Two Glorious Achievements!

Crusader, anointed blade of the Holy Trinity's wrath. In an act of resolute valor, as a lone servant of God's unyielding will, your indomitable spirit shattered the chains of the profane, a radiant testament to the unyielding might of the faithful. With power-hammer in hand, your heart ablaze with righteous fury, you faced two mighty foes – a Trium Crucesignatus Lapsus and a vile arch-druden.

By the sacred grace of Holy Theosis, the coming and the arrival, you have defied the infernal abyss itself, turning the tide against wicked malevolence, preserving the sanctity of the nearby faithful of the Laity.

Two deeds of honor burn as righteous beacons in this triumph:

The Slaying of the Arch-Druden – with sacred resolve, you faced an unholy entity of Hell's higher planes, a nightmare-weaver, master of possession, trapping minds in labyrinths of horror and leaving twisted souls in its wake. You assaulted its nightmarish mind and defeated this vile foe in a fierce war of wills, forcing its wretched form to dissolve into oblivion, a victory that strikes terror into Hell's spectral legions: 25 Glory Points.

Assisting in the slaying of Azgoth, a thrice-damned Nofelim – a Seraph fallen at the peak of the seventh Tier, whose once-Holy armor warped into a monstrous extension of infernal form, towering over lesser abominations as a pinnacle of unholy treachery. Now slain, his soul damned and burning in eternal torment. With righteous fury blazing in your veins, you faced this blasphemous scourge, whose corruption could sway even the most stalwart of souls, minimally contributing to its ultimate annihilation through unbowed defiance and ceaseless valor: 18 Glory Points ((167/3 rounded down)/3 rounded down).

Let the Enlightened Scribes etch your name in molten gold upon the Litany of Heroes, for you have not merely endured, but have become the embodiment of the Holy Trinity's vengeance, a scourge upon the unholy spirits that dare profane mortal flesh. Your deeds shall resound through the sacred worlds of the Holy Empire, a clarion call to all who stand against evil.

In the name of the Holy Trinity, this being the first bestowals of these sacred triumphs on this world, you shall twice receive laurels of renown for this honor.

Know that you are eternally scrutinized by the unblinking eye of Holy Theosis. Hubris, that insidious whisper of pride, stands a deadly sin, a swift path to ruin. Beware, lest your arrogance damn your soul. I watch you, Knight. I see you.

Glory Points Bestowed: 43 x 2

For God and Empire!

A small bead of righteous indignation smoldered in Angar's chest as he read the last of Theosis' words.

What more did it want of him? He had plunged into the arch-druden's profane psyche, shattering its unholy horrors in a clash of wills, and endured the onslaught of Azgoth's infernal might without hesitation.

The jab of 'minimally contributing' stung too, though he conceded the stark truth of that.

Azgoth had 167 levels on Angar. As the reward scaled, if the two Holy Knights hadn't joined in the battle, he would've been granted 55 Glory Points. Instead, the tally was divided by the number of combatants, and 55 reduced to 18.

And, of course, if the two Knights hadn't joined in the battle, Angar would be dead, netting him zero Glory Points.

His new total of 315 burned. That was enough to ascend his Adroitness, though he held off for now. Exhaustion clouded his mind, his sapped Resilience and the unrelenting torment of his ravaged flesh dulling his thoughts. He wouldn't make major decisions in this state.

He needed his hammer. And his hand. Both lay lost in South Point, and he had to remember to find them before anything else.

He twitched his arm, ending dilated time, and the world rushed back into merciless motion, the distant lightning and skysparks lighting up the sulfurous clouds.

As the glowing rune-etched plates dimmed, the Crusader in towering Cataphract armor bent to retrieve something with his free hand, likely the System reward, the other still clutching Azgoth's severed head.

"What dropped, Sal?" called the Armiger-clad warrior, still perched on the battlecycle, its turret barrel smoking from relentless volleys.

Angar's mind parsed the name. Sal. Could this be Saint Salvador the Collector, the famed Hedge Knight who hunted high value targets alone?

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But the sigil of the Shattered Aegis adorned his armor and battlecycle. So, not a Hedge Knight, then.

If he were Saint Salvador, he must be a Knight Errant, meaning a chaptered Crusader dispatched on a sacred task. Or, in this case, to hunt alone, a solitary wanderer unbound to a company.

The famed Knight's name itself was an anomaly, not the Latin Salvator. Angar assumed it was a deviation of one of the ancient Romance tongues, unused in Cloisteranage naming, only those of their mother language.

Sal gave his companion no response.

"What was it?" asked the Crusader on the battlecycle. "Did I get something too?"

Sal's helm turned briefly. "You'll get a blast of plasma through your muck-addled skull if you don't learn to shut the Hell up, Garioch. There was only one drop, meant for me."

Garioch tensed but held his tongue. Angar noticed he bore no chapter sigil on his upper-right breastplate, but his midnight-blue armor was marred where a sigil once rested. Maybe a mark of penance or exile?

Sal turned, striding toward Angar like an inexorable engine of war.

Garioch dismounted from the machine, only for Sal to bark over his shoulder without a glance, "Secure the abomination's carcass upon my cycle and convey it to the northern encampment where we first clashed with it. Cleanse the cycle and check for damage."

"You're letting me ride it again?" Garioch's voice sparked with excitement.

The towering Knight offered no reply. Garioch scrambled to obey, moving fervently.

Sal pressed onward toward Angar, his colossal frame casting a shadow like a fortress.

Up close, Angar noticed he stood only a handful of centimeters shorter than the man. The Cataphract armor's massive bulk made him seem far larger.

"Ash's new Knight?" Salvador's voice rumbled out.

Angar nodded, his shattered jaw and cheekbone, along with his melted face, making speech impossible.

"Let's get you back," he said. "I'm surprised you survived. For your sake, I pray any of your encampment's aedificia medica stand. Forgive the foot-slog, but I require a break from Garioch's prattle."

They set out through Tribute's burning fogs, the sulfurous mist hiding them within as they trudged toward South Point.

As they pressed through the haze, Sal added, "I'm Salvador. Yes, the one you've heard of. Your master stuck me with that other fool. He's only fifth Tier, and I prayed Azgoth might kill his worthless hide. I can carry you if you can't bear your wounds."

Angar shook his head. A man carrying him when he could walk was an offensive thought.

And fifth Tier was three higher than him, and still a Saint.

The remainder of the march passed in silence, each hobbled step igniting pain through his ruptured side and battered body.

It was a shame Theosis hadn't bestowed him a reward for his role in killing Azgoth, but the token prize for slaying the arch-druden? That was an extremely coveted gem among System gifts, a rare windfall that could reshape a Crusader's destiny.

The token was for Legacy Armor, though he could only exchange it when he was in the fourth Tier or beyond.

The thin layer of sacred steel used for armor interacted with Tiers in ways distinct from weapons and items, its efficacy shaped by craftsmanship, quality, and especially the Tier of Energy of the one attuning to it.

This stemmed from the unique bond between a core's Energy, kindled by Divine Theosis' empowerment, and certain sacred metals.

Before infusion, substances like galvornium, duranium, and ceranium possessed the hardness of fine steel, but when attuned, and Divine Energy infused these metals, they hardened further, their resilience scaling with the Energy's Tier.

Though all were rare, Galvornium, reserved for the exalted Crusader estate, was the rarest and strongest.

When Angar was of the first Tier, he could've attuned to Tier 3 armor, but it'd have been folly, ruining the far more expensive set, dragging its Toughness down to his Tier's values, worsening its other stats too.

As long as the one attuning to the armor was of the right Tier it was made for, or higher, the potency of Energy was meaningless. Only the Tier of the Energy mattered, while quality and craftsmanship could amplify the highs.

Legacy Armor, though, was the stuff of legends, literally.

These armors were masterpieces crafted by Theosis' own hand, named and themed after legendary heroes of the Holy Empire.

And the armor evolved, ascending Tiers alongside its bearer, also granting a massive XP bonus to fuel the climb.

Priceless. Glorious.

Some close-combat weapons, forged from sacred metals too, were infused with Energy during their crafting, locking their properties.

Like items, weapons usually scaled downward if wielded by a lower Tier, or couldn't be wielded at all.

And the gear Tiers shifted in the higher Realms. Tiers four and five were combined, dubbed Low-Realm, though an item could be marked specifically as Low-Saint, Hierarch, or Paragon.

Tiers six and seven, though different Realms, were still grouped, called High-Realm, with odd pieces specified as High-Saint, Hierarch, or Paragon.

And the pinnacle of Tier seven, level 233, was Peak-Realm, with, again, some items marked as Peak-Saint, Hierarch, or Paragon.

So, even among Seraphs, when all were said to be roughly equalized in power, the estate distinctions sometimes endured for item purposes, though Angar had never been told the why of that.

As they crossed into South Point's ravaged perimeter, Angar's cybernetic eye swept the wreckage, fixing upon his maul's rune-forged head, its sanctified sigils half-buried in rubble. Inside the worker's barracks, his severed hand lay, the leonine digits curled as if gripping a foe.

He claimed his dismembered hand, while Salvador hefted the fallen hammer.

By the Three's grace, the Aedificium Medicum endured unscathed amid the devastation. Salvador ushered him within, where the pristine, antiseptic sanctity clashed roughly with the outer ruin.

South Point's power persisted, so its mobile generators and temporary dome had been spared. He'd deal with the rest later.

With little delicacy, Saint Salvador tore away the fractured remnants of Angar's armor, flaying blistered skin and raw wounds in the process.

He set Angar into the medicum machine. It activated with a hum, its sensors scanning, its tendrils and needles probing and poking.

"I'll search for the medicus to set your arm, jaw, and reattach that hand," Salvador stated, the azure visor's glow almost imperceptible in the bright room as he left.

Angar's vision blurred, exhaustion and blood loss dragging him toward oblivion.

Darkness claimed him before a medicus arrived.

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