The chamber was silent, save for the low hum of the ship's core.
Sulfur stood at its center—alone, shirtless, sweat dripping from his shoulders, steam rising from his skin. The gravity was heavier here. Artificially increased. The kind of training only apostles could endure.
Across from him floated a slab of starforged alloy—denser than neutron steel.
His right hand opened.
The blade came to him—a pulse of dark light forming along his wrist, unfurling like a serpent. It hissed with condensed heat. Not forged metal. Pure Viora.
"Again," he whispered.
The air cracked.
In a single motion, he struck. The alloy plate split in half, a molten line bubbling across its center. The halves dropped with a clang—but Sulfur was already moving again.
Dodge. Step. Pivot. Slash.
Each move burned through him like lightning.
Each strike bled from memory—movements passed down from Source Seed gods, old even by Kargal reckoning. He no longer fought like a soldier. Not even like a Viora master.
He fought like a weapon.
Like something born to destroy.
[Viora Core: Stable.][Godlink Charge: 71%.][Apostle Density: Elevated.]
He stopped.
The room trembled. The artificial gravity was tearing at his bones, but Sulfur didn't waver. He walked to the edge of the sparring circle, gazing into the starfield beyond the viewport.
His fingers flexed slowly.
"It's waking, isn't it?" he murmured.
A pause.
Then the AI of Deliverance answered:
"Unconfirmed anomaly detected. Trace memory structures forming around collapsed star-routes.""Multiple unknown signatures. Density matches classified parameters."
Sulfur's jaw tensed.
"Kyros One."
He didn't need a report. He could feel it.
The ripple in Viora.
The echo of something impossible.
The moment the Void cracked open and swallowed Velmora, something else had stirred. Something ancient. Something that now bled into the system's edge.
And deep inside the void of his core, Sulfur knew it had to do with him.
With Kiro.
With the Blood Apostle.
He turned away from the viewport, walking back toward the training circle. His aura flared crimson-white, a burning storm of Viora threads swirling around his shoulders.
"Let him build," he said aloud, drawing the blade again. "Let him bleed. Let him gather his army and climb his throne of rot."
He struck again.
The walls buckled. A flash of divine pressure cracked the air.
"I will still unmake him."