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The tall cultist was done playing around. He ca at Luke with everything—fists and feet flying, no weapons held back.
He wasn't trying to end the fight fast.
He wanted Luke to feel the gap. To understand exactly how small and weak he really was.
Another brutal haymaker slamd into Luke's crossed forearms.
THUD!
The impact drove Luke backward several steps. His arms went completely numb.
The cultist pulled back instead of pressing the attack. He struck another bodybuilder pose, lats flaring wide.
"Tell , Officer Luke… don't you want this kind of power?"
Luke rubbed his dead arms and smirked.
"What, that body finally get you a girlfriend?"
The insult landed. The cultist's face twisted.
"Hmph. Looks like I need to show you what our organization can really do."
Right as he coiled to strike again, Luke shouted up at the catwalk.
"Clarice—joints!"
She understood instantly.
Rat-tat-tat!
Her submachine gun barked. Three rounds punched into the back of the cultist's knees.
The hits only broke skin, but it was enough. His legs buckled and he pitched forward.
He whipped his head around, snarling.
"You little bitch. I won't forget you."
That split second was all Luke needed.
He sucked in a breath and exploded upward, crossing the gap in one leap. He landed on the cultist's back, hooked both legs around the man's arms, and wrenched them backward with everything he had.
The cultist roared and thrashed. His strength was monstrous. Luke felt the tendons in his own thighs screaming, ready to tear.
He clenched his teeth and held on.
Once he had control, Luke's left hand clamped onto the cultist's bald head and locked it in place. His right hand yanked the giant pistol free and jamd the barrel under the man's chin.
"Let's see if that brain of yours evolved too."
The cultist froze, arms pinned, head trapped. Real fear flashed in his eyes for the first ti.
"Wait—I haven't even told you about the benefits! We have dical—"
BOOM!
The massive round detonated point-blank. The cultist's entire skull vaporized in a red mist.
The recoil ripped the pistol out of Luke's hand. The close-range blast left his head ringing and his vision swimming. Both n crashed to the floor.
Luke lay there, world spinning, ears filled with nothing but high-pitched whine.
A blurry figure sprinted toward him. Hands grabbed his shoulders and shook him hard. A mouth moved, but he couldn't hear a word.
He shook his head violently and dug a pinky into each ear.
Sound slowly returned.
Clarice's face ca into focus, inches from his own.
"What did you say?" he rasped.
She leaned in and shouted right into his ear.
"That guy… sothing's wrong with him!"
Luke's eyes narrowed. He'd seen the head explode. There shouldn't be anything left.
He forced himself upright. His legs scread in protest—deep muscle tears from the earlier strain. Every step was a limp.
He hobbled closer and froze.
The cultist's headless neck stump was alive with writhing pink tissue. Fresh flesh was growing like a nest of worms, twisting and knitting together, already trying to rebuild a skull.
"He's not dead… is he?" Clarice's voice shook.
Luke and Clarice stared at each other.
Luke's jaw clenched.
"No. We're turning him to ash."
He wanted to use the Bible, but this thing's regeneration was too fast. The head would be back before he finished the first verse.
He needed to cause catastrophic damage first—shatter the body's structure completely.
Limping, Luke retrieved the giant pistol, reloaded it, and fired another round straight into the cultist's torso.
The abdon exploded outward in a gaping, steaming hole.
Luke gritted his teeth against the nausea, yanked a grenade from his vest, pulled the pin, and shoved it deep into the wound.
"Grenade!"
He grabbed Clarice and they dove behind a thick concrete pillar.
BOOM!
The factory shook. Chunks of at and shredded organs splattered across the floor and walls.
When the smoke cleared, the cultist's body was in pieces—arms, legs, torso scattered in a bloody radius. But every chunk was still twitching. So were slowly sliding toward each other like they were trying to reassemble.
"It's starting," Luke muttered.
He didn't hesitate. He stepped forward and began reciting from the Bible.
The mont the words left his mouth, the twitching at sizzled like it had been doused in acid. Black smoke poured out. The regeneration slowed to a crawl.
Luke let out a quiet breath of relief.
Thanks to the psionic boost, the purification was working faster than before.
He kept chanting.
Minutes dragged by. His voice grew hoarse. Finally he grabbed a few clean black robes from the floor, spread them out, and sat down cross-legged like he was at a picnic. He kept reading, eyes half-lidded.
More ti passed.
At last the final chunk let out one last hiss of black smoke and went still.
Luke's panel lit up.
[Detected: Host has purified a corrupted soul]
[Absorbing purified soul energy…]
[Physique 0.5]
[Holy Recitation: XP 600]
[Specialty: Holy Recitation LV2 (0/1000): Psionic Bonus 0.2]
[Physique: 2.6 (Base 1.0 Prisoner Fitness 0.5 Marksmanship 0.3 Myers 0.3 Cultist 0.5)]
[Psionic: 1.3 (Base 1.0 Recitation 0.2 Wraith 0.1)]
A warm current flooded his entire body. Every ache, every tear, every ounce of fatigue vanished.
He felt better than he had in days—almost sleepy.
But he didn't stand up right away.
To keep Clarice from asking questions, he deliberately staggered to his feet like a man who'd been through hell, wincing and swaying.
Clarice rushed over and caught him.
"Luke, you're hurt. Let help you."
He leaned into her small but strong fra without protest.
"Yeah… let's call the station. They can co collect what's left of him."
Clarice's cheeks flushed pink, but she nodded firmly and slid her arm around his waist.
"Got it."
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