously.

Lamont and Jackson. Together.

Still no Sermung, though. Frankly, a part of him was disappointed. All the preparations he'd made to face the Crystal Titan--they were a bit wasted, now. And moreover, it made him wonder where the ol' Sermy actually was, right now. Surely, there couldn't have been many things that demanded his attention more than the Mad Demon knocking on the door to Intar.

Oh well. Iceheart and the Star of the West would make for suitable replacements.

Unfortunately, these fellows were not like Parson Miles. They weren't going to just fly up to him and have a nice chat before everything went down.

No, these guys were the surly sort. Too serious by a half. Iceheart especially, though Jackson wasn't much better. Morgunov knew well in advance that they were just going to attack him without so much as a howdy-do.

Sermung wouldn't have been so rude. Unless he was in a bad mood, maybe. Which, come to think of it, he usually was whenever Morgunov met up with him.

Hmm.

Eh, that was probably a correlation not causation thing, right? Yeah.

Anyway, the first task would be to deal with the light-wielders. Those guys always tried to get a few cheap shots in before anyone else could. It was like they thought that just because they could attack at the speed of light--or near to it, at least--they were somehow entitled to drawing first blood.

The Roberts would be ruining their fun, however. That was one of the earliest tricks that he'd worked into their design: reversible mirrors. Their black frames could turn inside out, revealing a shiny inner coating.

They weren't all identical, though. Different wavelengths of light required different materials to be reflected. Glass for infrared, aluminum for UV, iridium for X-rays, and so on.

The best thing, though? Every Robert knew what to look for. They all tracked their opponents and singled out the ones they were strongest against, for maximum obnoxiousness. And efficiency, of course. But mostly obnoxiousness.

Already, the Roberts were doing their jobs, leaping in front of him to receive and bounce back attacks from the light-wielders--some of which were invisible to the naked eye without soul vision.

Technically, Morgunov didn't need them to do that for him. If he wanted, he could take those hits just fine and barely be slowed down. But it was more fun this way. He'd put a lot of work into the Roberts, so he liked seeing them do their thing.

There were thirty-eight of them currently surrounding him. That number would probably be good enough, he figured. As long as he kept the marshals busy himself, the only way the Roberts would struggle would be if one of the Vannie generals started to dramatically overperform.

But was that all he wanted? To be "good enough?"

Of course not.

He didn't become the Mad Demon by settling for mediocrity. He did it by breaking his enemies' spirits.

He raised his hands, and more Roberts arose from the sands around him. In an instant, their numbers swelled to near a hundred.

They were all Mk. Is, the smallest and most mobile models. But of course, due to their ability to combine, they weren't JUST Mk. Is. With a snap of his fingers, they could reduce their numbers by half and become Mk. IIs, or to a third and become Mk. IIIs.

Each Mark increase meant a further loss of mobility but also a disproportionate improvement in firepower and durability. There were some weapons that couldn't even fit inside a single Mk. I or II. The Mk. IIIs were where things started to get really intense, and anything higher than Mk. V was still experimental.

A Mk. IV would be a good way to start things off, he decided. He waved four of the Mk. Is over and motioned to them. All he had to do was think about what he wanted, but he liked waving his hands. It made him feel like the conductor of an orchestra.

The four smacked together, unfolded themselves, and combined into the Mk. IV--a hulking beast of a machine, as big as a bus.

With so much space to work with, Morgunov had a lot of options to choose from. The Mk. IV's innards could be rearranged into a wide variety of different weapons, many of which he'd designed personally. The one that he currently had in mind, however, he actually didn't come up with. At least, not exactly. He did invent it, technically, but he only got the idea for it after watching what was otherwise a terribly made science-fiction movie.

The Anti-Air Scatterburst Particle Exciter, was one of his favorite creations of the last few decades. He hadn't used it in actual combat yet, but he'd gone through quite a long phase of testing during various field experiments.

The name hadn't really stuck, though--not even the acronym, ASPE. Instead, Jercash had started calling it the BSLG.

The Big Scary Lightning Gun.

Which, admittedly, Morgunov did like the sound of a little better. The sly boy had a way with names, dang him.

Technically, though, it wasn't quite "lightning" that it was shooting. It just kinda looked that way to the untrained eye. Really, it was just shooting a scattered group of ionic channels, through which were carried very powerful currents.

And the channels could be adjusted as desired, of course, but he had always found it best to lean into the "scatterburst" aspect of it.

The result, therefore, was a spray of lightning so massive that, for more than a few seconds, it could turn night into day.

Which was what he did now. He pointed the BSLG straight at the oncoming Vannies and let it rip.

And standing this close to it, without his passive soul defenses, he most certainly would've been rendered both blind and deaf instantaneously.

Fortunately, he was the Mad Demon.

So he just smiled with wide eyes, as if watching fireworks.

The bolts arced across the sky, filling the horizon and making the desert itself quake from the dozens of sonic booms going off simultaneously.

Needless to say, the attacks from the light-wielders came to an abrupt end. The lightning shredded their ranks, sending them in all different directions--a few of which were down toward the ground in charred heaps.

The dark of night returned as the afterimage of the bolts faded, but more light was already beginning to arrive--this time from the Vannies' end.

Specifically, from Jackson.

Morgunov didn't budge, though. He'd fought the Star of the West before, of course, but not for many years. He was curious what the fiery fella could do, what with all the gossip surrounding him. Some were even saying that he was on the level of an emperor now.

Wishful thinking, most likely. But heck, if it turned out to be true, then Morgunov would actually be quite pleased to welcome another member into the fold. There hadn't been a new emperor in over three hundred years. In fact, the last one to achieve that status was none other than himself. It would be nice not to be the new guy in the office, anymore.

Of course, there'd been many claims of new emperors over those three hundred years. Too many to count, quite frankly. And the Mad Demon had greatly enjoyed putting those claimants to the test. The other emperors rarely ever seemed to care about such things, but they were boring, so that wasn't too surprising. He was only too happy to serve as the "gatekeeper" for their little clique.

So when the horizon began to come alive with fire, Morgunov's smile only widened.

It was a bit like watching the sunrise. Only, he knew that the sun hated him and wanted to reduce him to ashes.

Then again, maybe that wasn't too different from the real sun.

Even at this distance, he could already feel the heat. And then he saw the tidal wave of white hot flame approaching, scorching whole dunes and melting them before even touching them. The bottom half of the wave plowed through the uneven ground, splashing molten liquid into the air like a boat cutting through water.

Hmm. Not bad.

Not enough, though.

It would probably require two or three Mk. Vs to absorb so much heat, but they would need time to combine, first. Soul-infused, the attack would knock out dozens of Mk. Is if he waited.

So he'd have to deal with it himself.

He took a crouching step forward, launched away from the ground with an explosively powerful jump, clapped his hands together, and concentrated as he soared closer to the inferno.

Integration was not a well understood ability, even to this day. Over the course of his long life, most of the other integrators that Morgunov had met only had a solid grasp on the basic principles of it. Two materials being fused together. Learning new materials through the hyper-state of pan-wzrost.

But there was so much more.

The fusing process itself was fantastically complex, yet so easy to pull off that the youngins rarely ever gave it a second thought. With sufficient practice, the bonds between molecules or even atoms could be directly manipulated.

Admittedly, that wasn't easy, but it opened up a world of possibilities regarding energy transference--for example, in the instigation of both endothermic and exothermic reactions. Or in other words, the absorption and release of heat.

So this gargantuan wall of fire in front of him wasn't that big of a problem, really. Sure, it was a buttload of heat that needed to be absorbed, and sure, transferring all of it into something without causing that thing to violently explode was dangerous beyond measure.

But what was a battle without a little danger, eh?

Fortunately, Morgunov knew a couple tricks when it came to transferring so much heat at once. Any normal material would be unable to withstand such an extreme and sudden spike in energy, but he had a very abnormal material on hand at all times.

His very own body.

Passive soul defenses combined with soul-strengthening went a long way toward preventing his body from instantly exploding. Plus, he didn't actually have to absorb all of it. He could simply transfer a huge portion of it straight into the ground, effectively turning the sandy desert into even more of a sea of molten glass than it already was.

But he pushed himself to his absolute limit, still. He wanted to take as much heat directly into his body as he possibly could--not because he needed to, per se, but mainly because he wanted to throw it all back in the Vannies' faces.

He ended up bursting into flames. Literally, the heat caused most of his clothes to catch on fire. It was a bit painful, but the discomfort from the heat raging through every cell of his entire body was much more noticeable.

He had experience with this, though, having been set on fire many times before. That was why he always made sure to wear fire-retardant pants and undies. Too many times, he'd been caught butt naked during an experiment or a battle or a battle experiment. So it wasn't too agonizing or distracting for him.

The flamey boy would have to do a lot better than this to make him flinch.

He sent a good eighty percent of the tidal wave's heat right back at them, while still allowing some of it to remain with him just because fighting while on fire was also kinda cool.

And now, apparently, it was Iceheart's turn to step up.

The rebounding wave of heat curved suddenly upward and kept going, where it would eventually vent off into space.

Then came a fleet of deadly javelins--though not the kind any normal person would be able to see. These were invisible, having no solid form, instead being made purely from the absence of heat. Localized bodies of absolute zero--or near enough to it, at least. And packed with soul-infusion for extra oomph, of course.

Therefore, without soul or thermal vision, they were impossible to detect. Fast moving, stealthy, and capable of ceasing all atomic movement on impact, they were truly the weapons of a cold and callous monster like Iceheart.

Against someone else, they might've ended the battle right then and there.

Instead, he made them all but disappear by rapidly bringing them into equilibrium--like icy bullets melting as they traveled through warm water. And when they were close enough to hit him, he didn't even have to dodge, as they just splashed against him, no stronger than a brisk gust of wind.

Which was actually kind of pleasant, after how much he'd just been sweating.

Eheh. What a silly matchup.

Lamont and Jackson could each affect thermodynamics in their own way, so together, their mastery over it equaled--or perhaps even exceeded--his own. Morgunov was already getting the feeling that this would become a stalemate if he didn't hit them with something else.

Thermodynamic manipulation was a tough opponent to deal with, though. Such abilities were a threat to the stabilization of any system, small or large. To effectively fight against that, he would require some very specialized tools and tactics.

Of which, he had many. He would need some Mk. Vs for this.

And thankfully, after the time he bought for them, several were now ready for action.

Compared to the Mk. IVs, the Mk. Vs might not have seemed all that different. They were a bit bigger, sure, but the Mk. IVs were still pretty huge. The color scheme was the same. The Mk. Vs had all the Mk. IVs' weapons. They had the same beady, glowing eyes on their little, domed heads.

Really, there was only one major feature that set them apart.

But what a feature it was.

The Cage System.

Of all his brainchildren, the Cage System was near the top. He'd come up with it when trying to think of how best to take advantage of all the extra space in the Mk. V's torso. It seemed a waste to just cram more weapons in there--though he'd ended up doing that, too, of course.

The Cage System was designed to capture targets of an extremely high threat level. In fact, it was one of the ways in which he planned to catch himself a pet god. He wasn't yet sure if it would actually work, of course, since he'd never had any suitable test subjects for it--other than feldeaths, perhaps, but he didn't want to count those annoying jerks.

Lamont and Jackson, though?

They were looking quite suitable, indeed.

He set all four of the freshly combined Robert Mk. Vs to target them as they drew close. But targeting didn't mean engaging them directly. Instead, the Mk. Vs cloaked themselves with Invisibility. For now, their only goal was to position themselves and bide their time.

The marshals, meanwhile, were hoping to keep him pressured and focused on the two of them so that he couldn't obliterate their little buddies--which was a wise strategy, because he very much wanted to do that.

The Vannie generals--the ones that weren't already smoldering on the ground, at least--were trying to interfere again. He knew they were just going to utilize hit-and-run tactics against him while leaving the real bulk of the fighting to Lamont and Jackson, but unfortunately, they were still at a level of power such that he couldn't simply ignore them.

If the generals' attacks landed at just the wrong moment, or if they devoted all of their power into a single blow, then they might be able to damage him significantly--which would then set the marshals up for a truly life-threatening attack.

Even for him, that was a lot to keep track of, which was where his modest army of Roberts was meant to come in.

Somehow, though, he'd almost forgotten that he didn't just have the Roberts at his disposal. He had a few kiddies on his side, too, didn't he?

The Man of Crows had slipped into the fleet of Roberts so stealthily that Morgunov barely even noticed. When had he even arrived? What a sneaky boy, eheh. He felt a surge of pride in the lad.

The result, in any case, was chaos.

Glorious, glorious chaos.

The Vannies and the Roberts crashed into one another in midair, destroying what little sense of rank and order had remained. The desert immediately below them was already unrecognizable. Jackson's attack had melted it; Morgunov's counter had turned it into a bubbling cauldron; and now, the countless explosions, lasers, lightning strikes, blasts of radiation, and more were only compounding the matter further.

Not to mention, the soul-infusion making every attack more potent.

A black haze was beginning to form, a ruinous smoke that threatened to fill the area if not for the constant barrage of attacks pushing it around.

Lamont and Jackson were sticking to him like glue, both in the air and on the ground, following him wherever he leapt, even when he hopped atop Roberts or their own generals. Their wispy, amorphous bodies barely seemed human anymore as they had both become the very essence of cold and hot, respectively.

They swirled around him like twin ghosts, smothering him with innumerable blades of frost and flame. Waves of heat or its absence tried to pummel him constantly, to throw him off balance. And hands appeared from thin air, trying to grasp and grapple with him, to prevent his movement so that any other attacks might land.

This was a deadly dance, the Mad Demon knew--and a bit unfair, considering how many hands were flying his way. They were only supposed to have four between them, but he was counting upwards of twenty. If he actually bothered to deflect them all, he might've been in trouble.

Half or more were mirages, though--illusions conjured by heat and pan-rozum, meant only to distract. Some were more effective than others, but he could usually tell the real from the fake.

The auras tended to give it away. Theirs, as well as his own.

So when he was able to grab Lamont's wrist and yank him closer to clutch his neck, Morgunov wasn't sure why the man looked so surprised on his icy face. Had he thought he would be able to slip away again like a cold breath of air? Just because pan-rozum was normally able to wriggle free of soul-infused hands?

No, no, no, eheheh. Not with this particular glove on. Lamont was probably feeling its soul-weakening effects already.

His back was now turned to Jackson, and he could sense that the flamey boy was gearing up for another doozy of an attack. Probably something more concentrated--and therefore, more deadly--than that tidal wave had been.

Yeah, probably didn't want to mess with that. Now seemed like a good time for the Mk. Vs to decloak.

There were a few reasons why he didn't let the Roberts use their Invisibility more frequently. The first was simply that, usually, the entire point of deploying them was to have them take some of the enemy's attention away from him--which they couldn't exactly do if no one could see them.

The second reason was that there weren't enough Invisibility-inducing aberration items to go around. Most of them were already in use by his boys. He could've simply ordered them to hand them over to him, of course, but he felt like they needed them more than the Roberts did, honestly.

And the third reason was that Invisibility made it impossible for the Roberts to communicate with one another, unless they were all utilizing the same invisible "umbrella," as it were. And the Invisibility items tended to have a very limited range, so if he wanted the Roberts to operate invisibly, he had to sacrifice either mobility or teamwork--both of which were the Mk. Is strongest attributes.

That was much less of an issue for the Mk. Vs. Their mobility was already greatly diminished, and they were powerful enough that they didn't need to work together. Not to mention, Invisibility complemented the Cage System oh-so-nicely.

When one of them sprung up behind Jackson in midair, Morgunov had to twist around to see the man's face.

That was perhaps his guiltiest pleasure of all. He loved to see that look of sudden realization. Of shock. And the haughtier the person, the more satisfying it was.

Eheh. It didn't get much haughtier than a marshal. They were just brimming with that sense of superiority and self-righteousness.

In the moment, the Mk. V's giant torso was like the open mouth of a dragon as it closed in.

The Star of the West reacted too late, and the surge of flames that came pouring out of him in all directions disappeared behind a wall of black and silver.

There was little doubt in Morgunov's mind that Jackson had more than enough raw power at his disposal to tear the Robert Mk. Vs to shreds.

But it wasn't just about strength.

That was the beauty of the Cage System.

Over the many long years of having Ivan as his subordinate/unwilling test subject, Morgunov had learned a thing or two about suppressing servant abilities. The Salesman of Death was arguably the best at that, after all--or at least, he was, until a few years ago when Morgunov perfected the Mk. V design.

The truth was, there were actually a number of different ways to suppress a servant's power. The first was oppressive field density, but of course, that didn't work on servants with powerful enough passive soul defenses. On the surface, at least.

The second was brain freeze. Preventing the servant from thinking prevented them from activating their power in the first place. And naturally, slowing down their thought processes also had deleterious effects on ability usage.

The third was the destruction of the physical body. The power stemmed from the brain, of course, but without a conduit through which to flow, the servant's power was like electricity stuck in a battery. Useless. Plus, bodily destruction served as a great distraction when trying to overwhelm someone. Most people weren't able to concentrate very well while under the realization that their body was being attacked. That was why servants often trained themselves psychologically to improve concentration and why reapers tried to nullify signals from the brain that might prematurely tell it to shut down--but those tactics had their limitations.

Especially if the bodily destruction was designed to be particularly horrific.

The fourth method, seemingly, was Ivan's power. Alteration of the weak force--the bonds between subatomic particles.

Morgunov had learned, however, that Ivan's power was not uniquely special in this way. Ivan's ability allowed him to "suppress" the body as a conduit by distorting energy transfer between atoms. While he wasn't "destroying" the body, exactly, he was still preventing its normal function by numbing it to the extreme.

Therefore, any power that could accomplish the same feat could achieve the same result.

Morgunov had been very pleased to learn that.

The Cage System, therefore, employed every single one of those tactics. There was no sense in picking and choosing when he didn't have to, he'd always thought.

As soon as the Mk. V's walls slid shut, the inner chamber was supercooled, filled with weaponized hallucinogens, bombarded with various radiations, diced up with saw-toothed blades, and sprayed with flesh-eating microbes--all of which were permanently infused with his very own soul, of course.

Oh, and there was one other little trick thrown in there. Little being the operative word.

Teeny, tiny machines.

But those were one of Papa's most special-est of secrets, eheh. Even Bool didn't know about those nanoscopic beauties.

And it wasn't for a lack of effort, either.

Whenever they entered pan-rozum together, he could tell that the reaper wanted to uncover all of his juicy secrets. Because of course he did. Morgunov didn't blame him. If their positions were reversed, he would've been the same way.

But he'd learned long, long ago that reapers weren't nearly as wise or powerful as they all liked to believe they were.

Morgunov was at a point now where pan-rozum was less of a fusion of two souls and more of a... subjugation of one over the other. Bool was just along for the ride now, and Morgunov could tell that he didn't entirely love it. If not for the massive benefits afforded by their militant endeavors, the reaper probably would've never done it again.

Bool was but a plaything in his hand. More so than ever before. He'd seen the entirety of the reaper's soul, all the complexity of it, all the quaint simplicity of it, the admirable parts, the ugly parts.

Still hadn't found that sense of humor, though. Hmm. Had to be in there somewhere.

The rest of the Vannies were clearly upset by what they were witnessing, but the Roberts and Crowe were giving them plenty to think about. Oh, and were there a few more of his boys here now, too?

Eheh. Adorable.

Iceheart was struggling quite hard in his grip, trying to freeze him, slow his mind down maybe. And frankly, Morgunov was feeling pretty chilly. At this rate, his teeth might start chattering soon.

But again, his integration-based mastery over heat transference made this quite manageable. He wanted to warm Iceheart up and maybe thaw his frozen face out a bit, but alas, it wasn't to be. Iceheart specialized in that, after all. Would've been pretty embarrassing if he couldn't even maintain his own iciness, eheh.

It was interesting how he managed to prevent his own brain from freezing, though, wasn't it? Morgunov had been curious about that for years now, actually. Mm, yeah, Lamont would make for a great test subject, too. Another Mk. V decloaked, and Morgunov was about ready to toss him in.

But the Mk. V that contained Jackson was shaking pretty violently, now. That was actually another tactic of the Cage System--rattling the subject inside to help disorient them. The more confused they were, the better.

The shaking was too violent, though. That wasn't normal.

And he could feel the heat leaking out, too.

Well, poop.

He flung Iceheart into his own Mk. V and spun around just in time to see the first Mk. V glowing white hot. Its metallic body was distorting and bending, on the verge of combusting.

Morgunov put his hand forward, trying some last second heat transference to help the Mk. V survive, but it was too late.

The machine erupted like a volcano, and Jackson came flying out.

Morgunov frowned. The Mk. Vs could repair themselves quite extensively, but this? A bunch of half-molten scrap? Yeah, that was pretty unlikely--though, he did spot a few parts still wriggling here and there, trying their best.

Agh, he loved the Roberts so much.

Jackson was free again, but he didn't seem to be doing too well. Morgunov was just waiting for him to launch another attack, but the poor fellow was flying around all haphazard-like, tumbling through the air and zigzagging for no apparent reason.

Despite being destroyed, it looked like the Mk. V's Cage System had still done a number on him.

Morgunov felt a swell of pride in his mechanical child and wiped away an imaginary tear as he snickered to himself.

Abruptly, a group of Vannie generals were flanking him, getting close enough to draw his glance. Some heavy materialization bombardments flew his way, and for a split second, he thought he might actually have to deal with them personally.

But then a troop of Mk. IIs rolled through them like they were bowling pins and began splitting off to go capture their scattered remnants.

Honestly, he was starting to feel a little bad. This was his first time deploying the Roberts in real combat, but they were exceeding his expectations by a substantial margin. If the enemy didn't get its act together soon, this whole battle might come to a disappointingly swift conclusion.

Hmm, maybe the Vannies just needed a little encouragement.

"Eheheh! C'mon, fellas! Don't tell me you're finished, already! It's been so long since I fought you guys! I've still got so many new tricks I wanna show ya!"

That was encouraging, right? Yeah, he was pretty sure it was.