Chapter 21: A Symphony of Agony

POV: Goss

The battlefield stank of scorched flesh and blood-soaked dirt, the bodies of the fallen sprawled in twisted, broken heaps. The air was thick with the acrid scent of burning promethium, and somewhere in the distance, the agonized wails of the dying blended with the ceaseless cacophony of war.

I strode forward, my boots squelching against the ruined remains of men who had long since lost their right to be called such. Their crimes warranted no pity, no mercy—only pain and purification. And yet, the Banshee, my wailing executioner, seemed unable to differentiate between the dead and those still deserving of slaughter.

I glanced back and found it hunched over a pile of dismembered corpses, metallic limbs twitching in violent excitement, its spiked frame glistening with the viscera of the guilty.

"Bloody hell, they're dead, you mindless scrapheap! The ones you need to kill are over there!"

I pointed towards the shifting mass of bandits beyond the ruined vanguard line. The Banshee's lifeless gaze followed my gesture, its helmeted head twisting unnaturally as if listening to whispers only it could hear. I sighed, rubbing my temple.

"Also, seeing as how bloodthirsty you are, I'm worried for the slaves. So remember—only kill the bandits, omit the sla—"

I didn't get to finish before the Banshee erupted forward with inhuman speed, a screeching wail splitting the air as it blurred past me like a torpedo of pain and fury. The sheer force of its movement kicked up dirt and splattered gore, and I barely caught sight of its wickedly curved claws gleaming in the dim light.

I watched it go, shaking my head.

"Is this how a father feels?" I mused before jogging after it, my fingers instinctively toying with a rusted manacle I kept at my belt—a memento from my mentor, the late Tech-Priest Malphus, master of exquisite agony.

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POV: Banshee / Margaret

*It hurts. Kill. It hurts. Kill. It hurts. Kill.*

My body was fire, my nerves were screaming, my flesh impaled on the countless spikes that bound me to this unholy machine. The Banshee moved, and I felt every agonizing shift as the spines twisted deeper into my muscle and bone. I wanted to die. I wanted release.

*Let me die. Repent. Let me die. Repent.*

The battlefield stretched before me, a maelstrom of filth and heresy. The Flesh Cutters and Gun Rats howled as they carved through one another, their maddened revelry stained in arterial sprays. They were the worst of humanity—those who delighted in suffering, who slew the helpless for sport.

*Save me. Avenge the innocent.*

The Banshee responded.

My flamethrowers hissed as promethium vapor flooded the air, the ignition coils humming with righteous fury. A sharp, mind-piercing spike drove itself deeper into my spine, forcing a wretched scream from my throat—and the Banshee amplified it tenfold.

**S C R E E C H**

The sound was horrific, a keening wail of agony and damnation so intense that it made the ears of those nearby rupture. Some clutched their heads, blood pouring from their eardrums, collapsing in spasms. The bandits nearest to me faltered in their carnage, momentarily stunned by the aural devastation.

I didn't even get a chance to breathe. The Banshee lunged forward.

*Crash. Splat.*

Bodies ruptured as I tore through them like a living storm of steel and torment. Every movement drove the spikes deeper into my body, every slash and strike wracking me with unrelenting agony. My own shrieks of pain melded with the mechanical screeching, a symphony of suffering.

One of them—a mad-eyed Flesh Cutter wielding a rusted cleaver—charged me.

*Prove yourself. Repent. Avenge them.*

The Banshee willed it, and so I obeyed.

My arm swung, bisecting the heretic with terrifying ease, his body splitting in half before he could even register the blow. More surged forward, hollering battle cries of slaughter and desecration. The Banshee tired of close combat.

I raised both arms.

**ZUUUUUUUUU—**

The pressurized hiss of promethium release was the only warning before I let loose.

The world ignited in a hellstorm of flame.

Bandits screamed as the liquid fire consumed them, their flesh boiling away in thick, bubbling sheets. Some tried to flee, only for the Banshee to carve through them, their burning corpses reduced to nothing more than smoldering husks.

*Pain. Pain. Pain. Make it stop. Please.*

I begged for it to end, but the Banshee did not stop. It never stopped. It only *judged.*

A blade found its mark, stabbing into my side. I convulsed, staggering, my vision darkening with pain. My arm shot out reflexively, and the offender's skull burst like an overripe fruit against the pressure of my strike.

The pain *stopped.*

I gasped. For the first time since my body had been entombed in this wretched frame, I could move *without agony.*

Bandits rushed me, sensing weakness. I twisted, dodging their attacks with newfound ease. It was exhilarating—until the pain returned in full force, searing through me like white-hot fire. I screamed, collapsing to my knees as the spikes twisted deeper into my flesh once more.

Another bandit lunged.

I fired, incinerating him in an instant. The pain vanished again.

And then I *understood.*

*Yes. I understand now. I must repent. I must avenge the innocent.*

*Yes. Repent. Kill them all.*

The Banshee whispered in my mind, and I whispered back.

*I must repent. I must avenge them.*

*Yes. You must repent. You must avenge them.*

Our voices—two thoughts, yet one—melded into perfect harmony. The sins of the Flesh Cutters, the Gun Rats, and all their ilk could only be washed away in fire and blood.

I moved, my body rigid but deliberate, my mind finally aligned with the purpose forced upon me. The remaining bandits hesitated, staring at me with wide, terrified eyes.

*They fear me.*

Good.

The pipes feeding my flamethrowers began to glow red-hot, straining under the pressure of their impending release.

*Yes. Kill them. Purge them.*

We lifted our head, our vision filled with the trembling, guilty figures before us.

Together, as one, we screamed:

**"KILL THEM!"**

The Banshee amplified our voice beyond mortal comprehension, a shriek of divine judgment and ceaseless agony. It shattered bones, ruptured flesh, and sent lesser souls fleeing in sheer terror.

But there would be no escape.

We charged.

And the purification began.

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