Before putting the second spindle in place, the Courier donned an Ikesian gas mask and a leather apron, both salvaged from the boiler room. With these new protections in place he hefted the spindle from its recess and brought it around the elemental’s back, a step-stool having already been placed here to make up for the striking height difference. This spindle was slotted between Von Wickten’s shoulder blades, into the middle dantian. Once more he was met by whipping tendrils of impurity and blasts of pitch-black smoke, and once more, the spindle was securely buried halfway up its length where it belonged. Von Wickten’s body became stiff, his resistance ceasing altogether as he seized up.
The third spindle was buried into the heart, the location of no dantian that the Courier knew of, while the upper dantian remained untouched. It became clear why this was with the revealing of the final layer, which contained a great helm with a hole in the back, a fourth spindle, and a talisman in the shape of a sacrificial knife.
“Bring me a ladder!” he demanded, and after his demand was echoed by the Commissar, it was fulfilled. A ladder from the boiler room was propped up against Von Wickten’s back, and with assistance from four other men using rope, the immense mass of metal that was the helm was hoisted up onto Von Wickten’s head. He shuddered in place, the chains which held him jangling and grinding against themselves, the ladder threatening to tip over. Without stepping off the ladder, the Courier barked: “The final spindle, now!”
Seeing that his men were hesitant, the Commissar himself sprung into action and ripped the spindle from its recess, rushing to the Courier’s side and placing it in his hand; it had a narrow keyhole on the cap. With one motion the Courier grasped the spindle and pushed it into the back of Von Wickten’s head until he felt the building resistance emblematic of reaching the halfway band; a blast of sooty smoke erupted from the gap with such force that both he and the Commissar found themselves thrown to the ground, the ladder flying over head and smashing against an aged wine cask.
While the officer, being combat trained, leapt to his feet in an instant, the Courier just barely scrambled up into a sitting position in time to see it: Tar bursting out from the gaps between the armor’s plates, pouring out over its surface and pooling at Von Wickten’s feet. As this wave of corruption swept over the armor, the silver of its plates turned black; the spindles began to spin in their slots, an ear-splitting whirring sound reverberating through the chamber. Bit by bit, the plates closed in and locked into place, only for everything to come to an abrupt stop. Von Wickten’s posture was no longer stiff, and he swayed in place as heaving, struggling breaths blasted out from him and filled the chamber with an even more rancid stink than before.
Von Wickten spoke again, his voice no longer full of perverse glee or rage, but confusion: “I… I WILL… I WILL… WHAT WILL I… WHAT IS HAPPENING? WHAT… WHAT IS THIS?”
Cautiously getting to his feet and walking around the towering, black-armored figure, the Courier saw that even the Spindles’ pure white colour was tainted; silver tarnished, mutton-fat jade discolored by streaks of accursed purple. The moment he saw the figure’s front-facing silhouette, a final mental trigger fell into place. A grim determination came over the Courier as the final fragment of locked-away memory surfaced. He took the last piece - the talisman - and turned over the box’s now-empty bottom layer, stepping up onto it. Pulling off his gas mask, he addressed the soldiers present: “We are nearly finished. However… The paltry sacrifice of a single human soul will be required to activate the Armor of Pure Purpose. Anyone present in this chamber when the final step takes place will be consumed by Ser Von Wickten’s final struggle before he comes back to his senses. I would request that all those who do not wish to sacrifice themselves evacuate this chamber. Should I alone remain, I will carry out the task. Commissar, please do not command them to stay.”
Though he acquiesced to this request the Commissar nevertheless looked over his men expectant of a volunteer, but one by one, they all filtered out of the room until only him and the Courier were left. The two of them exchanged looks, both expecting the other to leave, until the Courier said: “Do the men of this outpost not need their commander?”
“Is an Imperial Courier not five rungs higher on the ladder of import than a mere Commissar? I will be replaced within the week, and you seem a suitable interim commander,” came the officer’s stern voice in response.
Five seconds passed with a tense silence hanging between them, underlined by the ominous rumble of Von Wickten’s breathing. It resembled the first rumblings of a volcano before eruption. Then, there came a sound: Boots on stone, approaching down the main stairway. It was a soldier wearing only the lower half of his uniform and a cap which denoted him as a communications specialist; the bloodshot marks of a caning shone upon his back and arms.
“I- I shall perform… Perform the final step,” he strained to say between desperate gulps for air. “This… Is all I can do to atone for my failure. With this, the mine and my family’s face will be restored in His Divinity’s eyes, yes?”
The Courier looked to the Commissar with a tacit question: “What did he do?”
“He failed to observe proper communications security, foolishly assuming an incoming call to be His Divinity without waiting for visual confirmation. As a result, he leaked information regarding the Karagane Project not to just any enemy, but to the Heretic’s Daughter herself.”
“And you didn’t have him killed?”
No spoken response came; the Commissar only returned a cold look before moving on: “Tell him what to do.”
Sighing, the Courier walked over to the comms officer and handed him the talisman, instructing: “There is no trigger phrase for this one. Plunge the knife into your lower dantian with the intent to activate it. It will not work if you do not have the full intent to sacrifice yourself - do you?”
Akaso
If you’d like to read ahead, consider heading on over to the Patreon! Patrons gain access to up to 20 days of advance content, with further expansion planned for the future. So if you want to help fund my crippling addiction to commissioning art, consider reading a couple chaps ahead.
I’d also greatly appreciate it if you could rate my story, or even leave a review. Reviews and ratings alike weigh heavily in the eyes of the algorithm (not to mention prospective new readers), so that pretty much means they determine the success of my work. A single review or even just a rating can noticeably influence the novel’s performance, especially when it has few ratings overall like this one does as of me posting this.
Same goes for review voting - the reviews with the most upvotes are the ones that most people will see, so you as readers decide which reviews are legitimate.
Discord HERE.
Before putting the second spindle in place, the Courier donned an Ikesian gas mask and a leather apron, both salvaged from the boiler room. With these new protections in place he hefted the spindle from its recess and brought it around the elemental’s back, a step-stool having already been placed here to make up for the striking height difference. This spindle was slotted between Von Wickten’s shoulder blades, into the middle dantian. Once more he was met by whipping tendrils of impurity and blasts of pitch-black smoke, and once more, the spindle was securely buried halfway up its length where it belonged. Von Wickten’s body became stiff, his resistance ceasing altogether as he seized up.
The third spindle was buried into the heart, the location of no dantian that the Courier knew of, while the upper dantian remained untouched. It became clear why this was with the revealing of the final layer, which contained a great helm with a hole in the back, a fourth spindle, and a talisman in the shape of a sacrificial knife.
“Bring me a ladder!” he demanded, and after his demand was echoed by the Commissar, it was fulfilled. A ladder from the boiler room was propped up against Von Wickten’s back, and with assistance from four other men using rope, the immense mass of metal that was the helm was hoisted up onto Von Wickten’s head. He shuddered in place, the chains which held him jangling and grinding against themselves, the ladder threatening to tip over. Without stepping off the ladder, the Courier barked: “The final spindle, now!”
Seeing that his men were hesitant, the Commissar himself sprung into action and ripped the spindle from its recess, rushing to the Courier’s side and placing it in his hand; it had a narrow keyhole on the cap. With one motion the Courier grasped the spindle and pushed it into the back of Von Wickten’s head until he felt the building resistance emblematic of reaching the halfway band; a blast of sooty smoke erupted from the gap with such force that both he and the Commissar found themselves thrown to the ground, the ladder flying over head and smashing against an aged wine cask.
While the officer, being combat trained, leapt to his feet in an instant, the Courier just barely scrambled up into a sitting position in time to see it: Tar bursting out from the gaps between the armor’s plates, pouring out over its surface and pooling at Von Wickten’s feet. As this wave of corruption swept over the armor, the silver of its plates turned black; the spindles began to spin in their slots, an ear-splitting whirring sound reverberating through the chamber. Bit by bit, the plates closed in and locked into place, only for everything to come to an abrupt stop. Von Wickten’s posture was no longer stiff, and he swayed in place as heaving, struggling breaths blasted out from him and filled the chamber with an even more rancid stink than before.
Von Wickten spoke again, his voice no longer full of perverse glee or rage, but confusion: “I… I WILL… I WILL… WHAT WILL I… WHAT IS HAPPENING? WHAT… WHAT IS THIS?”
Cautiously getting to his feet and walking around the towering, black-armored figure, the Courier saw that even the Spindles’ pure white colour was tainted; silver tarnished, mutton-fat jade discolored by streaks of accursed purple. The moment he saw the figure’s front-facing silhouette, a final mental trigger fell into place. A grim determination came over the Courier as the final fragment of locked-away memory surfaced. He took the last piece - the talisman - and turned over the box’s now-empty bottom layer, stepping up onto it. Pulling off his gas mask, he addressed the soldiers present: “We are nearly finished. However… The paltry sacrifice of a single human soul will be required to activate the Armor of Pure Purpose. Anyone present in this chamber when the final step takes place will be consumed by Ser Von Wickten’s final struggle before he comes back to his senses. I would request that all those who do not wish to sacrifice themselves evacuate this chamber. Should I alone remain, I will carry out the task. Commissar, please do not command them to stay.”
Though he acquiesced to this request the Commissar nevertheless looked over his men expectant of a volunteer, but one by one, they all filtered out of the room until only him and the Courier were left. The two of them exchanged looks, both expecting the other to leave, until the Courier said: “Do the men of this outpost not need their commander?”
“Is an Imperial Courier not five rungs higher on the ladder of import than a mere Commissar? I will be replaced within the week, and you seem a suitable interim commander,” came the officer’s stern voice in response.
Five seconds passed with a tense silence hanging between them, underlined by the ominous rumble of Von Wickten’s breathing. It resembled the first rumblings of a volcano before eruption. Then, there came a sound: Boots on stone, approaching down the main stairway. It was a soldier wearing only the lower half of his uniform and a cap which denoted him as a communications specialist; the bloodshot marks of a caning shone upon his back and arms.
“I- I shall perform… Perform the final step,” he strained to say between desperate gulps for air. “This… Is all I can do to atone for my failure. With this, the mine and my family’s face will be restored in His Divinity’s eyes, yes?”
The Courier looked to the Commissar with a tacit question: “What did he do?”
“He failed to observe proper communications security, foolishly assuming an incoming call to be His Divinity without waiting for visual confirmation. As a result, he leaked information regarding the Karagane Project not to just any enemy, but to the Heretic’s Daughter herself.”
“And you didn’t have him killed?”
No spoken response came; the Commissar only returned a cold look before moving on: “Tell him what to do.”
Sighing, the Courier walked over to the comms officer and handed him the talisman, instructing: “There is no trigger phrase for this one. Plunge the knife into your lower dantian with the intent to activate it. It will not work if you do not have the full intent to sacrifice yourself - do you?”
Akaso
If you’d like to read ahead, consider heading on over to the Patreon! Patrons gain access to up to 20 days of advance content, with further expansion planned for the future. So if you want to help fund my crippling addiction to commissioning art, consider reading a couple chaps ahead.
I’d also greatly appreciate it if you could rate my story, or even leave a review. Reviews and ratings alike weigh heavily in the eyes of the algorithm (not to mention prospective new readers), so that pretty much means they determine the success of my work. A single review or even just a rating can noticeably influence the novel’s performance, especially when it has few ratings overall like this one does as of me posting this.
Same goes for review voting - the reviews with the most upvotes are the ones that most people will see, so you as readers decide which reviews are legitimate.
Discord HERE.
