The boy looked up at the famous Vengelis Epsilon as he stood over him, protecting his life with such raw passion. A hero had come to save him from this nightmare. For a moment the boy froze in awe of his emperor. Then he followed the order. He grabbed the dying warrior on the ground, arched his back, and pulled with all his capacity, carrying the unconscious soldier by his enormous leg toward the barracks.
The woman’s glowing eyes looked from the retreating child to Vengelis with an emotionless gaze. Close now, Vengelis looked into her eyes. Her retinas were a shifting and shimmering blue. He was looking into the eyes of a machine. The Felix’s mechanic gaze looked to Vengelis’s hand on her—its— wrist. The Blood Ring clung with a conflicting opulence to Vengelis’s clenched fingers.
Vengelis wound up with his right hand and punched the Felix with all his might on the side of the head, a perfect temple shot with the strength of an earthquake. The Felix’s head rolled back, and she stumbled a few feet in a daze, her hair flying about. Vengelis could not believe the machine remained standing. The punch had been strong enough to level a mountain. The ringing sound of the impact of his fist with her head resonated like a deep gong, as though her skull was made of iron. Pain radiated up Vengelis’s forearm. He immediately shook it off, clenching his fist without showing the slightest grimace. Nothing was broken. If machines did not feel pain, neither did he.
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