Nyx made her way back through Technocultist territory feeling disappointed.

  She’d made sure to keep the three that chased her down alive so that she could benefit from their sacrifices, but after K’lon, their effect felt inconsequential. Whether it was their lesser standing, or her human body already approaching its limits, Nyx didn’t know. It could be a combination of both. What it meant, was that she couldn’t just endlessly improve herself by sacrificing waves of people.

  Then again, if that was possible, the cult leaders would never have hesitated.

  Unfortunately, the peak capabilities of her current body was not nearly satisfying. Five sacrifices and two weeks of effort equated to a strength not much greater than an average adult. One that hadn’t been blessed with sacrifices.

  It was hard to tell if her efforts were building muscle. She could tell the added experience was helping grow her name — the new additive she had yet to explore was proof enough — but she was still as thin as the day she returned.

  She knew a couple of weeks was nothing, really, but she’d hoped to put on at least some weight. Some more mass to throw around in a fight. Yet only her wings seemed to have done so, and they weren’t exactly the heaviest things for how large they were.

  If it really was her curses keeping her thin, then there was unlikely anything she could do besides peel open her name and hope that somehow helped. Though, she was wary of wishing too much. They were curses, after all; she was all too likely to become some amorphous blob.

  Shuddering at the thought, she entered the large refinery chamber and jogged for the former control room. At least now she could run without getting winded.

  A twinge of pain shot through her chest as she shoved past the door. She ignored it. A few broken ribs were nothing to Nyx. Sure, they weren’t exactly the most pleasant injuries to be stuck with, but she couldn’t waste her time getting fixed up.

  Not that she had access to any of the cults’ ‘medical’ divisions.

  Nyx strode straight for the shower. She would change, inspect her new name, then be gone before first fog. With four sacrifice empowered cultivation rituals having flooded her veins with energy, it was unlikely she’d be able to sleep tonight if she tried.

  Maybe she’d become too accustomed to the freedom of living alone in the days since she’d arrived here, so her eyes locked only on the door to the bathroom and nothing else. She missed the cultist right in front of her.

  “I thought I told you not to leave.”

  Nyx nearly leapt out of her skin. She spun and found she’d walked past Tarchon, whose mechanical parts blended in with the mountains of scrap on the workbench he stood behind.

  “What?” she asked, trying to collect herself. “You never said anything like that.”

  “When I said I intended to speak with you, I imagine I was quite clear that you were meant to wait until my interrogations were complete.” His eyes narrowed and the cold glare of glass deepened as he looked upon her again. All the machines in the workshop seemed to react to his anger. Robotic arms pointed her way. Half-complete creations spun to life, and rose from their tables. Even the pipes seemed to groan and alter their flow in response. “I gave you access to this place so that the Fleshsmiths couldn’t reach you until my investigation was complete. You understand the danger you are in, do you not?”

  More than you do.

  “I had some things to do.”

  “I can see that.” Tarchon’s eyes fell to the new blade at her hip and the tattered robe that hardly covered the skulk shroud beneath.

  Suddenly, steam burst from a vent in his neck, and he tilted his head back. He glared at the ceiling rather than her. “Congratulations on your evolution. Apologies that it was probably not what you wanted.”

  Nyx grit her teeth. She’d known Tarchon could see her name… at least in some sense, but she’d still hoped to keep it private. So if he knew her base name was corrupted, then he too knew she could make a decent sacrifice. Even if he didn’t know how much. She could only assume that he’d gone and spread the word to the rest of his cult by now.

  The Technocult hadn’t participated in her sacrifice, but they’d been eliminated at the time, so Nyx didn’t know what to think. She just knew she couldn’t trust them. For now, Tarchon probably didn’t take her as a sacrifice because of the immense risk she posed should such a ritual occur. He didn’t know about the mutations, after all.

  “You are injured.”

  Of course you would notice.

  “Follow.” Tarchon strode for the combined bath and surgery room.

  Nyx wanted to immediately refuse. She didn’t have only a single feather like the last time he’d bolted her bones back in place. The chance that he would discover her was high.

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  But denying him would scream suspicious. Nyx couldn’t fight him. She knew he was of considerable evolution tier, and no running, hiding, or fighting could end with her victory if he insisted on pressing her. All she could do was hope the man didn’t question why she held the skulk shroud around herself and keep her spines out of sight.

  Besides, she did need patching. Tarchon was the least dangerous option she had.

  Following him through the door and sliding herself onto the operating table at his gesture, Nyx tore open a section of her robe. Tarchon would have access to her broken ribs. Nothing else.

  The Technocultist stared at her. “It would make it easier if you gave me more room to work with.”

  “I’m sure it would.” She nodded, but made no motion to widen the gap between her two sections of shroud. She couldn’t. Lowering the cover on her midriff further than it was would reveal her feathers.

  She really had to thank the shadowy appearance of the cloak. If it did not have such an indistinct form, the shape of her wings would be obvious through the torn section of her robe she’d given him access to.

  “Have it your way,” Tarchon said as he reached his hand to the side of her chest. “But do not complain.”

  His fingers stabbed through her skin, and she had to suppress a scream as he immediately began digging around. Tiny forceps tore through flesh as they scraped along bone and analysed the damage. Even with the pain, Nyx could tell when he found something he didn’t like.

  She panicked. Had he found her out? With her wings and the sharp vertebrae altering her spine, it wasn’t impossible the shape or composition of her ribs had changed. If he wanted, he could simply slide his hand down, and he’d feel her wings, bound as they were. It would only take a single touch. He had no reason to respect her wishes, and was all the more likely to try and find out what she was hiding.

  That was the way of the cults.

  With each mounting second, Nyx knew she’d made a mistake. She regret allowing him to fix her. She should have just sucked up the pain and dealt with it until it eventually healed naturally. This was a mistake. A mistake that could very well reveal her despite all the effort to hide her mutations so far.

  Nyx couldn’t help but wince and close her eyes, expecting the worst.

  “I thought I told you to stay away from corruption dense areas.” The mechanical growl of a turbine accented his anger. “How you are not deathly ill at this very moment, I have no clue.”

  Her eyes snapped open again. Then blinked. “What?”

  “The bolt in your chest has melted. Honestly, I’ve not seen anything like it. That alloy was rated at twelve months for both tissue rejection and a corruption rate within ten percent.” It sounded like Tarchon was speaking more to himself than to Nyx, but that changed with his next question. “You didn’t get caught in the Dark Star, did you?”

  “No,” she squeaked, not sounding convincing even to her own ears.

  “Then again, it might be a reaction from your curses,” Tarchon pulled himself away from the truth even as Nyx felt herself sweat. “I’ve heard that some curses can negatively affect implants, and yours are particularly strong. If that’s the case, the Technocult cannot take you on.”

  Surprisingly, he seemed rather disappointed by the fact.

  Is that what this is?

  “Have you let me into your home because you are considering making me an acolyte of the Technocult?”

  “I won’t deny that you are intriguing, but no. Our process is systematic. If you want to join, show us what we want to see during your Trials, and our doors will open.”

  “What you want to see?” Nyx repeated, curious what exactly it was that the Technocultists desired in their prospectives… even if she refused to become one.

  “Not something I am at liberty to share. But you need not worry. If you continue as you are, you’ll either be taken in by your cult of choice, or you’ll be dead.” He chose that moment to clamp down on her ribs and fix the fracture in place. The message behind the pain, clear. Regardless, she had no choice but to continue onwards.

  Nyx knew the Technocult were rather unaggressive in their scouting efforts, and it showed in the number of cultists they had, but that hardly meant they were without strength. They had, after all, remained at odds with the Machine God worshippers for centuries despite that cult’s far greater member count.

  “And if I don’t want to participate in any?” Nyx didn’t know why she said it. Really, making it known that she was against participation in any of the major pillars of Coral was paramount to painting a target over her face. It announced to all that she didn’t have anyone at her back. And she never would.

  Tarchon paused his manipulations as her blood flowed over his entirely mechanical fingers. He watched her. Seemingly intent on picking apart her reason.

  Nyx was ready for a round of questions, but they never came. Tarchon simply turned back to his work and twitched his finger beneath her skin. “Try not to move. This will be uncomfortable.”

  It’s already painful having you dig around inside my ribs. What could possibly make this any more un—” Nyx immediately lost her trail of though as a wave of ice crashed through her. She knew, logically, that it was intense cold flowing off Tarchon’s fingers, but it felt like he’d taken a branding iron to her inside.

  She gasped for breath as he tore out a chunk of frozen metal along with an alarmingly large amount of flesh it had melded to. At that moment, she didn’t care for the damage it had done, nor how she was going to regrow all that muscle. There was only one thing that shone through the pain.

  He’s going to do that to my arm as well, isn’t he?

  Sighing as the man somehow sewed her flesh back together, Nyx tore open the sleeve of her robe just above the elbow. Better that, then Tarchon getting the chance to touch her chitin.

  He was much quicker the second time. In an instant, the metal permeating her flesh was frozen, and broken free from her triceps. Now she had a lump missing in both her arm and her chest.

  Tarchon reached out his hand, and that robot arm hanging down from the ceiling passed him a tube it grabbed from the hundreds of vials along the wall. The Technocultist slid it into the table beneath Nyx, and began a hymn. As the roaring of a turbine enhanced his voice, the table glowed with runes that weren’t there a moment ago.

  Unlike most other cults, the rituals for the Technocult were entirely utilitarian. The circles were squares. His hymn was a drone that nearly put Nyx to sleep the moment she heard it. But it was as effective as any other.

  She felt her flesh return from nothing as her Tarchon-inflicted wounds sealed. Whatever was in that vial must have been enough to power the ritual to almost as good as what her blood could. Unless it was just the ritual itself that was that efficient. Regardless, she was happy she didn’t have to reveal anything more about herself than she already had.

  “Now, we both know you know more about this situation than you’re letting on. Before that, go take a shower.” Tarchon said, cleaning her blood from his fingers. “You look like you need it.” And she did, what with all the blood. “I mean, you’ve even got mould in your hair. How does that even happen?”

  Oh. Nyx’s hands shot to her head. Oh, shit.

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