Chapter 33: The Arrow's Critique

I stand in the ringing silence, my dagger's hilt still vibrating slightly from the impact with the glowing table. The green Rekka-light pulses beneath my palm, a sick, cold heartbeat.

Krell, the massive general, is frozen. His fury is a tangible thing, a heavy, metallic scent in the air, sharper than the ozone and moss. He is processing my declaration. He is processing the insult. I have stripped away his pride, his traditions, and his entire reason for being.

His four black eyes bore into me, searching for any sign of weakness, any hint that the 'Weapon' is as much a fraud as the 'Goddess'.

I give him nothing. I am a statue of ice, my gaze as hard and unyielding as his own obsidian armor.

I wait.

Slowly, his gaze shifts from me to the person I have nominated.

Erima.

My 'Arrow'.

Erima steps forward. She does not look at me, at Kizawa, or at the terrified Grak-ta scholars. She looks only at Krell, and then, dismissively, at the glowing, carved map-table. She is the very picture of cold, analytical, bored superiority.

"You... are... the 'Arrow'?" Krell growls, his voice a low vibration that I feel in my feet.

Yogawa, shaking, translates the growl.

Erima does not answer. She merely places one hand, slender and pale, on the tactical map. She traces one of the carved tunnels, a primary access route from the "Deep" that is marked with dozens of crude 'X's, indicating lost battles.

"Your 'Phalanx'," she states, her voice clear and cool, "is not a military unit."

Krell's hand tightens on his axe.

"It... is a procession," Erima continues, her tone utterly flat. "A slow, armored, terrified procession... marching... to... its... own... grave."

Yogawa translates, his voice cracking. "She... says... your... army... is... a... funeral march."

The insult is so profound, so absolute, that Krell actually rears back, his spines rattling. "BRAVERY!" he roars, slamming his free fist onto the table, making my dagger jump. "MY... MEN... ARE... BRAVE!"

"They are," Erima agrees, her voice never rising. "And you... are wasting it. Bravery... is a resource. Like arrows. Like food. Like time. And you... are squandering it... utterly."

She looks up at him, her dark eyes cold enough to freeze the Miasma. "I am not questioning... their courage, General. I... am questioning... your intellect."

This... is Erima. She is not a warrior of emotion. She is a warrior of math. And Krell's math... is all wrong.

"You... dare..." Krell seethes.

"I do," Erima cuts him off. "You asked for proof. This... is the proof. You fight... like farmers... with expensive... armor."

She taps the map. "You have one... tactic. You call it... the 'Obsidian Phalanx'. It is not... a phalanx. It... is a wall. A wall... that braces... for impact."

She traces a line representing a 'Hunter' charge. "The enemy... dictates... the terms. They... choose... the time. They... choose... the ground. They... charge. And you... you plant your feet. You lock your... 'shields'. And... you wait... to die."

"We... hold... the line!" Krell snarls.

"You break... the line," Erima corrects, her voice devoid of malice. It is simple, factual. "You 'brace'. You absorb... the entire... kinetic... and spiritual... force... of the charge. Your front rank... shatters. Your second rank... panics. Your third rank... braces. The enemy... repeats... the process. This is not... a strategy. It... is ritual... suicide."

Krell is silent. His massive chest is heaving. He hates her. Because... he knows... she is right.

"You... have no... skirmishers," Erima continues, her voice a relentless, cutting monotone. "You... have no... flanking... units. You... have no... ranged... capability. You... have no... strategic... reserve. You... are one... single... unit. A blunt... instrument... used... until... it snaps."

She turns her cold gaze to the other council members. To the small, terrified scientist, Gella, and the old historian, Renn.

"You... are surviving... because... your armor... is strong. And... because... your enemy... is stupid. They... are beasts. They... fight... with instinct. But... we... have seen... their Generals. We... have fought... an Elite. They... are learning. They... are evolving. And... you... are not."

"And you?" Krell's voice is a low, dangerous growl. "You... are better?"

"We... are specialists," Erima says. "And... yes."

The sheer, unadulterated arrogance of her statement hangs in the air. This is the new lie. Not 'Goddess'. 'Specialist'. And it is... working.

"I... will restructure... your Phalanx," Erima says, turning back to the map. "From... the ground... up. Your current... 'Phalanx'... will be... disbanded."

"You... cannot..." Krell protests.

"I will," Erima says. "It... will be... re-formed... into three... distinct... wings."

She taps the map. "First... the 'Shield'. This... will be... your new... main line. They... will not... 'brace'. They... will learn... to parry. To thrust. To absorb... and redirect... an impact. They... will fight... as a team. They... will hold... the line... with discipline... not fear."

She looks at Kizawa. "My 'Blade'... will oversee... their training. He... will teach them... form."

Kizawa steps forward, just one step. He nods, once, at Krell. His eyes are cold. He is disgusted by this entire situation, but Erima's logic... his logic... is sound.

"Second," Erima continues, "the 'Javelin'. Your people... are strong. But... slow. We... will make... them fast. Lighter... armor. Shorter... spears. Throwing... spears."

The concept is clearly alien to Krell.

"They... will not... engage... in the main... fight. They... will skirmish. They... will harass. They... will flank. They... will draw... the Hunters... into traps."

Erima's eyes are alive now, her strategic mind working at full speed. "They... will create... the battlefield... that we... choose. Not... the enemy."

"And third..." Erima says, her voice dropping. "The 'Reapers'."

She looks at Kizawa again. "These... will be... your elite. Your best. Your fastest. Your... strongest. They... will not... use spears. They... will... use blades."

Krell actually scoffs. "Blades? Against... a Hunter? A... Hunter's... hide... will shatter... obsidian!"

"He... knows... our... blades... are steel," Yogawa whispers, his eyes wide. He is translating for us now, as much as for them.

"He... will teach... them," Erima says, pointing to Kizawa. "He... will teach... them... where... to cut. The joints. The eyes. The neck. He... will teach... them... his... Speed. His... Will."

"They... will not... hold... the line. They... will break... the enemy's... line. They... are the scalpel. The... killing... blow."

Erima falls silent. Her plan, brilliant, cold, and utterly comprehensive, lies on the table.

Krell is staring at the map. He is staring at Erima. He is staring at Kizawa. He is a general, and he has just been masterfully out-generaled by a teenage girl with three arrows.

He turns his gaze to the nervous, stained Grak-ta, Gella. "The... quartermaster... Gella. The cost? The... steel? The... time?"

Gella flinches. "The... time... is... short, General. The Rekka-Heart... fails. The 'Hunters'... gather. We... cannot... forge... steel. We... do not... know... how."

This... is the flaw. The one, fatal... flaw in the plan. We cannot... arm... the 'Reapers'.

"But..." Gella continues, her antennae twitching, her eyes not on Krell, but... on Hachiro. "There... is... another... way."

She looks at Hachiro, her terror mixed with a burning, scientific... curiosity. "He... spoke... of the Rekka. The... Miasma. He... eats... the... poison."

Yogawa translates, his voice shaky. "She... she is... fascinated... by you, Hachiro."

Hachiro, who has been vibrating silently, his Miasma-chi burning hot, grins. "Tell her... it is... delicious."

Yogawa wisely does not translate this.

Gella continues, "The Miasma... is not... just... poison. It is... power. Raw... un-creation. We... cannot... fight... it. But... he... can. He... metabolizes... it. If... he... *can... then... maybe... it... can be... harnessed."

She points to the old, grey historian, Renn. "The Lore-Keeper... RNn. He... speaks... of a time... before... the Hollow-God. A... time... of First... Magic. Chi. Spirit... Energy."

Renn nods, his ancient, wrinkled face impassive. "The texts... are... fragmented. But... yes. Before... the Heart... we... did not... use... stone. We... used... our WILL."

The room is silent. The "Council of Frauds" is suddenly... not... a fraud.

Yogawa, his face pale, steps forward. "They... they are talking... about... magic. Real... magic. My... grimoire... it is... nothing... compared... to... the First... Tongue. It... it is... a key."

Hachiro steps up, cracking his raw knuckles. "They are talking about Chi. My... specialty. I... can teach... them. I... can show... them... how to burn... it."

Kizawa looks at Erima. "Blades... are not... just steel. They... are will. The 'Reapers'... can... learn."

The plan is evolving. It is not... just... our... plan. It... is theirs.

I look at Krell. He has heard all of this. His skepticism is... warring... with a new... feeling. A feeling I recognize.

It... is Hachiro's... hope.

Krell looks at Vor-Kin. The blind shaman has been silent, his antennae twitching, feeling the currents in the room.

"Vor-Kin?" Krell growls.

The blind shaman turns his milky eyes towards me.

"The 'Goddess'... is a lie," he says, his voice a dry rasp.

My heart stops.

"The promise... is not," he continues. "The 'First Flame'... did... burn. The Phalanx... was... saved. The... Weapon... is... real. The... Arrow... speaks... truth. The 'Fist'... burns... with impossible... life. The 'Scholar'... holds... the key. The 'Blade'... is silent... and deadly."

He turns back to Krell.

"You... are... a General... with no... army. You... need... victory. They... are offering... it. Your pride... or... your people? Choose."

The final, brutal, perfect summary.

Krell stares at the table. He stares at my dagger. He stares at Erima's cold, impassive face.

He... hates... us.

He... needs... us.

With a roar... that is pure... frustration... he slams... his obsidian axe... flat... onto the table... next to my... dagger.

The impact... shakes... the room.

"You... have one... cycle!" he bellows. Yogawa translates: "One... moon... or... turn... I... I do not... know..."

"One... cycle!" Krell roars again, pointing a massive, armored finger at Erima. "To... prove... it. The 'Shield'... the 'Javelin'... the 'Reapers'... Show... me. Show... me... something... better... than bravery."

He glares at me.

"And... 'Weapon'... pray... you find... a... target. Because... my... 'Phalanx'... will be... your... only... shield. And... I... am not... as forgiving... as my... men."

He turns, his black armor rattling, and storms from the Nexus.

The 'Council of Frauds' is over.

The War Council... has just begun.