Chapter 32: The First Council

The roar of the plaza, a wave of weaponized, desperate hope, washes over me. It is a physical force, a wall of sound that threatens to buckle my knees. I am a fraud, standing on a precipice of lies, and they are cheering me for it. My hands, clenched at my sides, are slick with cold sweat. I am the Goddess. I am the Commander. And I am about to be sick.

I stand frozen for a moment longer, a statue of cold, divine anger, letting their cry echo off the cavern walls. This is what they need. They need a symbol. They need someone to be strong.

Slowly, deliberately, I turn. I do not look back at the plaza. I do not give them one more second of my "divine" presence than is necessary. I face the clicking, iridescent curtain of the temple.

My retinue moves with me, a perfectly rehearsed, if silent, performance. Kizawa, my 'Blade', is a half-step behind, a shadow of lethal intent. Hachiro, my 'Fist', matches him on the left, his Miasma-fueled energy a tangible, crackling aura. Erima, my 'Arrow', and Yogawa, my 'Scholar', fall in behind us, a silent, unified second rank.

The illusion is absolute. We are a pantheon. We are a divine council.

We are five terrified, exhausted teenagers, completely, hopelessly, lost.

I push through the curtain. The clack-clack-clack of the shells is a sound of finality. It seals me back in the smoky darkness of the temple.

I take one step inside. Two. I am out of sight of the plaza.

My legs give out.

The 'Goddess' vanishes. Mizuki, the empty, terrified girl, collapses. I catch myself on the cold, carved stone wall, my forehead pressing against the damp rock. A full-body tremor racks my frame. My breath comes in ragged, silent sobs. I am empty. The anger, the borrowed strength, it all drains away, leaving only this vast, echoing hollow.

"My... my Lady!" Yogawa yelps, his 'Scholar' persona shattering instantly into pure panic. He darts forward, his hands fluttering, unsure if he is allowed to touch the "goddess."

"Do not," Kizawa's voice cuts through the air, sharp as a shard of ice. He does not move to help me. He simply stands at the entrance, his back to me, guarding the curtain. "Do not... call her... that. Not... in here."

His words are a slap. He is right. In here, we are not the pantheon. We are the 'Council of Frauds'.

"He is right," Erima says, her voice low and steady. She is leaning against the far wall, her eyes closed, as if absorbing the sheer, crushing weight of our new reality. "Out there... we are... Harbingers. In here... we are... conspirators. We need... to be clear... on the distinction."

"Distinction?" Yogawa's voice is rising, hysteria lacing every word. "Erima, there is no distinction! We lied! We lied to an entire civilization! We... we impersonated a deity! Do you know the penalties for that? Magically? Spiritually? We have... we have doomed ourselves!"

"We have saved ourselves," Hachiro counters, his manic energy gone, replaced by a grim, serious tone. He is rubbing his bloody knuckles, his face pale. The Miasma-high is fading. "And... we have bought them... a chance. That is... all that matters."

"Is it?" I whisper, my voice muffled by the stone. "Is it, Hachiro? We... we gave them hope. What... what happens when we fail? What happens when they find out... I am not... a god?"

"We... will not... fail." Kizawa says, his voice flat. "We... cannot. The consequences... of that... are... unthinkable. Therefore... it... is not... an option."

His cold, brutal logic is its own kind of comfort. He has simplified the entire, monstrous equation. We lied. Therefore, we must make the lie true. We have promised them salvation. Therefore, we must deliver it. Failure is not just death. It is... damnation.

Before anyone can respond, a new sound cuts through the silence. A soft, scraping sound from a dark alcove I had not noticed before.

Instantly, Kizawa spins, his swords singing as they clear their sheaths. Hachiro drops into a low, chi-flared stance. Erima nocks her last explosive arrow, her movements a fluid, deadly blur. Yogawa yelps and raises his grimoire, a pathetic, flickering blue ward igniting around his hands.

I push myself off the wall, my daggers feeling impossibly heavy in my shaking hands. The 'Goddess' is gone, but the fighter remains.

A figure emerges from the shadows. It is Vor-Kin.

He is alone. He is not kneeling. His antennae twitch, "reading" the sudden, violent tension in the room. His blind, milky eyes are turned towards us, his expression unreadable.

"Your... Harbingers... are... swift," he says, his First Tongue voice scraping in the small space. Yogawa, his face ashen, whispers the translation, his voice shaking.

"He says... we are fast."

Kizawa does not lower his blades. "What... do you want?" he demands.

Yogawa translates, his voice acquiring a false, shaky authority. "The... Divine Blade... demands... your purpose!"

Vor-Kin inclines his head. A gesture of respect, not subservience. "The Goddess... commanded... a Council. I... have gathered... what remains... of it."

He gestures back into the darkness. "They... await... your will. This... is not... the place. This... is a shrine."

He turns and walks towards the alcove. "Follow. The... Nexus... is... prepared."

He vanishes back into the tunnel.

We look at each other. This is it. The lie has momentum. It is pulling us along.

"A... a trap?" Yogawa whispers.

"No," Erima says, un-nocking her arrow. "If he wanted us dead... he would have let the plaza do it... when they doubted. This... is acceptance. This... is the next step."

Kizawa sheathes his swords. The shing of the steel is the only sound. "We... go. Hachiro... on the left. Erima... rear. I... take the front... with... her."

He nods at me. Not the 'Goddess'. Me. He is in bodyguard mode.

I take a breath. "Let's go."

We follow the blind shaman into the rock. The tunnel is narrow, carved by generations of Grak-ta hands, lit by the same, dim, phosphorescent fungi. The air is damp and smells of moss and ozone. We walk in silence for several minutes, the only sound the scrape of our boots and Vor-Kin's multi-jointed legs on the stone.

The tunnel opens up, suddenly and dramatically.

We are in a vast, circular chamber. It is not a temple. It is a... command center.

In the center of the room is a huge, round table carved from a single, massive stalagmite. It is lit from within by a vein of glowing, green Rekka-stone, casting an eerie, tactical light. The walls are covered in crude, sprawling maps, carved directly into the rock, showing tunnels, caverns, and... threats.

Three other Grak-ta are in the room, and they do not kneel.

My heart hammers. The lie is already... failing.

One is massive. He is a full head taller than any Grak-ta I have seen, his grey-green skin a road map of white, puckered scars. He wears the same black, obsidian-plate armor as the Phalanx, but his is... thicker. He is visibly armed, a massive, jagged obsidian axe resting on the table in front of him. He watches us, his four small, black eyes burning with a fierce, undisguised skepticism.

The second is... small. She (I think she is female) is thin-limbed, her antennae delicate and twitching with nervous energy. Her hands are not calloused from weapons, but stained with chemicals and minerals. She clutches a roll of hide-parchment to her chest. She looks... practical. And terrified.

The third is another elder, his spines grey and brittle, his face deeply wrinkled. He is a 'Lore-Keeper' like Vor-Kin, but where Vor-Kin seems spiritual, this one looks... academic.

Vor-Kin takes his place at the table, his blind eyes sweeping over us.

"We... are... here," he states. Yogawa translates, his voice barely a whisper.

"He... knows," Yogawa mutters to me, his face slick with sweat. "He knows... we are not... divine. This... this is... a test."

My blood runs cold. I look at the massive warrior. He is staring directly at me. His gaze is heavy, challenging.

This is the true 'First Council'. And the faith is gone.

Before I can speak, the warrior grunts. He taps the table with one huge, armored finger.

"This... is not... the plaza," he growls in the First Tongue. His voice is like an avalanche. "No... Gods... in this... room. Only... war. I... am Krell. Commander... of the Phalanx. And... I... do not... kneel... to illusions."

Yogawa turns a shade of white I have never seen. He... he does not translate. He is frozen in pure, abject terror.

Krell sees it. He snarls. "The 'Scholar'... is a coward. The 'Goddess'... is a child."

His eyes narrow. "This... is... a waste... of time. We... die... while... you play."

The tension is so thick, it is... unbreathable. My lie, my entire monstrous deception, is shattering. It is over.

"Translate... Yogawa."

Kizawa's voice is not a request. It is a blade at Yogawa's throat.

"I... I... c-can't..." Yogawa stammers. "He... he knows! He said... he said we are... frauds! He called her a... a child!"

Hachiro's head snaps up, his eyes flaring with the Miasma-chi. "He... what?"

"He said," Kizawa's voice is deathly calm, his hand moving to his hilt. "That... he... will not... obey."

This is it. The end of the lie. The end of us.

I look at Krell. The massive, scarred general. He is not evil. He is... proud. He is a warrior. And we... we have insulted him. He is a dying man, and we have... mocked him... with a circus.

I am not a 'Goddess'. But... I am... the daughter... of a Hunter. I am... Grandmother's... student. I... am Mizuki.

I step forward.

Kizawa's hand grips his sword. "Mizuki... no."

I ignore him. I walk right up to the table, until I am standing directly opposite the giant, scarred general. His four black eyes are level with my chest. He looms over me.

I... slam... my dagger... into the glowing green Rekka-stone table.

The shriiiing of steel on crystal makes everyone jump. Krell rears back, his hand grabbing his axe. Kizawa's swords are half-out.

I do not look at my team. I stare... up... into the general's four, hateful eyes.

I do not know the First Tongue. I do not need it.

"You... are right," I say, my voice low, shaking with a coldness... that is not... an act.

"I... am not... a god."

Yogawa is white, trembling, not translating.

"But... you... are losing," I continue, my voice rising, my anger... my real anger... returning. "You... are dying. Your 'Phalanx' is broken. Your world... is ending."

Krell snarls, raising his axe. "ENOUGH... LIES!"

"Kizawa... stand down!" I yell, not taking my eyes off Krell. Kizawa freezes, his blades half-drawn.

"Yogawa! Translate!" I scream at him. "Translate NOW! Tell him... everything! Tell him... I... AM... MIZUKI! A HUNTER... from ABOVE! Tell him... WE... ARE... BETTER... THAN... YOU!"

The audacity. The insanity.

Yogawa, his eyes wide with pure, screaming terror, his 'Scholar' persona gone, babbles the translation. A fast, terrified, literal translation.

Krell freezes. His axe halts in mid-air. His four eyes go wide.

The other two Grak-ta gasp.

"We... are not... 'Gods'," I say, my voice dropping back to a low, vicious growl. "We... are specialists. That light... that saved your Phalanx? That... was me. That power... that vaporized... your enemy? That... was me. I... am not... a god. I... am a WEAPON."

Yogawa, shaking so hard he can barely stand, translates, his voice a frantic squeak.

"And my... 'Harbingers'?" I gesture to my team. "My 'Blade'? He... has killed more... demons... than your entire... 'Phalanx'. My 'Arrow'? She... has forgotten... more strategy... than your people... have ever... known. My 'Scholar'? He... wields... magic... your shaman... can only... dream of. And my 'Fist'?" I point to Hachiro. "He... eats... the poison... that is killing... your world."

The room is... silent. Yogawa finishes the translation, his voice dying in his throat.

I lean in... closer... to the giant general.

"We... are not... liars. We... are * arrogant*. We... are... your... only... chance. The 'Goddess'... was not... for you, Krell. It... was for them." I gesture to the tunnel... to the city. "It... was for the desperate. The dying. To... give them... hope."

I tap the hilt of my dagger, still embedded in his glowing table.

"But you? You... are a warrior. You... do not need... hope. You... need answers. You... need victory."

I stare into his black, unblinking eyes.

"I... am offering... victory. So... you... will... lower... your axe. You... will... sit. And... you... will... LISTEN."

A full... ten seconds... pass. Krell does not move. He does not breathe. He just... stares at me.

Then... slowly... so slowly... he... lowers... his axe.

He... sits.

He looks at Kizawa. At Erima. At Hachiro. At Yogawa.

Then... he looks at me.

"Prove... it," he growls.

Yogawa translates, his voice barely audible.

I pull my dagger free in one, swift motion. The green Rekka-stone sings.

"Erima," I say, my voice cold. "Tell the General... exactly... how... pathetic... his 'Phalanx'... truly... is."

Erima steps forward. Her face is a mask of pure, cold ice.

The real First Council... has begun.