The machimotarium thrummed with the ceaseless grind of the Graviton Flux Reactors, the ship's power generators, colossal hearts of metal and coiled conduits pulsing with the fury of harnessed neutronium.

Cables snaked across the grated deck like veins, feeding lifeblood to the vessel's many systems, and the harsh scent of the gold-tinged vapors hanging in the air overwhelmed all other odors.

It was here, amid the grinding of mechanics and churn of pumps, that the Hyperalgesicator had been tethered directly to a jury-rigged port of the generator, a necessity to power the alien device.

Angar's hammer rested just beyond the chamber's threshold, as no culprit could bear arms while justice's lash was administered.

Saint Garioch and the full crew had assembled in solemn ranks, required to witness the infliction of justice, corporal punishment's bite, their faces etched with a mix of grim curiosity and unease.

All save Heith, Thryna, and Hidetada, though Angar was certain his grand marshal observed this lesson in the perils of frivolity through unseen eyes.

And this particular lesson, the decree to endure sixty seconds beneath the Hyperalgesicator's emissions, was seen as an impossibility, doomed to end in a handful of seconds, as unattainable as withstanding sixty hours or sixty days.

The Hyperalgesicator was a squat pillar of blackened bio-metal and blue circuitry, the surface dented and scarred.

From its flank extended a thick, insulated cord, terminating in a handheld applicator, like a polished steel prod, the tip a cluster of needle-fine emitters that droned with malevolence.

Harc knelt before the machine, his fingers deftly twisting diodes. He rose with a fluid grace, his silk attire so out of place in the machimotarium, and announced, "It's charged enough."

A glint flashed in his oil-dark eyes, something like cruel anticipation, maybe cold satisfaction.

He turned to the assembled crew, his authoritative voice cutting through the chatter. "Any wagers on how long our culprit lasts? If we're lucky, he'll gift us another pearl, like that 'psychic power' cry while he fought the Neuronaut."

Uneasy laughter rippled through the ranks as Harc added, "There'll merely be some agonized screaming, then the sweet respite of unconsciousness."

Once again, Angar pondered the root of Harc's dislike. What offense had he given this man to have earned it?

Angar saw no reason to offer respect when none was returned in kind.

And as enemies went, Harc wasn't much of one, as he was only Hidetada's puppet. His master kept him on a short leash.

"I'll wager I last the sixty seconds," Angar declared as he locked eyes with his enemy.

Harc's dark eyes locked on in turn, staring back, unblinking, assessing. "How much?"

"A tale," Angar answered. "The loser recounts a great deed from their early days. Say, in the first Tier. Felling a Harmongulan unarmored, or facing down an Abyssal Tyrant, like the Phasorax that killed Saint Kragor the Hellcleaver, with one arm and nothing else."

Irritation flashed in Harc's gaze, a brief storm behind the oil-slick calm. "I was hoping for higher stakes."

"Such as?" Angar pressed, his eyes boring into the Paragon.

"All your gear," stated Harc. "New and old alike."

Gasps came from the crew.

Simo stepped forward from the sidelines, his voice filled with concern. "Hold now, let's not escalate to folly. I say we stick to credits. I'll put five on Sir Angar holding out."

"Agreed," added Garioch. "Your proposal carries mortal stakes. Sir Angar marches to Crusade on a Hellworld. Stripped of arms and armor, he's as good as dead."

This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

Before the murmurs could swell, or Hidetada intercede, Angar, still holding Harc's stare, quickly said, "I accept."

A victorious smile slithered across Harc's sharp features. "Remove your shirt when you're ready."

Angar approached, his digitigrade feet clomping on the grating, pulling the fabric over his head in one smooth motion.

As soon as he was close enough, without warning, Harc pressed the prod to Angar's chest, the emitters making cold contact with his skin.

And then pain erupted.

It was different than any he'd ever felt. From the point of contact blazed agony, a cosmic nova radiating outward in relentless waves, hijacking his neural pathways and amplifying them a thousandfold.

It interfaced directly with the nervous system, bypassing flesh to ignite every pain receptor in an inferno of truly unendurable torment that lanced through his body.

In an instant, every synapse ignited, a cascade of false signals screaming through his system.

Sensation twisted into something beyond endurance, beyond comprehension, far worse than his memories of the Homunculus venom, at least as bad as the Baptistry.

His muscles locked in involuntary spasm from the overwhelming barrage that tricked his body into believing it was being unmade, atom by atom. If they hadn't, he would've immediately jerked away, putting an end to this impossible torment.

A scream tried ripping from his throat. He couldn't allow it, but his body ignored what he wanted. It needed to scream, so it would.

As when he fought the arch-druden, he envisioned himself as he truly was.

His form swelled, at least in his mind, towering over this foe like a vengeful titan, and the scream died in his throat.

Iyita was there, watching on. She would not see him scream.

When Iyita crawled before her dark masters, she'd name Angar a monster worse than any spawned in the unholy pits of Hell.

Shaking, she'd beg them to kill him now.

For if they failed, he'd come for them.

And on that day, Hell itself would learn what it means to beg.

He continued growing, bursting beyond this ship, this galaxy, a paragon of virtue and righteousness, the Lord's hammer, a blazing beacon of Holy terror.

Enemies scattered beneath his giant feet like rats scurrying from fire. His gaze scorched the unworthy, igniting their flesh to flame before blowing away as dust.

He would put right all that was wrong, the savior of this broken Empire, chosen by God to slaughter the unholy, to lay waste to all that was profane, to shatter Hell in glorious vengeance.

The pain ripped at his mind, a ravenous beast tearing through barriers of will and pride. It shouted lies, telling him he was dissolving, that his skin split like a bloated corpse, his bones ground to dust.

His vision blurred as unconsciousness beckoned, a temptation far sweeter than Iyita's lush curves. It'd be so easy to end this, to yield, to just give up, accept the inevitable, the respite and relief of defeat.

The deep well of hatred that burned in his chest surged through him, right alongside the Hyperalgesicator's agony, hammering back the encroaching darkness.

He had a lot of hate in him. Not just the sanctioned, righteous hatred of imperial dogma toward the unholy and Heretical.

It raged so vast and fierce, inexhaustible, a bottomless pit. He despised it all so much, this searing ordeal, the chains of duties and vows, the very existence he endured.

Everything.

He seethed, refusing to succumb to unconsciousness, his cybernetic eyes boring into Harc, glitching with phantom static as the connected nerves flared in torture.

Time stretched into meaninglessness, each heartbeat an eternity of unendurable torment that he somehow endured. Like in the Baptistry, one second, then one second more, then another.

Worry festered in Harc's oily-dark eyes, and he broke eye contact first, one victory wrested from the man already, before their wager even ended.

The Paragon turned, speaking to the crew, and words mumbled around Angar, but they were meaningless amid the pain.

With each agonizing second, he conjured grand visions to defy the torture. Many were scenes of murdering Harc, picturing his hammer sinking into that smarmy face, the beautiful spray of blood and brains.

Others were of battling hordes, of sacred slaughter, of statues rising in his honor, armies kneeling before him, his true self rampaging through the galaxy, shattering worlds in his massive fist just as he crushed skulls between his fingers.

The pain roared on, unyielding, a tempest that sought to drown him, but he stood as a rock in its fury.

The urge to scream, to beg for release, to submit to the siren wail of oblivion, never relented, but neither did he.

Finally, Harc withdrew the applicator from his chest, but Angar was too drowned in pride and hate and rage.

Harc needed to know, and know beyond the shadow of a doubt, Angar was unlike anything else, superior to all others, that he picked a force of nature to make an enemy of.

He snatched the applicator from Harc's grasp, clamping his leonine palm over the prod. Pain blazed anew, an inferno devouring his soul.

A look of disdain grew on Harc's face. The man attempted to sidestep him, to walk away, but Angar shifted, blocking the path.

As Harc recoiled from potential contact, Angar assumed the Hyperalgesicator's emissions conducted through flesh.

Voices rose in a loud and chaotic mumble around him, but he tuned them out, his mind a forge of vicious fantasies, of Harc's skull splintering in his clutch, those silk clothes soaked in crimson.

The torment persisted, but it paled against this lesson in superiority and dominance.

Abruptly, the pain ceased, Simo having yanked the cable free from the jury-rigged port of the generator.

Harc, glaring at Angar with eyes like poisoned darts, growled out, "Clear the deck, all of you! This boy and I have words to exchange."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.