Inquisitor Malakor was a monster of steel, dark rock, and corrupted flesh.
Standing over four meters tall, the Judge moved on four high-pressure crawler-limbs capped with heavy dark metal digging claws. His upper torso was wrapped in an armored exoskeleton forged from black lunar alloys and grafted with the pulsing violet hard shell of deep-rift parasites. Across his broad, hunchbacked shoulders, two exhaust chimneys vented high-pressure plumes of white-hot sulfur vapor into the transit hall, shimmering under the amber emergency lights.
In his main manipulator arms, Malakor swung a pair of twin-linked chain-glaives. The three-meter blades hummed with high-hum spatial shakes, their serrated edges blurred into semi-clear sheets of lethal energy capable of cleaving armored inner walls like parchment.
Behind his heavy see-through faceplate, Malakor’s face was a pale, desiccated mask stitched with wired tracking data nodes. His compound sight sensors locked directly onto Arthur Vance.
“The tamer,” Malakor’s voice grated over the open comms, a harsh burst of sound static that set Arthur’s teeth on edge. “You’re the living nexus. Sever the brain, and the beasts become feral cattle.”
“Decapitation doctrine,” Arthur muttered, his fingers shifting along the receiver of his ARC-7. “They always try it.”
Malakor didn’t hesitate. His rear high-pressure pistons tightly packed with a sickening hiss of high-pressure fluid, then released in an explosive burst of clockwork force.
