Within the grand palace of the Boleslav spire, shrouded in a crimson mist of bloodshed, Rawlslev tore a bulletproof vest from a corpse, its ceramite plating splintering as his frame expanded.
His once merely robust physique burgeoned into a form of formidable brawn, muscles swelling with newfound might.
"Now, do as I command. Restrain the overflowing power…"
The "Warrior" potion fortified the flesh but offered no enhancement to the "mind-body," the spiritual intellect that binds will and reason. Consequently, Rawlslev required thrice the time Bukayo had needed to corral the surging energies within him, and tenfold longer to haltingly grasp the rudiments of meditative control.
"My lord, I…"
Rawlslev, overcome with fervor, took a step forward, his uncontrolled superhuman agility betraying him. He lurched, hurtling toward the chamber's wall with unbridled momentum.
To impart a lasting lesson on the necessity of mastering his strength, Nimrod deftly sidestepped, allowing the nascent "Warrior" to collide headlong into the plasteel barrier.
A thunderous boom reverberated, the wall quivering under the impact. Rawlslev's vision swam with golden stars, clarity returning only after a moment's disorientation.
Nimrod's voice, resonant and commanding, pierced his daze. "Master your strength."
Rawlslev pressed a hand to his forehead, marveling that the injury was less severe than anticipated. In times past, such a collision would have left him reeling for minutes.
[My lord is a god; only a divine being could bestow such power!]
He hastened to Nimrod's side, dropping to one knee, his gaze fixed upon the steel boots of his master.
"My lord, I swear I shall not betray your trust!"
Nimrod lifted him to his feet, his voice imbued with regal authority.
"I believe in you!"
Tears welled in Rawlslev's eyes, threatening to spill, but the timely buzz of his vox-comm arrested his emotions.
Beyond his lord, only Bukayo and his newly appointed lieutenant could contact him. Suppressing his tumultuous feelings, he composed himself.
"My lord… forgive my lapse!"
Rawlslev swiftly regained his composure, his tone steadying.
"Doesn't matter."
Connecting the vox, he heard his lieutenant's urgent voice.
"Lord, a noble house's armed force is assaulting our defenses. The Finder family's guards are buckling!"
Through the observation window, Nimrod beheld thousands of enemy troops storming the perimeter below, their charge a relentless wave.
Without turning, his hands clasped behind his back, he issued his decree.
"Go, my Warrior. Only in the crucible of battle will you truly harness the power I have granted you."
"Remember! Decapitate!"
"As you command, my lord!"
Rawlslev felt the weight of his lord's faith, his blood surging, his martial spirit kindled into a roaring blaze.
He turned and descended the spire with preternatural swiftness, his velocity a marvel.
[My speed has multiplied beyond reckoning, far surpassing mere ascent or descent. My enhancement is profound.]
His gaze fell upon a discarded corpse, and intuition confirmed the suitability of its armor.
With brute force, Rawlslev shredded his fractured bulletproof vest, donning the new ceramite plating, which fit as if crafted for him.
He then claimed a laspistol and a chainsword from the fallen.
As he gripped the weapons, a peculiar sensation enveloped him, as though they were extensions of his very being.
His mind recalled the knowledge imparted by the potion: [Mastery of all weapons and armor, with no armament beyond my wield.]
Yet, his lord's admonition echoed anew: "Master your strength."
As the "Warrior" plunged downward, he flourished his weapons with practiced ease.
Sprinting thrusts, pivoting to aim with reverse grips…
Emerging from the spire, Rawlslev's eyes gleamed with newfound confidence, having tentatively mastered the Beyonder ability—"Physical Augmentation."
His gaze scoured the enemy ranks, the word "decapitate" a silent mantra.
In an instant, he pinpointed the commander, clad in a ostentatious crimson robe, a mocking smirk curling his lips.
[Indeed, you noble commanders always don the most conspicuous crimson robes!]
Knowing he could not emulate his lord's solitary charge into the fray, he summoned his century of elite followers.
"With me! Slay the enemy commander!"
"Aye!"
The gang's elite, astonished, watched as Rawlslev, once their peer in the charge, surged ahead. Raising his laspistol, he fired a beam that pierced the eyes of an enemy thirty meters distant with unerring precision.
Perplexed, they wondered, [When did the boss become so formidable? Even with a noble's laspistol, hitting a vital point mid-sprint is impossible.]
They fired their newly acquired weapons, noting improved accuracy, yet none matched their leader's prowess.
Each pull of Rawlslev's trigger felled an enemy, carving a path into the foe's ranks.
The valiant "Warrior" drew a hail of enemy fire, dozens of weapons trained upon him.
Rawlslev rolled into the cover of a ruined fortification, evading the barrage.
"Fools! Attack!"
His men raised their weapons, returning fire to draw attention.
Swiftly swapping his laspistol's energy cell, Rawlslev seized the moment, breaking into a frenzied sprint as his men absorbed the enemy's focus.
The wind howled in his ears as he raised his left arm, squeezing the trigger.
Da-da-da…
A rapid salvo struck true, each shot finding its mark.
The crimson-robed commander watched in horror as his personal guards fell in moments.
[What manner of warrior is this? Could it be Thierry Vieira, the bounty hunter rising in fame? But isn't he active in the Elupo Hive?]
The roar of a chainsword drowned his thoughts. Without time to ponder, he fired a desperate shot.
Rawlslev, his eyes locked on the commander, ducked low, evading the beam, then launched a kick that shattered the noble's arm with a sickening crack.
[Such a strong brute strength!]
The commander staggered back, drawing an ornate power sword, executing the 23rd form of the "Osberh-Vaya" doctrine with practiced grace.
Outmatched in strength and speed, he relied on technique, the Vostonian martial art's essence lying in exploiting an opponent's vulnerabilities, seizing the moment to negate their force.
From the spire's summit, Nimrod observed, his eyes alight with intrigue, murmuring, "Intriguing."
The power sword struck Rawlslev's sword-arm, but at the critical instant, the "Warrior" shifted, deflecting the blow. The blade sheared only the outer armor, sparing his wrist.
The commander, stunned, retracted his sword to parry, but Rawlslev was swifter.
The noble sensed familiarity in the chainsword's arc, yet before he could identify it, his defenses were sundered.
Shock gripped him as he recognized the technique—his own painstakingly mastered "Osberh-Vaya," wielded by this lowborn scum. His eyes widened.
"How—? Argh!"
Rawlslev offered no answer, ending the commander's life with a decisive cleave.
Howard, emerging from an assault skiff's blast door, witnessed the scene.
[Marchuk was a master swordsman, instrumental in Simansky's thirty-year expansion, slaying countless foes, yet he falls to…]
He pondered briefly before recalling the middle-aged gang member's name.
[Rawlslev killed Marchuk? He was but an obscure Lower Hive thug. How is he so formidable?
No, impossible. Had he such skill, he'd have risen to the Upper Hive long ago.]
As Howard mused, Rawlslev approached.
"You've returned. How fares the task?"
Rawlslev, transformed by his "Warrior" ascension, held only Nimrod in supreme reverence. Neither Tech-Priests nor nobles swayed him.
"Hm…" Howard faltered, mildly discomfited, but pressed no further, offering a smile. "Mission accomplished."
"You've changed, stronger than when we scaled the spire."
"This is my lord's gift. Perhaps one day, you too shall receive such a boon."