Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Five: ‘Thy temperate descent...’
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Hector felt like some kind of robot in this thing. And not a cool robot, either. A robot that could barely move or function at all, was his impression.
‘Agh, this shit is so heavy,’ he thought.
‘That’s because you’re basically wearing a refrigerator on your back,’ said Garovel.
Sounded about right. ‘How are the non-servants supposed to move around in these suits?’ Hector asked.
‘They’re not,’ the reaper said. ‘Their suits are much newer and lighter. But the Sandlords don’t have enough for everyone. So you get the old and shitty one.’
‘Heh. Be thankful you get a suit at all. At least you’ll get to see the Undercrust this way.’
Hector tried to stand up, but the bulky suit resisted too much, and he just kind of settled awkwardly back down. He eyed Garovel through the visor in his helmet.
‘Just think of it as training. Like you’re wearing heavy armor. And building muscle mass.’
‘Does muscle mass even matter for servants?’
‘Kinda. If you arm wrestled Dimas, for instance, and you both were using your super human strength, he’d probably still beat you, ‘cuz he has more natural muscle mass.’
‘Huh...’ A weird example, sure, but Hector hadn’t thought about it that way before. He’d been under the impression that doing push ups and stuff like that was a complete waste of time, but he supposed now that it wasn’t. He’d have to remember that whenever he found time to train again.
He looked over to the other side of the room and saw the huge containers being carted in. Climate-controlled pods, Hector knew. Garovel had told him about them earlier. With so many non-servants needing to make the trip through the Undercrust, some would have to do so in medically-induced comas, packed together in cooling chambers like sardines.