Eyes of the Inverted Lotus

The cavern stretched wider than the horizon, swallowing sound and light alike.And there, suspended in its hollow throat, hung a city turned on its head.

Towers jutted downward like spears, bridges dangled into the void, and entire streets clung to the cavern roof, as if the world above had been ripped free and nailed here in defiance of reason. Water flowed in reverse, streams climbing toward the ceiling before dissolving into drifting silver mist. Shards of fallen stone floated sideways, never settling, caught in a gravity that no longer obeyed the earth.

At the heart of it all, a temple hung inverted above the abyss — vast, black, and whole, its gates yawning downward like the open jaws of some ancient beast.

From its shadowed threshold, a figure emerged. Cloaked. Steady. The inverted lotus glimmered on his chest, stitched in dull silver.

He walked along the ceiling as though it were the ground, each step measured, unhurried. Below him — or above him — the ruin sprawled in impossible silence.

At the path's edge, a sound broke the stillness.

Clatter.

Bones rolled across the stone, clicking and skipping until a pale hand gathered them up again. A figure lounged on an inverted archway, one leg swinging, skull fragments tumbling between his fingers like dice.

"You're back already?" The voice drifted out of the dark — smooth, hollow, touched with amusement. "And where is your partner?"

The walker didn't answer. Didn't even slow his pace.

His pale hand broke the stillness first, long nails catching the glow of the lanterns as bones clicked softly between his fingers. He sat crooked, black hair hanging in wild tufts that crossed his face like an uneven X. Two horns curled forward from his skull, twisted like a goat's, shadow cutting across them in jagged arcs.

Then the light reached his eyes.

They were wrong. Sclera drowned in pitch. Irises stark white. And through the middle, a vertical slit of black carved sharp as a blade. It was a gaze that bent the natural order, a gaze no tale, no scripture, no bloodline had ever dared to claim.

"Mm. Silence. That's fine," he murmured, turning the bones over his knuckles with delicate care, almost reverence. "That's why I envy the dead… no questions, no excuses. Just the purity of what's left when the rest decays. Beautiful bones."

The fragments clicked like teeth in the quiet. His pale cheeks warmed faintly, a blush that looked wrong against skin so cold. His smile didn't shift, but his voice dropped lower — softer, more intimate, as if confiding in the bones themselves.

"…You living things," he breathed, eyes gleaming. "So fragile. So warm. Your ribs split like wet bark… your skulls open with the gentlest pressure. And then…" His fingers tapped the knuckle of a femur, almost lovingly. "…all that's left is the music of bone against bone. Pure and eternal."

The walker passed beneath him without a word, footsteps fading into the cavernous dark.

The echo lingered, following him through the hollow streets, until at last the temple came into view — suspended upside down, vast and terrible. Its towers braided with roots, its stones etched with faint sigils, it seemed less constructed than grown out of the abyss.

He approached the pool at its heart and sank to one knee, head bowed low.

"My report."

Across the water, a cloaked figure reclined on a throne half-consumed by shadow. Their hood swallowed the light, while faint etchings on the temple walls pulsed like a heartbeat — language older than memory.

The kneeling figure lowered his head.

"The Hollow Veins stir. Whispers have deepened, carrying the weight of growls. The lower crescent festers in unrest, and the people are restless." His tone darkened. "But this is not the reason I returned so soon."

A sound — like wind sliding across glass — stirred from the throne.

The figure's voice sharpened with weight. "There is a man. I first crossed him in the Hollow Veins, thought him a stray. Yet now, he stands under the direct command of the Crown — placed at the side of the king's highest sword."

He let the words settle before continuing, quieter, heavier. "His eyes… one black. One green. They defy everything the system was built upon. His very existence threatens not only the Crown's order, but also us."

The pool shivered, ripples bending light across the cavern ceiling.

"That is why I thought it wise to inform you first. This is a matter of importance." His head lowered further, tone edged with steel. "Shall I eliminate him?"

Silence.

The weight that followed was suffocating. Like thought itself had gained mass.

At last, a single word. Smooth as dust sliding over stone.

"No."

The word hung suspended, a blade that had chosen not to fall.

"Observe him."

The voice was strange — neither young nor old, folding around the chamber rather than cutting through it.

The kneeling figure remained still, though his breath shifted faintly. "May I ask… the reasoning?"

"Our plans may change," the voice said at last, calm and absolute.

"The Crown trembles. This tournament will be used as the catalysator for change."

"A pawn moves where it is pushed. A spark dies where the wind chooses. But something new… something born outside the order of blood and seal… walks its own path. And choice, in a world built on obedience, is more dangerous than any sword."

The pool rippled once, faint as breath.

"Right now, Kazuo is contradiction itself. A fracture in the order. But is he curse… or possibility?"

The name struck like a stone in still water. The kneeling figure's head dipped lower.

He already knew his name? Of course he did. As expected.

Then came the command, slow and immovable:

"Observe him. Do not interfere. When the tournament ends, we will decide if he is threat… or an advantage."

Nothing more followed.

The kneeling figure straightened, cloak whispering as he turned. A shaft of sunlight broke through the fissure above, catching his eyes — a fleeting glint before the shadows swallowed him whole.

Blood and ash burned in his gaze, yet the light of the moon caught there too — a reflection that did not belong in this world. It was a sight no scripture had named, no lineage had borne, something that should never have existed.

Days later — beneath the palace

The ghost-torches burned low, blue flames whispering against the cracked stone. Frost laced the walls, puddles glimmered faintly across the floor, and a haze of mist clung to the air.

Kazuo stood with one hand raised, breathing steady.

Water gathered. It swirled at his feet first, then coiled upward, twisting into a spiral that climbed like a column of glass. The vortex bent inward — tighter, cleaner — its body trembling but holding.

Setsuna leaned lazily on his sword, watching. "Better. Remember what I told you."

Kazuo's jaw tightened. "Shape it."

"Exactly."

The spiral hissed as droplets spun loose, its pull rattling the floor. For a moment, it was almost beautiful — focused power, not just force.

But then Kazuo's grip faltered. The water buckled, edges blurring, the shape unraveling.

Setsuna moved without hurry. His blade snapped once through the air.

The vortex froze solid mid-collapse, its thrashing coils locked in jagged ice before they shattered harmlessly to the floor.

Mist billowed out, the room breathing silence again.

Kazuo dropped to one knee, teeth gritted. "Damn it—"

Setsuna's voice cut through, "This wasn't half bad. You're getting there. Keep at it, and by the time the tournament arrives, I'm sure you'll have it mastered."

Kazuo looked up, chest heaving.

Setsuna exhaled, easing out of stance. He slid his sword back into its sheath with a quiet click. "That's enough for today. Tomorrow, no training."

Kazuo frowned. "Why?"

"The opening ceremony's the day after." A faint smirk tugged at Setsuna's mouth. "And I don't want you showing up worn out and filthy, making me look like some cruel bastard who grinds his recruits into the dirt. The ceremony isn't a fight. You'll meet the other squad captains, the participants, sit through a few speeches. It's all just formality, nothing more."

Kazuo's eyes narrowed. "That means I'll meet Rulthan again."

"The one from Vaskel's squad," Setsuna confirmed. "Sora told me what happened at the tavern. You'll definitely see him."

Kazuo let out a slow breath. Even with so much at stake — his future, Gramps, everything — a spark stirred inside him. Against his better judgment, he felt it.

Excitement.

But before dawn touched the palace spires the following day, Setsuna descended into the Lower Crescent — to pay a quiet visit to a certain man.