The Bridge of my Command Citadel is brimming with

  activity. Officers work at data terminals at incredible speed, combing

  over potential combat scenarios and how to navigate them with as few

  casualties as possible, analyzing Rakshasa specialist units and

  formations and determining the optimal strategies to defeat them. Dozens

  of ideal strategies and scenarios are presented to me every

  millisecond, my demonic contract letting me sift through them and

  determine the best course of action rapidly.

  The

  information Zhongli gave me–er, us– was a goldmine. Much knowledge of

  how to combat Rakshasa was lost after the great Rakshasa crusade and the

  collapse of the Second Imperium, especially for the Order of San Sophia

  after they were nearly eradicated at the hands of Kor Halak. I should

  back this up for later. We could use it in the case of another Rakshasa

  crusade. As for the information on Tian'chao forces… I'm content to

  ignore it. It will damage our unit coordination and teamwork, but it's

  the least I can do after what I considered doing to him. Besides, I am

  sure the great armies of the Celestial Realm should be able to keep up

  to us on their own.

  I

  stare at the massive screens making up the walls of my bridge, watching

  stars and planets pass by us get be compressed and warped by the

  contraction of space in front of us. There is no inertia or feeling of

  acceleration. We are not moving after all. Space is what'sthe one that

  is moving, and we are just riding the waves. I used to be scared as shit

  about Alcubierre drives. Heard that your body would be torn apart by

  the negative energy holding the bubble apart, your body squished into a

  fleshy mush. I wasn't convinced that one of them was safe until I took

  that leap of faith and got on one myself. O and only then did I realize

  why people trusted them.

  The

  Tian'Chao fleet had jumped 5 minutes before us and they were probably

  were already in combat by now. I should ask Zhongli where he was by now.

  A pleasant shudder runs downup my spine from the implant at the base of

  my neck. Minister Zhongli, are you on site by now?

  Then a harsh static noise runs through my skull, and a piercing fanatical voice echoes through my head.

  Canat! Prosperit ad Sothoth! Prospora ad Immaru ir Rhuxis. Isha varana m?s Canat!

  The

  more realistic virch games I played when I was young during the

  Rakshasa blight went out of their way to get the language right to the

  point of working with Rakshasa sympathizers to get the language right.

  If I know my Rakshasa right, then that translates to something like Prosperity to Lord Sothoth. Prosperity to Lady Immaru and Rhuxis. Praise be to the Reverend Queen of all patterns.

  Shit! I link to Honorius and Chagri. "Honorius! What's taking so long! Why isn't the Exorcism rite activated yet! Chagri! Get your ass over to the bridge!" Flag

  officers stare up from their datapads and screens at me as I stand up

  off my throne. My guard looks on as I pace around the room. This was the

  major variable in this operation. The presence of senior Rakshasa,

  especially Rakshasa royalty, always means the presence of ontological

  weaponry, something I have no idea how to counter.

  Honorius replies first. "I'm

  trying, but of our two astromancers, one is being rather….

  Uuncooperative, and the other one you brought is refusing to act."

  Are

  you fucking kidding me? The personal file of Oliphaele Wodime had her

  being rather prideful and… well, kinda racist about the prospect of

  working with Oghuz, but I assumed she would listen to a direct order

  from me. I sigh. M to myself, maybe I shouldn't have gone with the

  foundation mixing idea.

  "Lord Argetlam, what bothers you such? You seem rather restless,." One of my guards asks through our connection.

  I

  have to hold myself back from yelling at him. I cease my pacing and

  take a deep breath, my mind foggy and buzzing with thoughts. "I apologize. I am simply frustrated currently. Lady Oliphaele is being rather difficult to work with,."

  I reply in a high pitched, aristocratic sounding voice to sound more

  noble and knightly. They still think of me as some uneducated commoner

  who only reached the rank of lord through a tenuous blood claim. F,

  fucking pricks, but I have to prove them wrong.

  Maybe

  I am just overreacting—, maybe—, but you can never be too secure when

  facing an enemy that works on a parallel system of causality. "Hey,

  Devilman. What made you call me up topside?. You know that they will

  think you're some Oghuz sympathizer or traitor to the baselines when you

  call me up like this."

  I

  jolt as Chagri's resigned deadpan voice chimes in, and I realize that

  he finally reached here, his dark metallic figure standing out amidst

  the white of my guard. How long has he been here? The Oghuz encampment

  is buried underneath miles of industry. How did he get up here so fast?

  Ugh.

  I take a deep shuddering breath and smack my helmet hard a few times.

  It is a rather embarrassing display sight in front of my guard and

  Chagri, but I needed it to straighten up. "Chagri. I need you to

  order your men to switch from offense to defense. I think that

  bureaucrat, Zhongli, is compromised. Listen, I need to—ARRGGHH!" A piercing sound runs through my mind like static or nails on a chalkboard.

  Tashlakun rashak b?sdhana, zalask b?s asdhakana. Canat! Canat! Canat! Hyberas Sothoth ul Halak ad Meghanad. Canat! Canat!

  Then

  singing, a distinctly feminine angelic voice vocalising high notes. It

  sounds beautiful, a celestial choir adding background vocals to her

  wails and what sounds like a great pipe organ in the background.

  "Do

  any of you hear that?" Chagri blurts out without the privacy of our

  neurotelepathic link, and I want to thank him for saving me from asking

  that question myself.

  Then the following happens, all in 200 seconds.

  The

  flag officers behind me start convulsing and vomiting blood as the

  Lifesong kicks in. Poor bastards. They don't have our runic protection.

  My face goes pale as I watch their pupils dilate, irises forking into

  two then four, as their bones rip through their bodies like spikes and

  their flesh grows cancerous. One of them, a flag officer with short

  brown hair and his spine overgrown into spikes tearing him apart from

  the inside, turns to me, mouth overflowing with blood and moving as if

  he is trying to say something but can't even scream, drowning in his own

  blood yet unable to truly die.

  I

  gag and nearly vomit. I can't help but think that he was trying to ask

  me to kill him. I should but I can't give that order. There has to be

  some way to purify them, to save them. The doctors of Persepolis are

  known to engage in truly outlandish acts of alchemy and bodily

  modification. Surely they can save them. S, surely we can fix them.

  Then

  the earthy scent of Ozone hits my nostrils as the room gains an

  ultraviolet hue. My armor's sensors show me the piercing Axion particles

  wafting going through the air.

  The

  science is simple. Point a vacuum tube at the Sun. Subject the tube to a

  very high electromagnetic field. The strong magnetic field increases

  the energy of the virtual photons, eternally popping in and out of

  existence like a bubbling sea of froth, underlying the void. This

  increases the chance that an axion passing by will interact with a

  virtual particle and spontaneously turn into a photon. The photons

  emitted bleed off into the ultraviolet that turn oxygen into Ozone.

  Simple

  stuff. Most children with a good physics education know it. It is also

  the power behind the most dreaded magic of the Rakshasa.

  You

  start off with a black hole and then you get it rotating. Once it's

  spinning, it drags spacetime around itself, like a heavy coffee table

  being spun on top of a rug. That rotation transfers energy from the

  rotation of the black hole to any surrounding material.

  This

  surrounding material that's sucked into the vortex can be either

  ordinary matter or dark matter, — but if the dark matter is made of

  axions, something special happens because of that rotation.

  When

  the axions come close to the black hole through the gravitational

  forces, it can trigger instability. The axions swirl around and steal

  energy from the black hole. This extra energy causes them to swirl

  around even faster, coming even closer to the black hole. That then

  pulls even more energy to the axions, causing them to swirl faster and

  faster.

  It's

  a simple process of extreme amplification until the Singularity goes

  boom, the dreaded Axion Bomb of the Rakshasa, and it has destroyed

  hundreds of worlds during the last great war.

  This intense gravitic pressure also has the effect of disrupting Alcubierre Bubbles.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Then

  I am falling upward as the hull of the Citadel is punctured, the oxygen

  leaving the ship as the photon shockwave melts through kilometers of

  hull. Floor after floor pass by me as I am dragged by winds as strong as

  hurricanes , watching as those in civilian clothing, attendants and

  officers alike, get dragged upwards into the void to meet a meaningless

  death in the vacuum, screams silenced by the void.

  Then

  silence. I drift uncontrollably through the void at high speeds,

  crashing into debris as the nausea inducing absence of gravity sinks in.

  The Axion blast knocked the fleet out of our Alcubbiere bubble, right

  into a Rakshasa ambush. Massive blocky Tomb ships garbed in eye-catching

  colors, with great edifices carved into their stone hulls and wreathed

  in lightning in the form of , Axions and plasma, trade fire with my own

  fleet. Great bolts of lightning cast by Warlocks split ships in half in

  great detonations, while Oghuz fighters dance with Rakshasa knights with

  wings of plasma and great flaming swords in hand, insectoid

  exoskeletons made of gold.

  It's

  beautiful. The sight of fleets clashing, Rakshasa nobles and warlocks

  casting awesome displays of magical power as Oghuz fighters clash and

  dance around them. Beautiful.

  And the booming voice of Kor Halak powers its way into my mind.

  Jubilations

  to you all! Those who dwell in the dark, know your suffering shall be

  ended soon. K, know you shall be relieved of your struggles. The time of

  abundance has come. The season of luminescence is upon you, where every

  dawn is chatoyant and where your children grow brilliant, rich with

  blessings, stomachs fat whereas they once knew hunger. We, tThe

  Rakshasa, have come to guide you to her blessings. Hear that sweet song

  of life, lay down your arms, cease your defiance, and accept our love.Why do you resist us? The face of your liberation is here. W, we have come.

  I

  am disgusted with myself for finding it beautiful. I crash into

  desiccated bodies of attendants and officers, their bodies mutating as

  cancerous flesh grows and interlinks. I wretch and nearly vomit in my

  helmet, desperately trying to hold on to something, trying to activate

  my armor's internal thrusters. I failed them. I failed them.

  IfailedthemIfailedthemIfailedthemIfailedthe—

  Then

  Something crashes into me, flight stabilized by built-in thrusters.

  Chagri grabs me in a bridal-carry, angling himself to land feet first on

  a large wedge- shaped piece of metallic debris with his magnetic boots

  active. We collide with the thick piece of broken hull, and I nearly fly

  off into the void due to the inertia, only for Chagri to hold me with a

  single stretched out arm, his other arm grasping the hull and giving me

  enough time to activate my magnetic boots. He wrenches me onto the

  debris, my feet unsteady on the metal and head spinning with the nausea

  of stillness.

  My

  knees tremble, and Chagri reaches out his hands to keep me from

  collapsing to my knees. Shit. This is all my fault. My incompetence led

  to this. I stare out into the void aflame, seeing the colossal mass of

  the Dragon Sage command ship of the Baise De, hull battered by balls of

  plasma and bolts of lightning but still standing, and I desperately try

  to call Zhongli again., I know he isn't there but my head is buzzing

  with adrenaline and I'm stupid and I can't help myself.

  I nearly cry when he answers, his voice harsh and ragged with exertion. "Argetlam!

  Are you still with us? Our communications were hijacked by the

  chaos-bringers. I don't know how but they were it was and we need

  immediate assistance. Please reply."

  I

  take deep breaths, my head buzzing with adrenaline, and I dread the

  crash that I am going to experience if I survive. This is all my fault.

  You should've just chosen to do some anti-piracy action or peacekeeping

  operations, but you just had to pick the shiniest objective that would

  will get me you the most glory, Argetlam. You fucking idiot.

  Pathetic. Eligos rumbles out in my mind. You claimed this position through ancestry and treachery. If you die here, then try dying with some dignity.

  Stone

  pods and smaller tomb ships disgorge Rakshasa hordes into the gaping

  wounds in my Command Citadel's hull. I take a resigned sigh and message

  Zhongli. "Fine. Let's work out a deal. We are currently being

  boarded by Rakshasa shock troopers, and we also need immediate

  assistance. How about we help each other?"

  He takes a deep breath on his end. "Very

  well then. We will dispatch a strike force of Oni to help in exchange

  for you sending your own knights and Oghuz. Is that good?"

  I let out a shuddering laugh, breathless and panting. "More than good." I

  motion resonate to the commanders of the third, fifth and seventh

  Astral Squadrons, wordlessly signaling them to advance to the Dragon

  Sage and assist the local forces.

  One of the commanders, the fifth Astral Squadron's commander, signals me back. "Sir!

  We are at 78% combat effectiveness, and we will take heavy casualties

  reaching for that Dragon Sage! Are you sure we should go?"

  I take a deep breath and close my eyes, a sinking feeling in my stomach at the words that will come out of my mouth. "Yes,

  that is an order. You are being helped by the third and seventh and

  will be provided with assistance by the locals. You are given full

  operational freedom on how you will prosecute this order."

  A

  pack of five cruisers assigned to the fifth squadron advance, hulls

  bleeding with plasma and Axions, yet resolute, f. Followed by another

  ten cruisers from the third and seventh.

  Chagri

  taps on my shoulder as I stand up, my legs finally gaining the feeling

  of solidity after feeling like jelly for so long. A squadron of five

  Rakshasa crusaders stand just two hundred meters away, bodies tense

  with plasma swords drawn and wings shining on their back. I reach for

  my back and draw a sword of Hardlight, a massive blade of crystalized

  orange light emanating around the metal handle.

  I

  wordlessly nod to Chagri, who has his heavy machine gun in hand, and

  activate my armor's internal thrusters. Chagri unleashes a hail of

  fifteen millimeter self-propelled mass reactive slugs, biting into their

  chitinous flesh, while I charge, internal thrusters blazing. I weave

  around and parry bolts of flames as hot as the core of a star from the

  crusaders plasma throwers, sparks biting into my armor and heat

  radiating past my ablative layer. My armor's servos scream as I move

  fast enough to parry and move around plasma bolts, my footing dance-like

  as I twirl on the metal I am magnetically attached to.

  Chagri

  is right behind me, machine gun blazing, but I reach them first. They

  are tall, averaging at 8 feet of muscle and chitinous flesh each, but

  that just makes them bigger targets.

  I

  jump and cut through the plasma thrower and left arm of the first

  crusader I meet and its left arm in a single slice, jerking back as a

  beam of unfocused plasma erupts from the severed arm. I grab onto its

  body and mount it, leveraging the height difference between us as I

  shift my blade, weighing less than a feather in my hand, into a reverse

  grip, and jam it into the gap between its chitins where its shoulder and

  neck meet before bisecting the crusader diagonally from neck to hip,

  kicking the twin slices of its body off into the void as the power

  contained within its body erupts into a miniature sun.

  Chagri,

  meanwhile, staggers a crusader wielding a pair of lightning- wreathed

  daggers with a kick before unleashing a burst of fifteen millimeter

  slugs into its chest, bone-like plating cracking and green blood

  splattering out into the void. It growls in pain and unleashes a flurry

  of slashes and blows with the grace and swiftness of a ballet dancer.

  Chagri draws out his pistol from where it was magnetically locked to his

  thighs as he weaves between its slashes, taking the opportunity to

  unload slugs into its sides and shoulders whenever he narrowly avoids a

  slash, before he grapples it and smashes his mechanical leg into its

  kneecap.

  The

  crusader shudders and falls to its knees before Chagri jams his pistol

  into the crusaders throat and pulls the trigger several times, only

  stopping when the magazine clicks empty, before turning it around and

  emptying an entire machine gun magazine into its chitinous faceplate,

  its three- eyed face reduced to a bloody mess of green gore.

  Meanwhile

  I dash between a pair of crusaders, one with a sword of plasma in hand

  and shining wings of flame on its back and the other with a polearm

  wreathed in violet light. I weave underneath a halberd swing while my

  fist strikes out into the chest plate of the sword wielder, putting a

  large dent in the bone-like chitin, before snapping back to elbow the

  halberd wielder, giving me enough distance to slash through the abdomen

  of the sword wielder, not deep enough to bisect it but deep enough to

  put large gash in its chest.

  I

  step out from between the two crusaders, greatsword dancing and

  flickering with the grace of a Rapier in my hands, as I parry and weave

  between their flurry of blows, sparks of plasma flying off as I shift

  between standard and reverse grip in my swordsmanship. The sword wielder

  is slower than the other one with the halberd, blood loss weighing it

  down, and I take my chance. I kick away the halberd wielder, sending it

  skidding off the hull, and launch my counterattack against the sword

  wielder, unleashing a flurry of strikes and slashes as our blades clash

  and lock against each other, before I switch into reverse grip, breaking

  our sword lock, and jam it into the crusaders side to the hilt before

  jamming it into the crusaders neck as it falls to its knees.

  The

  halberd wielder returns with a fury as it kicks me back and unleashes a

  storm of halberd slashes, movements sloppy and unprepared, that I

  desperately parry. I draw forth Shakti from my poor radial circuits and

  channel it into my blade, information-in-motion pumping through the

  nanometer thin runes on my blade before unleashing a flurry of blows,

  monomolecular blade edge tearing through the halberd and bisecting its

  body in eight instant blows. It freezes as its body falls apart into

  perfect slices, vivisected with internal organs and viscera spilling

  out, before I kick the slices off into the void.

  Chagri

  meanwhile has disarmed the final crusader and is meeting it with his

  fists, machine gun maglocked to his back and his pistol in his hand

  unleashing a short burst every time he strikes. He strikes its bleeding

  torso twice, pulling the trigger repeatedly before grabbing it from

  behind into a suplex. It collides with the floor and bounces off it,

  nearly flying off into the void before he grabs it by the leg and slams

  it into the metal, slamming his foot into its chest and crushing it's

  organs before his metal forearm opens to show a magnetically propelled

  fin stabilized tungsten arrow.

  The

  crusader doesn't have enough time to scream before the projectile tears

  through its skull at mach 6, its body floating up into the void while

  its face is impaled by to the metal hull.

  I

  pant desperate for oxygen, my helmet's visor fogging up, while Chagri

  holsters his pistol and reloads his machine gun. Get a hold of yourself,

  Argetlam. You fought only three Rakshasa—and they're their basic grunts

  at that—and you're already exhausted. You grew up on stories of spirit

  contractors like your ancestors single handedly fighting armies, and

  here you are winded after fighting three of them. Pathetic.

  Well,

  at least these ones don't come back from the dead. I have heard stories

  of their superiors contracting with chaotic spirits to gain

  immortality. That their godheads have flesh made of concepts and veins

  pumping raw potential rather than blood.

  Whatever.

  The Rakshasa gods are someone else's problem. My current problem is my

  command citadel has been utterly devastated, the hulking circular mass

  of its center bleeding plasma, kilometers thick armor turned to plasma

  bleeding into the void, and great flora growing into the void in

  contravention of the laws of thermodynamics—, consequences of the

  Rakshasa Lifesong. I wince a little as I stare at the venerable old

  goliath bleeding plasma from her wounds.

  These

  citadels were once common when the days were young, during the age of

  Imperium. In a galaxy with entire planets that lacked imperial presence,

  their function was to function asbe mobile cities. Military

  administration centers that can pop over planets with enough firepower

  to render resistance futile and establish a local government, c.

  Containing entire bays of construction equipment and material, schools

  and prisons, and reeducation camps. Internal barracks and training

  facilities for cities' worth of soldiers and logistics units.

  Yet those days are gone, and much knowledge has been lost since. "'Hang on for me,."'. I whisper under my breath as I stare up at the centuries- old behemoth.

  "Hey, Chagri. You think we can make it there?" I point towards the bleeding venerable citadel. "I

  mean, do you have enough fuel in your thrusters to make the journey?

  That's a solid 200 kilometers flight towards the Citadel, and then we

  will have to leg our way through kilometers of overgrowth and Rakshasa

  infested land until we get back to safety."

  Chagri lets out a hum in my ear before he says something that sends a jolt through my spine. "Wouldn't it be easier with the aid of your guard? They were with us when the Axion Bomb went off. Where did they go?."

  A

  jolt goes through my spine, and I suddenly feel like an idiot. I

  immediately link up to the captain of my guard, and I nearly cry for

  what feels like the fifth time in the past thirty minutes when I feel

  his life presence in the Alaya-Vijnana. "FUCK! Fine. Philip! Do you hear me?! I am cut off and sending my location to you immediately! Where are you?!"

  A

  Harsh static runs through my mind. E, everything feels too hot, and my

  cheeks burns both from the crash after the high of battle and the

  emotions of panic and fear bleeding in through the collective

  unconscious. "Lord Argetlam! We are on our way! It will take us

  20 minutes to reach you, and we will be reduced in number, but we will

  get there."

  I

  take a deep breath as my heart slows down and calms itself. What do I

  do when I get to safety? Even if we get back to Panhuman territory, then

  I will still have the weight of all the dead on my soul. Their deaths

  were senseless and without achieveding anything, all because of my

  hubris and ignorance.

  "Who do you blame for this?" Eligos rumbles through my soul. "Picture

  him in your mind, and fill your heart with hatred whenever you think of

  him. Set your mind monomaniacally on butchering him and turning his

  skull into your trophy. That is what you must do."

  Kor

  Halak. That was Kor Halak whose voice I heard as I drifted past the

  bodies of my crew. He is the one who rendered our order extinct once.

  He, the blade of light, the anointed son. My enemy.

  "Good. That is who you must kill. Harden your heart and I will lend you my power."

  My fists clench. I grip my sword harshly.

  Then the smell of Ozone hits my nose.

  Some

  mistake the metric magic of the Rakshasa for power over gravity. Yes,

  gravity does play a part, but it is as much a method of forfeiting

  gravity. Think of a vortex in an ocean. Conflicting forces keep the

  vortex stable and help the wall of the vortex seemingly defy gravity.

  While the ultimate cause of the vortex is disruptions in the ocean,

  gravity and the kinetic and rotational energy in the water play a major

  role in keeping that vortex stable and spinning. As long as energy is

  put into that vortex, it will keep on spinning.

  A

  vortex of swirling Axions opens up thousands of kilometers away,

  coloring the world in violet rays of newly created photons. A ball of

  swirling purple light shining like the sun, kept stable for a brief

  moment in time as the conflicting energies of gravity and the repulsive

  dark energy stretching galaxies apart meet and shred all that is caught

  between them.

  Chagri

  holds onto me as the forces of gravity threaten to pull me into the

  void, gripping my forearm so hard the metal bends a bit. My body

  stretchesing at the tidal forces and nausea rushesing to my mind.

  Then the metal beneath us gives way, and we fly off into the void.