The stench of blood permeated the air as Muria strolled leisurely through the test arena, sidestepping attacks from the feral beasts released by the base. With each swing of his God Machine, he dispatched these so-called "wild beasts" as easily as slicing through butter.
"Fenrir, the God Machine you're using is a seventh-generation model with three distinct forms. So far, you've been using the close-combat sword form. You should try activating its mid- to long-range cannon form," a voice from the observation room instructed, guiding Muria as he continued his combat tests.
From their vantage point, the observers had witnessed Muria's nearly inhuman combat performance in close range. However, they weren't too surprised—occasionally, exceptional individuals emerged among the compatible candidates. It happened often enough that they had become desensitized to it.
Strictly speaking, Muria's performance wasn't extraordinary. The beasts being used for testing weren't particularly strong, and their extended captivity meant they had weakened over time, regardless of how well they were fed.
"A multi-form biological weapon? Interesting," Muria muttered. He followed the instructions, activating the cannon form of his God Machine. In an instant, the weapon rapidly transformed, and a sleek, black barrel extended from its frame.
Boom!
A blue energy projectile, as thick as a fist, shot out from the God Machine, slamming into an approaching beast. The blast tore through the creature's chitinous armor, disintegrated its flesh, and shattered its bones.
The single shot obliterated the beast, leaving it dead on the spot.
However, instead of satisfaction, Muria frowned. The payoff didn't justify the cost.
Throughout this test, Muria had only used the God Machine to fight. The energy for his sword strikes came from the God Machine itself, and his contribution was merely the physical stamina to wield it.
Once the God Machine's energy was depleted, it would become nothing more than a glorified metal club. And without energy, a God Machine user was no different from an ordinary human, albeit a physically stronger one.
In fact, without a charged God Machine, the combat prowess of a God Machine user was often inferior to that of a well-trained soldier with conventional firearms.
Efficiency was key. A God Machine user needed to maximize their impact before the weapon's energy ran out.
And in Muria's assessment, the cannon form was a suicidal choice. Its energy consumption far exceeded that of the sword form.
The beast he had just destroyed with the cannon could have been killed just as effectively with a single energy slash from the sword form, achieving the same result but at a fraction of the energy cost.
However, the cannon form wasn't without its merits. While the sword form required significant training to master—at least ten years to reach Muria's current level—the cannon form was much simpler to use. As long as the user could withstand the recoil and pull the trigger, they could wreak havoc.
The cannon form was straightforward and effective but came with a fatal flaw: it drained energy at an alarming rate.
"Fenrir, activate the final form: Devour Mode. This is a forbidden form designed for emergencies," the voice from the observation room instructed again, this time more serious.
"When the God Machine's energy is nearly depleted, and you're surrounded by enemies, you may resort to this form. But unless it's absolutely necessary, do not use it."
"How do I activate it?" Muria asked, frowning. While he had reservations about the cannon form's energy consumption, he had still fired over a dozen shots—partly out of curiosity and partly for the satisfaction of unleashing its destructive power.
"I hope this will be the first and last time you use this form," the voice continued, almost like a prayer.
Muria initiated the forbidden Devour Mode, and a guttural roar echoed throughout the arena.
He watched as his God Machine disassembled itself, revealing the pulsating, fleshy core within. The flesh, glowing with a sinister crimson hue, began to extend outward, forming a grotesque, gaping maw.
Without any input from Muria, the God Machine lunged at the nearest beast corpse, devouring it whole.
"Impressive," Muria muttered. With just one consumption, he could feel the God Machine's energy rapidly replenishing.
But he also understood why this form was considered forbidden. After consuming the beast, the God Machine's core grew stronger, and the malevolent consciousness he had previously suppressed began to resurface, more powerful than before.
However, this consciousness, having tasted defeat once, now cowered within the God Machine, too fearful to challenge Muria again.
For other users, though, the outcome would likely be very different.
Each time the Devour Mode was activated, the God Machine grew stronger. In theory, it could be strengthened infinitely. But no user dared to repeatedly unleash this form without restraint.
The God Machine, crafted from the flesh of heretic god minions, was inherently a weapon of chaos—a blade that would sooner or later turn on its wielder. The stronger it became, the greater the danger it posed to its user.
Of course, this danger didn't apply to Muria. Even if the God Machine were made from the flesh of an actual heretic god, he wouldn't flinch. He had the power to suppress it entirely.
"God Machine Azure shows no signs of defects. Fenrir's seamless mastery can only be attributed to his exceptionally strong willpower," the researcher concluded in the observation room.
"Strong willpower, huh?" the officer mused. "Does that mean Fenrir could use Devour Mode repeatedly without being consumed?"
"In theory, yes. But we never recommend relying on the forbidden form as a regular combat strategy. It's a last resort."
The researcher adjusted his glasses, his expression grave.
"I understand that. Every time a God Machine user activates Devour Mode, they edge closer to their own demise. But I want hard data—how many times can someone like Fenrir use it before losing control?"
"There's no precise answer," the researcher replied coldly.
"Surely there's an estimate. You've got records of past users. Can't you cross-reference them with Fenrir's profile?"
"No comment."
"You're not helping. If you won't tell me, I'll ask someone else."
"Then go ask them. But remember this: God Machine users are humanity's heroes, not expendable tools."
"Heroes, yes. And how long do these 'heroes' typically survive? Ten years, if they're lucky?" The officer chuckled bitterly as he left the room.
"What a pitiful world," Muria murmured as he returned to his quarters on the surface. He reclined on his bed, deep in thought. From this day forward, he was officially a God Machine user—one of humanity's so-called saviors.
"I need more information," he muttered, lifting the God Machine with one hand as if it weighed nothing.
"Meeting the researchers who created this… abomination would be ideal. If I can find the person who originally designed it, even better."
Muria had plans to create his own version of the God Machine—a new generation of weapons without the inherent risks and flaws of the current models.
The current God Machines were crude and dangerous, relying on the active, living tissue of heretic god minions. But Muria had access to an abundance of alternative materials, far superior to anything this world could provide.
He could craft weapons free from the threat of turning on their users—tools that would truly empower humanity.
Yet, his motives weren't purely altruistic. While aiding humanity would earn him the goodwill of this dying world and its nascent will, his ultimate goals lay far beyond such mundane concerns.
He wasn't here to save the world out of charity—he was here to conquer it and bend its fate to his will.
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