I can only observe through my eyes as the Bloody Palm that was once Cassidy Monroe's malevolence engulfs me, wresting control of my body and unleashing its wrath upon Marshall. Absolute hostility and lethal intent twist and contort my form unnaturally, bones shattering from the sheer velocity, only to mend in a fleeting moment. Flesh morphs and spins, forging weapons from its own grotesque form.

My legs wrench themselves, bone and flesh splattering to create bursts of power that propel me with an agonizing speed. And while I hurtle for Marshall, those ruined legs repair themselves, muscle and flesh returning to force my bones in place. Yet the moment before the Bloody Palm that controls me reaches Marshall, my left arm is transfigured into a lance of flesh and bone, the tip reflecting a hazardous glint of bone.

Yet, despite the demonic force that drives me, my instructor stands tall, radiating an air of unrivaled power. He meets my onslaught with calm confidence as if engaging in a mere game. A swift closed fist slams down as he sidesteps, dodging the drilling strike from the Bloody Palm. And that hand of his impacts the back of my skull, turning my vision black and intertwining my whole form with the sand below. Yet, no matter how forcefully he strikes, the creature within me regenerates, healing my wounds with unnerving swiftness.

My vision rapidly returns, even as I attempt to regain control, only to be rebuffed as the Bloody Palm shakes my head with a low growl. Yet, Marshall cares not, for the Unyielding Wall simply beats my head again, forcing me a half foot into the ground.

With eyes of nothing but the dark dirt, I hear him speak through ringing ears as the Bloody Palm stands again, its persistence unbreakable.

"Alone, you are both formidable. I am sure you two have felt it. That power. Together, you are--"

The Bloody Palm wrenches its head up again, our eyes meeting Marshall before he hits up again. The impact is fast and imperceptible, returning us to darkness as blood leaks everywhere from my shaking skull.

"Rude. I hope you can hear me in there, Wyatt. I will keep beating this thing down until you two come to an agreement. If you don't, then you will die. Simple as that. Get to it."

Another crash of my skull proves his point. The Bloody Palm cannot even see the light for more than a split second before I am put back into the shadows of the sand below.

Will he kill us? No. He won't. He can't, right? Or... no, he has to. If I don't come back from this, I won't be me anymore. He will do anything he must to protect people. Even killing himself is on the table.

But even through this dire circumstance, I am in awe of my Marshall's prowess yet again, his mastery over his strength and how to apply it leagues above me. The old man can hit me, and keep even the Bloody Palm shaking without going overboard and instantly killing me. Additionally, his speed is high, but it's not unreachable currently. He's keeping us back with pure technique.

But still, the Bloody Palm and I are alike in many ways. Ruthlessness toward ourselves is one. The overwhelming instinct for survival is another, regardless of the cost.

I can feel the artifact surge with emotions, slivers of sorrow and mourning raging in its partially developed reason as it heaves with effort. The warm yet sticky Ether of the darkness of the Bloody Palm flows through my body as I feel flesh fade, hard-earned fat, skin, and even particles of bone from constantly eating vanishing as the artifact sacrifices them for strength. I even feel the recently eaten cake fully fade, the sweetness lingering in my mind.

Instantly, I sense a rush of power flow through my body, the totality of the rush ten times that of adrenaline as the energy all goes into one place. My muscles. And that energy translates to speed as my eyesight blurs before stabilizing, the Bloody Palm thirty feet from Marshall Travis. The old man simply smiles as blood trails down my head and into my eyes from the many strikes.

"Interesting. Occultists are always an odd bunch to fight. What else you got, Mr. Bloody Palm?"

A growl is his only reply, the sound scratching its way up and out of my chest as I turn to run. The Bloody Palm chooses to retreat from this undefeatable foe, but Marshall isn't having it.

I leap upward, reaching for the edge of the Pit as my flesh extends and elongates, but I only make it halfway before five fingers wrap around my ankle. Turning back, solely due to the Bloody Palm machinations, I find Marshall grinning up at me before he acts.

Again, my vision blurs before a deafening crash results in both the Bloody Palm and me reeling. It tries to clear our sight, to fight back, but it can't. Another slam ceases its labor. Then another, then another, and another, until finally, even my artifact struggles to keep up. After the fifth impact, Marshall pauses, peering down at us while he grips my purple and bruised ankle, the bones undoubtedly annihilated underneath.

The Bloody Palm returns his gaze with a stare as I, with harrowing trembles, raise my hand. Again, I fight back, attempting to wrestle control back, but I don't affect its depth of authority at all. I can only watch the beatdown passively.

A pang of pain runs through my body as the fingers of the Bloody Palm, the pinky and ring fade into meat and bone, joining the rest of the hand with a sludge—another sacrifice. The artifact is going all out. Yet again, a strength fills my body as I lurch forward, striking at Marshall's face with a claw seeped in shredding bone and corrosive flesh.

As I relentlessly assault him, the Unyielding Wall's demeanor remains unwavering. He regards my onslaught with detached amusement as if testing his limits rather than fearing my artifact's might. His confidence shines through as he swipes at each individual attack, brushing aside each of my murderous attempts at hurting him.

Despite the artifact's Sigil and emotions surging through my veins, I cannot help but feel a sense of admiration for my teacher. He navigates this deadly brawl without repositioning, treating my wicked onslaught like a mere diversion. His nonchalance fuels my frustration, driving me to push harder, to break out of the Bloody Palm, yet it also fuels the artifact's scorn.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

I am a pawn in his game in this duel of contrasting forces. Marshall effortlessly weaves my attacks in obscurity, biding his time, waiting for me to do as he said. And finally, I begin to consider it genuinely. I keep attempting to simply break out on my own to prove that I don't need it. But I do.

That one time, months ago during the siege of Rustbank, when Johnny pulled that skill over the Bloody Palm and me, forcing us to work together with all our strengths momentarily, we were almost unstoppable. Together, we cleaved through hordes of beasts and dozens of Outlaws until Hura ultimately put us down.

Through my eyes, I continue to watch the Bloody Palm get beat down, smacked, slammed, stabbed, and mutilated as our blood dyes the sand. More and more, the yellowish brown turns red as Marshall edges the Bloody Palm toward exhaustion. I can feel it. The artifact's efforts are growing labored, each movement more demanding than the last. And it's not because I'm injured, for the artifact heals me constantly, never tolerating something crumbling entirely before it is repaired.

And so, as it approaches its limit, I reach out with my mind, with words, and with emotions, hoping it doesn't fight back as I come without hostility.

"How about we do this one together?"

I get no reply from the artifact verbally as it surges forward once more at Marshall, but I do get a memory. This is a tiny snippet where Cassidy was betrayed by a friend he once called a brother, the reason why he was so easily found after his escape.

Again, we are cannoned into the floor, sanding flying everywhere as the Bloody Palm struggles to make us stand.

"I won't betray you."

Another snippet blasts at me, the one where we were forcibly merged during Rustbank. As it does so, we emerge upright, arms hanging low as lengths of flesh reconstitute.

"That... I have paid for that already. You made sure of that. I am asking for a truce—a deal. We are stronger together. We can survive longer if we fight as one."

The Bloody Palm still ignores me, dropping to all fours as it clashes with Marshall again, only to be smacked into the wall. The impact that establishes a crater in the wall shakes the foundations of the Pit.

I try again, unwilling to give up entirely. I offer it one more accord, this one perhaps a bit too violent for my own liking. But I am not wholly against it. I found none from the Estates pleasing, only that one man Virgil spoke of being his friend after getting exiled from his Estate.

"I'll help you kill the Deweys. The Grimes. Any Estate. All of them. You simply point, and we kill."

This makes it pause, the artifact ceasing its wanton desire for murder as it seems to consider my thoughts. Marshall's eyebrows raise at our hesitance. And a throng of emotions meets me as a series of faces cycle through my mind, each one leaving a lasting imprint. Close to a dozen sting me with their significance, two of them being people I've seen in posters before, not Pillars, but certainly Forerunners.

I think I get the idea, though.

"You want these people dead?

My response is a single word, the one I hear most often from the artifact.

"KILL."

Again, the faces flash by, and I recognize one of them, Sylvia Dewey, the Slick Slider. She is the Pillar of Seaside, the only other coastal Territory along with Onyx Gate. I hesitate to agree to kill a Pillar for a moment, but I don't linger on the thought for long. If she indeed did orchestrate Cassidy's death or his family's butchering in some way, then I have no issue with it.

And so, I agree, conceding on the death of the Pillar.

"That is fine with me."

My agreement ends with calm as the surroundings seem to freeze, my senses all returning to me. Deep-seated agony runs through my frame as my nose is chock-full of blood and my mouth of broken and regenerated teeth.

A stumbling step sets me forward as I struggle to maintain my balance, the shift from a passenger to a controller of my body an odd feeling. But I briskly regain my authority and stand still, gazing forward.

Marshall lies opposite me, his frame unchanged and uninjured despite the pools of blood around us. A rumble comes from within, a hungering desire to fight. To win. To survive. My eye flickers over to Reckless over by the side near where I placed Lily, the norm for our training sessions.

Lifting my hand toward the sword, the Bloody Palm satiates his hunger, flesh stretching and emerging outward from my arm as it reaches the weapon and drags it back to me. Meanwhile, Marshall eyes me with an inquisitive glance.

I disregard him for now as I focus on cementing our accord. I offer it a gift in return for power. The artifact takes it gladly, devouring Reckless as my flesh covers the Claymore, the Bloody Palm ripping into it. I feel a discontented sigh as Reckless breaks apart as if the artifact is disappointed that the blade is not an artifact.

Still, Ether, a nightly red, a crimson so deep its almost midnight, flows through my veins, bulging my veins and muscles with energy, returning me to how I was before the battle began.

My sight swoons from the change as the Claymore shatters, its Sigil illuminating the sky as it dissipates into the world. Glancing down, I clench my fist, relishing in the sensation. I then ready myself to fight, tightening the muscles on my legs as I shift my Ether into motion. I haven't recovered much, but I'm not alone anymore.

Yet I as do so, Marshall Travis utters his words of wisdom, his vigilant gaze noticing my motions.

"Just keep fighting your demons, Wyatt. They may not get any weaker; hell, they might even get stronger. But… so will you."

Nodding, I let my fist relax, putting my hand to the side. I don't need to fight. I can't repeat what happened long ago with Earl. I must control these urges, for while they may not be insidious and stained with malintent, the emotions of the Bloody Palm are volatile.

Violence is not always the answer, even if my artifact may push me toward that end. I should relax, take a few hours to unwind, or perhaps even sleep a whole night's rest.

I let my body decompress, my Ether and muscles losing their force as I walk forward to Marshall. The Bloody Palm asks for violence, its imagery tainted with the sensation, but I remind it that Marshall is not on his list. And his violence that calls for ours was simply to strengthen us. He did it for us.

The heat of the artifact cools significantly from my words as it focuses on digesting whatever it devoured from Reckless, the warmth causing me to want to sigh aloud with how pleasant it feels.

"Thank you, Marshall. I think I did it. It listens to me a bit, and I, it."

The General nods sagely, stepping to the side and waving toward my things.

"It is a shame you ruined such a good Claymore, but I suppose things have a price. Is that all your artifact wanted? Is there anything else? If not, you should go rest. Even with its healing, I did... a number on your body. I was careful not to exceed its limits, but I'm not perfect."

I bob my head over to him as I pick up my belt and holster with Lily inside it, settling the two on my hip as I leave the Pit with Marshall. The old man follows me out, noting the plate on the table.

"Happy birthday, Wyatt. Good things are hard to come by. Savor them. Hold tightly onto them. And when push comes to shove, never let go of them. That memory alone may not take you far, but if you add them all up, they will. Now, have a good rest. I need to join Millie for some investigation. It seems we have a Manipulator in our walls. Your buddy Heath was taken at some point, and whatever replaced him tried to sabotage the fort by starting a rebellion."

I beam at the first half of his words, but I quickly grow solemn by the end. Heath? Really? Fuck... Johnny... that was one of his oldest friends... I open my mouth to offer my help, but Marshall pats me on the shoulder, a stark difference compared to his earlier slaps.

"No. Rest. If I need you, I will call for you. I know it is hard when a friend is taken by the Darklight, but we must persevere. Persevere for them. Each fallen man and woman along our paths chain us down, but as I'm sure you know, not all chains are bad. Some are powerful support. Some are wide-ranging weapons. Some are simply weights that slow us down. But in the end, their effect is what you allow them to have. The mind--"

"Is our most powerful weapon."

I finish his words, remembering the phrase from the First's book, and Marshall nods before leaving, departing from me at the stairs.

"Indeed. Oh, and you are exempt from needing a partner around you. I reckon She couldn't take you even if She tried. It's common knowledge that none can puppet a Wendigo other than their artifact."

Once he leaves, I shamble toward the cot he set up for me within the inner fortress beside Earl's and Virgil's. Non-combatants and different genders have separate barracks, so when I walk in, I'm the only one. Earl is currently busying himself with my soon-to-be mechanical arm, while Virgil virtually never sleeps. I'll have to find Johnny later. Oh! And Bonfire. So many things to do. But first, I need to sleep.

So, I claw my way into my bed and read a short passage from the First before drifting off to sleep, the words aiding me in the act. The part is about artifacts, my weary mind seeking more advice.

Artifacts are born of lingering will, desire, and attachment. They are like ghosts, barring one thing. They have a form yet no soul, opposite a formless spirit. Instead, their emotions and direction come from the remnant will. Yet, if an artifact develops enough or is born from a being high enough, they produce its own soul.

For, at the end of the Angelic, the soul and the Sigil become one. It merely happens a bit sooner for artifacts.