Chapter 29: The Burden of Salvation

Silence.

A vast, echoing silence, deeper and more profound than the darkness we just fell through. The plaza is a sea of grey, bowed heads. Hundreds of them. The only sounds are the drip-drip-drip of water from the cavern ceiling, the distant, unseen rush of the sewer river, and the ragged, desperate sound of my own breathing.

Kizawa's arm is a steel band around my waist, the only thing keeping me from collapsing. I can feel the tremors in his muscles. He is just as spent as I am, but his will is absolute. He will not fall. Therefore, I cannot.

"Yogawa," I whisper. The name is a dry crackle in my throat.

"I... I..."

Yogawa is staring, his grimoire clutched to his chest like a shield. His face is the color of old parchment. He is not looking at the kneeling Grak-ta. He is staring at me.

"A god," he breathes, his voice a mixture of pure, academic terror and hysterical awe. "They think you are a god. Mizuki, what did you do?"

"I... I just... lit a flame," I stammer.

"You lit a golden flame in a world that knows nothing but green," he hisses, his eyes wide. "You have broken every rule of their reality. You are a 'Goddess of the First Flame'. A... a deity. This is... this is catastrophically bad."

"Or," Erima's voice cuts in, calm and cold as ever. "It is our only way out of this plaza alive. Look."

She nods. The blind shaman, Vor-Kin, is pushing himself up from his prostrate position. He is old, impossibly old, his skin like a dried, grey leaf. He gets to his knees, his movements slow and pained, but he does not stand. He speaks, his voice a guttural rasp, a series of clicks and soft, flowing vowels that hurt my ears. He is not speaking to us. He is speaking at me.

"Yogawa, translate," Kizawa orders. His voice is low, but it has the sharp edge of a drawn sword.

"I cannot!" Yogawa protests. "This is not some textbook dialect! This is... this is ancient. It is the deep-world root of the First Tongue! I am only catching... fragments. 'Fire'... 'Light'... 'Salvation'... 'She-Who-Burns-Not-Green'..."

The shaman, Vor-Kin, gestures, a slow, deliberate sweep of his three-fingered hand, inviting us into his city.

"He wants us to follow," Erima says, stating the obvious.

"It is a trap," Kizawa says instantly.

"It is not a trap," Yogawa counters, his voice shaking. "It is a summons. They are not inviting us, Kizawa. They are imploring their new, terrifying god to enter the holy city. If we refuse? That is... that is blasphemy. They will not attack us. They will... offer themselves to us. Or kill themselves. I do not know! My books did not cover 'Accidental Godhood'!"

"This is insane," Hachiro mutters, but his eyes are gleaming with a scientific fervor that is just as manic as Yogawa's panic. "A completely isolated subterranean culture... their physiology... their social structure... Mizuki, this is the discovery of a lifetime! Do they have a concept of...?"

"Shut up, Hachiro!" Yogawa finally snaps. "This is not a field trip! This is a minefield! We have to play this perfectly. Mizuki... you cannot show weakness. You cannot falter. You cannot... be human."

He looks at me, his eyes pleading. "Can you do that? For ten minutes? Can you be the god they think you are?"

I look at Kizawa. His face is a mask of stone, but his eyes are fixed on mine. He gives a single, almost imperceptible nod. We go forward. Together.

I take a deep breath, pushing the agonizing cold from my limbs. I stand up straight, pushing away from Kizawa's support. The movement is agony. It feels like my bones are grinding together, but I lock my knees. I lift my chin.

I am the hunter. I am the demon-slayer. And if I must be a god, I will be the coldest, most terrifying god they have ever seen.

I take one step.

The entire sea of Grak-ta flinches, as if my single footstep is a thunderclap.

I take another.

We walk. Kizawa takes the right flank, his hands now resting lightly on his swords, a silent, deadly guardian. Erima takes the left, her bow held low, an arrow already nocked, her eyes scanning every alley, every rooftop, every shadow.

Hachiro and Yogawa fall in behind me, a strange combination of terrified acolyte and excited child.

We pass the blind shaman, Vor-Kin, who remains on his knees, his head bowed. We walk through the shattered remnants of their 'Obsidian Phalanx', the discarded spears and shields a testament to their terror.

The city is a marvel of desperate, alien architecture.

It is not built up. It is carved in. The buildings are not houses, but hollows, dug into the massive stalagmites and stalactites that join floor and ceiling. The 'streets' are narrow, winding paths of packed earth. Everything is lit by the flickering, resinous smoke of torches, casting long, dancing shadows.

It stinks. The air is a thick, humid cocktail of unwashed bodies, alien cooking-smoke, and the ever-present, underlying musk of the green Miasma-light.

The Grak-ta do not stand as we pass. They remain on their knees, their faces pressed to the ground. But their eyes... their huge, black, bulbous eyes... they follow us. It is a terrifying, silent, all-encompassing awe.

Vor-Kin rises and shuffles behind us, his staff clicking on the stone, our guide.

He leads us not to a 'palace', but to the largest, most central stalagmite. It is a true fortress of stone, hollowed out over centuries, its entrance draped with a curtain made of cured, iridescent insect-shell plates.

This, I realize, is their temple.

We are... home.

Vor-Kin pulls back the curtain, gesturing us inside. Kizawa enters first, his swords half-drawn, clearing the space. He gives a sharp nod. Erima follows.

I step inside.

It is... empty. Almost.

The 'temple' is a single, large, circular chamber. The walls are smooth, carved from the rock itself. In the center, a single, massive torch-sconce burns, its light painting the room in shades of orange and black. The air is thick with smoke.

There are no chairs, no altars, just woven, fungal-fiber mats on the floor.

Vor-Kin shuffles in after us, along with two other Grak-ta who carry a crude wooden platter. They set it on the ground before me.

It is an offering.

On the platter are... things. A bowl of thick, greyish paste that seems to glow with a faint, pale light. A pile of roasted... grubs, each as long as my finger, glistening with some kind of oil. And a single, rough-spun cup filled with clear, faintly sweet-smelling water.

My stomach lurches. I am starving, but the sight of this...

"Hachiro, do not move," Erima whispers, her hand on his shoulder as he leans in, his eyes wide with curiosity.

"A-a god... must accept the offering," Yogawa stammers, his face green. "Mizuki... you have to. It is protocol."

I look at the food. I look at Yogawa. I look at Kizawa, who is standing by the entrance, his back to me, guarding us from the city.

I am a god.

I kneel, my movements as fluid as I can make them. I ignore the screaming protest of my muscles. I dip one finger... my god, this is disgusting... into the grey paste.

It is cold. Clammy. It smells like batteries and ozone.

I bring my finger to my lips. I taste it.

It is... vile. It is dirt and electricity and rot. I force my expression to remain serene. I force myself to swallow.

I nod, once. A gesture of divine acceptance.

The blind shaman, Vor-Kin, who has been watching me with his clouded, sightless eyes, lets out a long, shuddering sigh. The tension in the room breaks. He believes.

He begins to speak, his voice rising and falling in that strange, clicking cadence. He speaks for a long time, his gnarled hands gesturing, painting a picture in the smoky air.

Yogawa listens, his brow furrowed in concentration. He is not just translating words; he is translating an entire world.

"He... he is telling your 'origin'," Yogawa whispers, his eyes darting between me and the shaman. "He says... they have been trapped here. For... generations. He does not know how many. Ever since the 'Green Scourge'... the Rekka... seeped into the Deep World."

My blood runs cold. The Miasma.

"They call the surface... 'The Gone-Away-Place'. They believe it was 'burned' by the Rekka, consumed by it."

Vor-Kin's voice grows more agitated. He points down, at the rock floor.

"The Miasma Heart... the real one... it is down here. Deeper. It is... their 'Devil'. Their 'Hollow-God'. And it... it sends 'Hunters'... demons... to... to cull them. To... harvest them."

The Grak-ta with him are weeping silently, their small bodies shaking.

"He says... they have been fighting them for all of time. Their 'Obsidian Phalanx' holds the... the 'Hunter-Gates'..."

The shaman's hands, which were clenched in fear, suddenly open. He points, his shaking finger aimed directly at my chest.

"He says... your light... your golden light... it is the first true light they have ever seen. It is not the green of the Rekka, or the red of the Hunters' eyes. It is... the 'First Flame'. The fire that 'burned before the Scourge'. The light of... of the real gods. The gods who abandoned them."

The blind shaman shuffles forward, on his knees. He stops at my feet. He is weeping now, thick, oily tears running from his milk-white eyes.

He holds out his three-fingered hands, palms up, in a gesture of absolute, heartbreaking supplication.

Yogawa's voice is barely a whisper. He can hardly speak.

"He is... begging you, Mizuki. He says the Rekka is growing. The Miasma Heart is... 'beating'. The Hunters come more often. The Phalanx is failing. They are... they are losing."

Vor-Kin touches the hem of my ruined, filthy red kimono.

"He is asking... 'Goddess of the First Flame'... to save them. To... to smite the Hunters. To purge the Green Scourge. To... to burn the Hollow-God from their world."

He presses his forehead to my boot, his body shaking.

"Rekka-Vorr," he chokes out. 'Goddess-Flame'. "Save us."

He and his attendants back out of the temple, bowing, leaving us alone with the silence and the platter of horrifying food.

For a full minute, nobody moves.

"Well," Hachiro finally says, his voice small. "No pressure."

The 'divine' mask shatters. I slide down the cold, carved wall, my legs giving out completely. I land hard on the fungal mat.

"A god," I whisper, my voice cracking. I stare at my hands. They are empty, pale, and trembling violently. "They want me to be a god."

I look up at Yogawa, my eyes burning. "Yogawa... I cannot. I... I cannot even light that candle-flame again. I am empty. I am done."

Yogawa just shakes his head, his face ashen. "I do not think... I do not think they will accept 'no' as an answer."

Kizawa has not moved from the entrance. He is a silhouette against the torchlit city. He is watching the Grak-ta, who are already forming a perimeter around our temple. They are not guarding us.

They are worshipping us.

And, I realize with a sickening lurch, they are imprisoning us.

"We... we are not saviors," I whisper to the smoky, dark room. "We are frauds."

And the burden of their hope, their desperate, impossible faith, settles on my shoulders, heavier than the entire mountain of rock above us.