Chapter 36: The Weapon's Answer

The question hangs in the poisoned air, heavier and more toxic than the Miasma itself.

"Are you... the 'Weapon'... to kill... our god?"

My breath catches. The words from the blind shaman, Vor-Kin, are not an accusation. They are a plea. A desperate, terrified, hopeful plea.

The song from the great, glowing spire of Rekka-stone changes. It is no longer just a sound. It is a voice. A sound of such profound, ancient, and endless agony that my knees buckle.

It is the sound of something that has been screaming for an eternity. A sound that has been begging for an end.

And Vor-Kin's "song"... his "lullaby"... is not a comfort. It is a gag. It is the sound of a hand clamped over the mouth of that screaming voice, muffling it, denying it, perpetuating the suffering.

Everything... shatters.

My grandfather's training. The years of hardening my heart. The simple, binary world of "human" and "demon." It all turns to dust, scattering in the green, sickly light.

The "demons"... the "Hunters"... they are not evil. They are not a blight.

They are antibodies.

They are the answer to a prayer. The prayer of the dying, weeping god-heart beneath our feet. They are its own creation, its own immune system, desperately trying to end the infection.

And we... the Grak-ta... are the infection.

We are the parasites clinging to the flesh of a dying titan, drinking its blood, and fighting off the cure it sends to kill us.

I look at Yogawa. His face is a mask of horror. His grimoire is clutched to his chest, a useless ward against a truth so devastating it rewrites his entire reality. His "righteous" fury against the demons... what is that now? It is the anger of a flea, cursing the fingernail that tries to scratch it off. He has been fighting for the sickness, not the cure.

Hachiro is still. For the first time, he is utterly, terrifyingly still. The chi that burns within him, that sings in response to the Miasma, is silent. He is not feeling "power" anymore. He is feeling pain. He is hearing the scream. His obsession with the "demons" is confronted by the raw, cosmic tragedy of their existence. They are not monsters to be studied. They are instruments of mercy, and they are failing.

My gaze drifts from the spire, down to the sprawling, impossible city of Oros-Ka.

It is not a city.

It is a tumor.

It is a beautiful, intricate, and wholly malignant growth, feeding on a host that wants to die. Every torch-lit street, every carved wall, every 'brave' warrior of the Obsidian Phalanx... they are all just... wrong.

Krell's "bravery"... is the bravery of a disease. His "honor"... is the honor of a parasite. His "sacrifice"... is the act of a jailer, dying to keep his prisoner locked in its cell of agony.

My hand tightens on the hilt of my dagger. The steel is cold. It is simple. It is truth.

"You..." I whisper, my voice a dry rasp. Yogawa flinches, not yet ready to translate.

I force the words out, louder, clearer, colder than I have ever sounded.

"You... ask... if I am here... to kill... your god."

I take a step towards the blind shaman, my eyes locked on his milky, unseeing gaze. He feels my approach, his antennae twitching, his ancient body tensing.

"That... is not... a god," I state. The words echo in the high, thin air. "That... is a prisoner. A victim. Trapped in a cage... of your... making."

Yogawa translates, his voice shaking, every word an agony for him to speak. "She... says... it... is... a... prisoner..."

Vor-Kin's face contorts. It is not anger. It is grief. A grief so profound it is almost a physical weight. He knows. He has always known.

"And you..." I continue, my voice pitiless. "You... are its jailers. Your 'song'... is a chain. Your 'prayers'... are bindings. Your entire... civilization... is a monument... to your... own... selfish... fear."

The truth is out. A blade, twisted in the heart of their entire existence.

"The 'Hunters'," I say, gesturing to the darkness beyond the city's weak, green glow. "They are not... the enemy. They are not... the problem. They... are the cure. You... are the disease."

Yogawa is crying now, silent tears streaming down his face as he forces the translation out.

"We... are... the... disease..."

Vor-Kin collapses. His ancient legs give way, and he folds to the stone floor, his body wracked with dry, silent sobs. His 'song' stops.

And for a terrible, heart-stopping second, the real song, the true voice of the Hollow-God, screams in our minds. It is a wave of pure, undiluted despair. A psychic force so powerful it throws Hachiro and Yogawa to their knees.

I stand.

I stand because I am a hunter. I stand because I have faced the darkness my entire life. But this is not a darkness I can fight. It is a pain I must... answer.

My hair ignites. The silver strands blaze with a cold, white light. The golden strands burn with a fire that is not hot, but pure. It is the fire of release. The fire of the Phoenix.

"My... 'purpose'..." I say, the words coming to me, clear and absolute. "Is not... to save... you. It... is not... to fight... them."

I look at the spire, at the agonizing pulse of the Rekka-Heart.

"My... purpose... is to end... this. All of it."

Yogawa looks up, his face pale with a new, dawning horror. "Mizuki... no. If... if you do that... if you kill the Heart... the Miasma... stops. The light... the heat... the Rekka... it all... stops. The city... this entire... civilization... they will all... die. They will freeze... in the dark."

"They... are already... dead," I say, my voice echoing with a power that is not my own. "They... are ghosts. Haunting... a corpse. They... just refuse... to admit it."

I turn my back on the weeping shaman. I turn my back on the screaming Spire. My path is clear. My 'Weapon' status... it is not a lie. It is the final truth.

I am not a 'Goddess'. I am not a 'Savior'.

I... am an executioner.

I am here... to grant mercy.

"Mizuki..." Hachiro whispers, his voice broken. "There... must... be... another... way. We... we can teach them... chi... We... can find... another... source..."

"There... is... no... time," I say, the cold, hard logic of Erima now my own. "The Heart... is dying. The Hunters... are winning. The 'cycle'... Krell is preparing for... it will be the last one. This... is not... a choice. It... is a fact. We... are not... deciding... if... it ends. We... are deciding... how."

I walk to the edge of the platform, the sheer, dizzying drop into the torch-lit canyon of Oros-Ka falling away below me.

I have to go back.

I have to go back to the Nexus. I have to face Krell, and Gella, and Renn. I have to face Kizawa and Erima.

I have to tell Erima that her brilliant, perfect strategy... is pointless. A way to re-arrange the deck chairs on a sinking ship.

I have to tell Kizawa that his 'Blade'... is not... to defend... these people. It is... to protect... me... while I condemn them.

I have to tell General Krell... that his 'bravery' is a sin, and that I... am here... to kill... his god, his light, his hope, and everything... his people... have ever... known.

The "cycle" he is training for... is not a battle.

It... is an execution.

And I... am the axe.

"Yogawa. Hachiro. Get... up," I command. My voice does not shake.

They look at me. The girl they followed into the dark. The 'Goddess'. The 'Weapon'.

They see... neither.

They see a sixteen-year-old girl, with hair of fire and ice, who has just accepted the most terrible burden in the world.

Slowly, shakily, they rise.

"We... walk... down," I say. "We... tell... them... the truth."

I take the first step down the long, winding stairs of the Spire, leaving the broken shaman and the screaming Heart behind me.

The 'Weapon' finally has her target.