A Challenge

Zesrael contemplated on whether he should enter or not. It's been two weeks since; full of grind, base building, reinforcing, and skill obtaining. Was he strong enough… only one way to find out. 

Hands at the base of the door; a rough stone texture. He pushed with all 28 of his strength stat, slowly opening it as the bottom grinded– stone on stone. Big enough where he can fit, stone floors, walls and ceilings, all converged to form a tight– but short– corridor. Where it leads– a portal, black with spiraling pink color. Without a second's hesitation, he entered. The portal engulfs him. Behind him, the stone doors slowly shut themselves tight as they once were. The tainted greenery outside took a metaphorical breath as the child flayer's disappearance was felt upon the land. The wolves, wild dogs, boars and the shrubbery were all met with a much needed respite.

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[The Chosen has entered the Trial of Blood & Skull]

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It was blurry, black blobs constantly moving in his sight like an ever changing rorschach test.

"̸̡̪̅K̸̝͋̈i̷̫͈̍́l̶̩͘l̵͋̏ͅ,̶̗̺̉͗ ̶̪͎̆M̴͍̈́ͅa̶̮̒i̶̲̤͂̓m̷̺̈́̋,̷̳̟̓̑ ̸͔̾̔B̸̖͉̽̂ú̶̹̈́r̴̠̒ņ̸̣̈́!̶̻̜͐"̸̺̆̍

It was distant, but a battle cry of sorts rang his ears. It sounded distorted, a hint of a twisted sense of pleasure– cracking the borders beyond that of insanity; fueled by insurmountable amounts of violence.

"̷̬̜̇I̸̫̱̾̄'̶̛̬̆l̵̛̗͑ĺ̴͎̦̚ ̵̻̼̏̀t̸͕̋e̸̫̲͐ả̶͖ͅc̴̬̒̅ḧ̸̛̠ ̵̟͈̈́y̸̧͕͌ő̵̤̓ú̴̼̜.̶͓̭͊.̷̙̅̍.̷͖͂"̸̢̡̇

Another voice, sane yet not. It doesn't scream like the others. More ethereal, an entity mastered by countless bloodshed for years. Its voice is heavy upon every word. A tantalizing sensation, one oozing with influence to rip and tear any meat bag he might see. Thankfully [Serene Mind] kept his focus alongside his innocence of pleasure upon killing another being.

"̵͇̥̒͐T̴̻͈̾h̵̯̆̄ę̸͕̾͝ ̶̯͆̈́ę̷̅c̵̦̞̾̓s̶͚͑t̵͉͓̓a̷̘͝s̵̰͓̈́̑y̵̹͒̕ ̷̡̬̋ọ̷̾f̷̼͘ ̸̝͇̏c̷̱͘͜o̴̦̚m̴͎̹̚b̵͈͋a̴͕͈͘ṯ̴̹́̈.̷̖̾"̶̲̇

His vision cleared. A vast red sky hovered over him. Thunderous clouds came and went at a vastly higher speed compared to the clouds back 'home.' Mountains stood high with murderous intent. The soil under his feet is like Mars. He noticed his body felt heavier; swinging his arms around, they took a noticeable amount of time to complete a swing. He stood upon a small hill overlooking the barren lands. Wind singing a song of sorrow– 

–Stomp!

and demise. 

Hordes of daemons spawned around him at the foot of the hill. Even more came as varieties were endless. Bloodletters, Flesh Hounds, Nurglings, Daemonettes, Flamers of Tzeentch, too many to list. All bare and clad in their own demonic ways. 

"̸̞̞̎L̴̤̪͑ẽ̸͉̩̚t̸̯̬͌͆'̷̻̫̂s̵̫̯͆̉ ̸͇̌m̴̭̕à̶̯̤k̶̺͂ẻ̷̚͜ ̶̨̬͒͝t̵͗̍ͅh̴̡͈̏ĩ̶̯̼s̸̪̔ ̶͖̂e̵̪͔̋̾v̶̹͊̆ḛ̶̀n̴̹͋̽.̴̧͕̀̄"̸̯̺̽

Zesrael's instinct that blared upon their arrival lessened. Whatever that voice was, it's clear to say that it's strong. But even so, there's so many that maybe the debuff didn't even amount to anything. But that didn't cross his mind. Clear as a crystal, no thoughts of what he couldn't do. Arming himself with his chain knife and bolter, he's come to a revelation: shred as much as he can before he falls. 

"̶͎̳́Ğ̸̣o̴̰̅̑o̶̝̐ḓ̶̖͘,̵͚͌ͅ ̸͈͚̀͌ǹ̷̥̰õ̷̼w̴̨̼͋-̵̤́̊"̸̱̒̈́͜

–Bang!

Zesrael interrupted the being that was speaking with a squeeze of a trigger, firing his Godwyn bolt pistol. Two seconds in, all ten rounds emptied and shells discharged. Reloaded, using .5 of his energy reserves, cocked the hammer and fired again. His weapon handling increased due to his new skill he gained at week one: [Wick-Fu]. 

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[Wick-Fu: Fight like a boogeyman. A passive skill that allows the user to handle any weapon like John Wick. Faster reload, ranged weapon melee, de-jamming, cleaning, you name it.]

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.75 rained like tacos upon the enemy. By this point, they started rushing Zesrael as they saw their first comrade die. 'Comrade' is a loose word for these chaos daemons, but it'll do for now. Warhound, daemonettes, all the melee individuals ran as fast as they could up the hill. Some faster than others, but none could stand long enough against The Emperor's caliber: .75. Two bolter rounds each found their new home nestled deep within daemon heads. Two for good measure as Zesrael wasn't sure and wasn't going to try one round. These were after all daemons.

Ranged daemons– though ranged– couldn't hit a single shot. As soon as they released their volatile ranged projectile, they were silenced with a bolter round.

14 mags using only seven of the reserved energy. He knew he couldn't last long doing this. Dumping his last mag, his body flared. Taking his chain knife and bolt pistol, he smashed them together, like a toddler playing with action figures. 

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[Fusion activated]

[Items: Chain Knife/Bolt Pistol]

[Energy needed for conversion: 27.3 | Energy available: 37.5]

[Fusion acceptable… Chain Bolt Pistol created]

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Reduced to only 10.2 energy, he was now accompanied with a new partner. It was the same bolt pistol; though, extra lines and grooves indicated something else. As for the reason, he found fighting with a free hand comfortable. 

"Come here CHILD!"

Disgusting, distorted, like a woman smoking for years a daemonette reached him first. On instinct, the boy dipped low, just a hair's breadth from his head cleaving off as a purple claw swung above him. Not trusting his strength stat, he opted to pop his… her… their knee with a bolter round. 

–Pop!

"Mmmm!"

The daemon… moaned in ecstasy. Just as expected from a daemon of Slaanesh. Not weirded out, he took his bolter and… it just transformed into a chain knife. Guess his system is a RWBY fan, turning his weapon into an interchangeable item. The chain knife dug deep into the daemonnett's stomach. He pushed up, vertically slashing the daemonnett in half; it moaned till its last breath. 

"Rah!"

Zesrael backed flipped up in the air, dodging a demonic sword of a bloodletter. Landed on the shoulders of the daemon, he popped a round or two upon its skull. He leaned back as a ball of arcane fire zipped past him as he rodeoed the dead daemon. Popped a round or two into the pink horror as a concequence.

Zero break time, more and more daemons of chaos wanted a piece of him. His [Wick-Fu] skill worked over time as he dodge, dipped, and stabbed his adversaries.

Seconds, minutes, hours. He was out of energy, thankfully that didn't hinder him like running out of mana; but his body is a different story. Panting like an animal, his eyes were hazy. The same vibrant violet hew dulled over the masses he's slain. What's so fun about this combat? What is it wanting to teach him? Zesrael didn't bother dwelling on it, each useless thought meant one nano second slower from gaining levels. 

These beings were a completely different beast compared to what he'd fought. Tried a body shot once, only to get ticked for wasting ammo as a warhound remained unphased. Maybe the warhound was a bad test subject but he decided to remain popping grapes if he can hit every shot anyway. His level has risen to a higher level to what it was before. From 23 to the current 42, it was like the famous cow level from D2 with the amount of nonstop action. 

"This– is– tedious– GAhK!"

A huge amount of kinetic energy sent him flying forward, tumbling towards his enemies. In an attempt to catch himself, he freed his armed hand from his bolter as he rolled forward. Instead of rolling normally, using both of his hands to push on the rough ground, launched himself to whomever is at the end of his feet.

–Bam!

A bloodletter, the most common daemon in this battlefield. Knocked down by the force of Zesrael's essential drop kick, he armed himself with his interchangeable weapon again and brought down a visceral strike with a rev of his chain bolter. The bloodletter was none the wiser as his head was split open, more blood tainting Zesrael's victorian suit. Sensing another attack, he tensed his legs to push himself up in the air. Bending his back backwards, he back flipped, narrowly dodging a bull charge. 

It was a warhound, possibly the one that shoved him hard into this predicament. Seeing it, his tired face was relieved that none of its tusk punctured himself. 

"What the hell?"

What the hell indeed as the warhound charges Zesrael again. For its size it's oddly nimble. Zesrael responded in kind as he charged forward, sliding underneath blades and vaulting over anyone blocking his path; his chain knife and fist busy along the way. The warhound matched his vigor as it too shoved anyone away from its path. But his movements were sluggish, more so than before. Lungs, burning like fervent fire. Vision blurred yet his mind was clear, the body betraying the mind unwillingly. With every dodge, with every swing and stab of his chain knife, his body breaks– he's well past his limits. 

The warhound snarls with its mouth wide open as it pounces. Zesrael, body creaking in pain and exhaustion, slid under the warhound with a running start. Leaned his body left as he reverse gripped his chain knife. Revving the knife, he plunged it as deep as he could with as much strength he could muster. With both the momentum of the warhound and himself, it was hard just keeping the chain knife on hand. But he resisted, and he overcame the challenge as the warhound tumbled into lifelessness. 

Tired, beat and cut, he stayed sitting on his calves to catch his breath. Forgetting his situation for a brief moment as he attempted to recover even just a sliver of stamina.

"Blegh!"

A hellblade pierced through his chest. A pain like never before wrenched throughout his body. It was hot… and cold as he felt his body drain of strength. His vision unfocused under the scorned sky. The daemon laughed in its own demonic way. It raised him higher, it drank itself dizzy upon the blood of the chosen. More and more daemons pulled under our raised chosen, like children reaching for dropped candy.

He hated it, the pain and suffering. Using him like fountain water, a mere drink in their eyes– possibly even a snack. Humiliation, he's never felt this humiliated in his life. Is this how it felt… to be killed? What a… detestable feeling. There's a word for it, one he chose to ignore but so fitting for this moment… Ignorant. Ignorant of his safety, his opponents strength and weaknesses, his own strength. He entered thinking he was alright, complacent with what he got. Completely underestimated this trial. 

Tears, for the first time tears ran down his face. This wasn't like the wolf incident. The wolves at least killed for a feast, to survive. He could see it in their eyes. But these monsters, they killed for pleasure, for sport. 

Was existence this cruel, the existence of suffering and pain, of hardship and strife. He wanted answers, of which none were given. Blood trickled out his mouth and he closed his eyes for one… final… time.

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[Skill condition met… activating Death Toll]

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| Faction: Imperial Guard | 

| Requisition: 0/+72 |

| Power: 325/+30 |

| Squad Cap: 2/6 |

| Vehicle Cap: 0/0 |

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| Name: Zesrael Loren | Age: 7 | Gender: Male | Race: ??? | Lvl: 42 |

| Title(s): The Ever Chosen￤Chosen Warmaster of 40k |

| Skill(s): Inventory￤Fusion￤Login￤Omni Travel￤Personal Dimension￤Summoner￤Chosen Sharpshooter￤Language of the Chosen￤Serene Mind￤Wick-Fu￤Death Toll |

| Item(s): Yharnam Hunter Set￤Chain Bolter (RWBY modification) |

| Stats: | Stat Points: 57 |

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Strength: 28

Agility: 26

Vitality: 5

Intelligence: 12

Energy: 0/44.5

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