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Kronos possessed many traits, both good and bad. Arrogance he'd prefer to think he was lacking particularly in. Yet the notion of fighting against a mere Terminator was boosting of his confidence immensely. While they were superlative warriors and paragons of battle, with hundreds of years of service each, every Marine encased in Tactical Dreadnought armor struggled from one fatal deficiency that made them comparatively easy prey for any Custodian: their speed.
Terminators sacrificed their mobility for durability, and made for excellent line-breakers and practical walking tanks due to it. But they were nothing before the might of Auramite armor, which not only improved upon the mobility of standard Power armor but also possessed monstrous strength and toughness above even that of any Terminator. It was with this thought in mind that Kronos did not anticipate an easy fight, but at the very least a manageable one. He was wrong.
Immediately the massive berserker charged with speed unparalleled. In a fraction of a fraction of a second, Kronos barely managed to parry the massive hammer and Chainaxe combination aimed at his head. Even as he did so however, he felt the thunderous blow from both weapons, strength so uncontrollable and primal it threatened to overwhelm his own easily if care wasn't shown. As Kronos pivoted away from the brute, he realized this would be no mere scuffle or duel. It was a life-or-death match neither party was intent on losing.
"Surprised, Custodian?"
He knew not how the brute could figure his intent at any capacity, as he dodged another strike. He did not care either as he delivered a mighty blow with the butt of his spear, the force sending the brute reeling several meters back, head cocked upwards. But he knew better than to assume such a poultry hit could put him down or knock him out. It was a distancing strike at best.
The brute on his end responded exactly as he anticipated, the blow not even phasing him in the long term. He turned his optic lenses toward him. Kronos wondered how lifeless mechanical lights could convey such intense hatred.
"So arrogant. So full of yourself. You probably suspected this fight to be an easy one, did you not? And once upon a time, it may have very well been. But the Blood God does reward them who serve him well. And that debt he has raised for me shall be paid with your skull!"
Kronos did not bother to grace the brute with a reply. It would have been satisfying for him anyway. He simply poised his Guardian Spear once more, as the frothing berserker made another charge, this time even more fervorous in his litanies to his patron and in his sheer speed. Kronos met him once more on equal footing, the ensuing clash between their weapons vaguely equating the roar of a Titan's weapon firing. The impact shattered the concrete under their feet, large spider webs of cracks spreading across the foundation of the ceiling they were on.
Steel bent and glass broke as the entire Grand Spire seemed to shake to it's foundations from the brawl. But neither warrior gave a second thought to it. They were preoccupied already.
They were tangled up in their own weapons, both parties hovering them right near each-other's heads, prepared to give the finishing blow. But neither intended to budge an inch, as cold masks of war contorted, staring at one-another with almost physical wrath. Steel coil and mountainous muscle struggled against equal rivals, creating a deadlock where each millimeter shifted was a harder fought battle than a thousand bloody campaigns throughout the centuries.
And then it was gone. The delicate equilibrium was ceased by Kronos, who quickly sidestepped to avoid the impending blows aimed to turn his head into paste. He then used the opportunity to thrust his spear directly into his attacker, hoping to get as many organs in one go as possible. Yet, he underestimated the Terminator's sheer resolve, along with his reflexes.
The brute's arm shot up to meet the tip of his spear. The absurdly sharp blade along with it's power field tore through armor and flesh with minimal effort, impaling the forearm. But the brute did not even hesitate from the pain. He also didn't allow for the blade to do any more damage, grabbing a hold of the shaft with his hand, which was somehow still functional, and had dropped the Chainaxe by instinct.
Kronos would've marveled at his sheer resilience had he had the time. But, now all that mattered was disabling that arm. A lost limb in a duel like this meant certain death. But the Terminator was not about to give him any leeway. Using the split second before the might of both of the Custodian's hands could cleave straight through his own, the brute used his free hand to attempt to deliver a blow with his Thunder Hammer.
Kronos saw the hit coming. But he could not dodge in time. Instead, he retracted his spear, causing even more damage to the forearm. Putting in front of him in a blocking position, Kronos was just in time for his whole world to go spinning.
When he regained a grip on his senses, he found himself in a miniature crater, punched straight through the building. Looking up properly, he had to estimate he'd broken through at least 30 floors. No real damage had been sustained to his suit or himself, but his spear held a most troubling development.
The cables connecting to it's power source had been severed from the impact. The spear itself was dented, but not broken. No mere hit, not even one from a hammer like that could break through the mighty alloys comprising it that easily. But nonetheless, it's power had ceased. His Bolt-Caster and the the power field encompassing his blade were both out of the equation. Now, he would have to rely on nothing but his sheer skill and the monomolecular edge of it's blade.
And just as he was thinking of where his nemesis could be, a slight shadow was splayed over him. Propelling himself several meters forwards, he barely missed a titanic impact right where he was laying mere nanoseconds previously. He pulled himself to his feet in an instant, facing down his foe once more, who jumped out of the massive hole he had created in the ground, his footsteps threatening to shatter the fragile and compromised floor once more.
He noted the brute's arm was hanging limply by his side. That was a minor victory at the very least. It showed that the corruption granted him extra abilities, strengths he wouldn't have possessed otherwise, but it did not make him unkillable. He may have been inhuman even in comparison to other Astates, but he was just as fallible to crippling injury as before.
"Is that truly all? I have been more entertained fighting Orks."
And of course he would try to brush it off. It was a psychological tactic no doubt. Kronos knew followers of Khorne were hardly ones to gloat often. Of course, they hardly were ones to use tricks like it, and yet this one was attempting to get under his skin. Of course, such childish taunts wouldn't affect him, but he did finally decide to give a response to him.
"You keep referring to me by merely my title, brute. Let me give you the courtesy of my name. It is Kronos Praesul, of the 41st Shield-Company of the Legio Custodes. Remember it. Etch it into your skull. And when you stand before your patron in a mere few minutes, ready to be sentenced as nothing but another trophy, invoke the name who threw you there."
He spared him no further words, nor any attempts at retort, as he immediately launched himself towards his foe, intent on delivering as many sundering blows as necessary to knock the brute down for good. The berserker on his own was ready, and did something that almost made Kronos stop his charge.
Using his functional arm, the corrupted Marine ripped off his own helm, showcasing a malformed husk of flesh that was barely discernible as a face, a mangled, almost leathery mask of torment. But was far from the most shocking thing the brute did, as he swung his useless appendage with his shoulder, throwing the Chainaxe into air, as he grabbed it in his teeth.
Mere nanoseconds before impact with him, the brute gave him the most disgusting sneer he possibly could, releasing a huff of air. If he was asked to describe hate personified, the Custodian would likely have that image chief on his mind. Yet what Kronos was nearly shocked to see was him truly going forward with the mouth weapon idea.
As both warriors crashed against one-another, the building, mighty and proud as it was, rumbled once more at the titanic struggle happening within.
Ganbaatar spit out blood inside of his helm as a lucky thunderous blow nearly broke his jaw.
Once in a while, the overwhelming might of an Astartes was challenged. Even centuries of service, thousands upon thousands of hours of being bogged down in the worst battlefields imaginable, sometimes going weeks without a single minute of rest, even all that could not prepare one fully for every foe the galaxy could toss.
This one was such an occasion, as the Sergeant found himself pressured by the Chaos warrior before him, a reminder that despite his own experience he was nowhere close to the top of the food chain in the galaxy. Yet he, of course, would never admit this to his foes.
"I do not know whether to be pleased or disappointed at the fact that you are being such an easy mach. On the one hand, I can get this over with quickly and efficiently. On the other, I was expecting somewhat of a fight."
A cleave that would've split his head in two was just barely parried by his massive Power Fist, as the Sergeant rolled away only to immediately fire his Bolt Pistol at the corrupted Astartes. The rounds impacted only with the ever sharp edge of his master crafted Power Sword, and soon the Sergeant found his magazine spent and his foe without a scratch to show for it.
The White Scar had a few seconds of relief, as his opponent seemed to contemplate something, whether it was to do with finding a more suitable method of taking his head off the Sergeant cared not. Instead of worrying for himself any further, he looked to his squad, only to see them in just as much of a predicament.
Batu, wise and of martial skill easily rivaling his own, and despite his opponent being weaker than the Sergeant's, was still visibly struggling to hold off the other Marine, one of his arms a mere stump contributing a lot to that. Gan, despite being a healthy and young Astartes at the prime of his service life, was facing off against an equally invigorated foe with far more experience and more flexibility. As Gan himself had said, he was a Devastator in action and had before struggled with his Assault Marine duties, only barely passing to his own squad after several decades.
Altan on the other hand, seemed the only one doing objectively well against his own foe. Neither of them had a close combat weapon aside from their Combat Knives, and were currently in a deadly dance of blades that would've seemed like nothing but a blur to an untrained eye. Yet, from what Ganbaatar could make out, his brother was pressuring the Black Legionary.
Yet the Sergeant could spare them no more thought as he had to dodge out of the way of yet another deadly blow. His opponent's moment of contemplation had ended a moment earlier, and he had taken no time in moving on the offensive again. Ganbaatar sidestepped from the first strike, but his enemy was relentless.
The next strike was was barely blocked by his Power Fist. A sucker punch to the Traitor Astartes was however, dodged, as he, although Ganbaatar would never admit it out loud, possessed reflexes and a fluidity in his movements even an Eldar would be envious of. The next thing the Sergeant knew, another thunderous blow had been delivered to his head, throwing him back. But this time, he had just enough coordination to grab the ensuing sword strike in his Power Fist.
Securing his grip, he attempted another strike, only for his opponent to simply let go of his own grip. The Sergeant attempted to rebound from the lost tension, only to have a barrage of fists land squarely on his head, each hit enough to tear through vehicle plate or reduce a mere human to paste. The White Scar stumbled back, attempting to land a kick, but only having his leg intercepted, before being lifted and thrown several meters away.
Crushing a wayward stone in frustration, he jumped to his feet again as the Chaos Astartes was brandishing his sword once more, appearing to dust off some of the filth that had been accumulated on the blade from the fall. That, and the odd disinterest from before convinced Ganbaatar that his opponent was holding back, and merely taking this fight as a joke.
He would've goaded him in any other circumstance, but having been shown his place so thoroughly, the Sergeant knew it would be best if he could win as much time as he could. And besides, there was one thing that made a superior opponent as vulnerable as a child, especially one affiliated with fickle Chaos: overconfidence.
The Sergeant simply raised his Power Fist, flaring it's energy field to maximum, as it could now easily be seen across even a battlefield. His opponent tensed, if only just briefly, seeming to prepare for a strike or trick. Yet, when none came, he released a small huff of amusement.
"Haven you gone mad in your desperation, White Scar? Or are you simply attempting to mock me one last time before I strike you down?"
The Sergeant did not reply, instead he waited for signal. Waited, and waited. The Marine drew close now. He would need a response soon if he wished to not be killed now. If push came to shove, he could of course simply dodge or block, but he would rather prefer the response would come rather than having to face off with the superior swiftness of his foe.
And just as said opponent was in practical terms nearly on top of him, he saw his signal. A small smile greeted his lips underneath his helm. He lowered his hand.
"By the Gods, you really have become suicidal. Perhaps I'll even spare you a-" the Chaos Marine had not time to even finish his sentence, as he heard an oddly clear snap and a whisking sound throughout the battlefield. Turning around, he greeted the Bolt rounds careening towards him with the blade of his sword, demonstrating his quickness of hands once more as hypersonic projectiles were simply split in several pieces, the shrapnel left undamaged enough exploding harmlessly meters away.
As he turned once more to his prey however, the Chaos Marine found a force hitting upon his head akin to an entire battle barge deciding to crash upon him. He was thrown back quite a way, and the only thing his confused mind could process for a short time was the broken glass, the blood, and the darkness. Yet, combat instincts and his training made him forget about that relatively quickly, as he jumped a few more meters back before grabbing what was left of his helm and simply tugging it off with as much force as he could, instead accidentally shaking the debris off and letting him see again, albeit hardly.
Just in time for another strike by the massive Power weapon to miss him by inches. He tried to put up some more distance between them, but the Sergeant was the relentless one now, pursuing his advantage like a rabid dog. The previous strike had nearly taken off his head. The next one would not be so forgiving.
Secretly, the Sergeant thanked his young benefactor, once thought so utterly useless and perhaps even detrimental. But in the very moment of his near-death, an important lesson passed from his former teacher, Khunbish Khan, late master of the his Brotherhood, echoed within his mind:
"By the mere movement of a pebble, a whole army may be buried in the ensuing avalanche."
He had given these words little consideration over the centuries, owed to the general incompetency of most Imperial Guard and Navy forces along with most military commanders he had come across. But by such a small strike of luck was he now pressuring the heretic scum before him. He was still faster, stronger and possibly more experienced, but his dazed state after suffering the mighty blow had not abated. And that was just enough.
Ganbaatar drew close now, as a Power Fist strike nearly found it's mark. His opponent was reduced completely to defense, far too focused on keeping himself on his feet to bother throwing any real hits, as he had to dodge and weave his way around the Sergeant's strikes. Yet, as he dodged the latest attempt to off his head, and finally threw a weak hit himself, Ganbaatar at last ceased on the opportunity to end this at last.
He took the hit, gritting his teeth at the surprising force still found in his opponent, despite being weakened. Yet he soldiered on, pummeling his helmet, which was already cracked and dented from the earlier with his free fist, blocking a feeble attempt from his sword with his Power Fist, before breaking away the lock and shoving the massive weapon into the Chaos Marine's head once more.
An impact was felt. A minor reaction felt throughout his bulky armor, yet it was not as it should have been. His opponent had fallen to the floor, yes, but the counter-force from that strike should've been greater, even if his whole head would've been crushed either way. It was only then that it occurred to the Sergeant to dodge, a impulse come far too late, and yet just in time.
The pain struck like a bolt of lightning. Mind-searing agony wracked his body, enough to depower any mere man. But he was no mere man. He groaned as he spit blood into his mouth, blood that quickly hardened, becoming more of a nuisance than an asset, but only for his face.
Senses temporarily left useless by the attack, his hands had lashed out on their own, reflexes dependent on decades of experience. And thankfully for him, they had found their mark once, as the Sergeant gazed into the Power Sword lodged deeply into his abdomen, barely grasped in his fist.
Before him, was a sight nearly as unpleasant, if not more repulsive. Before him lay his assailer, somehow having fallen right at the exact moment to avoid a fatal blow that would've exploded his head into thousands of gory bits. Despite this, he had clearly not gotten off unscathed.
His helmet had practically been peeled off by the power field, his face had shallow cuts and bruises everywhere, while one of his eyes had clearly been damaged beyond repair. Yet, even through that gory visage, the Chaos marks could still be seen, nearly as vibrant and foul as the very blood coming out of the traitor.
The very same who was currently trying to swivel and pivot his sword inside the Sergeant, willing to get as many of his insides torn to pieces as possible. The Sergeant responded rather feebly, grasping the sword with both hands, yet with strength sapped from the horrific injury. It was clear he had aimed for both of his hearts, yet that mere moment of cautionary reflex had just barely managed to save the old warrior's life.
Yet as he stood there, a wound that would've killed ten men over still took it's toll, and his opponent, murderous hatred practically coming out as the spittle from his mouth, enraged and snarling, did not shown any sign of stopping, he found himself being overpowered, the Chaos Marne gaining ground and for each second more precious life liquids being spilled.
The Sergeant would have to do something, and quickly, or else he would fall. And he would not fall, not this day, not against this cheap opponent. So he scrambled the limits of his exhausted, delirious, oxygen-hungry mind, only to have a sudden burst of logic and cold reason, just as what was intended when he first joined so many years ago.
He maximized the power field around his mighty gauntlet, releasing his grip with it, before ramming it against the blade as hard as he could in the best angle he could find in such a situation. The first strike did nothing, and he could feel the blade digging deeper. His vision became blurry. The second strike he could barely see as it made contact, but he felt something shift, even for just a brief second. Yet, now his entire world was starting to spin, dipping into crimson and eventually pitch black clawing at his vision.
The third strike found him practically limp, half-dead, and desperately fighting with every last iota of strength for survival. He had no fear of death. But he would not fall this day. At the edge of death, he at last felt tension relieved, before using the remaining ounce of his strength to move his arm forward. He felt an impact, and something flying away, but nothing beyond that. His vision was almost gone. His ears were buzzing ceaselessly. Or was that just his hearts? The smell and taste of blood was thick in his lips, and his mouth.
Instinctively, he reached for the accursed piece of metal that should've been there. And indeed, it was, feeling it still pepper him with pain. Figuring the easiest way would be the hardest as well, he simply yanked at it, and felt as it was pulled free of his abdomen, flying away by quite a bit.
The pain was minimal. He was too tired to feel it. The blood loss as well. He had lost too much already. He stood there for several seconds, which felt more like hours. Each agonizing moment spent steeling his will to not collapse on the ground. The dim roar of battle echoed somewhere in his mind, and a faint smell and taste of blood could once more be picked up by his obliterated senses.
Then his natural regeneration began kicking in. His vision was restored from black to white, and then to a blurry amalgamation of his world. His knees, weak as they were, became slightly more rigid, preventing him from falling over. His lightheadedness receded somewhat, albeit it was still there in force.
He would live. Anything that couldn't kill him in under a minute flat could usually just be shrugged off. Though feeling his obliterated body, how sensation had not yet returned to many parts of it, he could possibly even need augmentics. Yet, that was not what was important now. Around him a battle was being waged still, and he had no time to let himself relax. The adrenaline yet running in his blood, keeping him semi-functional, needed to be well-spent.
Almost 300 years ago, Ganbaatar had learnt an important lesson going through a frozen river of eels as part of the initiation rituals of his Brotherhood: pain was a choice. It was a choice the weak made, a choice only so rarely ignored and disowned despite it's uselessness. To even earn the right of calling himself a son of the Great Khan that choice needed to not even exist in his mind.
And so in that moment he called upon that lesson once more. Funny that, only now did he truly need to call upon teachings he had received so long ago, and had even passed on to further generations beyond his own. He ignored the screaming sensations within his body, every inch of skin and nerve that was not already dulled and numbed by his injuries. He took a step forward, his gait slow and methodical, yet ensured.
His foe was laying on the ground, arguably more broken that he was, as he had not even pulled himself upwards. It had been merely a glancing, desperate hit, yet it had nearly caved in his entire chestplate. The crumpled ceramite seemed constraining and suffocating even from a mere glance, let alone from the inside. But nonetheless, the Chaos Marine yet stood, albeit with all of his pompous arrogance and air of self-assurance evaporated.
Ganbaatar had not gotten a good look of his filthy cranium earlier, far too occupied with the sword stuck in his body to properly evaluate it beyond noting it's snarling hatred. But now, as he looked at the back of it, numerous heretic symbol, scars, gashes and more littered it, some perhaps by the Sergeant's own hand. The fallen foe had not yet turned to face him, so he was not getting a good look on his face, but the Sergeant did not need one. Enough was enough.
He unholstered his Plasma Pistol, charging it, intent on taking the Chaos Marine's head off right then and there. The distinct hum of the ancient mechanisms flared to life, and the plasma was practically dripping from the barrel before it was stopped. One sound sharply cut through the background noise of shots exploding and bodies rolling.
It was as if a muffled coughing first, but then rose in volume, changing it's shape as it went. A muffled laughter now, and eventually a proper one succeed, and the Sergeant had a flurry of emotions overtake him. Anger and triumph both were the most prominent. Yet as he watched the traitor's limp form raised to a knees bent position, he decided to humor him, if only a little longer, as his pistol was still aimed squarely for his head.
"Has you own failure driven you mad traitor? Is your ego shattered and broken, as the very world you tread upon and will die upon?"
Ganbaatar was not mocking in tone. He was above such things. But his voice still dripped venom. His opponent responded with even more laughing. Ganbaatar grew slightly agitated, yet knew to keep his cool. This was not at all uncommon for him. Astartes almost never feared death, chaotic or not, and many took it in kind when it knocked on their door, greeting it as an old friend.
So he decided he would try the traitor one more time for his final breath.
"I almost feel pity washing the dirt underneath my feet with your blood. For all it's worth, a local bombardment might be necessary simply to properly purge this place of your fi-"
"Oh you poor fool."
That was certainly not what he'd been expecting. His grip tightened on his pistol. He had also seen this before. Most of the time it was mere bluff. The rest however...did not bode well.
"You can't even comprehend something so simple can you? Even if you kill me, my job is already done. But you won't. Not now. You've taken far too long already," he then turned his head to meet him with the same vicious snarl as before, only now twisted into a sad parody of a grin. "Pardon my use of a cliched line, but I have already won."
Ganbaatar pulled the trigger. The Plasma bolt streamed towards him, yet as if to compound his words, fate itself seemed to intervene with a powerful quake that jerked his head just enough for the bolt to only sever his ear. Ganbaatar charged yet another shot, yet the traitor was already running. He gave chase, his brain working on overdrive, considering the words he had just heard. Putting those to the side however, his accuracy and speed had been severely compromised by his grievous injuries. The shot missed. And so did the next, as he was left behind.
Yet to his complete bafflement, the traitor did not run further than the largest building near them, scaling it's walls as if he were possessed, and raising his arms up to the heavens as if in prayer. He could be seen muttering something, but even the Sergeant's superb hearing could on pick up on what. Figuring it was best to not look a gift horse in the mouth for the second time, the Sergeant charged his pistol, for the fourth and final time...
Several kilometers away, a greater battle still unfurled.
Where there had once been grandeur, destruction reigned. Where order had once ruled, chaos ripped all it had built apart. Where brother had once met brother to engage in friendly banter, now two warriors from places and time impossibly different battled for control.
The Grand Spire had fallen, it's fate perhaps a fitting metaphor for the whole world it represented. Torn apart from forces both within, namely that of gravity itself while it's structures collapsed, and without, as the two behemoths clashed with the power to split mountains.
Yet in that very moment, Kronos, currently removing a piece of rubble at least five times bigger than his own body from himself, felt something ping at the back of his skull. As if a foray into a sensation long since forgotten, yet hidden within the labyrinthine gateways of the mind still.
And that's when it grew more. And more. And more. Growing more familiar each second, a shiver went up his spine despite himself. How could there be such a direct reaction? Such a clear vision? Even when confronted with Chaos Marines he had not felt this.
He had an explanation within his mind. He wished it was not true. The Imperial Truth was the very blood that flowed through him, but even he prayed what seemed to be transpiring to not be real.
Yet just as he puzzling the horrific possibilities within his mind, he was reminded he had a more local battle to win yet, as a massive Thunder Hammer strike missed him by inches. The Terminator had not even slowed down, despite the fact that his arm had now been completely severed, a result of several well-placed hits. His mouth weapon had understandably not worked out, as displayed clearly with it's many missing teeth, the conclusion of skillful kick to directly to the face, his broken and bloodied nose also a testament to that.
Yet the brute continued unabated. But even he seemed to have noticed a change in the air, as he rained hammer blow after hammer blow in an even deeper blood-crazed frenzy.
Kronos was a man of practicality. He did not believe in "feelings" and "instincts". He considered them the predators that feasted on the guts of weak and sluggish minds of the past, undeserving of a spot in humanity's logical and enlightened future. But now, he could feel his gut instincts as a tangible force. And they told him something would happen in a matter of moments.
"What in the shit is he doing?"
The battle seemed won, and despite herself Mira was ecstatic on not only showing what she was worth with the weapon entrusted to her, but also being directly asked to help. Getting through the arrogance of even the humblest Space Marine was still a great achievement. Yet she stood puzzled now as she witnessed the scene before her.
The Sergeant had nearly fallen, and although she'd witnessed it, she still had to help the other who were themselves struggling at the moment, especially Batu as his one arm did not do him any favors. When she'd finally had time to turn back to them, Ganbaatar was alive, albeit his injuries were obvious. Yet just as he had the commander of the Chaos Marines in his grasp, the later ran off with the Sergeant barely keeping up.
Mira wanted to kill him on the spot, but only then did she realize all her ammo had run out. It was ammo well-spent of course, having dealt a crippling shoulder shot to Gan's opponent and conveniently setting off a grenade dud right on top of Batu's near-killer, with the former rushing to his commander and the later mopping up the remainder of the cultists along with Altan, who had needed no assistance.
Yet Mira now also stood helpless in watching how the Sergeant hesitated to take the shot. He seemed just ready to, as the madman Marine had climbed on top of a building and was simply standing there, a literal sitting duck almost. So why was he ending the bastard?
The man who'd caused all this. The one who had set her home alight in the fires of war. The one who had poisoned the minds of her people over years. And now he was hesitating?!
Mira was half-convinced to shout at the top of her lungs for him to just finish the damn job, when she felt a rumble in the ground. A minor earthquake? Rare, but not unheard of. It did not catch her attention much, but it certainly seemed to do so for the Sergeant, as he began looking all around almost...panicked? Ignoring even the calls of his younger Brother.
That's when the next rumble came. And another. And a fourth. But that was the concerning part. The concerning part was a strange sensation, almost an invisible haze that took root across the battlefield. Steadily increasing, it was almost nothing initially, more like a creepy afterthought, yet it grew and bloated in the back of her mind and on the inside of her heart.
Her hairs were raised on their ends, as rage, lust, acceptance and denial ravaged her mind, making her double over in pain. Had she been in a right state of mind, she would've seen the very complex they were assaulting explode outwards, spewing forth of a sea of flames not of this world.
Author's notes: Sorry for that whole enormous gap for ages thing. Laptop charger died and I could only get a replacement after several weeks. Also vacations.
Anyway, not much to say about this chapter except that it's fuckin' done and I am happy about that. A lot more action-oriented, so peeps who enjoy that, hope I've made ya happy.
As always, reviews, follows and favs are always extremely appreciated, especially the former as I always enjoy hearing what you have to say. I think that's about it for this time, see ya guys next time.