The Guardian gods-Chapter 577

His standing as a general, built on strategic acumen and disciplined command, no longer held the same value for minds tainted by the Abyss. They needed to see him as something else entirely: a supreme demon, an apex predator who would tolerate no dissent, no ’nonsense’ from lesser beings.

There were undeniable downsides to this strategy, his tech core meticulously cataloged them. This approach would forever erode any trust they might have had in him, replacing it with a primal fear and a grudging, resentful obedience. They might harbor thoughts of rebellion, like how most demons, given the chance, would turn on a weakening leader. However, the probability of such an open revolt was low, Kaelen’s analysis assured him, as long as he himself stood strong, an unyielding pillar of power that outmatched their own raw, chaotic strength. He had to embody the very dominance they now instinctively understood.

A smile came upon Kaelen cold face which hasn’t shown much emotion in weeks, it was weird and maybe wrong but he was liking the current state of the army and it’s new rule. He turned toward the abyss portal which was now close "That was his goal"

The weeks that followed blurred into a continuous, brutal symphony of steel and monstrous flesh. Kaelen’s reassertion of absolute, unforgiving command, enforced by swift, chilling displays of power, slowly forged the transformed army into a more disciplined, albeit still terrifying, weapon. They no longer fought with aimless rage; their newfound ferocity was now channeled, directed with lethal precision.

One of the most startling, and initially horrifying, developments emerged during the relentless combat: the armor itself began to exhibit sentient, predatory behaviors. It wasn’t just drawing on the wearer’s life force; when a demon fell within reach, the Abyssal armor would visibly shift, dark tendrils extending or sharpened edges seeming to unfold, and chomp onto the fallen flesh, tearing and consuming it with a sickening, wet sound. This grotesque act wasn’t merely symbolic; the armor was actively feeding on the demons to sustain itself and, consequently, its host. The process visibly invigorated the soldier, healing minor wounds and dulling the insidious mental strain, effectively extending the "grace period" of controlled integration beyond Kaelen’s initial projections.

This unexpected evolution took both Kaelen and Rattan by profound surprise. Rattan, watching a ratfolk warrior’s armor consume a demon’s arm, nearly retched. Kaelen’s tech-core, however, immediately began crunching the new data. The moral implications were monstrous, a deepening descent into depravity.

Yet, after swift calculations, the cold, hard logic asserted itself: while ethically repugnant, this development was a monumental boon for their immediate goal. It meant less reliance on the finite life-force of the soldiers and an unprecedented, self-sustaining combat capability.

By the fourth week, the grind had taken its toll. Their numbers were drastically thinned, the faces of the remaining soldiers etched with a grim, exhausted madness, their eyes burning with a hunger that was now part their own, part the armor’s. But they had achieved the impossible. Through a combination of their newfound savagery, Kaelen’s ruthless command, and the grotesque, self-sustaining nature of their Abyssal armor, they had pushed the demons back. Step by bloody step, inch by agonizing inch, the Abyss forces were driven to retreat.

Finally, after a relentless, final push that cost them dearly, the Imperial army—a mere fraction of its former self, but now infused with a terrifying, unholy power—managed to force the remaining Abyss demons back through their swirling portal. The cacophony of battle died down, replaced by the ragged breathing of survivors and the constant, hungry hum of their living armor. They quickly established a makeshift fortress before the churning maw, a temporary bastion of exhausted vigilance. The final stretch had come, but for now, they needed to take a moment to rest and recover.

The mood in the fortress should have been one of triumph, a cacophony of cheers for their impossible victory. Yet, there was none of that. As the immediate threat vanished, the remaining soldiers, their faces grim and eyes burning with that unsettling red glow, finally had time to re-assess themselves and their own horrific behaviors of the past few weeks. The bloodlust faded, replaced by a cold, dawning dread.

The downcast mood descended when, in the quiet of their temporary barracks, they attempted to take off their new armor. A sharp, agonizing bolt of pain shot through them with the slightest tug, an exaggerated agony that made them gasp and recoil. It wasn’t merely the feeling of metal sticking to skin; it was like peeling off one’s own living flesh, tearing at muscle and sinew. A chilling question began to echo in their weary minds: was this truly their armor, or had it become their very skin?

A tentative touch against the plates, a flex of a limb, sent a chilling realization through them. The sensations registered not as external contact, but as their own body’s response. The rhythmic hum of the Abyssal material, the faint, metallic scent that permeated their every breath, the odd, heightened sensitivity to external vibrations – all of it now felt like their inherent self. Even the most mundane bodily functions, breathing, urinating, felt subtly altered, integrated with the suit. The armor seemed to have become them, a horrifying second skin, a new, monstrous physiology they were only now truly noticing.

So, in a fortress that should have been filled with shouts of victory, it was instead filled with miniature giants, their Abyssal-infused forms casting long, grotesque shadows, their faces etched with a profound, downcast expression. A heavy pall of despair settled over them, a collective realization of the irreversible change. No one was exempt from this silent horror, not even the mages, their enhanced powers now feeling like a dreadful, permanent burden.

Kaelen, observing them from a slight distance, felt a rare tremor in the rational fortress of his mind. A part of him, the last part of his old self, a flicker of something akin to empathy, felt a powerful urge to stand up, to offer reassurance, to tell them that all was somehow alright. But his rational side, currently the absolute dominant force due to his active tech-core, firmly contradicted it. There was no ’alright.’ There was only calculation, adaptation, and survival. To lie would be illogical. To offer false comfort would be to betray the cold, hard truth of their new existence.

Back at the Abyss, in the churning, molten depths of her domain, Vorenza showed no visible sign of disturbance, even as the Empire’s forces encroached relentlessly closer to her portal. The few remaining generals under her command, monstrous beings of sorts, shifted uneasily, their eyes darting nervously. They were hesitant to speak, afraid to ask the questions that clawed at their minds, but already, half of them were contemplating outright abandonment. They only needed the right opportunity, a moment of weakness, to seize their chance and vanish into the deeper layers of the Abyss.

Vorenza, meanwhile, had been in a silent, deep meditation ever since her recovery from the earlier clash. Her form, typically radiating a volatile energy, was now unusually still, almost serene, as if she were utterly detached from the encroaching reality. Her focus was absolute, delving into the intricate web of fate and probability that governed her ascension. She was reviewing her current goal which is securing this specific Abyss layer’s throne and calculating her chances of achieving it.

Her result from this introspective meditation was precisely why she had made no move to reverse the losses she was taking. A grim, undeniable truth had solidified in her mind: in this battle for this Abyss layer’s throne, she has undeniably lost. There was no chance of winning. She hated it, a raw, burning frustration deep within her core, but there was nothing she could do about it. The path to victory here was closed. All that remained for her was the bitter taste of defeat and the cold, unyielding resolve to start anew in a different Abyss layer.

Starting anew was not difficult for Vorenza, for the Abyss had witnessed countless stories that ended much like hers. Yet, the Abyss, in its chaotic, indifferent way, always provided a grim path forward when such impasses arose.

First, Vorenza had to offer something up to the Abyss itself, a tribute that represented her formal withdrawal from the battle for this layer’s throne. Once this offering was made, and the Abyss was satisfied with the price she paid, only then would she be truly free to start anew.

Vorenza would then be able to use a spell available to all demons, a fundamental ability within the Abyss. Traversing from one Abyss layer to the next was nothing new to its denizens; trade, war, and political machinations often spanned multiple layers, depending on the Abyss Lord in charge of those domains. This very same spell, the gateway to a different Abyss layer, was one Vorenza could employ. The only difference, in her case, was her ultimate goal. For Vorenza, her ambition was not merely to escape and get to a new layer, but to finally claim the throne of an Abyssal Lord for herself.

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