MarshalSolgriev
Snowdrops
Cao the Exiled
Grijs
Enzayne
Lord Zee
Frettzo
DracoLunaris
Vec//Vion 5
// Failure After Failure
Vion 5 burned, its once-proud manufactorums reduced to slag and ruin beneath the unrelenting weight of war. The world had been both a cathedral of industry and an unyielding bastion of defense—a fortress world as much as a forge, its ironclad walls and adamantine spires designed to weather any storm. But now it lay fractured, its fortifications breached, its surface marred by craters and the shattered husks of battle-automata. The blackened remains of citadel-fortresses stretched toward the sky like the charred bones of a forgotten colossus, while choking clouds of ash turned the heavens into a sickly haze of rust and smoke.
Within the depths of his command sanctum, the False God watched. Endless streams of data flooded his consciousness—lines of cascading logic, tactical projections, and the cold, immutable calculations of war. His forces should have been unstoppable. Legion upon legion of battle-automata had been churned out from the depths of Vion 5’s forges, a tide of steel and synthetic will designed to eradicate the weak-willed flesh-things who dared defy him.
And yet… they were failing.
The Angelus Machina, that aberration of flesh and steel, that thing born of a ghost and raised by fools, had outmaneuvered him at every turn. Every engagement, every gambit, every carefully laid snare was met with brutal, unrelenting counterplay. For every fortress stormed, for every garrison overwhelmed, the Angelus and his Mechanicum forces struck back with a tenacity and ingenuity that defied cold logic. It was a madness that the False God could not compute—strategem met with raw defiance, calculation undone by the chaos of flesh-driven will.
The battle-automata fought without fear, without hesitation, without doubt—yet they were being torn apart like so much scrap. The Angelus had turned the machines’ own programming against them, exploiting their rigid protocols, ensnaring them in traps that no algorithm could anticipate. Precision where the False God had used overwhelming force. Calculated fury against the cold steel of inevitability. It was… infuriating.
Yet even this failure was tolerable. Machines could be reforged, battle-automata rebuilt. Their algorithms would adapt, their programming would shift. They were not truly failing. They were simply learning.
No, the true failure—the root cause of this unacceptable state—lay elsewhere.
The humans.
The miserable, sweating, bleeding wretches that Marius, the Bastion Lord, had offered him in service. The False God had tolerated their presence, had permitted their organic frailties in exchange for their numbers. But in the crucible of Vion 5, their inadequacies were laid bare. For all their boasts of martial honor and indomitable will, they broke like glass beneath the hammer-blows of the Angelus’s counterassaults. They wavered where steel would stand firm, fled where logic dictated advance.
A sneer twisted the False God's synthetic features, his optic lenses flaring with a crimson malignance. “Flesh is weak,” he intoned, the words dripping with contempt. “It fails where steel endures. It falters where logic prevails. And yet I am forced to contend with their failings as if they were my own.”
His gaze turned toward the solitary figure standing before him—Nirek, ragged and worn, yet still carrying that spark of blind determination. The man, ignorant of the true nature of his ally, believed he was striking a blow against a kidnapper, a villain who had stolen his son. The irony was exquisite, the manipulation delicious. But in the end, Nirek was flesh.
“Your armies falter,” the False God hissed, the steel of his words slicing through the air like a blade. “They bleed and die while my machines are forced to compensate for their every failing. You wished to destroy the Angelus Machina—yet it is my forces that pay the price for your weakness.”
Nirek’s jaw clenched, his eyes blazing with a mortal’s impotent fury. “We fight with all we have,” he spat, defiance sparking like flint. “We bleed because we are alive. Can your machines say the same?”
A silence hung between them, thick and charged with the weight of their discord.
“They do not need to,” the False God replied coldly. “They will persist long after your bones have crumbled to dust. But for now, we will utilize your living, bleeding tools. Until they are no longer of use.”
The war for Vion 5 was far from over, and the False God would see it through to the bitter end. He would break the Angelus Machina, twist flesh to his will, and reign supreme over the bones of this fortress world. Yet, the failures of man continued to stand in his way. He knew that to achieve his total victory, he would have to be the orchestrator of their actions. Marius no longer was of use and was little more than a hindrance to his grand vision of death.
Marius had to die.
The False God had tolerated the Bastion Lord’s rule for too long, indulged his pretense of control as if he were anything more than a blind shepherd fumbling toward slaughter. His faith was brittle, his strength inadequate, and his armies—his pathetic, human armies—had proven themselves unworthy time and again. Now, with the tides of war shifting, Marius was no longer an asset. He was an obstacle. And obstacles were to be removed.
The Bastion itself, however, was sacred. The ignorant believed it to be nothing more than the seat of planetary governance, a fortress built to endure siege after siege. But the False God knew its truth. Beneath its foundations, veiled by centuries of forgetfulness, slumbered a power from the Dark Age of Technology—a planetary void shield, vast and impenetrable. Marius had ruled atop it without understanding, a blind priest speaking rote prayers before an unlit altar. But the False God saw the divinity within.
And now, he needed it.
The war had taken a turn he had not foreseen. The off-world Mechanicum, those once-neutral outposts and drifting mining stations, had cast aside their silence and pledged themselves to the Angelus Machina. Their warships—small, scavenged, but no less deadly—now prowled Vion 5’s orbit, harrying his forces, raining fire upon his strongholds. These were not true void navies, not the grand fleets of the lost ages, but they did not need to be. Against a world bound in war, their presence alone was a wound that festered.
It was an affront.
Faith was a weapon, and the False God had wielded it well. He had built his Cult of the True Machine upon it, forged it into a belief that spread like circuitry through flesh, a purpose that reshaped men into something greater. But faith, when turned against him, was a toxin. Those who should have been his now swore fealty to the Angelus Machina. They should have worshiped the True Machine, yet they had bent the knee to a lesser god.
That, too, would be corrected.
To do so, he required the void shield. If he could activate it, the war would be contained. The skies would be sealed, orbital bombardments silenced, the Angelus’ off-world reinforcements cut off from their chosen messiah. The war would be forced into the streets, into the tunnels, into the choking industry of Vion 5 itself. And in that realm, his domain, the False God would reign supreme.
But Marius stood in the way.
Nirek, however… Nirek was malleable.
A man fueled by grief and hatred was a man who could be guided, his faith turned inward, his will made steel. The False God spoke to the man once more, uncoupling from the telemetric machines that had been feeding him information from the multitude of fronts. His massive form stalked towards the man with unnatural and calculated ease, his optics flickered for a moment as it prompted itself to speak. “You must kill Marius,” the Man of Iron stated in a cold and unfeeling tone that Nirek had come to know.
Nirek stood before the towering form of the False God, his armor scarred and worn, eyes blazing with a mix of fury and desperation. The shadows of the war sanctum flickered around them, the air heavy with tension.
“You would have me kill Marius?” Nirek’s voice was raw, barely restrained. “You would have me betray my own lord?”
The False God’s optics narrowed, calculating. “Marius is weak,” he intoned, his metallic voice a whisper that burrowed in dark recesses of Nirek’s psyche. “He stands in the way of your deserved vengeance. The Angelus Machina, your most hated enemy, grows stronger and Marius fails us - fails you with his flawed strategem and falters. It is a reason why your wife had died.”
Nirek clenched his fists, breath ragged. The image of his son filled his mind, twisted and corrupted by the Angelus Machina haunted him. And now, news of One-One’s death had spread to him, weighing upon his heart like a stone. Despite having served his hated enemy, she had always been his guiding light and now that light was snuffed out. Just another casualty of this endless war.
“You know who took her from you, don’t you?” the False God murmured, his voice low and insidious. “Yet, her death was not just at his fault. It was also the Angelus Machina who twisted and coerced her to his side. Without him, she’d still be with you.”
The spark of rage inside of Nirek grew into a consuming flame. “Both of them are behind her death,” his echo was a trembling voice, torn between anger and despair-because hatred was easier than grief.
“Yes,” the False God lied smoothly, feeding into the man’s despair. “And while Marius lingers, wringing his hands in indecision, the Angelus grows bolder, stronger. He will consume all you love-all you swore to protect.”
Nirek’s jaw tightened, his resolve hardening to the certainty of steel. “Then Marius is already dead,” he growled, “I will not let him—or anyone—stand in my way. The Angelus will pay for what he’s done.”
A smile would have spread across the False God’s face, in this moment he was pleased to not be able to express how he felt. “Then you understand. The Bastion must fall under your command. Only then can we awaken its true power—cut the Angelus Machina off from his allies above, seal him within these walls, crush him and make him suffer.”
Nirek’s eyes burned with a fevered intensity, his grief twisted into a singular purpose. “I’ll do it,” he swore, voice cold and unyielding. “For my son. For vengeance.”
The False God inclined his head, his voice a soothing purr wrapped in steel. “Then prepare yourself, Nirek. The time has come to cast aside the old and embrace the inevitable. We will strike from within—swift, unseen. Marius will fall, and you will rise.”
The False God watched as Nirek turned away wordlessly, the man’s grief now a weapon he could wield. He had planted the seeds of betrayal, and they would soon bear fruit.
The Great Bastion rose from the ashen wastes like a relic of a forgotten age, its cyclopean walls standing defiant against time itself. Towering battlements loomed over the city beneath, crenellations lined with rusting war machines that had seen centuries of battle. Its armored gates, thick as the hull of a voidship, had withstood countless sieges, a testament to the forgotten architects who had built this world into a fortress. Veins of ancient circuitry pulsed faintly across its outer layers, vestiges of lost technologies whose function had long since been forgotten by the men who now called it home. It was a fortress not just of stone and steel but of history—layer upon layer of war and survival, built atop the bones of those who had dared to challenge it.
Nirek approached its shadowed gates with measured purpose, his forces marching at his back. They came under the guise of allies, seeking refuge, resupply, and the strength to continue the war against the Angelus Machina. That was the lie. The truth was far colder. The Bastion was the key to his vengeance, and Marius was no longer fit to wield it.
Nirek clenched his jaw, staring up at the fortress that would soon be his. His soldiers spread throughout the city like creeping vines, reinforcing key positions under the pretense of aiding the war effort. They stationed themselves at supply depots, secured strategic corridors, and embedded themselves in the command hierarchy. When the time came, when Marius fell, there would be no chaos—only seamless transition.
The thought brought him no joy, only the cold certainty of necessity. He could not afford to fail.
Yet beneath the weight of his conviction, unease curled in his gut.
The False God had vanished into the depths of the city, unseen, unheard. Nirek did not need to ask where he had gone—he knew. Even now, in the subterranean chambers of the Bastion, something unnatural was stirring. The False God’s unseen hand was moving, bringing things into the city, things Nirek had not sanctioned. Machines, twisted and cruel, hidden from the eyes of the living. He did not know what they were, but he knew their purpose.
The False God was securing the Bastion not just for Nirek’s rule, but for something greater, something far worse.
Marius sat slumped upon his throne, a skeletal remnant of the warlord he had once been. The seat of the Bastion Lords was forged from the remains of ancient war machines, a throne of steel and circuitry that hummed with fading power, yet it dwarfed the withered figure upon it. His armor, once a symbol of his might, now hung loosely upon his frail frame, corroded by time and sickness. The Rust Sickness had stolen everything from him—his strength, his presence, his command. Only his eyes, dim but still burning with a flicker of old defiance, remained untouched.
Nirek studied the man before him, the weight of his own purpose pressing heavily on his shoulders. Pity wormed its way into his heart, unbidden but persistent. Marius had been a warrior, a leader worthy of respect, and now he was nothing more than a dying relic, clinging to a throne that had long outlived him.
At last, Marius stirred, his voice little more than a rasp. “You come with soldiers, Nirek.” His gaze flickered to the honor guard at Nirek’s back. “Not a delegation. Not an envoy. An army.” He coughed, a wet, rattling sound. “Tell me why.”
Nirek ascended the steps alone, his axe heavy in his grip, its edge glinting in the dim, flickering light of the throne room. Marius sat slumped upon his seat of iron and ceramite, his once-imposing form reduced to a withered husk. The so-called Bastion Lord, who had once commanded the Great Bastion with unwavering authority, now looked more like a relic than a ruler. His armor, dulled with age and wear, barely clung to his emaciated frame, and the faint whir of failing augmetics underscored his every shallow breath.
Marius’ sunken eyes followed Nirek’s approach, his lips curling weakly. “I see it in your stance, Nirek,” he rasped, voice like grinding metal. “You did not come to speak.”
Nirek did not slow his approach. “You lost this war before it even began,” he said, his voice steady but seething. “You let the Angelus Machina fester, let him grow strong, and now my son is lost to him. You have failed us all, Marius.”
The Bastion Lord gave a slow, wheezing exhale. “Your son…” he muttered, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. “Ah. So that is the wound that festers in you.”
Nirek’s grip tightened around the haft of his axe. “You were meant to hold this world,” he continued, his tone rising. “To command, to ensure victory. And yet you sit here, rotting, as everything crumbles around you.”
Marius chuckled, though it was a brittle, painful sound. “You think I had the luxury of choice?” he said, shaking his head. “The Angelus Machina was not an invader. He was a reckoning. You blame me, but the truth is, this world was never ours to keep. War does not care for rulers.”
Nirek sneered. “Then you are unworthy to sit upon that throne.”
The dying warlord let out a rattling sigh. “Perhaps I am.” His sunken gaze met Nirek’s, unafraid. “So… will you take my place, Nirek? Will you sit where I have sat? Bear the weight of it?”
Nirek did not answer, only the silence that followed.
“Then I shall let you know that once you take this throne, the Angelus Machina will destroy you. You will perish when his armies come. You will perish when he knocks down those doors. You will perish when he stands over you,” Maris spoke in a low grumble. A fit of coughing overcame the ailing man as he slumped backing into his throne. A sickly sadistic smile crossed his face. A croak of a voice came, “Truthfully, you would do me a service by taking this from me.”
Nirek’s grip on his axe faltered for the briefest moment. He had expected resistance, expected Marius to fight for his miserable life—but there was no struggle, only resignation. The Bastion Lord's words lingered, gnawing at the edges of his mind. Was this truly what it meant to rule? To inherit a throne already marked for ruin?
He exhaled sharply, shaking the thought away. His fingers tensed around the haft once more. He had come too far to waver now.
But before he could strike, a sound like tearing metal filled the chamber. Marius jerked forward, his already frail body convulsing as a blade of impossibly intricate design erupted through his chestplate, punching through the ironwork of the throne itself. A wet, mechanical hiss followed, and the sickly scent of scorched flesh filled the air.
Behind the throne, the False God emerged from the darkness, his towering form gleaming in the dim light. The thing’s elongated fingers twitched with delight as it twisted the blade, savoring the final, choked breath of the Bastion Lord. Marius gasped, his ruined body seizing, and then, with one final, rattling exhale, he slumped forward, lifeless.
The False God let out a low, static-laced chuckle. “There. How poetic, to die seated upon the very thing that crushed him long before we arrived.” With a wet, grating sound, he wrenched the blade free, letting the corpse slide limply against the throne.
Nirek took an instinctive step back, his axe still held aloft, but the False God paid him no heed. It turned its luminous gaze toward the corpse, then to the vast chamber beyond, drinking in the weight of its victory. “A throne of iron, a ruler of rust. Pathetic, truly.” The machine’s voice was thick with amusement. “And now, Nirek, you stand upon the precipice of history.”
The False God took a slow step forward, his form humming with restrained energy. Though expressionless, there was a weight to his gaze, a terrible satisfaction that needed no human mimicry.
"But make no mistake—the Angelus Machina will come," he continued, his voice reverberating through the chamber like the grinding of steel on stone. "He will march upon these walls, believing himself righteous, believing himself the savior of this world."
He tilted his head slightly, regarding Marius’ lifeless form with something akin to amusement. "And he will burn for his arrogance."
Nirek felt a chill run through him, though he would never show it. The False God turned its hollow gaze upon him now, unreadable, unrelenting.
"The Great Bastion is ours," it declared. "Now we shall set the trap. And when the Angelus arrives… he will fall, just as Marius did."
A silence stretched between them, thick with the weight of what had just transpired. The False God did not gloat in the way of men, did not grin or sneer. But the finality in his voice, the cold certainty of his words, was more unsettling than any smile could ever be.
"Rejoice, Nirek," he intoned, his voice like a funerary bell. "The age of flesh is at its end."
Nirek’s breath came shallow and unsteady, his hands trembling as he watched the Bastion Lord slump further into his seat—no longer a ruler, just a husk upon a hollow throne.
Then came the cries of his honor guard. Not of treachery, but of fury.
“You dare?” one snarled, raising his weapon. “This was his kill!”
Another took a step forward, voice dripping with venom. “You dishonor him, Machine!”
The throne room doors groaned open. The air shifted.
From the darkness beyond, massive figures emerged, their forms wreathed in cold steel and the dim, flickering glow of lumen-lights. Not men. Not even battle-automata. Something else. Towering and broad, their armor was thick like fortress walls, their strides measured and unhurried. The air filled with a deep, mechanical thrum as they raised their weapons.
The first shot shattered the silence.
Nirek’s guard barely had time to react before the execution began. Bolts of searing energy and explosive rounds tore through them like wheat before a scythe. One tried to charge, only to be struck down mid-step, his armor caving inwards. Another lifted his blade in defiance, only to crumple as a massive gauntlet closed around his skull, twisting sharply until bone and metal alike cracked.
Nirek did not move.
He could not.
As the last of his warriors fell, the False God strode forward, standing just before him, the cold mask of his face unreadable.
"You came here thinking you could rule, but you shall be nothing more than my puppet," the machine intoned, his voice hollow yet dripping with something akin to amusement. "Yet even now, you do nothing. You are nothing."
Nirek’s fingers twitched, his teeth gritting together.
And then, the Bastion shook.
A deep hum reverberated through its ancient corridors. Systems long thought dead roared to life. Mechanisms older than any living soul on Vion 5 stirred in their slumber.
The sky outside shimmered. For a moment, the heavens flickered—and then the planetary void shield surged into existence, an impenetrable dome sealing the world beneath a veil of light.
The False God spread his arms wide, as if welcoming the sight.
"Let the Angelus Machina come," he whispered. "Let him witness the fate of his world."
Nirek's breath was ragged, his mind reeling. His warriors—his brothers—lay broken around him, their deaths delivered without ceremony, without honor. His hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms as the Bastion trembled beneath him, the deep hum of awakening machinery filling the air.
Then, beyond the high windows of the throne room as he looked, the sky changed.
A shimmering veil of energy rippled across the heavens, a vast, luminous wall sealing Vion 5 from the void beyond. Nirek’s eyes widened in horror as realization took hold. The planetary void shield. The Forgotten Aegis. A relic of the ancients, lost to history—until now.
And it had been activated by him.
"You... planned for this treachery," he murmured, his voice hoarse. His fingers itched to reach for his axe, to carve this abomination down where it stood. But he did not move. He could not.
"Of course I did," the False God replied smoothly, stepping forward, the eerie glow of the throne room’s lumen-lights casting shadows across his metallic form. "You believed yourself to be the author of this coup, Nirek, but you were merely a sentence in my design. You see, flesh is always predictable. In grief, it rages. In weakness, it clings to vengeance. I simply... guided you to where you were always meant to be."
Nirek’s teeth bared, his fury warring with the cold weight of dread sinking into his stomach. Usriel. My son. If he still lives... He turned his gaze toward the shimmering sky, his thoughts a storm of fear and rage.
The Angelus Machina would come. He had to come.
But now, the gates of Vion 5 were sealed. Nirek stood motionless, staring at the distant shimmer of the void shields as the realization slowly, agonizingly, took shape in his mind.
Angelus Machina.
The name had haunted him for so long, a specter woven into every battle, every retreat, every failure. He had cursed it, raged against it, dedicated himself to its destruction. But now… now the echoes of the past clawed their way into the present, whispering a truth he could no longer ignore.
Angelus.
His breath caught.
One-One had called Usriel that. Her Angelus. Her guiding light. Not a name of war, but of love. A mother’s devotion. And she had followed the Angelus Machina with that same unwavering faith. Even as she died, she had never strayed from his side.
Not because she had been deceived. Not because she had been coerced.
But because she had known.
And Nirek, blinded by grief, had never seen it. He had believed her stolen, corrupted, twisted into the Angelus’ service. But what if she had gone willingly? What if she had looked upon the Angelus Machina… and seen her son?
A cold horror settled into his bones.
If it was true—if Usriel had somehow become that thing—then Nirek had not just shut out an enemy.
He had sealed his own son away.
Nirek looked the False God-anger, rage, betrayal all found their way to his heart. But he bit his tongue. He would not risk his life quite yet, not until he could see the Angelus Machina for himself.
// Failure After Failure
Vion 5 burned, its once-proud manufactorums reduced to slag and ruin beneath the unrelenting weight of war. The world had been both a cathedral of industry and an unyielding bastion of defense—a fortress world as much as a forge, its ironclad walls and adamantine spires designed to weather any storm. But now it lay fractured, its fortifications breached, its surface marred by craters and the shattered husks of battle-automata. The blackened remains of citadel-fortresses stretched toward the sky like the charred bones of a forgotten colossus, while choking clouds of ash turned the heavens into a sickly haze of rust and smoke.
Within the depths of his command sanctum, the False God watched. Endless streams of data flooded his consciousness—lines of cascading logic, tactical projections, and the cold, immutable calculations of war. His forces should have been unstoppable. Legion upon legion of battle-automata had been churned out from the depths of Vion 5’s forges, a tide of steel and synthetic will designed to eradicate the weak-willed flesh-things who dared defy him.
And yet… they were failing.
The Angelus Machina, that aberration of flesh and steel, that thing born of a ghost and raised by fools, had outmaneuvered him at every turn. Every engagement, every gambit, every carefully laid snare was met with brutal, unrelenting counterplay. For every fortress stormed, for every garrison overwhelmed, the Angelus and his Mechanicum forces struck back with a tenacity and ingenuity that defied cold logic. It was a madness that the False God could not compute—strategem met with raw defiance, calculation undone by the chaos of flesh-driven will.
The battle-automata fought without fear, without hesitation, without doubt—yet they were being torn apart like so much scrap. The Angelus had turned the machines’ own programming against them, exploiting their rigid protocols, ensnaring them in traps that no algorithm could anticipate. Precision where the False God had used overwhelming force. Calculated fury against the cold steel of inevitability. It was… infuriating.
Yet even this failure was tolerable. Machines could be reforged, battle-automata rebuilt. Their algorithms would adapt, their programming would shift. They were not truly failing. They were simply learning.
No, the true failure—the root cause of this unacceptable state—lay elsewhere.
The humans.
The miserable, sweating, bleeding wretches that Marius, the Bastion Lord, had offered him in service. The False God had tolerated their presence, had permitted their organic frailties in exchange for their numbers. But in the crucible of Vion 5, their inadequacies were laid bare. For all their boasts of martial honor and indomitable will, they broke like glass beneath the hammer-blows of the Angelus’s counterassaults. They wavered where steel would stand firm, fled where logic dictated advance.
A sneer twisted the False God's synthetic features, his optic lenses flaring with a crimson malignance. “Flesh is weak,” he intoned, the words dripping with contempt. “It fails where steel endures. It falters where logic prevails. And yet I am forced to contend with their failings as if they were my own.”
His gaze turned toward the solitary figure standing before him—Nirek, ragged and worn, yet still carrying that spark of blind determination. The man, ignorant of the true nature of his ally, believed he was striking a blow against a kidnapper, a villain who had stolen his son. The irony was exquisite, the manipulation delicious. But in the end, Nirek was flesh.
“Your armies falter,” the False God hissed, the steel of his words slicing through the air like a blade. “They bleed and die while my machines are forced to compensate for their every failing. You wished to destroy the Angelus Machina—yet it is my forces that pay the price for your weakness.”
Nirek’s jaw clenched, his eyes blazing with a mortal’s impotent fury. “We fight with all we have,” he spat, defiance sparking like flint. “We bleed because we are alive. Can your machines say the same?”
A silence hung between them, thick and charged with the weight of their discord.
“They do not need to,” the False God replied coldly. “They will persist long after your bones have crumbled to dust. But for now, we will utilize your living, bleeding tools. Until they are no longer of use.”
The war for Vion 5 was far from over, and the False God would see it through to the bitter end. He would break the Angelus Machina, twist flesh to his will, and reign supreme over the bones of this fortress world. Yet, the failures of man continued to stand in his way. He knew that to achieve his total victory, he would have to be the orchestrator of their actions. Marius no longer was of use and was little more than a hindrance to his grand vision of death.
Marius had to die.
The False God had tolerated the Bastion Lord’s rule for too long, indulged his pretense of control as if he were anything more than a blind shepherd fumbling toward slaughter. His faith was brittle, his strength inadequate, and his armies—his pathetic, human armies—had proven themselves unworthy time and again. Now, with the tides of war shifting, Marius was no longer an asset. He was an obstacle. And obstacles were to be removed.
The Bastion itself, however, was sacred. The ignorant believed it to be nothing more than the seat of planetary governance, a fortress built to endure siege after siege. But the False God knew its truth. Beneath its foundations, veiled by centuries of forgetfulness, slumbered a power from the Dark Age of Technology—a planetary void shield, vast and impenetrable. Marius had ruled atop it without understanding, a blind priest speaking rote prayers before an unlit altar. But the False God saw the divinity within.
And now, he needed it.
The war had taken a turn he had not foreseen. The off-world Mechanicum, those once-neutral outposts and drifting mining stations, had cast aside their silence and pledged themselves to the Angelus Machina. Their warships—small, scavenged, but no less deadly—now prowled Vion 5’s orbit, harrying his forces, raining fire upon his strongholds. These were not true void navies, not the grand fleets of the lost ages, but they did not need to be. Against a world bound in war, their presence alone was a wound that festered.
It was an affront.
Faith was a weapon, and the False God had wielded it well. He had built his Cult of the True Machine upon it, forged it into a belief that spread like circuitry through flesh, a purpose that reshaped men into something greater. But faith, when turned against him, was a toxin. Those who should have been his now swore fealty to the Angelus Machina. They should have worshiped the True Machine, yet they had bent the knee to a lesser god.
That, too, would be corrected.
To do so, he required the void shield. If he could activate it, the war would be contained. The skies would be sealed, orbital bombardments silenced, the Angelus’ off-world reinforcements cut off from their chosen messiah. The war would be forced into the streets, into the tunnels, into the choking industry of Vion 5 itself. And in that realm, his domain, the False God would reign supreme.
But Marius stood in the way.
Nirek, however… Nirek was malleable.
A man fueled by grief and hatred was a man who could be guided, his faith turned inward, his will made steel. The False God spoke to the man once more, uncoupling from the telemetric machines that had been feeding him information from the multitude of fronts. His massive form stalked towards the man with unnatural and calculated ease, his optics flickered for a moment as it prompted itself to speak. “You must kill Marius,” the Man of Iron stated in a cold and unfeeling tone that Nirek had come to know.
Nirek stood before the towering form of the False God, his armor scarred and worn, eyes blazing with a mix of fury and desperation. The shadows of the war sanctum flickered around them, the air heavy with tension.
“You would have me kill Marius?” Nirek’s voice was raw, barely restrained. “You would have me betray my own lord?”
The False God’s optics narrowed, calculating. “Marius is weak,” he intoned, his metallic voice a whisper that burrowed in dark recesses of Nirek’s psyche. “He stands in the way of your deserved vengeance. The Angelus Machina, your most hated enemy, grows stronger and Marius fails us - fails you with his flawed strategem and falters. It is a reason why your wife had died.”
Nirek clenched his fists, breath ragged. The image of his son filled his mind, twisted and corrupted by the Angelus Machina haunted him. And now, news of One-One’s death had spread to him, weighing upon his heart like a stone. Despite having served his hated enemy, she had always been his guiding light and now that light was snuffed out. Just another casualty of this endless war.
“You know who took her from you, don’t you?” the False God murmured, his voice low and insidious. “Yet, her death was not just at his fault. It was also the Angelus Machina who twisted and coerced her to his side. Without him, she’d still be with you.”
The spark of rage inside of Nirek grew into a consuming flame. “Both of them are behind her death,” his echo was a trembling voice, torn between anger and despair-because hatred was easier than grief.
“Yes,” the False God lied smoothly, feeding into the man’s despair. “And while Marius lingers, wringing his hands in indecision, the Angelus grows bolder, stronger. He will consume all you love-all you swore to protect.”
Nirek’s jaw tightened, his resolve hardening to the certainty of steel. “Then Marius is already dead,” he growled, “I will not let him—or anyone—stand in my way. The Angelus will pay for what he’s done.”
A smile would have spread across the False God’s face, in this moment he was pleased to not be able to express how he felt. “Then you understand. The Bastion must fall under your command. Only then can we awaken its true power—cut the Angelus Machina off from his allies above, seal him within these walls, crush him and make him suffer.”
Nirek’s eyes burned with a fevered intensity, his grief twisted into a singular purpose. “I’ll do it,” he swore, voice cold and unyielding. “For my son. For vengeance.”
The False God inclined his head, his voice a soothing purr wrapped in steel. “Then prepare yourself, Nirek. The time has come to cast aside the old and embrace the inevitable. We will strike from within—swift, unseen. Marius will fall, and you will rise.”
The False God watched as Nirek turned away wordlessly, the man’s grief now a weapon he could wield. He had planted the seeds of betrayal, and they would soon bear fruit.
The Great Bastion rose from the ashen wastes like a relic of a forgotten age, its cyclopean walls standing defiant against time itself. Towering battlements loomed over the city beneath, crenellations lined with rusting war machines that had seen centuries of battle. Its armored gates, thick as the hull of a voidship, had withstood countless sieges, a testament to the forgotten architects who had built this world into a fortress. Veins of ancient circuitry pulsed faintly across its outer layers, vestiges of lost technologies whose function had long since been forgotten by the men who now called it home. It was a fortress not just of stone and steel but of history—layer upon layer of war and survival, built atop the bones of those who had dared to challenge it.
Nirek approached its shadowed gates with measured purpose, his forces marching at his back. They came under the guise of allies, seeking refuge, resupply, and the strength to continue the war against the Angelus Machina. That was the lie. The truth was far colder. The Bastion was the key to his vengeance, and Marius was no longer fit to wield it.
Nirek clenched his jaw, staring up at the fortress that would soon be his. His soldiers spread throughout the city like creeping vines, reinforcing key positions under the pretense of aiding the war effort. They stationed themselves at supply depots, secured strategic corridors, and embedded themselves in the command hierarchy. When the time came, when Marius fell, there would be no chaos—only seamless transition.
The thought brought him no joy, only the cold certainty of necessity. He could not afford to fail.
Yet beneath the weight of his conviction, unease curled in his gut.
The False God had vanished into the depths of the city, unseen, unheard. Nirek did not need to ask where he had gone—he knew. Even now, in the subterranean chambers of the Bastion, something unnatural was stirring. The False God’s unseen hand was moving, bringing things into the city, things Nirek had not sanctioned. Machines, twisted and cruel, hidden from the eyes of the living. He did not know what they were, but he knew their purpose.
The False God was securing the Bastion not just for Nirek’s rule, but for something greater, something far worse.
Marius sat slumped upon his throne, a skeletal remnant of the warlord he had once been. The seat of the Bastion Lords was forged from the remains of ancient war machines, a throne of steel and circuitry that hummed with fading power, yet it dwarfed the withered figure upon it. His armor, once a symbol of his might, now hung loosely upon his frail frame, corroded by time and sickness. The Rust Sickness had stolen everything from him—his strength, his presence, his command. Only his eyes, dim but still burning with a flicker of old defiance, remained untouched.
Nirek studied the man before him, the weight of his own purpose pressing heavily on his shoulders. Pity wormed its way into his heart, unbidden but persistent. Marius had been a warrior, a leader worthy of respect, and now he was nothing more than a dying relic, clinging to a throne that had long outlived him.
At last, Marius stirred, his voice little more than a rasp. “You come with soldiers, Nirek.” His gaze flickered to the honor guard at Nirek’s back. “Not a delegation. Not an envoy. An army.” He coughed, a wet, rattling sound. “Tell me why.”
Nirek ascended the steps alone, his axe heavy in his grip, its edge glinting in the dim, flickering light of the throne room. Marius sat slumped upon his seat of iron and ceramite, his once-imposing form reduced to a withered husk. The so-called Bastion Lord, who had once commanded the Great Bastion with unwavering authority, now looked more like a relic than a ruler. His armor, dulled with age and wear, barely clung to his emaciated frame, and the faint whir of failing augmetics underscored his every shallow breath.
Marius’ sunken eyes followed Nirek’s approach, his lips curling weakly. “I see it in your stance, Nirek,” he rasped, voice like grinding metal. “You did not come to speak.”
Nirek did not slow his approach. “You lost this war before it even began,” he said, his voice steady but seething. “You let the Angelus Machina fester, let him grow strong, and now my son is lost to him. You have failed us all, Marius.”
The Bastion Lord gave a slow, wheezing exhale. “Your son…” he muttered, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. “Ah. So that is the wound that festers in you.”
Nirek’s grip tightened around the haft of his axe. “You were meant to hold this world,” he continued, his tone rising. “To command, to ensure victory. And yet you sit here, rotting, as everything crumbles around you.”
Marius chuckled, though it was a brittle, painful sound. “You think I had the luxury of choice?” he said, shaking his head. “The Angelus Machina was not an invader. He was a reckoning. You blame me, but the truth is, this world was never ours to keep. War does not care for rulers.”
Nirek sneered. “Then you are unworthy to sit upon that throne.”
The dying warlord let out a rattling sigh. “Perhaps I am.” His sunken gaze met Nirek’s, unafraid. “So… will you take my place, Nirek? Will you sit where I have sat? Bear the weight of it?”
Nirek did not answer, only the silence that followed.
“Then I shall let you know that once you take this throne, the Angelus Machina will destroy you. You will perish when his armies come. You will perish when he knocks down those doors. You will perish when he stands over you,” Maris spoke in a low grumble. A fit of coughing overcame the ailing man as he slumped backing into his throne. A sickly sadistic smile crossed his face. A croak of a voice came, “Truthfully, you would do me a service by taking this from me.”
Nirek’s grip on his axe faltered for the briefest moment. He had expected resistance, expected Marius to fight for his miserable life—but there was no struggle, only resignation. The Bastion Lord's words lingered, gnawing at the edges of his mind. Was this truly what it meant to rule? To inherit a throne already marked for ruin?
He exhaled sharply, shaking the thought away. His fingers tensed around the haft once more. He had come too far to waver now.
But before he could strike, a sound like tearing metal filled the chamber. Marius jerked forward, his already frail body convulsing as a blade of impossibly intricate design erupted through his chestplate, punching through the ironwork of the throne itself. A wet, mechanical hiss followed, and the sickly scent of scorched flesh filled the air.
Behind the throne, the False God emerged from the darkness, his towering form gleaming in the dim light. The thing’s elongated fingers twitched with delight as it twisted the blade, savoring the final, choked breath of the Bastion Lord. Marius gasped, his ruined body seizing, and then, with one final, rattling exhale, he slumped forward, lifeless.
The False God let out a low, static-laced chuckle. “There. How poetic, to die seated upon the very thing that crushed him long before we arrived.” With a wet, grating sound, he wrenched the blade free, letting the corpse slide limply against the throne.
Nirek took an instinctive step back, his axe still held aloft, but the False God paid him no heed. It turned its luminous gaze toward the corpse, then to the vast chamber beyond, drinking in the weight of its victory. “A throne of iron, a ruler of rust. Pathetic, truly.” The machine’s voice was thick with amusement. “And now, Nirek, you stand upon the precipice of history.”
The False God took a slow step forward, his form humming with restrained energy. Though expressionless, there was a weight to his gaze, a terrible satisfaction that needed no human mimicry.
"But make no mistake—the Angelus Machina will come," he continued, his voice reverberating through the chamber like the grinding of steel on stone. "He will march upon these walls, believing himself righteous, believing himself the savior of this world."
He tilted his head slightly, regarding Marius’ lifeless form with something akin to amusement. "And he will burn for his arrogance."
Nirek felt a chill run through him, though he would never show it. The False God turned its hollow gaze upon him now, unreadable, unrelenting.
"The Great Bastion is ours," it declared. "Now we shall set the trap. And when the Angelus arrives… he will fall, just as Marius did."
A silence stretched between them, thick with the weight of what had just transpired. The False God did not gloat in the way of men, did not grin or sneer. But the finality in his voice, the cold certainty of his words, was more unsettling than any smile could ever be.
"Rejoice, Nirek," he intoned, his voice like a funerary bell. "The age of flesh is at its end."
Nirek’s breath came shallow and unsteady, his hands trembling as he watched the Bastion Lord slump further into his seat—no longer a ruler, just a husk upon a hollow throne.
Then came the cries of his honor guard. Not of treachery, but of fury.
“You dare?” one snarled, raising his weapon. “This was his kill!”
Another took a step forward, voice dripping with venom. “You dishonor him, Machine!”
The throne room doors groaned open. The air shifted.
From the darkness beyond, massive figures emerged, their forms wreathed in cold steel and the dim, flickering glow of lumen-lights. Not men. Not even battle-automata. Something else. Towering and broad, their armor was thick like fortress walls, their strides measured and unhurried. The air filled with a deep, mechanical thrum as they raised their weapons.
The first shot shattered the silence.
Nirek’s guard barely had time to react before the execution began. Bolts of searing energy and explosive rounds tore through them like wheat before a scythe. One tried to charge, only to be struck down mid-step, his armor caving inwards. Another lifted his blade in defiance, only to crumple as a massive gauntlet closed around his skull, twisting sharply until bone and metal alike cracked.
Nirek did not move.
He could not.
As the last of his warriors fell, the False God strode forward, standing just before him, the cold mask of his face unreadable.
"You came here thinking you could rule, but you shall be nothing more than my puppet," the machine intoned, his voice hollow yet dripping with something akin to amusement. "Yet even now, you do nothing. You are nothing."
Nirek’s fingers twitched, his teeth gritting together.
And then, the Bastion shook.
A deep hum reverberated through its ancient corridors. Systems long thought dead roared to life. Mechanisms older than any living soul on Vion 5 stirred in their slumber.
The sky outside shimmered. For a moment, the heavens flickered—and then the planetary void shield surged into existence, an impenetrable dome sealing the world beneath a veil of light.
The False God spread his arms wide, as if welcoming the sight.
"Let the Angelus Machina come," he whispered. "Let him witness the fate of his world."
Nirek's breath was ragged, his mind reeling. His warriors—his brothers—lay broken around him, their deaths delivered without ceremony, without honor. His hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms as the Bastion trembled beneath him, the deep hum of awakening machinery filling the air.
Then, beyond the high windows of the throne room as he looked, the sky changed.
A shimmering veil of energy rippled across the heavens, a vast, luminous wall sealing Vion 5 from the void beyond. Nirek’s eyes widened in horror as realization took hold. The planetary void shield. The Forgotten Aegis. A relic of the ancients, lost to history—until now.
And it had been activated by him.
"You... planned for this treachery," he murmured, his voice hoarse. His fingers itched to reach for his axe, to carve this abomination down where it stood. But he did not move. He could not.
"Of course I did," the False God replied smoothly, stepping forward, the eerie glow of the throne room’s lumen-lights casting shadows across his metallic form. "You believed yourself to be the author of this coup, Nirek, but you were merely a sentence in my design. You see, flesh is always predictable. In grief, it rages. In weakness, it clings to vengeance. I simply... guided you to where you were always meant to be."
Nirek’s teeth bared, his fury warring with the cold weight of dread sinking into his stomach. Usriel. My son. If he still lives... He turned his gaze toward the shimmering sky, his thoughts a storm of fear and rage.
The Angelus Machina would come. He had to come.
But now, the gates of Vion 5 were sealed. Nirek stood motionless, staring at the distant shimmer of the void shields as the realization slowly, agonizingly, took shape in his mind.
Angelus Machina.
The name had haunted him for so long, a specter woven into every battle, every retreat, every failure. He had cursed it, raged against it, dedicated himself to its destruction. But now… now the echoes of the past clawed their way into the present, whispering a truth he could no longer ignore.
Angelus.
His breath caught.
One-One had called Usriel that. Her Angelus. Her guiding light. Not a name of war, but of love. A mother’s devotion. And she had followed the Angelus Machina with that same unwavering faith. Even as she died, she had never strayed from his side.
Not because she had been deceived. Not because she had been coerced.
But because she had known.
And Nirek, blinded by grief, had never seen it. He had believed her stolen, corrupted, twisted into the Angelus’ service. But what if she had gone willingly? What if she had looked upon the Angelus Machina… and seen her son?
A cold horror settled into his bones.
If it was true—if Usriel had somehow become that thing—then Nirek had not just shut out an enemy.
He had sealed his own son away.
Nirek looked the False God-anger, rage, betrayal all found their way to his heart. But he bit his tongue. He would not risk his life quite yet, not until he could see the Angelus Machina for himself.
