The Fulgurite Cathedral

In addition to his eyes, Nicolas's new reality's raw, ragged senses told him that the island breathed like a machine. The scar from the stranger's lightning strike was still evident, pulsing through the ground like an unseen current. He could feel it, a faint hum in the air, a metallic taste on his tongue—a static charge that was invisible to the human eye. He saw schools of small silver-scaled fish line up in the shallows, all moving toward the current. As though pulled by a soft, invisible magnet, a broken fragment of driftwood, a bottle covered in moss, or even a wet shoe from a vanished planet all drifted slowly and unabatedly.

He felt the little pull as he lifted a forked branch and dipped its tip into the surf. Despite not being a compass, it behaved as one, exposing the system's warped and malfunctioning mechanics. Years of following leads had sharpened his journalistic instincts, which now combined with this fresh insight to propel him above simple observation. A tale, a cause, or a query that required an answer was revealed by this breadcrumb trail.

He followed the track uphill, away from the coast, and into the center of the island. A landscape of sand, glittering like powdered glass, replaced the thinning trees. Here, the air became sharper and thinner, carrying the clean, unmistakable smell of ozone. The building that arose in front of him was difficult to describe. From one vantage point, it appeared like a massive, lone column that reached toward the storm-grey sky. From a different angle, the mountain appeared hollowed out, with its peak chopped off. A thousand years of lightning strikes, each of which melted and fused the ground into a towering pile of vitrified, glass-like stone, created the monument known as the Fulgurite Cathedral. It hummed like a live engine inside, but from the outside it was a marvel of nature.

The cathedral's lifeblood reverberated from within in a deep, rhythmic thrum. Nicolas entered a world of crystalline hallways through a ragged, arched door. Through the translucent walls, he could see the veins of raw power, throbbing with a pale blue light and flowing like rivers. He moved in silence as his eyes adjusted to the darkness and saw the evidence of a weird occupant: wires tucked away in crevices, battery casings empty, the twisted frame of a corroded control panel—all of it placed with a sense of purpose that was at once ingenious and insane. He became aware that the tiny light bubbles hanging inside the glass walls were moving as his vision improved. They floated like ghostly jellyfish, their faint hums whispering just beyond his ear. They were electric ghosts, semi-sentient leftovers created from the residue of the lightning.

As he approached the central room of the cathedral, he noticed them. With his hands folded in front of him and a beatific, frightening smile on his face, the man—Volta—sat next to a cage made of flawless crystal. Wide and unblinking, his eyes blazed with a fearful, ecstatic focus. Pazzo was inside the cage, appearing awake but exhausted, staring at Volta as though each word were a variable in a complicated equation. A third Zinox stood behind them both, his demeanor composed and unimpressed. Harmon had to be here. The brightness in his eyes was more of a constant, determined glow than a fire.

The electric ghosts swirled around Volta as he leaned down and spoke to them, his voice a disconcerting mix of prophetic certainty and madman's joy. His voice reverberated around the room as he cooed, "Ah, my old friends." "We have been blessed by the system, which has let loose the inner storm! However, you are the one who is cursed! All you are is decaying meat. You won't tolerate our contact.

Pazzo twisted his lips into a sour grin as he observed him. "Blessed us?" he said, with a tone of intellectual contempt. "Or did you, Volta, think this frantic outburst was a god you created yourself?"

With joyful fire in his eyes, Volta's head jerked toward him. "You are a man of science, Pazzo. Now I am more than a storm in the desert. I'll take your thoughts and your theories, and I'll burn them. My voice will be heard on this island, and I will weave a new web—a lightning network—based on your expertise! It will enable us to climb, it will hold the system hostage, and it will burn forever!

Silently, Harmon nodded once, purposefully. He was an essential component of Volta's scheme; his movements were robotic but genuine. The odd coalition was obvious: Harmon was the steadfast enforcer, Pazzo was the source of wisdom, and Volta was the Messiah.

In Volta's outstretched palm, the electric ghosts danced and occasionally merged into a spark, their combined hum rising like a choir that was both incredibly eerie and lovely. Nicolas felt a knot of intrigue and danger tighten in his chest. Behind the face in the picture was always the true story, and it seemed deadly here, in this lightning temple.

He needed to take action. As he looked about, he noticed a circuit board partially buried in a crack, with traces of rusted copper still visible. The notion was sparked by a survivor, not a journalist. With a sudden burst of bravery, he picked up a stray piece of metal and gently touched it between two exposed connections. A quick, piercing flash. A sudden buzz. The veins of crystal pulsed to a new rhythm for a moment. Volta's preaching faltered, and the electric ghosts dispersed like frightened birds.

"Who's there?" There was a glimmer of astonishment in Volta's voice, a break in his heavenly poise.

However, his astonishment turned into a broad, rapacious smile as the spirits gathered around him again. A surprise was just the cherry on top of entertainment for him. He raised his fists to the sky and yelled, "Ah," his voice booming. "Were we looking for a new brother?" The air became heavy with the scent of ozone, and the ghosts surrounding him grew more intense, forming a shimmering net. As the bars of the crystal cage started to glow with a ravenous blue fire, Nicolas's hair stood on edge.

He didn't have time to reflect. Volta's power struck out, encircling his neck and shoulders with a chain of unadulterated electricity. The burning pain came first, followed by a cold that spread from the heat. Volta hurled a tiny, crystalline thing into the air before he could react, and it stuck to the back of his neck with a terrible snap. The wires of the frigid apparatus stuck to his flesh like spider legs. He attempted to scream, but his throat choked the sound.

Volta stepped forward, the strength of a growing deity gleaming in his eyes. He laughed as he said, "Welcome, brother." Let us now experience a new birth. Together.

Nicolas was brutally dragged toward Pazzo's cage as he made the gesture. Once more, he was saved by his reflexes. He threw himself to the side, rolling into an open area as a premonition—the spectral overlay of a second, more violent shockwave—flamed in his thoughts. The crystalline gadget on his neck punished him for the movement, sending a succession of tiny, convulsive shocks through his muscles, making his mind seem as though it were splitting in two, yet he was spared the worst of the blast.

Pazzo's face abruptly transformed. There was no longer any fatigue, only astute calculation. A new, unexpected chance glinted in his eyes as they met Nicolas's. Pazzo's voice was a low, crystal-clear whisper that broke through the cacophony of Volta's passionate tirades.

With a voice tailored specifically for Volta, he urged, "Listen to me." You have a lot of ambition, Volta. However, enormous ambition breeds great mistakes. You must first stabilize that rudimentary little gizmo of yours if you want to "transform" us. You can then hope.

Volta shouted with laughter and threw back his head. "This is the match! I'm already a strong contender! Our names came from the system! Our power came from it! Everything that has a soul will be rewritten, and I will take it back!