Angar dared the unthinkable, a folly only the mightiest souls would contemplate.

He sought to invade the mind of a creature spawned of Hell, to breach the iron-clad psyche of an arch-druden, a nightmare-weaver from the higher planes of the infernal abyss, a malevolent spirit who feasted on mortal sanity, thriving on terror.

It was a profane reversal of natural order, a reckless charge into madness, the heart of darkness, armed only with resolve and desperate necessity.

Their wills clashed like charging titans, birthing a psychic tempest that tore at the veil between worlds. The liminal plane buckled under the strain, reality itself fraying as their minds waged war.

Angar, having no training, resisted by sheer force of will. But this was the arch-druden's game, and it reigned supreme as possessor and devourer.

Its essence swelled into a roiling tide of overwhelming malice. Coiling tendrils of nightmare lashed out, seeking to bind him, trying to pull itself into Angar's mind.

As the cords wrapped him, Angar's mind staggered, his resolve battered by the weight of the druden's crushing will. Its laughter echoed in his skull, proclaiming its triumph.

And doubt, like an insidious poison, seeped into Angar's being.

His ignorance had been his undoing, this fool's gambit. He had no idea what he was attempting. He had no training in this, but he still charged blindly into this half-baked, fumbling plan, teetering on the brink of annihilation, and, worse, failure.

As his own assault crumbled away to nothing, the nightmare spirit began slithering into Angar's psyche.

No.

He couldn't accept this. Giving up. Failing.

He rejected all excuses as weakness, spurning the unholy embrace of defeatism.

He didn't need training. This was a game of resolve, and none stood his equal. Reality would bend to his will.

With a bellow that shook the profane ether, his will blazed forth, erupting as a Holy inferno, its searing heat incinerating the tendrils that bound him.

The liminal plane quaked as he tore free, his soul alighting, becoming a burning beacon of radiance, forcing the creature back.

Surging with righteous fury, he turned the tide, his mind piercing the veil, exposing the arch-druden's psyche.

The creature recoiled as Angar's essence flowed into it, penetrating its mind, violating it with his presence.

The sick world warped into something new and even more twisted. Wherever Angar turned, the arch-druden's sick mind unfolded in blasphemous, eternal nightmare.

Horrid faces hid in every writhing shadow, their mouths screaming in perpetual agony, their eyes hollow pits of despair.

Rivers of boiling ichor surged like arterial blood from wounded titans, skies roiling with eyeless worms, colossal serpents of flesh and madness twisting in convulsing knots, raining down droplets of corrosive bile.

Angar stood unbowed. Though broken in the physical world, he manifested here in golden glory, his radiant armor whole, his maul's runes flaring like a lantern, his Psy Crystal blazing like a sun, his aura of Holy wrath pushing back the encroaching shadows, shielding him from the corrosive bile.

He was God's instrument, His hammer to shatter the profane, ready to teach this monster the true meaning of horror.

"YOU FOOL," thundered the arch-druden, the words reverberating from every shadowed corner, every writhing worm, every screaming face. "YOU ENTER MY MIND? TERROR REIGNS HERE. I AM MADE OF NIGHTMARE."

Fell power erupted from all directions, a slithering onslaught of filth that wormed through Angar's defenses, burrowed into his mind like parasitic thorns, probing with malice, delving into the recesses of his psyche to unearth his most visceral fears.

Unseen hands threw him down, pinning him, snuffing his radiant aura out as one of his deepest nightmares materialized, made true, with a suffocating terror clawing at his mind.

The world expanded exponentially around him, a fantastic inflation that dwarfed his form. As the world grew, he shrunk inexorably down until he was no larger than a mite, a speck of dust adrift in an uncaring cosmos, his strength evaporated, his might a laughable delusion.

He was nothing. He was pathetic, feeble, of no consequence, unnoticed and ignored.

Over the warped horizon, the colossal form of the arch-druden strode forth, a titanic abomination of coiling shadows and needle-toothed maws, its laughter a maniacal peal that shattered the sky like thunder, shaking the nightmare domain.

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It loomed so large, like a god of terror, its barbed limbs stretching to blot out the worm-infested skies, knowing without doubt it had won. Knowing it had been victorious before the battle even began.

With a mere few dozen steps, it would crush underfoot this measly invader who dared profane its psyche.

It had found one of Angar's greatest fears. That was to be rendered weak, insignificant, impotent, the blood of kings and conquerors curdled in his veins, the sacred chain of ancestors broken, his grand legacy shattered.

The colossal form rushed forward to crush its prey.

But the arch-druden should've picked a different fear from the tapestry of Angar's nightmares, as right down to the fabric of his being, he was Mecian, pride the unassailable foundation upon which his entire being stood, and this chosen curse merely reminded him of the truth.

In that moment of utter diminishment, Angar delved deep into the molten core of his hatred and rage, the righteous fury that had felled Dreadfiends and rebuked Nofelim alike.

He envisioned himself as he knew he truly was, superior to all others, a titan among filthy, pathetic, squeaking rats, all lacking true faith.

He was blessed by the Lord Himself, a vessel of Holiness and righteous glory.

It was without doubt, considering all his victories, that if he were to live to even just twenty years of age, he would be a legend whose deeds would be sung of in gloried hymns, his image etched in the stained glass of every church, a mythical figure inspiring generations eternal.

That pride swelled within his minuscule chest like a supernova birthing, a radiant force that defied the nightmare's laws.

His form began to grow, by agonizing spurts at first, then surging upward in a torrent of Holy resplendence.

His limbs thickened into pillars of armored steel, his stature expanding to eclipse mountains, his presence like a gravitational pull that warped the horrors around him.

It didn't stop there. Angar continued morphing into his true self as he stomped forward, each step a seismic quake that cracked the rivers of ichor and scattered the screaming faces, his growth accelerating faster as glory and ego fueled his ascension.

In moments, he towered over the now fleeing druden, his colossal frame a monument of virtue and righteousness, a paragon of all that was good and Holy.

The once-titanic arch-druden was reduced to a scurrying insect at his feet, insignificant and pitiable beneath the shadow of his massive, radiant foot.

It tried to scamper away, but there was no escaping the inevitable.

With a roar that shattered the skies and silenced the whispers, Angar brought his foot down in a devastating stomp, pulverizing the druden's unholy form, obliterating it, the essence splattering around like smooshed vermin across the nightmare plane.

The realm convulsed in death throes, fracturing into oblivion. First, the howling maelstrom collapsed, then the monochrome veil of the luminal plane tore away like rotted flesh.

Reality reasserted itself in a blinding rush, hurling Angar back to the blood-soaked ground of South Point.

The arch-druden's spirit unraveled before his eyes, dissolving into wisps of dusty smoke that evaporated into nothingness, leaving only the clang of a System item falling to the ground.

Pride blazed anew in Angar's chest, almost enough to dwarf the agony of his broken body and ruined face.

Once again, he had defied the impossible.

Blood dripped as he scanned around with his cybernetic eye, pooling on the scarred earth.

Azgoth staggered twenty meters away, his piston-fist and tentacle-limb clutching his grotesque head in a vise of torment, his cyclopean eye flickering wildly as Spirit's power surged through his mind like a Divine scourge, an agonized scream tearing from his mouthless maw, a wail of unholy anguish.

The Layfolk and their children fled in terror, fading into the distance or vanishing in the roar of escaping vehicles.

Some fools took shelter in buildings, a few into the prefab church, which had a vault, but it'd be useless against a Nofelim. Angar prayed Azgoth had no way to sense the living.

He had sparred with Saint Thryna many times during the voyage from Lerig Imperial Megastation to Tribute. She had restrained her might greatly, as she'd shatter his armor or cause him too much injury.

Angar witnessed her facing this Fallen in battle, her full wrath unleashed. She'd told him that she could never defeat Azgoth, not without employing some very expensive tricks.

Nofelim weren't easy to kill.

If she couldn't triumph, what hope had Angar? None. Only death awaited him, a certainty as cold as the void.

But the plan had worked. Spirit had succeeded, her mind assault buying time for the Layfolk to flee. She'd done her part.

Angar, too, had already done his.

What came next was the icing on the cake, his gift to a thirsty Lord.

He'd gotten two hits in. He'd see if he could get in a few more.

As his harness hadn't pulsed with warm healing, and Holy Theosis hadn't sent him a message about the arch-druden, combat was considered ongoing.

Spirit had warned him that gazing at Azgoth while having malicious intent would break her hold early, so he kept his eye on the ground.

He snatched up his System reward, a token tucked into his pouch. It was a fantastic prize, but no help to him now, even if he wouldn't be dead soon.

Ignoring the searing pain in his ruined face and the grinding torment of his mangled arm, Angar retrieved his maul from the rocky ground near Azgoth and the Thrall's corpse.

Each step was agony, but he moved with purpose, circling behind the Nofelim, slipping around the corner of the construction workers' empty barracks.

The shattered cheekbone and jaw throbbed with excruciating pain, clouding his thoughts. His ruptured abdomen burned as it leaked life, a certainty of grievous internal wounds. He did what he could with one arm and a medkit, which wasn't much.

Azgoth still screamed, so he checked his Resilience. The modified total had disappeared, his broken armor not providing as much Resilience as it would whole.

Just as he prayed every day, working to shore up his core, he also practiced his psychic power. He'd stop before Resilience dipped below 100, as it'd crawl back to full by the next morning.

So far during this battle, his Resilience was gnawed down to 89. The lower it got, the weaker and the more susceptible to the Nofelim's corruption he'd become.

Spirit wouldn't be back. She'd used all her local energy on that mind assault, probably disappearing in a radiant cascade of shattered essence, as she had last time against the Homunculus.

Angar broke off some of the jagged pieces of his helmet that kept biting into his skin. Then there was nothing to do but wait for Azgoth's agonized screams to end, buying as much time as possible for the fleeing innocents.

He squared his shoulders, his hand tightening on the hammer's haft, causing the head's runes to glow dimly.

His end awaited.

Let his death come. He'd meet it with his head held high, standing as a bulwark, fulfilling his oath, his pride swollen, his legacy unbroken, his last breath a glorious tribute, a testament of righteous fury that'd sound right to Heaven's gate.

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