The five remaining line riflemen, their deflector shields ruined, surged forward. Long barrels leveled, spitting blue plasma arcs that converged on Nithos. He didn’t bother to dodge the initial volley. Instead, a blur of motion, he met the incoming fire with a casual flick of his wrist, deflecting two bolts with the flat of his palm, the concussive force barely rippling his tattered scholar’s robes. Another he caught between two fingers, the raw plasma sizzling against his skin before dissipating into harmless motes of light. “A bit… *basic*,” Nithos drawled, his voice a low hum against the whine of charging weapons. He moved, not with the practiced grace of a trained fighter, but with an unnerving, almost lazy, efficiency. One moment he stood in the path of a thrusting vibro-bayonet, the next he was behind the attacker. The guard, momentum unchecked, stumbled past where Nithos had been, visor reflecting empty air. Syris tracked the angle of his footwork. The low pivot, the shoulder drop before the feint, the cold efficiency—she had analyzed those exact telemetry profiles across five hundred archived skirmishes. Now they unfolded in the flesh, wrapped in threadbare archive robes. “Target locked!” a conscript barked, rifle tracking toward Nithos’s spine. A sonic cone ripped across the floor, fracturing shale. Nithos leaned into the blast, letting the compression split across his ribs, then closed the distance before the discharge cleared. His fingers clamped over the rifle's muzzle. With a twist, the barrel buckled and wrenched free, the housing shearing apart under his grip. Nithos swung the scrap metal like a club, driving the bent receiver into the guard's faceplate. Ceramics cracked; the soldier dropped into the gravel, unmoving. [FATALITY: ORAVAN VANGUARD ELITE ELIMINATED] [DIGESTION PROTOCOL INITIATED: GASTRONOMIC ANALYSIS COMPLETE] [ACQUIRED: ENHANCED ENDURANCE (GRADE C)] [ACQUIRED: PULSE RIFLE MASTERY (GRADE D)] Nithos tossed the mangled scrap aside, eyes settling on the survivors. “Next?” he asked, teeth bared. “Or are we going to make this interesting?” The squad commander, scarred skin visible beneath his cracked faceplate, snarled. “You want interesting, archivist? Feast on this. By the Grand Architect's rites, manifest: Abyss Stalker!” The commander plunged a runic spike into his forearm, drawing an arc of arterial crimson. From the damp clefts in the stone, an ink-black horror coalesced. Jagged talons drank the phosphorus glow from the lantern rigs; it slid across the ground, skipping through space in silent, jagged lunges. A Waste-tier summon. Nithos tilted his neck as cold air parted behind him, claws whistling toward his throat. Without turning, Nithos lunged backward. His fingers sank deep into the beast's shadowy skull, wrenching vertebrae until bone split beneath flesh. As the nightmare convulsed, Nithos clamped his jaws around its throat, tearing free a mouthful of dense, cold matter. The beast thrashed, dissolving into oily vapor that poured down Nithos's throat. The commander stared, fingers trembling against the spike embedded in his flesh. [FATALITY: ABYSS STALKER (SUMMON) ELIMINATED] [DIGESTION PROTOCOL INITIATED: GASTRONOMIC ANALYSIS COMPLETE] [ACQUIRED: SHADOW STEP (ACTIVE SKILL – GRADE A)] Cold void settled into the lining of Nithos's stomach, tingling through his marrow. He wiped black slime from his lip. “Better.” Space folded. One breath he stood before the commander; the next, he materialized behind the three remaining riflemen while their scopes aimed at empty gravel. He drove an elbow into the nearest man's spine, grabbed the rifle harness, and wrenched the barrel sideways. A wild shot burned through the second guard's chest plate. Before the survivor could pivot, Nithos slammed the two together, buckling their helmets with a blunt crack, then kicked the third into the damp rock. The commander stumbled backward, weapon shaking. The contempt on his face had collapsed into frantic calculations of retreat. Syris shifted her stance, boots sliding on wet grit. Every defensive protocol she had sworn to uphold had curdled into Syndicate cleanup duty. Morvan had ordered Varek butchered, and now these cleanup squads were clearing the scraps. Her sidearm cleared its holster, the mag-lock disengaging with a sharp click. She leveled it not at Nithos, but directly between the commander's shoulder blades. “Morvan is next,” she said. The commander jerked his head toward her, but the flash came first. Twin heavy slugs punched through his breastplate, vaporizing lung tissue. He pitched forward into the wet silt, twitching once before going limp. [FATALITY: ORAVAN VANGUARD OFFICER ELIMINATED] [DIGESTION PROTOCOL INITIATED: GASTRONOMIC ANALYSIS COMPLETE] [ACQUIRED: ADAPTIVE COMMAND PROTOCOLS (GRADE B)] [ACQUIRED: ORAVAN SYNDICATE HIGH-LEVEL SECURITY CLEARANCE (GRADE A – TEMPORARY)] The chamber fell quiet, save for seepage trickling down the rock walls and the low rattle of Nithos's digestion. Rix chittered, nudging a dropped rifle with its brass snout. Nithos exhaled slowly, meeting Syris's stare; she lowered her weapon three inches, eyes fixed on his. Red emergency strobes cut across the rock faces. The chamber's projected telemetry collapsed into flickering hazard runes as a perimeter klaxon began to howl. [CRITICAL ALERT: KRYK HOLLOWS DUNGEON INTEGRITY COMPROMISED] [INITIATING SELF-DESTRUCT PROTOCOLS] [IMPACT IMMINENT: EVACUATION IMPOSSIBLE] Morvan’s voice ground through the comm-grilles, shredded by feedback. “Varek or not, you rot in the rubble! Purge the sector!”

Feast of the Elites