Chapter 118: Chapter 118— The Engine

Adept Goba of Outpost Kiliman was a man of substantial appetites.

Physically, he was massive—not just overweight, but deliberately, systematically enormous. Three hundred pounds minimum, possibly more. His body was a testament to decades of indulgence, rolls of flesh that most would consider shameful excess.

But Goba wore his size with pride. Because for him, every pound was power.

His soul talent—Engine—was rare, controversial, and devastatingly effective. It converted consumed calories directly into soul-force enhancement. The more he ate, the more powerful he became. His cores burned brighter, his techniques hit harder, his spiritual presence intensified.

Food is fuel, Goba often said. And I’m the most well-fueled Adept in the northern territories.

The talent had obvious drawbacks. Stop eating, and power drained rapidly. A few days of fasting could reduce an Adept to Initiate-level capability. Extended starvation would kill him more certainly than any Crawler.

So Goba had compensated with his first ability core: Tank.

The Tank core was his masterwork acquisition—rare, expensive, perfectly synergistic. It stored excess soul-force generated by his Engine talent, creating reserve capacity he could draw on during downtime. It lets him maintain a boosted Adept-level power for days without eating, converting stored energy instead of fresh fuel.

It also let him overcharge—accumulate more power than his body could naturally hold, building reserves that could be explosively released during combat.

His second core—Electric Hand—was almost poetically appropriate. Electricity manipulation that transformed his strikes into devastating shock attacks. And when combined with his Engine talent?

What happens when sparks meet fuel?

Combustion. Explosive force. Techniques that could level buildings or incinerate Crawler swarms.

And his third, most dangerous core: Overcharge

.

It did exactly what the name suggested—pushed his Engine beyond safe limits, burning through stored reserves and fresh fuel simultaneously to create temporary power spikes that rivaled Elite-level capability.

The cost was brutal. Tissue damage. Organ stress. Days of recovery. Using Overcharge meant accepting that you’d be crippled afterward, gambling that the explosive power would end the fight before the backlash killed you.

Goba had used it twice in his career. Both times, he’d needed weeks to recover. Both times, he’d sworn never again unless absolutely necessary.

But having the option, he often thought, that’s what separates Adepts who survive from Adepts who die.

—–

Lieutenant Kress entered Adept Goba’s office without knocking—standard practice for an urgent report, though he usually tried to time his arrivals for moments when the Adept wasn’t… occupied.

There was no such luck today.

Goba was bent over his desk, his massive frame dwarfing the woman beneath him—Serra, one of Kiliman’s administrative staff, her uniform pushed up around her waist, her face flushed with exertion and something that might have been pleasure or might have been a strategic performance.

Fucking hell, Kress thought, though his expression remained professionally neutral. Every damn time I need to give an urgent update, he’s balls-deep in someone.

Goba didn’t stop his rhythmic thrusting, didn’t even slow down. Just turned his head slightly to acknowledge Kress’s presence.

“Lieutenant,” he panted, still moving. “This better be important.”

“Vester’s under attack, sir,” Kress said flatly, his eyes fixed on a point above Goba’s head, studiously ignoring the sounds of flesh meeting flesh. “They’re requesting immediate reinforcements from northern outposts.”

That got Goba’s attention. His thrusting stopped mid-stroke.

“Vester?” he repeated, pulling out of Serra with wet sounds that made Kress’s professionalism waver. “You’re sure?”

“Communication came through House Aurin emergency channels. Confirmed by Republic command.” Kress handed over the dispatch documents. “Covenant forces, Crawler emergence—an ant colony to be precise, apparently—and significant casualties. They need support.”

Goba pulled up his pants—enormous custom garments designed to accommodate his bulk—and studied the dispatch with sudden, sharp focus that belied his usual lazy demeanor.

“Vester,” he muttered again, his mind processing implications. “That’s where the Crownhold is stationed. And Rowan. And—” His eyes widened. “—and that Atheon fellow. The Fist of Men. The one who lost Grim Hollow and got reassigned there indefinitely.”

“Yes, sir. Three Adepts in one outpost, and they’re still requesting reinforcements.” Kress’s tone suggested the severity was significant. “Whatever’s happening must be substantial.”

Goba’s calculating mind—often hidden beneath layers of hedonistic excess—engaged fully.

Three Adepts in Vester. All competent, at minimum. Atheon especially was a renowned combatant, had earned his “Fist of Men” title through decades of brutal effectiveness.

If they’re calling for help despite having three Adepts on-site, Goba thought, looks like shit has already hit the fan.

“Serra, get dressed and leave,” Goba ordered, his voice suddenly carrying authority that made the administrative assistant scramble to comply. “Kress, assemble a response team. I want our top three squads ready to deploy within the hour. Full combat loadout, anti-Crawler equipment, and someone bring me food.”

“Food, sir?”

“I’m going into a potentially dangerous combat zone. I need to be fully charged.” Goba moved toward his personal armory, already stripping off his casual clothes to don combat gear. “Get me everything from the officer’s mess. Meat, bread, whatever they’ve got. I’ll eat while we prepare.”

Kress saluted and departed, already shouting orders into communication mirrors.

Serra finished dressing, started to leave, then hesitated at the door.

“Will you be safe?” she asked quietly. “Going to Vester, I mean.”

Goba looked at her—really looked, seeing past the administrative assistant he’d been fucking to the person who’d shared his bed often enough to develop something approaching actual concern.

“Probably not,” he admitted. “But that’s the job. Adepts go where the crisis is worst. That’s why we get the privileges.”

“The privileges like requisitioning women whenever you want?”

There was edge in her voice. Not quite accusation. More like… clarification of terms.

“Among other things.” Goba’s honesty was almost refreshing in its bluntness. “I have power. People gravitate toward it. Some for advancement, some for protection, some because fucking an Adept makes them feel important. I don’t judge motivations. I just accept what’s offered.”

“And if I wasn’t offering anymore?”

“Then you wouldn’t be in my office.” Simple. Transactional. “But you keep coming back, Serra. For your own reasons. So we both get what we need.”

She nodded slowly, accepting the brutal clarity of their arrangement. Then left without further comment.

Goba returned to preparing for war, his mind already calculating combat scenarios, fuel requirements, the odds of surviving whatever crisis had three Adepts requesting backup.

Vester, he thought. Always knew that posting would be trouble. Northern territories, political tensions, too many competing interests crammed into one defensive perimeter.

And now it’s on fire.

Well. Time to earn my reputation.

—–

Within thirty minutes, Kiliman’s response force assembled in the main courtyard.

Three full squads—thirty soldiers total—all Initiate-rank minimum, equipped with anti-Crawler weapons, soul-force ammunition, enchanted armor. The best Kiliman could muster on short notice.

And Adept Goba, standing before them like a mountain of flesh and power, consuming food with methodical efficiency.

He’d had the mess staff bring everything—roasted meat, bread, preserved fruits, high-calorie field rations. He ate with single-minded focus, his Engine talent converting every bite directly into stored power.

His Tank core hummed in his chest, accumulating reserves, building capacity for whatever combat awaited.

The assembled soldiers watched with mixed expressions—some awe, some disgust, all recognition that they were witnessing something fundamental about their commander.

This is what makes him Adept, they understood. Not just the cores. The willingness to be what the talent requires. Even when what it requires is grotesque.

“Listen up!” Goba’s voice carried across the courtyard, amplified by soul-force projection. “Vester’s under a coordinated assault. Covenant forces, Crawler emergence, casualties are mounting. They have three Adepts on-site and they’re still calling for help. That tells you how bad this is.”

He paused to consume an entire roasted chicken in four massive bites, barely chewing.

“We’re deploying immediately. Travel time is approximately six hours at forced march. We arrive, we assess, we engage as directed by senior Adepts on-site. This is not a glory-seeking mission. This is an emergency reinforcement. We support, we stabilize, we survive. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!” the soldiers chorused.

“Kiliman stays defended by the garrison forces. Lieutenant Kress maintains command during my absence. Any Crawler activity gets reported immediately through the standard channels.” Goba finished another plate, his Tank core now humming audibly with accumulated power. “Questions?”

“Sir,” one squad leader spoke up. “Rules of engagement regarding the cultists?”

“Standard protocols. They’re armed combatants attacking Republic assets. Eliminate on sight, no mercy, no hesitation.” Goba’s expression hardened. “Fanatics don’t surrender. Don’t negotiate. They die or you die. Choose appropriately.”

“What about political complications?” Another soldier asked. “Vester’s a known sinkhole for noble power struggles.”

“You ignore it completely,” Goba said flatly. “I’ll handle any political complications. Your job is killing threats and protecting Republic soldiers. Everything else is above your pay grade.”

He consumed one final plate—enough calories to sustain a normal human for three days, converted instantly into soul-force reserves that made the air around him shimmer.

“Move out!” Goba commanded. “Double-time march. I want to reach Vester before dim light.”

The response force departed Kiliman with military precision, leaving behind an outpost that suddenly felt emptier, more vulnerable.

Kress watched them leave, already dreading the reports he’d have to file, the logistics he’d have to manage, the responsibility of maintaining Kiliman’s defenses with reduced forces.

Better him than me, Kress thought, watching Goba’s massive form disappear into darkness. Whatever’s happening in Vester, it’ll take someone like him to fix it.

Or kill him trying.

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