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Brando's words had barely left his mouth when—
"Ugh!"
A wave of nausea slamd into them like a sledgehamr. Lionel, the most sensitive of the three, dropped to his knees and retched violently against the wall.
Luke felt it a split second later. The voodoo doll at his belt flared with heat, and the world tilted hard. A crushing, irrational rage boiled up from sowhere deep inside him.
Brando stared in shock.
"What the hell's wrong with you two? Don't scare like that."
He instinctively reached for Luke while wisely staying clear of Lionel, who was still heaving like he was trying to turn himself inside out.
Heavy, unsteady footsteps echoed from the shadows.
Luke forced his eyes up through the pounding in his skull.
The missing "Father" stepped into view.
His body was rotting fast. Skin slid off in thick, wax-like sheets. Every step left sizzling black footprints that ate into the floor.
He locked his ruined eyes on Luke, pure hatred burning through the lted flesh.
His ruined vocal cords produced a wet, rasping sound.
"I know you, Luke… the Grandmaster showed your file. I didn't think you'd actually make it this far."
He tried to smile, but half his face sloughed off.
"It doesn't matter… I'm generous. Before you die, I want you to see our greatest achievent… a fragnt from beyond the stars. The foundation of everything we've built here."
With shaking hands he pulled out a small lead box covered in twisted, aningless symbols. It looked more like an urn than anything else.
The mont the box appeared, the psychic pressure spiked.
Even Brando felt it now. His normally lightning-fast mind went blank for a second.
His face drained of color.
"Don't let him open that box! Whatever's inside is wrong!"
Luke shook his head hard, trying to clear the static. He staggered forward, chainsaw coming up.
Too late.
The Father flipped the latch.
An indescribable "color" poured out.
It wasn't any color that existed in the visible spectrum, yet every mind in the room was instantly force-fed its concept. The color itself was alive—and it was pure spiritual corruption.
It warped light. It ate the air. Everything it touched took on its impossible, wrong hue.
The console surfaces rippled like oil. The walls groaned and began to flake away into sand.
"Ugh!"
Lionel vomited again—this ti thick black blood mixed with chunks of his own organs. He curled up on the floor, clawing at his chest. His voodoo-enhanced body made him feel every drop of the pollution a hundred tis worse than normal.
Brando's eyes wept blood. His brilliant mind was running at maximum overload, desperately trying to understand sothing that existed outside human comprehension. The pressure made his eyeballs bulge, veins standing out like ropes.
His rational brain scread at him to look away, but his body refused to obey. He could only stare, drinking in more of the corruption with every second.
Luke wasn't faring much better.
The dizziness had turned into white-hot needles stabbing through his brain. His vision warped—Brando and Lionel's shapes stretched and twisted, shadows on the walls crawled toward him on living tendrils.
A primal, bone-deep terror and revulsion clawed at him, urging him to rip everything apart.
Then, just as he felt himself slipping, the agony began to ease.
His mind cleared enough for thought.
Luke rembered his ability.
Adaptive Resistance: Through relentless tempering, your will and body have grown tougher. When taking damage, you continuously gain slight resistance.
That was it.
Back in the prison, this sa power had let him shrug off the maddening chants. Now, under constant psychic assault, it was kicking in again.
He straightened up, jaw clenched, and focused on the thing in front of him.
The Father had beco a walking corpse. He stood bathed in the spreading color, arms spread wide, sighing in twisted ecstasy.
"Can you feel it? This beautiful infection… it's drinking the life force from everything around it. Sha we never fully understood it after all these years."
His body was crumbling into ash, dissolving into the expanding color.
Luke's vision sharpened. Only cold, murderous intent remained.
The psychic pressure had crushed his higher thinking down to its most basic level, but it had also sharpened his killer instincts to a razor's edge.
He glanced at his fallen teammates, then at the color steadily eating the entire control room.
No more ti.
Luke poured every last scrap of psionic energy into the chainsaw.
"Vrrrrrr!"
The engine scread at a pitch it had never reached before. The massive energy surge ignited the blade in brilliant silver-white flas.
The fire pushed back the encroaching color, carving out a small safe zone around him.
He stepped forward, ignoring the mind-breaking pollution, and walked straight into the heart of the color.
The living color sensed the threat. It boiled violently, flooding Luke's mind with nightmarish visions—twisted eyes in the abyss, mountains of corpses, the dead silence at the end of the universe.
The psychic assault slamd into him a hundred tis harder than before.
But Luke had only one thought left.
Destroy it.
He let out a low, guttural roar and brought the flaming chainsaw down with everything he had.
The instant the silver fire touched the impossible color, the entire underground chamber fell into eerie silence.
The chainsaw's roar vanished. The screaming stopped. Even the sound of air moving disappeared.
Ti and space seed to freeze.
The color erupted into a frenzy, contracting inward as it tried to swallow and assimilate the intruder.
A thousand new screams exploded inside Luke's skull.
The concrete floor softened and turned spongy. Invisible tentacles of pure thought lashed out, crushing his mind from every direction.
His Adaptive Resistance stacked at an insane rate. The stabbing pain peaked—then slowly faded into numb detachnt.
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