Three months passed in a blur. Angar's body mended fully in that time, his trio of powerful regenerative effects proving potent enough to nearly regrow his ruined eye from scratch, though the Infernus Oculus would reclaim its socket.

Frustratingly, he'd yet to figure out the trick of attaining the Mindscape again. He'd get it soon.

Other than that, progress surged like a Holy tide, surpassing Angar's wildest expectations. The Lord Hungers blossomed into something magnificent, a forge of zealots whose hunger for battle rivaled that of the spawn of Hell.

Gateways to the Underworld gaped open with increasing frequency, spewing infernal filth that his people met not with fear, but with ravenous glee, always led by Mecians and Torminians as fervent leaders, setting the right example with faith and fury.

They sealed them shut in frenzied assaults, weapons singing litanies of destruction, only to roar for more. And more they got. And more they'd get.

Even his unjust penance, that soul-crushing burden inflicted by the Heretic Presbyter Prostasia, had been not just fulfilled, but shattered.

Hundreds of additional wayward souls pulled back from damnation's brink, their Heresies confessed and absolved under the watchful and stern eye of Ecclesiastics.

He hoped that counted for something extra in the Holy Theosis' ledger, but it hadn't put an end to its unwarranted and harsh criticisms, nor its fallacious barbs.

But maybe this charitable act would award him greater bliss in Heaven.

And maybe it'd make Spirit reappear and thank him for saving so many he didn't have to, instead of turning them into rifts.

As for other grand and charitable acts, a great surprise awaited Simo, too.

Veerta had fumbled her way to Tier 3, smashing through the battle thresholds that barred most Layfolk from such heights.

Mari lingered behind, but had reached the peak Tier 2, her core still settling like cooling slag, but she'd definitely get there, as would Jon.

Astonishingly, even a few of the off-world staff defected to the cult's ranks, trading imperial comforts for Tribute's brutal sacrament. They craved the fire, the purpose, the unyielding forge of faith and fury, to be part of something so important and grand.

One specialist, earning 363 credits a month, severed his contract without hesitation. His wife's apprentice wage of 50 credits vanished with it. Together, their combined 413-credit livelihood dissolved into nothing. All gone. And still, they called it a privilege to be part of something greater. Something special. Something giving their hollow lives a true purpose.

Basic adherents of the Lord Hungers received only a meager stipend, just 1 credit, the minimum Church tithe requirement. Higher ranks had to be paid more, but even those pittances would be donated back to the cult.

And until adherents cycled through the shortened Seminary, they wouldn't be official cult-clergy, still taxed as Laity, adding a significant additional expense.

Angar himself didn't fight the gateways. When a Gatekeeper erupted too ferocious for the rank-and-file, per the agreement they'd made with Hidetada, the Hierarchs handled them, taking the XP and awards themselves.

Kondune progressed under Fen's rule, but many of its denizens knelt to the Lord Hungers, drawn by faith toward its greater purpose.

Resistance festered in Amaravati, the northern hive of soft-bellied monkeys, but Iramvati City mirrored Kondune's fervor, its streets growing less crowded as families left for the wild lands, devoting their lives to the Three and Holy War.

The fiefs beyond? They joined with unbridled zeal, swelling the Lord Hungers ranks like Hellspawn fleeing gateways.

But Angar harbored no illusions. Many would falter during their mandated year of exile, six months of which would be in Seminary, seduced by the comforts of off-world life.

Even the bottom of the imperial barrel, living in a poor house, promised far more luxury than this world had to offer even non-cultists.

But the Lord Hunger's early numbers dwarfed his wildest projections, a testament to the superiority and zealous spirits of Tributeans.

It would take a decade to cycle them all through Seminary's cloistered halls, even when one was opened on Tribute.

And even after the first Sanctuary of Sacred Aspiration opened on Tribute, allowing its residents to undergo the Grim Ordeals of Sanctified Knighthood here, many children would still have to be sent off-world to test.

Turning a whole world into Cloisteranage wasn't easy, but with Hidetada's help, it was going well, and quickly.

In a year, they'd have enough ordained and cult Ecclesiastic to open Genitoriums.

The northern badlands transformed from a forsaken place into hunting grounds, where once-unassailable beasts, colossal horrors warbands ran from, now fell to families hunting as a unit.

Zygoraths and voracithraxs, hyper-adaptive nightmares of murder that multiplied like debt and adapted to any biosphere, had been seeded across the globe.

Culling their swarms pressed even Angar and Garioch once, fighting as a team, when their numbers exploded in an unpopulated area. Those beasts gave a grueling trial of survival and extermination that honed the cult, turning peril into priceless training.

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He and Garioch had plunged deep into the northern badlands, battling side-by-side through scalding forest, then jungle, right to the ocean's edge, where insanely large leviathans lurked.

The friend-or-foe designator in Garioch's helm, as it included his once companion, spotted Salvador in the depths, battling some titanic beast.

Angar's enhanced body had limits, and without his armor, the blistering hundred Celsius temperature couldn't be tolerated endlessly without effect, forcing shuttle extractions not long after reaching the roiling shores.

After their excursions, he was certain, if armored, he could pummel Garioch in a fight. They'd sparred before, and plenty of times, but nothing clarified things like true battle.

He also suspected Garioch wasn't fully sound of mind.

What bothered him a great deal was that Spirit remained absent. He yearned to show her his glorious heraldry.

It was like nothing he did, nothing he accomplished, was good enough for her. When she last appeared and asked him to die, he hadn't hesitated.

Was talking for a few minutes so much to ask? It was becoming vexing.

He'd yet to breach the Mindscape again, but his foundation stood solid enough.

Ascension beckoned once more, a rugged summit Angar had glimpsed from afar for agonizing months. It now stood in front of him like a Divine forge, ready to craft his soul into legend.

He was no longer the ignorant savage clawing through the Grim Ordeals, clinging to every tidbit of knowledge thrown at him like scraps to a dog.

Last time, he had ascended using Spirit's own method, which the Holy Empire itself dubbed too risky.

But he was superior to all others. That was clear, a truth etched into his bones like sacred runes, proven beyond doubt a dozen times.

He had stomped on an arch-druden in its own mind. He'd gone toe-to-toe with a powerful Nofelim Psychic and survived. His veins coursed with the blood of kings and conquerors.

Unlike Garioch, it was quite possible God could've chosen Angar to right all that was wrong with the galaxy.

Why should he limit himself to Spirit's teachings? If she could invent a method, what stopped Angar from inventing a better one?

Nothing. Nothing besides fear and a lack of faith, and Angar was not afflicted with either of those ailments.

Spirit's teachings were fresh in his mind, like she'd just instructed him. She was the blessed Mother, one of the Three, the Holy Messiah, the revered savior whose sacrifice had birthed Divine Theosis in the Holy Joining millennia ago.

She'd invented the path he followed, the weaving of echoes into cords, the triple fold that defied the low expectations and plodding doctrine of the mediocre and feeble.

"Three times," she'd instructed, "for balance and power."

Angar would weave four.

His core had settled like tempered steel over the months since his last ascent, forged by ceaseless cycling, prayer, meditations, and battle.

The risks? He knew them well. What were core fractures, channels rupturing, and a lifetime of crippled potential next to glory? Nothing.

Failure was for the weak, the unworthy.

He'd ascend as if the Lord Himself demanded more of him, because, surely, He did.

And perhaps Spirit would appear if he improved on her method. He missed her terribly and just wanted to talk to her for a few minutes.

He sank to the faux-stone floor in the rift-site's empty chapel, the special resin on the prefab walls making the interior less vibrant and far gloomier than usual for a house of worship.

He crossed his legs, his leonine claws resting on knees, the air filled with the scent of incense and the rotten-egg odor of burning fog.

His focus plunged inward, deeper than before, into the abyss of self where echoes of Divinity lurked. He began as Spirit had taught, cycling his Ignis Sanctum, the Sacred Fire, through channels scarred and strengthened by battle.

Each breath drew in mana sacra, the energy coiling in his lower core like a serpent below his navel, restless and hungry.

He urged it upward, a torrent of fire threading spine, chest, limbs, skull, igniting his flesh in a blaze that made his cybernetic implants whine in protest.

"Seek the echo," her words resounded. He delved for it, the faint thump, like the heartbeat of creation.

There. Slippery as ever, but his will, superior to all others, seized it firm.

One fold, and a cord of blazing gold erupted, radiant with glory, the essence of Divine wrath.

Two, and silver shimmered into being, cold and unyielding like sanctified steel, a bulwark against the infernal abyss.

Three, and crimson pulsed, thick as blood, surging with the fury of righteous slaughter.

But he didn't stop. He gripped the echo tighter, forcing a fourth fold.

A new cord tore free, obsidian black, veined with flickering white, humming with untamed power. He took this cord to be the shadow of supremacy itself.

The Sacred Fire fractured into a quartet, spiraling in a volatile helix of gold searing silver, silver bleeding into crimson, crimson fusing with obsidian, the black cord lashing wildly like a chained beast.

Angar drove them upward with a grunt of effort, the power quadrupled, a maelstrom that shook his frame and set his jaw clenching against the pain.

This was the precipice. This was the moment cores shattered, channels exploded, leaving the feeble as hollow shells.

But he was not so pathetic, nor feeble. He thrust the cords back into his core with a force that buckled his spine, the impact like an explosive detonating within.

His core quaked, fracturing along unseen faults, the spheres splintering into four interlocking orbs that spun in a frantic orbit.

Gold clashed against silver, crimson devoured obsidian, the black cord rebelling, threatening to unravel the whole.

Agony ripped through his veins like molten metal, channels stretching to the brink of rupture, his Neurvux nodes sparking wildly, as did his Visio Aeterna implant, as if short-circuiting under the strain.

Sweat poured from his brow, mixing with blood from bitten lips. His body convulsed, his cybernetic legs locking rigid, spasming as if lightning coursed through them.

Visions assaulted him of a golden Trey blazing like a Holy brand, a woman surrounded by glorious martyrs, standing fearlessly as bestial roars shook the ground they'd die upon, a crimson tide drowning the galaxy, and the blessed Mother, but flesh, fighting by his side against an endless tide of evil.

The chapel's walls seemed to warp, the Trey sigil behind the altar pulsing as if Theosis watched, judging.

Angar's breath came in ragged gasps, each one a battle. The black cord bucked, a wild fracture threatening to shatter the core entirely. He pushed harder, compressing the chaos with iron will, his mind a Holy hammer pounding against the profane, against annihilation.

It nearly broke him.

The spheres cracked wider, their energy leaking in searing bursts that scorched his innards, his vision blurring with intolerable anguish.

For heartbeats, he teetered on the edge of failure, ruin, the end of his Glorious Path.

No.

He could not allow that.

He'd bent reality to his will before. He'd do so again.

With a roar muffled by his clenched jaws, he clamped down, forcing the cords to merge in a devastating fusion, regardless of what reality and the cords demanded.

His core ignited in a silent supernova, deafening in its intensity, searing and terrible, wonderful and invigorating.

Light erupted from his pores, bathing the chapel in a blinding radiance that pulsated with power.

The fur of his hands stood on end, the claws digging into his knees as the energy stabilized.

Four spheres locked into a ceaseless, harmonious spin, their colors blending as they merged into a singular glowing core with veins of gold, silver, crimson, and obsidian bleeding away as it cooled.

He exhaled, trembling, the light fading to leave him reborn, his body buzzing with newfound might.

He was unstoppable.

Words blazed in his vision, Theosis' judgment descending.

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