The Guardian gods-Chapter 575

Under the perpetual twilight of the corrupted lands, Kaelen and Rattan moved with a purpose that cut through the dark miasma of fear. Their target was the Abyssal Heartwood, a pulsating, vein-like material that snaked through the deepest, most corrupted pockets of the earth, often near the gnarled roots of blighted trees or within oozing fissures. This wasn’t a simple excavation. The Heartwood writhed with raw, unrefined Abyssal energy, its mere proximity causing the air to grow heavy, the ground to tremble, and whispers of madness to claw at the edges of their minds.

Kaelen, shielded by his activated tech-core, moved with mechanical precision, his internal diagnostics constantly analyzing the fluctuating psychic pressures. He was the anchor, his formidable will a bulwark against the land’s insidious influence. Rattan, however, felt the corruption more acutely. His ratfolk senses, normally a boon, now became a burden, picking up the scent of despair, the taste of decay in the air, and the vibrations of tormented souls trapped within the very soil. He would have to concentrate fiercely, pushing back the encroaching dread.

They encountered resistance, not from organized demon patrols, but from the land itself. Tentacles of shadow would lash out from the ground, minor psychic entities would coalesce from the mists, attempting to ensnare or overwhelm them. Kaelen’s quick, precise strikes, often manifesting as crackling energy blasts or spectral blades from his constructs, dispatched these threats efficiently.

Rattan, nimble and surprisingly potent when cornered, utilized swift, precise bursts of arcane energy or his cube morphing into a rifle that tore through the gloom. Each piece of the throbbing, dark-veined Heartwood painstakingly extracted and immediately encased in specially prepared, mana-sealed containers that shimmered with protective wards.

Back within the relative safety of Kaelen’s reinforced, magically insulated tent, the atmosphere shifted from tense acquisition to feverish experimentation. The air grew thick with the smell of arcane reagents, scorched metal, and the faint, unsettling scent of the Abyss materials themselves – a mix of ozone, decay, and something indescribably alien.

Their workspace was a complex array of glowing conduits, rune-etched anvils, and bubbling alchemical vats. At the heart of it all lay the ratfolk armor blueprints, now heavily annotated with Kaelen’s precise schematics and Rattan’s intricate runic designs.

The raw Abyssal Heartwood, once extracted, was still too volatile. It had to be carefully "purified" – not to remove its Abyssal nature, but to stabilize its chaotic energies. This involved bathing it in specific arcane compounds brewed by Rattan, which glowed with sickly green and purple light. Kaelen, meanwhile, configured specialized mana-dampening fields around the material, containing its inherent corruption to prevent it from spontaneously mutating their entire tent.

Rattan’s primary task was to etch and infuse each plate of the armor with a complex runic matrix. These weren’t protective runes, but conduits. Each delicate line, each swirling symbol, was designed to draw in a specific aspect of the Heartwood’s corruption, channeling it through the armor’s very structure. This required immense focus, his hands moving with the precision of a master craftsman, the air around him crackling faintly with channeled mana.

Kaelen’s most critical contribution was the Interface Sigil. This was a small, palm-sized crystalline device, bristling with microscopic filaments and etched with hyper-complex geometric patterns. It was designed to be embedded directly into the breastplate of each suit. Its purpose was twofold: to provide a direct, controlled pathway for the Abyssal energy to interact with the wearer’s life force, and more crucially, to attempt to govern the rate of integration, buying precious time.

The purified Heartwood was placed into specialized pressure-forges, heated not by conventional flames but by carefully controlled magical energy fields. As the temperature rose, the Heartwood would soften, becoming pliable and almost liquid, its veins pulsing with an eerie inner light.

The armor plates, pre-infused with Rattan’s runic matrices, were then introduced into this heated, liquefied Heartwood. It wasn’t a simple dip. The liquid Abyss material would seep into the very molecular structure of the metal, twisting and intertwining with the existing runes. The process was slow, painstaking, and accompanied by unsettling groans from the metal as it grudgingly accepted its new, parasitic lifeblood.

Once the Heartwood was fully integrated into the armor’s plates, Kaelen initiated a powerful, localized mana pulse from a massive arcane generator he had quickly repurposed. This pulse served as the final catalyst, effectively "binding" the living Abyssal material to the runic matrices, activating the dormant corruption within the armor. The suits would visibly shimmer, their surfaces taking on a faint, almost imperceptible dark sheen, and a low, internal hum would emanate from them.

Finally, Rattan would carefully embed Kaelen’s Interface Sigil into the breastplate of each completed suit. This was the most delicate step, requiring a perfect alignment of the sigil’s own energy field with the newly awakened Abyssal energy within the armor. A successful integration was marked by a soft, internal glow from the sigil itself, a beacon of controlled corruption.

With the first few suits of Abyssal armor complete, an eerie silence settled over Kaelen’s tent, a tense calm before the storm of their desperate test. The air crackled with a mix of anticipation and dread. These weren’t mere prototypes; they were the embodiment of their last hope, and the potential for catastrophic failure was terrifyingly real.

Kaelen selected the test subjects with clinical precision: hardened, battle-scarred soldiers, their wills already tempered by the ceaseless psychic torment, yet still unbroken. These were individuals who understood the grim stakes, willing to risk their very essence for a chance at victory.

The first test was horrifyingly delicate. A chosen volunteer, a seasoned ogre warrior named Grond, stood before them, his massive frame trembling not from fear, but from the raw apprehension of the unknown. As the corrupted armor was brought forward, its surface shimmering faintly with an internal, unsettling glow, a faint, almost imperceptible hum emanated from it, a hungry whisper in the air.

"Strap him in," Kaelen ordered, his voice devoid of emotion, while Rattan, observing from a safe distance, felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. The armor, though fitted to Grond’s immense size, didn’t just clad him; it seemed to embrace him, its segments subtly shifting, almost conforming to his muscles.

The moment the final plate clicked into place and the Interface Sigil activated, a visible wave of dark energy flowed from the armor, seeking to bind with Grond. Grond grunted, a deep, guttural sound, his muscles spasming. His skin, already a rough, leathery green, began to darken, hints of purple and black creeping across its surface like spreading mold. His eyes, normally a dull amber, flared with a sickly, almost feral red light.

Kaelen immediately began to feed data into his tech-core, monitoring Grond’s vitals, neurological activity, and the rate of Abyssal integration. Rattan, meanwhile, focused his senses, trying to discern the subtle shifts in Grond’s arcane signature, looking for any signs of uncontrolled corruption.

For the next few hours, Grond underwent a battery of tests. He moved, clumsy at first, then with increasing power. His strength soared, his blows shaking the reinforced training dummies. His movements, however, began to take on a subtly inhuman fluidity, a predatory grace that was deeply unsettling.

The true test came with the psychic simulations. Kaelen projected controlled bursts of the very psychic static that tormented the fortress. Grond, inside the armor, grunted and roared, his enhanced mental resilience evident. The Interface Sigil pulsed, visibly drawing the psychic energy inward, absorbing it like a sponge before releasing a fraction of it back, cleansed and muted, into Grond’s mind. The suit was working; it was taking the brunt of the psychic assault, channeling it, and even using it to fuel its own integration.

However, the strain was still immense. Grond’s roaring wasn’t just exertion; it was a desperate battle for his own mind. His thoughts, when accessed through Kaelen’s scanners, were a maelstrom of primal urges, amplified aggression, and a terrifyingly potent hunger. The integration was granting him power, but it was also twisting him from the inside out.

After a full day, Grond was extracted from the armor, a process that proved more difficult than donning it. The armor resisted, clinging to him like a second skin, requiring significant force to break the nascent bond. Grond collapsed, gasping, sweat plastering his dark skin. He was exhausted, but alive.

"Mental degradation: twenty-seven percent," Kaelen reported, his voice flat. "Physical mutation: minor epidermal thickening, increased muscle density. Aggression parameters: elevated to dangerous levels. Controlled integration maintained for twenty-four hours. Projection for complete assimilation without intervention: three weeks. With regular psychic cleansing and forced breaks: potentially four to five weeks before critical mass."

Rattan whistled softly, a sound of grim appreciation. "A month, then. As you predicted. The suit is a living parasite, Lord Kaelen, but it offers immense power."

Kaelen nodded, his gaze distant. "The cost is high, but the alternative is certain defeat. We have a weapon, Rattan. A dangerous, double-edged one. Now, we mass-produce them."

The test had achieved its desired effect: the armor worked. It granted immense power, offered a vital shield against the psychic onslaught, and bought them time. But the cost was evident in Grond’s haunted, yet savagely empowered, eyes. The race against the Abyss, and against their own corrupted creations, has begun.

This content is taken from fr(e)ewebn(o)vel.𝓬𝓸𝓶