"Blow up the Gellar Field generator! Now! Blow it up!"
Pius's voice rang through the ship compartment, filled with hysterical terror.
For the first time, true fear appeared in his eyes—the despair that arose naturally when someone faced an insurmountable power.
He knew he could no longer complete his mission, but he would at least make his death mean something.
Destroy the Gellar Field generator, let the tides of the Warp flood into this warship, and let the Daemons finish what he had begun.
"Royst!"
Hercules's voice thundered through the ship compartment.
His gaze locked onto Royst, who understood at once.
Royst raised both hands, gathering a different form of psychic energy in each.
Golden Psychic Flame poured from his right palm, leaping and churning in the air, radiating a scorching light that warped the air around it.
His left hand released a soft psychic glow that flowed through the air like water, settling precisely over Hercules's fist and forming a golden film across his knuckles and the back of his hand.
Hercules opened his hand, his five fingers reaching into the darkness like the tines of a steel fork.
Under the psychic illumination, those shadows had nowhere to hide. He could clearly sense every ripple, every trace of presence within them.
His hand seized something with unerring precision in the darkness: Pius's body, which he had tried to slip into the shadows as his last means of escape.
Pius had no time to react.
He had not even seen how Hercules had done it.
One moment, he had been moving through the shadows; the next, a massive hand like an iron vise had forcibly dragged him out of the darkness.
His body hung helplessly in Hercules's grip like a rag doll, his struggles laughable and futile before that absolute