Chapter 34: The Weight of the 'Cycle'

The echo of Krell's roar, a sound of pure, primal frustration, hangs in the air long after he storms from the Nexus. The chamber is left in a ringing, super-charged silence.

His obsidian axe and my steel dagger lie side-by-side on the glowing green map-table. An offering. A challenge. A truce forged from mutual desperation and undisguised contempt.

My hand, resting on my dagger's hilt, is shaking again. The cold, adrenaline-fueled persona of the 'Weapon' is fading, leaving Mizuki in its wake. My heart is a frantic bird against my ribs. We did it. We faced down the general. We turned a lie into a fact. And now... we have to deliver.

The remaining Grak-ta council members stare at us, their expressions a mixture of terror, awe, and a fragile, terrifying new hope. Vor-Kin, the blind shaman, stands impassive, his head tilted as if listening to the new destiny we have just carved into the stone. Gella, the small, stained scientist, is vibrating, her antennae twitching so fast they blur, her eyes fixed on Hachiro. Renn, the ancient lore-keeper, is stroking his brittle chin-spines, his gaze lost in a past he probably thought was dead.

"One... one... one cycle?"

Yogawa's voice shatters the silence. It is a reedy, panicked squeak.

"What is a 'cycle'? Is that a day? A week? A moon? Because, in case you have all forgotten, we are underground! There is no moon! We... we just promised to rebuild an entire army... and we do not even know our deadline!"

He clutches his grimoire to his chest, his knuckles white. "This is insane! We... we should have run! We..."

"Gella."

Erima's voice is not loud, but it slices through Yogawa's panic like a razor. She does not look at him. She steps forward, her eyes fixed on the small, trembling scientist.

"I need numbers. Now. How many... able-bodied... 'Phalanx'... warriors... do we have? Total."

Yogawa, mid-hyperventilation, automatically translates, his 'Scholar' duties overriding his fear.

Gella flinches, then straightens, her terror being replaced by a frantic, academic focus. She scampers to a carved alcove and pulls out a stack of hide parchments, covered in Grak-ta script.

"Total... roster... is... eight... hundred... and... forty-one," she chatters, her antennae twitching. "But... combat-ready... active... effective... after... the last... assault..."

She taps a line on the parchment. "Two... hundred... and twelve."

A cold rock drops into my stomach. Two hundred. Krell... Krell is a general... of two hundred men.

Erima does not even blink. Her face is a mask of pure, cold calculation.

"Armor status. Obsidian-plate. Full... integrity."

"One... hundred... and... thirty," Gella whispers. "The rest... are... fractured. Chipped. Un-sound. We... cannot... re-forge... them. The volcanic... vents... are... cold."

"So... one hundred and thirty... 'Shields'," Erima says, mostly to herself. "The rest... the ones... with fractured... armor... are... the 'Javelin' corps. Lighter. Faster. Seventy-two... of them."

She is already doing the math. "The 'Reapers'... will come... from the 'Shields'. We... cannot... afford... to create... a third... unit. Not... with these... numbers. The 'Reapers'... will be... the Shields'... elite. Their... tip... of the spear."

She looks at Kizawa. "You... have one hundred and thirty... men... to train. You... must find... your... 'Reapers'... from... them."

Kizawa nods, his face grim. He turns his cold gaze to Vor-Kin.

"The barracks. The training... ground. I... will see... them. Now."

Vor-Kin inclines his head. "As... the 'Blade'... wills."

"YES! YES! Training!" Hachiro is practically vibrating out of his skin, his chi flaring hot. "The Chi! The Miasma! Gella! Renn! You get it, right? It is not... poison! It is fuel! It is LIFE! Just... twisted!"

He grabs the terrified Gella by her thin shoulders, his eyes wide with manic discovery. "Your 'Hollow-God'... is leaking! It is bleeding! And that... bleed-off... is power! We... can teach... your... people... to BREATHE it! To BURN it! Like ME!"

Yogawa translates, his voice shaking at the sheer, blasphemous energy of Hachiro's idea.

Renn, the old lore-keeper, steps forward, his ancient eyes surprisingly bright. "He... speaks... the First... Truth. The... truth... before... the Hollow-God. The... Heart... is... a wound. The Miasma... is the blood. We... have forgotten... how to drink."

"The archives," Yogawa says, his own panic giving way to a frantic, scholarly curiosity. "Gella... Renn... you must... have texts. Scrolls. Carvings. The First Tongue. My grimoire... it reacts... to your... 'shrine'. It... it sees... your language... as pure... code. I... I think... I can read... it. I... I can translate... the First... Magic!"

The three of them - Hachiro, the chi-fueled brawler, Yogawa, the terrified academic, and Renn, the ancient historian - are suddenly a unit, buzzing with a desperate, unified energy.

"The Great... Library," Renn rasps. "It... is sealed. Flooded. But... the upper... archives... remain. I... will... take... you."

They are all moving. They all have a purpose. Erima is deep in logistics with Gella. Kizawa is a shadow of intent, ready to inspect his new, broken army. Hachiro and Yogawa are about to unlock the secrets of an ancient, dead magic.

And... I... am... not.

I am the 'Weapon'. I am the 'Goddess'. And I am... useless.

"Vor-Kin," I say, my voice sounding hollow in the large, green-lit chamber.

The blind shaman turns his milky eyes towards me. "My... 'Goddess'?"

The title feels like ash in my mouth.

"Krell... said... I... must... find... a target. He... said... pray... I find... one." I step away from the table, my hand leaving my dagger. "You... are the shaman. You... feel... the Miasma. You... know... this... world. Where... are... they?"

Vor-Kin's expression does not change, but the air around him feels... heavier. Colder.

"You... ask... to see... the enemy?" he rasps.

"I... ask... to see... my target."

"They... are everywhere," he whispers. "They... are the darkness... between... the light. They... are the hunger... in the stone."

"No," I say, cutting him off. "Not... the Hunters. Not... the beasts. Krell... is not... afraid... of beasts. I... want... the Generals. The Elites. The ones... like... the Black... Fog. The ones... who think. The ones... who command."

I look at my team, all of them now poised to leave, to begin their impossible tasks. "They... are building... an army. I... am going... to find... its Generals... and I... am going... to kill... them."

Vor-Kin is silent for a long moment. His antennae twitch, reading my intent. My killing... intent.

"There... is one... who lingers," he says, his voice a low scrape. "Not... a General. Not... an Elite. Something... else. Something... old. It... sings... a song... of madness. It... watches... the Heart."

He gestures, not to the tunnel Krell used, but to another, smaller, darker passage behind the central altar.

"The others... go... to work. You... 'Weapon'... will come... with me. You... will climb... the Spire. You... will see... the Hollow-God. And... you... will hear... the song... of the enemy."

A cold dread, sharper than any I have felt before, sinks into my bones. "The 'Hollow-God'? You... mean... the Rekka-Heart?"

"No," Vor-Kin rasps, and for the first time, his voice is filled with a... a reverence... that is terrifying. "The Heart... is... the Heart. The Hollow-God... is the cavern... that holds... it. The... God... is our world, 'Weapon'. And it... is... dying."

He turns and glides into the dark passage.

I look at Kizawa. He has stopped, his hand on his sword, his gaze fixed on me. His face is a mask of cold fury. He hates this. He hates... that I am going... alone... with the shaman... into more... unknown... darkness.

"Mizuki..." he starts.

"He is right, Kizawa," I say, my voice firm. "You... are the 'Blade'. Your... job... is the army. My... job... is the target. Go. Be... better... than Krell. Teach them... discipline."

His eyes hold mine. A silent, furious argument. He... cannot... protect... me. Not... from this.

He gives a short, sharp nod. "Do... not... die."

"I... will try... not... to," I say.

He turns and vanishes into the main tunnel, a ghost of steel and anger.

Erima, Hachiro, and Yogawa are already gone, lost in their own frantic missions.

It is just me.

I take a breath. I pick my dagger up from the glowing green table, the Rekka-stone now seeming to pulse with a weak, sickly light. I sheathe it.

I turn my back on the War Council.

I... 'Mizuki'... the 'Weapon'... the 'Goddess'... the Fraud... follow the blind, alien shaman... into the heart... of the Hollow-God.