Chapter 3: Connection
"Reload your weapon Honored One, I've got you covered," the guardsman reassured Zesrael.
Zesrael stared at the man and back at his bolt pistol. How does one reload when one doesn't have extra magazines!
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[Eject the magazine and make a motion of reloading]
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He was skeptical but did it anyway. Ejecting the magazine and tossing it to the side, he watched as it vaporized in blue particles. His eyes and thoughts didn't linger as he reloaded the bolt pistol as if he had another mag on him– of which he does. A magazine appeared the same way the tossed mag disappeared. It was already upright too as all he had to do was put it in normally and cock the hammer. It was a glorious sound. Two handing it, he aimed, and fired to his heart's content. Just in time too as his fellow guardsman ejected his magazine. His gun smoking, the cartridge too. Expertly and efficiently nestled another mag into the humble laspistol, he laid more hate onto the wolves… all while one handed.
—Bang!
—Bang!
—Pew!
—Pew!
From ten, eight, five, all the way down to one… the leader of the gray wolves. It stood its ground, made its choice to die in combat than to live another day. Zesrael knew that and was thankful. He didn't need to chase it in this case.
The guardsman judged the overgrown manging mutt as he loaded another mag. He was ready to dump all of that potential energy at the wolf, but side glancing at The Honored One, he knew he shouldn't. Laspistol lowered and chain sword on standby, he waited for The Honored One to make a move; whether the will of his order or to test his might, he'll respect his decision.
Zesrael traded his bolt pistol for his chain blade. He knew it was risky– he didn't have any close combat experience– yet it was personal. He wanted to feel the touch of its soft fur upon his small palms as he rips its flesh right off its bones (at least he thought its fur looked soft). He wanted to feel its muscles bend to his overbearing pressure as he bruised it into submission. He wanted to lock eyes with it, watched as life drained from its body.
Without a moment's notice, Zesrael lunged forward; blade tucked and ready to shred by his side. The gray wolf, undeterred, lowered its body and pounced. Time seems to slow, like a cinematic action shot of two martial artists clashing in the middle of the screen.
—Grrring!
~Growl~
—Slash!
A horizontal slash from the chain blade and a swipe from the gray wolf. Blood splattered, muscle and bone roughly teared… gray fur no longer retaining its beautiful hew. Zesrael succeeded in their standoff. Tattered and broken, left front leg ripped and bleeding as its paw is no longer attached; blood drips from the chain blade's teeths as the entire left side of the wolf is bloody red, guts exposed to the open air. The guardsman has that 'as expected of my lord' look in his eyes, proud to be the first to see The Honored One take on his own challenges— and succeed.
The gray wolf on the other hand didn't whimper, didn't beg, and still kept his eye on Zesrael. His eyes showed red, muscles weak and trembling, shaking uncontrollably under the wolf's will to rip and tear. It's surprising it's still standing with its guts slowly spilling and with only three limbs to stand on. It was willingly suffering, as if to show even in despair and death, it'll be watching in pure hatred and instinct.
Zesrael paid no mind towards such an intense stare. His eyes spoke for him. Zero intent to fight, he would rather much stare back into the eyes of the beast that almost tore his ankle apart. But his eyes spoke more about himself as no hatred lingered… only pity. Not in any way regretting his decision, more in the fact that the fight was unsatisfactory.
'One lunge and a slash and the leader is practically dead? How… boring.'
At least his eyes spoke that, we'd never truly know the thoughts of the silent chosen. Knowing words is different from knowing how to speak them after all.
~Thud~
The wolf collapsed under its own weight. No movement or motion, his eyes stayed open— destain lingering in his eye. Its body failed— broke down before its mind did.
"Even for a beast its will is commendable," the guardsman complimented.
Zesrael… didn't care. He did what he wanted to do, the question is: what now?
Unarmed, he glances at the guardsman— curiosity in his eyes. It's the first time seeing someone like him.
The guardsman took note of his gaze, "Present and accounted for, sir!"
Walking up to the guardsman, he felt a weird connection. Every impression upon himself, their state of mind, wants, needs, he felt it all as if it was his own. A weird feeling, one he chucked up to his Warmaster title and summoner skill. But the most present of all is his energy; it felt like looking at his expended energy himself.
The guardsman sweated a little. Being gazed at so strongly by a superior was one thing, but that of someone higher in standing— basically his creator was another feeling all together.
As of now, all Zes has been doing is by instinct— whims to be more accurate. Guess you can say, his next action was another one of those.
Zesrael walked up towards the guardsman, close enough where the guardsman had to look straight down. But he didn't as he stood in attention, waiting for orders. Zesrael on the other hand looked straight up at the guardsman, his eyes shining a bit. He extended his hands up and opened and closed his hands— the legendary 'uppies.'
The guardsman, a normal man by 40k standards. Forced to face untold horrors with only his faith and a glorified flashlight. He has never sweated and been nervous his entire life till now. With enemies, at least you know they're malicious no matter how scheming they are. With his little Honored One… What was he supposed to do?
Is he allowing him to pick him up? But that would taint him, a being in equal footing with the Emperor.
What would happen if he didn't comply? Would the little one punish him?
How would one go about with this situation?
Without moving his head, the guardsman glances down… a big mistake.
Zesrael's doe, glassy, violet eyes were on the verge of tears. For a man deprived of cuteness, this was a heart wrencher. The concept of negative consequences were thrown out the window as he quickly picked up the little victorian dressed hunter.
Showing another side to himself, our little two faced gremlin changed notion as he snuggled and nestled himself within the guardsmans' arms. His eyes fluttered, feeling comfortable like never before. Feeling so close to what was originally his. All of that leads to heavy sets of eyes, only getting heavier by the second. Until, he was sound asleep like a newborn baby.
As he slept, the guardsman was left at an impasse: what was he supposed to do now that The Honored One was sound asleep? As a question leaving him puzzled, rooted still in the middle of blood and corpses of wolves.
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Earth, a conduit of chaos and originality. Different throughout universes. Yet all share similarities in one way or another. Some bear fruit of exceptional individuals, some… force to change and adapt to constant conflict. But Earth is a home most people are fond of. A home they only know.
Towering steel masses reached the high heavens. Metal boxes with rubber wheels zipping by monotonously. Sometimes those metal boxes aren't restricted by such conventional… outdated means– but that's a story for another time.
This Earth, some are familiar with it. Others are just discovering it. It's a universe where shadow reigns supreme. A world where gates could lead to wealth or death.
Yes… gates, not the ones you open to enter a front yard. These gates glowed in magical energy– almost ominously. Inside, a whole different world. That's a stretch; really, they're like pocket dimensions. Each may be different from another as they grow in rank, from doors to hurricane sized gates, they're size determines their danger. These small… dungeons housed vigorated critters; all ready for their next meal– or for shits and giggles, just wanting to see you ravaged and flayed.
Continuing on with this magical themed Earth, hunters are nature's response to said gates. Awakened and strengthened in many ways possible, only they can enter; and only they can close the door behind them. For if they're not closed, they break.
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A jungle, one denser than the plain of existence Zesrael is sleeping in. Plants of unknown origin, critters and parasites roamed within the confines of the dungeon– some too small to even see.
Humid, moist, stuffy, the atmosphere its natural inhabitants are used to… natural inhabitants.
Within the outskirts of the dense green, a group of humans explored the unknown like colonialists. They're a parasite, a foreign organism within this body; as well as walking food.
They were six: a tank, archer, mage, priestess, rogue, and spearman. They roamed like headless chickens in a standard formation, melee up front and ranged individuals in the back.
~Rustle~
—Snap!
They're loud.
"Elgh! I think I stepped in shit," the spearman complained, standing on one leg whilst checking his poor quality sabaton.
They're unfocused.
"I've known plenty of spearmen; they all share one thing in common: they're all unlucky," the mage femininely commented matter of factly.
"Shut it blondie, I'll rub this shit on ya if ya say anotha word— Egh, disgusting," the spearman snapped back.
The young mage stuck her tongue out at him, unbefitting of her age.
"There they go again, is this common place?" asked the female archer.
"Fufu, they'll make up tonight, don't worry," the priestess, contradicting her nature, answered with natural sensuality.
"You guys have known each other that long huh?"
"Ever since grade school," the priestess quelled the archers' curiosity.
"Horny bas—"
"READY YOUR WEAPONS! We've got company!" The rogue interrupted their tank.
Oh, and one more thing,
"How many?" the tank asked.
No answer.
"Ann?"
The rogue, Ann, froze. The others were ignorant of their demise. But she knew; her instinctive skill blaring, telling her to run.
"We…"
"Anne?" He looked back towards her. Eyes wide, breathing constricted, hands shook uncontrollably. The others took glances as well, weirded out by her silence.
"Run…" the rogue quickly snapped her eyes at each of her party members, "WE GOTTA RUN!"
Ṱ̵̛̦h̴̳́ẹ̵̢̀ỷ̸̻̾ ̶̰̇w̸̛̫̘̿ẹ̷̈́̎r̸̝̞̽̍e̴̗̍͜ ̴͓̒̈p̷̦͊͐r̴̝̽̄e̶͖̮̒y̶͇͙̽.̴̠͊
~Shriek~
~Rustle~
This dungeon is but a mirror to its wielder– a fragment. Its inhabitants as well as the aesthetics are but an illusion to that of another world. But make no mistake, they're real– as real as pain and suffering, of which comes in pale pink and dark purple; all in connected minds.
These things were alien, not in a sense of ogres or demons, these were biologically alien. They stalked the hunters, moving fast from one point to another. The hunters were looking juicy; a decent amount of biomass for the fleet. Some had sharp spiky bones for hands, others wielded ranged weaponry created out of biomass; if we were to look deeper, tiny bugs chambered into them. Their tongues dangled eyeing their food, some hissed– whether that's a form of communication is unknown to the hunters that heard it or not, the unknown is one of humanity's greatest fears.
"They're toying with us," the rogue said in distress.
"Ya think pointy nose?" the spearman quips.
"No, I mean– look, they keep popping up and disappearing out of nowhere."
"And?"
"The fact that they can do that means–"
"They're letting us know that they're there, not discovering that they're there," the archer pieced together the rest of the info.
"Oh god!" the tank despaired.
~ROAR~
Like a gunshot signaling the start of a track and field sprint, the nids were on the loose. Tyranid hormagaunts, rippers, and some tyranid warriors rushed towards the humans with frenzied eyes. The archer was first to react as she shot an arrow towards one of the warriors.
–Dink!
Deflected– not by parry– the tyranid warrior didn't even bother as the arrow head didn't even leave a scratch on its exoskeleton. Guess she failed the wound roll.
The mage threw elemental spells indiscriminately, killing some while wounding most. The spearman pierced, the priestess buffed and healed, the tank withstood attacks as best they all can. They dipped, dodged, and defended themselves and others with extreme strain under the weight of the ever increasing tide of bug–like creatures.
"AHH!"
"HENRY!"
One down, five more to go. The spearman, Henry, further set the tone of their dire situation. Now lays a spry young man, a spear broken in half held by his hand, a clean cut on his abdomen– guts spilled and rendered to minced meat.
Fear… one hell of an emotion… very contagious. Jumping from one victim to another as they lay their eyes upon their fallen comrade. Unfortunately, an opening arises. This ain't no anime, no movie or graphic novel. This was real, of which pain woke them up from.
A living projectile zoomed past the massive horde. With the large battle going on and a fallen comrade, distractions are bound to happen. It buried itself within the confines of tender flesh, further going deeper as it eats through nutrition. The archer screams in pain as she releases the bow and arrow from her grasp in favor of grabbing her shoulder. The party's tank reacted too late as dozens more were fired and a dozen more buried themselves within tasty meat. The priestess tried to heal but the tyranids inside the archer ate and chewed her wall of flesh and blood.
From there, all hell ascended. The mage ran out of mana, the priestess faith, the rogue and tank were exhausted; not to mention the hail of living projectiles and acid and bone weaponry swinging.
Then, with a final swing from a warrior, the tyranids feasted; and as they feasted, a boy in a guardsmans' arms lay soundly asleep. Yet a seal burned comfortably inside him. Something, a connection to a world, a real world compared to the one he resides in. It was strong, plentiful in its resistance to keeping the boy in his birth world for as long as possible, as if something was letting the boy grow.
Not for long will it last. A room of statues was discovered in that world of which he is connected to but not a resident of. Not for long as a bloodied black haired teen laid battered and tortured upon a stone structure in the middle of the room– like an altar of sorts.
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[!] [Notification]
| Your heart will stop in 0.02 seconds if you choose not to accept.|
|Will you accept?|
[Yes] [No]
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[...]
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[Yes]
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Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone