The base, Fort Acre, had bloated into something like a makeshift city, alive with the clamor of Crusade, reeking of machinery exhaust, body odor, and Hellspawn rot wafting in from the perimeter kills.

  Vendors hawked skewers of meat from ramshackle stalls, their grills hissing under the crimson-tinged sky, while pilgrims and Lay auxiliaries bartered for relics or sanctified ammunition.

  Ecclesiastics chanted litanies from ad-hoc priories and convents, peddling their services, their voices competing with the ruckus of crafters and corporate reps selling overpriced gear from modular shops, everything from blessings to exosuits.

  A Voluvicas House had taken root in a squat prefab module, a neon sign above flashing like a lure for the lustful.

  Angar trudged through the throng, his maul slung over one shoulder, the reinforced sack of munitions slung over the other.

  Garioch matched his stride, blessedly silent, while Simo brought up the rear, his lancer cradled in one arm.

  The lower gravity made every step feel like a half-leap, a strange buoyancy that required the recalibration of instincts in a very different way than higher gravity.

  As the three companions strode through the fort, a wiry woman at a street food cart, her apron smeared with grease and ash, thrust a chit into each of their hands, stating that it was good for five credits at a den of iniquity nestled in the Lay quarters, along with hasty directions.

  Angar crushed his in his fist, wondering about the foolhardy soul who'd dared open such a gambling house amid the watchful glare of all the Ordines Sanctus Puritas within the fort’s walls.

  His cybernetic eyes scanned the crowds, taking in the details he could, as they made their way to meet Saint Salvador at the eastern motor pool.

  They found him there, hunched over the battlecycle like a brooding gargoyle, his Cataphract armor a fortress of blackened, heavily rune-etched steel.

  The cycle itself was a huge beast of a thing, its gray-and-red chassis bristling with weapons and armor plates.

  The chariot-like turret mount now dragged a new attachment behind it, like a massive cart, a reinforced cargo bed for hauling supplies and passengers.

  Salvador's azure visor flicked up as they approached, and even through the impassive slab of his helm, Angar could sense the irritation radiating off him like heat from a fire.

  "Not one word, Garioch," Salvador rumbled out, his voice cutting through the ambient roar of engines.

  He didn't bother with further greetings, just adding, “Ash didn't mention there’d be three."

  Simo shifted uncomfortably as Salvador turned to Angar. "Come. Bring the Layman for the mandatory briefing for all first-Realmers."

  They followed Salvador to a boxy prefab. The Seraph pointed at the door, and the three men entered.

  Garioch entered too, Angar figuring he'd rather face the briefing than spend a minute alone under Salvador's glare.

  Inside the building's drab walls, rows of battered seats stretched across the large room. The newcomers claimed their places with the clank of cybernetic or armored boots on grated flooring.

  A slouched bureaucrat, his gray outfit stained with the perpetual ash of this forsaken world, without uttering a word and hardly looking up, jabbed a grimy finger at a control panel.

  The projector hummed to life with a reluctant flicker, casting ghostly footage of an imperial info-scry across a wall, its monotone drone narrating the differences of combat in gravity between 0.5 and 0.75 Terra-norm.

  Jumps would soar higher, and strides stretch longer. Physical projectiles arced lazily, melee strikes hit lighter but swifter, and tremors or beast stomps could ripple unpredictably through the brittle ground.

  The towering beasts of Hell, those unconstrained by square-cube law, would charge with an eerie fluidity in the low gravity, their mass propelled as if by some unholy levity.

  Therein could lie the key to their undoing, exploiting their unbridled momentum, the briefing urged, for what soared lightly could crash with ruinous force. Vibrations could unsteady such beasts, even the vibrations of their own stomps.

  In such a world as this, as less gravity and lower pressure tended to go hand-in-hand, vibrations worked differently, thrumming through the fragile crust, enough alone to buckle a monstrous advance.

  Targeting the joints to unbalance such beasts proved another effective strategy.

  Most of the scry-capture’s information was readily apparent, but Angar absorbed it all, his mind already mapping the carnage to come, envisioning maul strikes that would shatter knees and splinter spines amid the dust-choked fray.

  The briefing shifted to imperial-funded ship regulations tied to escape velocity, which applied to all Crusader vessels.

  A planet’s gravity and radius dictated the energy required to break free, with heavier ships demanding more power, driving up costs.

  Angar, listening intently, now understood why heavy-class vessels orbited his world, using shuttles rather than landing.

  On very large or higher-gravity worlds, around 5g, not only was escape costly, but it could drain a reactor dry.

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  Imperial heavy-class ships were banned from landing on worlds above 3g without a dome, the cost of escaping deemed a frivolous expense.

  The medium-class barracudas employed by Crusader companies always escaped to orbit from planets like Terra, or Abyssalhome with its 0.71g and smaller-than-Terra radius, as that was far cheaper and more energy efficient than blazing across a world in atmospheric flight.

  The projection sputtered out, leaving the room in stale silence.

  With the briefing done, the bureaucrat handed out cards with emergency channels and protocols.

  Salvador dismissed Garioch and Simo back to the battlecycle, beckoning Angar onward, navigating the fort to a prefab priory situated amid the Lay shops.

  Within, a clergyman in a soot-streaked vestment stood behind a counter, handing a pamphlet to his two new customers with a nod.

  Angar was due two rites, but the main one Knightly Chapters provided for Crusaders at the third Tier, Patience of Ayyub, wasn’t on offer, requiring a specialized machine these brothers lacked.

  He cared little for the loss, as it mainly bestowed a Resilience increase, preparing Knights to face higher-rated terrors. His will was already a bastion against corruption's insidious creep, tempered in trials that would shatter lesser men.

  Its unavailability allowed him a greater choice, and the other offerings tempted far more.

  His gaze lingered on the Vigor of Hanuman, a rite he’d love to get, but it’d devour nearly the full stipend Hidetada had granted Salvador, leaving not enough for a second.

  Angar read the details carefully, then selected swiftly, promising to find the time to study biology, as a lot of the jargon was meaningless to him, such as amygdala and hippocampal.

  Valor of the Mahishasuramardini: Channels Durga’s unstoppable valor, arming the body and soul with the ferocity to slay evil, as unbowed as her triumphs over chaos, restoring order.

  This rite heightened proprioception, the body's innate sense of position and movement, while refining neural efficiency in motor control circuits, which sharpened reaction times and quickened reflexive responses.

  Not enough to increase his Adroitness, but he craved any and all boosts to speed and agility.

  Its main function tempered certain activity in the amygdala, the brain's fear center, reducing the intensity of threat perception.

  Useless to Angar, whose courage knew no bounds, steadfast as the Three's Divine light. He took it only for its other effects.

  Spirit of Miriam: Awakens the prophetess’ defiant spirit, granting voice and vision to endure exile and plague, as resolute as her bolstering songs.

  This rite highlighted how phrasing could mislead. The real meat lay in the fine print, underscoring the importance of proper documentation and focusing on the details provided, not the description.

  One of its core gifts fortified the immune system. He cared little about that aspect of it as his Endurance and cybernetics already handled that in spades, albeit through different means.

  Beyond that, and far more vital, it nurtured psychological hardiness by elevating serotonin pathways, muting the stress response, and spurring hippocampal neurogenesis, the effects of which were slight increases in mental adaptability, willpower, memory, and fortitude against despair.

  Being one of the few rites known to assist with psionics, and the sole offered at this prefab priory, he viewed it as a necessity.

  As required for all such blessings, he had to strip and endure the uncomfortable groping of half a dozen brothers. He hadn’t yet decided if that was worse than having it done by Holy sisters.

  Both made him very uncomfortable, but as all these clergy treated their customer like a product on an assembly line, rushed through without any regard, the complete inhumanity of it made their touches far more bearable.

  The rites commenced as the workshop’s space filled with the droning of chants, the dim glow from rune-lit machinery and wavering candles sending shadows dancing along the walls.

  For the Valor of Durga, Angar was strapped to a humming altar etched with litanies and spiraling invocations.

  The brothers encircled him as a rhythmic hymn rose, punctuated by the sharp beeps of neural interfaces.

  Their hands moved with detached precision, no eye contact, no words, rubbing his skin with oils that reeked of frankincense and antiquity as they chanted.

  Mechanical tendrils snaked down, the tips glowing with a crimson essence, piercing his skull and flesh at key points, sending jolts of fire racing through his nerves, recalibrating his senses.

  His body tensed as the world sharpened, and every twitch of muscle felt amplified as the pain crested, then ebbed, leaving his mind and limbs buzzing.

  The brothers transitioned to the Spirit of Miriam, having Angar stand as they cleaned the altar and swapped machinery and consoles.

  Fresh oils were slathered across his torso, carrying the scent of strange herbs overlaid with a harsh metallic odor, and a new chant began, shifting to a mantra of throaty humming as they rubbed.

  Probes extended, injecting different substances into his chest, gut, and temples. It burned inward, not outward, stirring his thoughts in strange ways.

  A too-bright light forced him to squint, then pain bloomed as a searing headache blazed through his skull.

  The glow faded, the humming mantra ceased, and once the headache relented, Angar rose, and rose improved.

  The blessings had taken hold with a dull warmth, etching into his essence like brands upon the soul, though the Annals registered no shift in their tracked metrics.

  He felt the new power within, the hum of enhanced potential, as they rejoined the others at the battlecycle.

  Supplies were stowed amid the growl of idling engines and those returning to or departing from Crusade. After that, their comms were squared away.

  "Layman, claim the turret," Salvador commanded, his tone brooking no argument. "You others, into the cart. Utter not a syllable as we ride, especially you Garioch. I require silence."

  Angar vaulted into the reinforced bed, the frame protesting with a groan under his bulk. Garioch settled beside him, while Simo ascended to the turret, his fingers curling around the grips, his lancer mag-locked to his back.

  The grav-engines growled to life, blue flames belching from the exhausts as the cycle lifted, banking into the scarred sky.

  Fort Acre receded below, an island of order and civilization amid the wasteland, as they hurtled toward their designated sector, a vast swath of terrain.

  He prayed it teemed with gateways spewing forth Hellspawn to slaughter in endless tithes of crimson.

  Anticipation coursed through his veins, but the flight stretched into monotony, an endless vigil above the charged and churning clouds.

  Garioch fidgeted, and Angar knew the unspoken words on the man’s tongue wanted to spill out, so feigned great interest in the roiling clouds below, unwilling to garner Salvador’s ire so soon.

  At last, descent pierced the veil, the cycle plunging through the electric haze.

  Emerging low over the cracked earth, the low-hanging clouds curtailed visibility in every direction, but Angar spotted a horde of Hellspawn before he felt their dark whispers slithering into his mind.

  The twisted forms of bloodwraiths loped across the wastes, semi-spectral atrocities forged from congealed viscera and unholy shadows.

  Their elongated and emaciated forms, like beastly corpses stretched on racks, had bones jutted through translucent hides pulsing with veins of blood.

  They scampered with unnatural agility, packs of them led by alphas bounding over the fractured terrain, their howls reverberating strangely through the thin air.

  Crimson mist trailed from horrific maws and claws, evaporating into fumes. Glowing pits, coagulated blood making up their eyes, fixed on the newly arrived prey with a profane hunger, and the whispers in Angar's mind intensified.

  The battlecycle touched down in a raised clearing with a jarring thump, the engines cycling off.

  Salvador's voice boomed out. "Layman, hold here with your lancer. Man the turret if enough draw near. Knights, let’s go."