Chapter 63: Chapter 63: The Science of Exorcism

The heavy iron alloy of the pressure-control door was screaming. The sound of thousands of demonic claws scratching against the outer surface was no longer a mere noise; it was a rhythmic, soul-shredding vibration that felt like a giant rusted file attempting to split Dayat’s eardrums. Inside the Auxiliary Steam Control Room, the light was in its death throes. The only illumination came from the erratic, orange sparks of a leaking high-pressure pipe and the pulsating sapphire circuitry running along Dola’s synthetic arms.

The sickening, copper-heavy stench of Dretch blood began to seep through the jagged tears in the metal, mixing with the sweltering, humid steam that made every breath a struggle. Dayat wiped a thick layer of sweat and soot from his forehead with a sleeve already ruined by machine oil and gunpowder. His lungs burned, not just from the heat, but from the lingering black miasma that even the room’s ventilation couldn’t fully purge.

He turned his gaze toward Lunethra. The ancient Elf lay slumped against a stack of rusted reserve pipes, her chest heaving in shallow, desperate hitches. Her porcelain skin was translucent, almost ghostly under the dim light. As Dayat moved instinctively to pull her into a more comfortable position and check her thready pulse, a cold, vice-like grip clamped onto his shoulder.

“I will facilitate the biological stabilization, Master,” Dola’s voice cut through the mechanical cacophony. It was flat, clinical, and carried an undeniable undertone of iron-clad authority.

Without waiting for Dayat’s consent, Dola hauled Lunethra’s limp body into her own lap. She supported the Elf’s head with a grip that looked more like a scientist handling a fragile, albeit annoying, specimen than a gesture of compassion. Dola’s electric-blue eyes stared down at Lunethra’s pale face with a flickering intensity—a gaze that held a needle-sharp edge of rivalry, an emotion her logic circuits were struggling to categorize as anything other than ’territorial optimization.’

“Your physical contact with this Elven unit will only result in a 12.4% decrease in your tactical focus and cognitive readiness,” Dola stated, her sensors locked on Dayat. She then pressed her fingers against Lunethra’s carotid artery, emitting a microscopic, high-frequency energy pulse to stimulate the Elf’s faltering heart. “Endure, organic regenerative unit. Do not allow my Husband to feel the inefficiency of guilt due to your functional collapse.”

“Dola, take it easy on her,” Dayat whispered, though he didn’t pull away. He knew Dola’s coldness was her way of protecting his mental state, even if it was wrapped in a layer of synthetic jealousy.

Dayat turned his attention back to the door. The center of the steel slab was beginning to glow a dull, angry red as the sheer mass of bodies on the other side pressed against it. In the gaps between fear and desperation, his mind—sharpened by the Source Code—began to accelerate. He analyzed the environment with the eyes of an engineer. He noticed the steam pipes surrounding them; specifically, the area around Pipe Number Four, which had a massive, hissing leak.

The floor around that localized heat-jet was pristine. There were no black claw marks, no Abyssal ichor. The Dretches, despite their savage hunger, were intentionally avoiding that concentrated point of thermal energy.

“Dola, situational analysis. Why are the entities avoiding the thermal discharge of Pipe Four?”

“Analysis complete,” Dola replied, her eyes never leaving the unconscious Elf in her arms. “Dretch physiology consists of 70% high-moisture Abyssal biological matter. Ambient temperatures exceeding 400 degrees Celsius cause instantaneous evaporation of their protective mucous membranes. Technically, they are hyper-sensitive to concentrated, sustained thermal trauma. Their biology is built for the cold vacuum of the Void, not the industrial hell of a steam forge.”

Dayat offered a thin, predatory smirk. “Lun’s light magic might push them back, but Earth’s physics is going to burn them to the goddamn bedrock. Dola, I need the technical specifications for the M2 Flamethrower. I don’t just need the frame—I need the precise molecular weight for Napalm-B. I need a fuel that sticks, a fire that breathes, and a flame that refuses to be extinguished by shadow.”

“Initiating fragmented data transfer: [Thermal Weaponry & Pressurized Fuel Chemistry]. Warning: Localized oxygen depletion is imminent upon activation.”

Zzt!

Dayat squeezed his eyes shut for a heartbeat. A sharp, electric sting lanced through his temples. It wasn’t the paralyzing agony of a full data dump, just a minor neurological throb that vanished as quickly as it appeared. Schematics of pressurized steel cylinders, regulator valves, and the chemical recipe for Napalm-B—a viscous mixture of polystyrene, benzene, and gasoline—flooded his consciousness.

“Enough. I have the logic,” Dayat muttered.

He thrust both hands forward into the humid air. The sapphire-blue light of manifestation erupted with a brilliance that surpassed his previous feats, greedily absorbing the ambient Mana from the stagnant air. Slowly, a heavy, intimidating device of blackened steel and polished brass began to coalesce. A twin-tank backpack system materialized first, followed by the thick, reinforced rubber hose leading to a long-barreled fuel projector.

The M2 Flamethrower.

“Big Bro Dayat… what is that monster?” Kancil asked from the corner of the room. The boy clutched his Glock 17 with trembling hands, his wounded shoulder bound in a tattered, oil-stained cloth. There were no tears in his eyes—only the raw, sharpened survival instinct of a Bakasa street-urchin.

“This, Kancil, is the science of exorcism,” Dayat replied, his voice dropping into a lethal, low register.

Dayat shouldered the heavy tanks, the weight grounding his nerves. He leveled the projector at the door, which was now buckling inward. The stench from the other side was overpowering now—a nauseating cocktail of rot, rust, and entropy. He felt a wave of disgust, but his emotions were being numbed by a cold, encroaching necessity.

Suddenly, a voice that was not Dola’s whispered in the deepest, darkest corner of Dayat’s mind. It lasted only a second, yet it felt like an eternity of cold starlight.

—Simply erase these shameless, low-born insects from my sight.

Dayat flinched, his heart skipping a beat. It was a flash of The Maiden’s lingering consciousness. He shook his head violently, suppressing the alien bloodlust that threatened to override his own will.

“Dola, the temperature in here is about to hit triple digits. Can your chassis handle the radiant heat?”

“My internal cooling systems will experience a surge to 85 degrees Celsius. It is not recommended for prolonged exposure, Dayat. However, compared to the alternative of being consumed by primitive Abyssal organisms, I prefer the heat. Please… incinerate them,” Dola answered, her voice carrying a rare, sharp edge of anticipation.

“Copy that. Kancil, get down behind Dola! Now!”

Dayat kicked the manual release on the steel bracing bar. BRAKK!

The door burst open under the immense pressure, and dozens of Dretches, previously packed like sardines in the hallway, surged inward like a tidal wave of black ink. Dayat didn’t retreat a single inch. He braced his legs, leaned into the weight of the weapon, and pulled the secondary trigger to ignite the pilot light, followed by the main lever.

WHUUUUUUSSSSSHHHHH!!!

A gargantuan tongue of roiling, orange-white flame erupted from the nozzle, lancing through the darkness of the corridor. The liquid fire behaved like a vengeful dragon, clinging to every inch of the demons’ bodies. Through the GPNVG-18 goggles, Dayat witnessed a scene that was both horrific and deeply satisfying. The Dretches didn’t just burn; they underwent a violent phase-change. Their internal fluids evaporated so rapidly that their bodies literally detonated from the inside out.

Their shrieks filled the corridor—a high-frequency, glass-shattering wail of pure agony. The demons were transformed into screaming, walking torches before collapsing into smoldering heaps of oily black ash.

“Vanish! Every last one of you!” Dayat roared, the roar of the fire masking his own voice.

He swept the flame in a wide, lethal arc, clearing the corridor from left to right. However, the laws of thermodynamics were already demanding their price. The temperature inside the small control room skyrocketed. The steam pipes on the ceiling began to vibrate with a violent, rhythmic thrumming. The pressure gauges on the wall spun wildly into the deep red zones.

“Warning! Steam pressure in this sector has reached a critical threshold! Thermal expansion will cause a localized boiler explosion in 40 seconds!” Dola shrieked over the roar of the fire, her arms still wrapped tightly around Lunethra.

“Shit! The pipes are going to blow because of the flamethrower’s heat!” Dayat realized the paradox. If he kept firing, the room would become a steam bomb that would vaporize them all.

In the midst of the thermal chaos, Lunethra, still cradled in Dola’s arms, cracked her eyes open. She saw Dayat silhouetted against the wall of fire and felt the mountain’s breath turning lethal. With the very last dregs of her strength, the Elf raised a trembling hand toward the ceiling.

“Crystalis… Refrigerare…” she whispered, her voice a raspy ghost.

A wave of thin, yet incredibly pure frost-magic emanated from her body. The spell didn’t target the demons; instead, it enveloped the glowing steam pipes, forcibly quenching the metal to prevent a catastrophic breach. A layer of delicate, shimmering frost appeared over the white-hot iron, creating a fragile, impossible balance between Dayat’s Earthly fire and the mountain’s Dwarven uap.

“Thanks, Lun! Dola, where’s the exit?!”

“Behind Steam Control Panel Number Seven! There is a high-capacity pressure-ventilation shaft leading to the secondary pipe sector. Move, Dayat! Now!”

Dayat gave one final, sustained burst of fire to create a temporary wall of Napalm in the hallway, then he spun around. He hauled Kancil to his feet while Dola, with a burst of robotic efficiency, hoisted Lunethra’s body over her shoulder—still with a posture that looked profoundly uncomfortable, as if she were carrying a sack of wet flour she couldn’t wait to discard.

They dove toward the panel Dola had identified. Dayat manifested a heavy-duty steel crowbar and wrenched the ventilation grate open with a grunt of exertion.

“Kancil, in first! Dola, get her in there!”

One by one, they scrambled into the narrow, pitch-black ventilation duct. Just as Dayat slammed the heavy grate shut and locked it from the inside, a deafening explosion echoed from the control room they had just abandoned. The steel door they had defended was finally vaporized as the remaining steam pressure and Napalm ignited in a final, thunderous clap.

Inside the claustrophobic darkness of the vent, only the sound of their ragged, desperate breathing remained. The smell of charred demon meat still clung to their clothes, but for now, Earth’s logic had won the round against the darkness of the Abyss.

Dayat slumped against the vibrating wall of the duct, his hands still shaking. He looked at Dola, whose sapphire eyes were the only light in the tunnel.

“We’re still alive,” Dayat panted.

“Probability of continued survival: 42%,” Dola replied, adjusting her grip on the unconscious Lunethra. “I suggest we improve those odds before the General arrives.

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