The Guardian gods-Chapter 526

He didn’t aim for glory, but for vital organs, for the quickest path to survival. A hulking shadow demon lunged, its claws tearing through the air, but Springheel was already a step ahead, propelled by a sudden release of steam, leaving the creature grasping at empty space. He vaulted over fallen comrades and mangled demonic limbs, his eyes constantly scanning for the next threat, his movements economical and brutally efficient.

Another standout was Clank "Ironhide", a heavily armored ratman whose suit was a marvel of interlocking plates and pressurized cylinders. While lacking Springheel’s speed, his augmented strength was immense. He wielded a massive, steam-powered hammer that could crush stone and shatter bone with equal ease. He moved through the press of bodies like a walking fortress, ignoring glancing blows that would cripple others. When a grotesque, multi-limbed fiend attempted to overwhelm a group of his brethren, Ironhide roared – a guttural sound amplified by his helmet’s resonators – and swung his hammer in a wide arc. The impact was devastating, the demon’s form momentarily collapsing in on itself before turning into essence that futher correded the lands.

The demonic entities they faced were as varied and terrifying as before. A Gloom Weaver, a creature of living shadow that could manipulate darkness and drain the life force of its victims, moved with an unnerving fluidity. Its attacks were subtle, tendrils of shadow lashing out to ensnare and wither. A Horned Maw, a hulking brute with razor-sharp teeth and thick, chitinous armor, relied on brute force, smashing through the ratmen ranks with terrifying momentum.

Despite their technological advancements, the ratmen remained wary of direct contact with the demons’ essence. They employed specialized gauntlets with containment chambers to handle any necessary demonic remnants from a distance, and those who were exposed to the corrupting energies were quickly and brutally isolated by their own, a grim necessity for the survival of the collective.

The battlefield was a symphony of clunking gears, hissing steam, the sharp crack of ratmen rifles, and the guttural roars of the abyss. Individual ratmen, like Springheel and Ironhide, carved fleeting paths of efficiency through the chaos, their enhanced abilities allowing them moments of dominance in the otherwise overwhelming tide. They were not heroes, but highly specialized survivors, their skills honed by the constant pressure of annihilation.

Amidst this chaos, Krik "Boltthrower" was a whirlwind of lethal efficiency. His custom-built, rapid-fire rifle spat a continuous stream of lead, each shot meticulously aimed at joints, eyes, and other vulnerable points of the demonic anatomy. His movements were fluid and practiced, years of survival in this hellscape honed into instinct. He slid behind shattered rock formations, reloaded with practiced speed, and unleashed another barrage, his face a mask of grim determination.

His current target was a Shadow Skirmisher, a lithe demon that moved with unnerving speed, its shadowy form flickering in and out of visibility. This shadowy form also hides the demon real body making it seem incoporal.

It relied on swift strikes and disorienting movements, its claws leaving trails of chilling darkness where they passed. Boltthrower had been tracking it for several minutes, his augmented vision compensating for the demon’s trickery. He anticipated its movements, the subtle shifts in the distorted air betraying its position.

The Shadow Skirmisher lunged, its claws extended, but Boltthrower was already in motion, propelled by a burst of steam from his leg augmentations. He sidestepped the attack and fired a concentrated burst at the demon’s shimmering form. The impact caused the creature to shriek, its shadowy substance momentarily solidifying as the lead rounds tore through it.

Enraged, the Shadow Skirmisher retaliated with a flurry of rapid strikes. Boltthrower parried some with his reinforced rifle stock, the impact jarring his arms. He knew he couldn’t sustain a prolonged melee. He needed distance. With another burst of steam, he propelled himself backwards, creating space to bring his rifle to bear again.

As the battle intensified, a strange sensation began to creep into Boltthrower’s awareness. It started subtly, a faint tingling at the edges of his senses, like static electricity in the air. But as the Shadow Skirmisher pressed its attack, its shadowy form swirling with greater intensity, the feeling grew stronger. It wasn’t a sound, or a smell, or anything he had ever experienced in the mechanical world of gears and steam.

It felt... like a pull. A subtle pressure against his very being. He noticed the air around the demon seemed to shimmer in a way that wasn’t just visual distortion. There was an underlying thrum, a vibration that resonated deep within him, bypassing his ears.

He dodged another swipe of the Shadow Skirmisher’s claws, his mind momentarily distracted by this bizarre phenomenon. He stumbled slightly, a rare misstep in his usually flawless movements. The demon pressed its advantage, its shadowy claws raking across his armored shoulder, sending sparks flying.

Pain shot through Boltthrower’s arm, but his focus was now partly consumed by this alien sensation. It was as if the demon wasn’t just a physical threat, but a conduit for something else entirely. He could almost... sense it. A raw, chaotic energy emanating from it, a swirling vortex of... something he couldn’t name.

He fired another volley, hitting the Shadow Skirmisher again, but the demon seemed less affected now, its form flickering more erratically. The strange energy around it seemed to intensify, almost as if it were drawing strength from this unseen source.

Boltthrower felt a growing unease. There was something else at play, something beyond the realm of gears and gunpowder. He had never experienced anything like it, this strange, pervasive energy that seemed to cling to the demon, to the very air around them.

Boltthrower, fueled by a desperate surge of adrenaline, roared a guttural challenge. He knew he couldn’t afford to be distracted by the unsettling sensation. The Shadow Skirmisher was upon him again, its shadowy claws aimed for his throat. Reacting purely on instinct and honed skill, Boltthrower twisted his body, narrowly avoiding the lethal strike. He brought the butt of his rifle down hard on the demon’s arm, a sickening crack sounded out.

The Shadow Skirmisher shrieked, its shadowy form flickering erratically. Boltthrower pressed his advantage. He unleashed a point-blank volley from his rifle, the concentrated burst tearing through the demon’s substance. The creature recoiled, its form dissolving at the edges. Boltthrower didn’t relent, firing again and again until the Shadow Skirmisher finally fell, it real body appearing.

He stood panting, his chest heaving, the metallic tang of blood filling his mouth from a gash on his cheek. His shoulder throbbed, and his armor was scored and dented, but he had survived. He had won.

As the adrenaline began to recede, the strange sensation returned, stronger now that the immediate threat was gone. It wasn’t tied to the Shadow Skirmisher. It was still there, that faint pressure, that subtle vibration in the air, the almost imperceptible hum that seemed to emanate from the very fabric of this surrounding world.

He looked around, his augmented vision scanning the chaotic battlefield. Other demons writhed and lunged, their forms shifting and grotesque, and he could sense it around them too, this... presence. It wasn’t uniform, some seemed to pulse with it more intensely than others, but it was undeniably there.

He focused on a hulking, armored demon locked in combat with another group of ratmen. The air around it shimmered not just with heat distortion, but with this same subtle energy. It felt... raw, untamed, chaotic.

He even focused on the mangled remains of the Shadow Skirmisher. There was only it’s body left that was soon melting into pool of flesh eroding the land. He could now sense a faint echo of that strange energy, in the pool of fresh and the land was further eroded.

Boltthrower lowered his rifle, a profound unease settling in his gut. His initial thought had been that the sensation was a by product of this particular demon, some strange aura or effect it projected. But now, with the creature vanquished, the feeling persisted, seemingly woven into the very fabric of this world.

He touched his temple, his brow furrowed in confusion. What was this? What was he sensing? It was beyond the realm of steam and gears, beyond the physics he understood. At the same time, he felt like this energy has always been here, he just now was noticing it’s existence.

A chilling wave of fear and memory pierced through his confusion. He remembered the whispers, the hushed and fearful tones surrounding the "afflicted" among his kin. Other ratmen, their eyes glazed with an unsettling light, muttering about unseen energy, their grasp on reality seemingly unraveling.

The mages of the Empire, with their pronouncements delivered in lofty tone, had declared that it was the inevitability of being near the demons, a corruption that twisted minds and shattered perceptions after prolonged exposure to their malevolent influence. There was no cure, they’d decreed, only the swift, brutal mercy of the blade to prevent further contamination.