Chapter 44: The Conduit and the Dam

The second chain is thicker.

This is my first, immediate observation as I dangle from the newly secured line, the echoes of Kizawa’s frantic orders still ringing in my ears. The first chain was a test, a probe from the universe. This one is a statement of intent. It is a massive, light-devouring artery of shadow-stuff, pulsing with a cold, malevolent rhythm that I feel in my teeth. It is anchored deep in the Hollow-God’s flesh, a monstrous parasite latched onto its living host, draining it dry.

"Mizuki! Status! Are you stable?"

Erima’s voice is sharp, a steel needle cutting through the low, psychic thrum of the chamber.

I plant my feet against the fleshy, vertical wall of the Spire, my legs shaking from the previous exertion. The new rope, Kizawa’s, is shorter. The angle is sharper. They have anchored it closer to the edge, giving me less of a pendulum swing and a more direct, terrifying rappel straight down.

"Stable!" I call back, my voice sounding thin and weak in the vast, green-lit cavern. "I am on the wall. The target is- it is bigger. Much bigger."

"We see it!"

Hachiro's voice is strained, tight with effort. He and Kizawa are the anchors again, their bodies braced against the platform's edge, the rope wrapped around their arms, their boots digging into the fleshy stone. "It looks angry."

He is right. As my Phoenix-flame flares to life, a golden-silver shield against the ambient, soul-deep cold, the Void-chain reacts. It does not wait for me to attack. The shadow writhes. Tendrils of pure darkness, like questing, liquid limbs, lash out from its surface. They sense the heat of my flame. They hate the light.

'BE QUICK, SAVIOR.'

The God's mind-voice whispers, a vast, tired sigh in my head. It is weaker now, the effort of the last severance having cost it dearly. 'IT AWAKENS. IT FEELS YOUR BLADE.'

The Spinner King. My blood runs cold. The pressure I felt before, that distant, colossal gaze, is now a dim, pressing awareness at the back of my mind. The master of this web is stirring, annoyed by the fly struggling in its threads.

"Yogawa! The 'Sigh'!" I yell, gathering my courage. I push off the wall.

I do not swing this time. I fall, a controlled drop, sliding down the rope toward the writhing pillar of utter darkness.

"I am on it!" Yogawa shrieks. He slams his grimoire, his face pale with sweat, his eyes wide with a scholar's terror. "Aegis of the Un-Winds! By the First Scribe, K’thall! HOLD!"

A bubble of absolute stillness envelops me. The lashing shadow-tendrils slow, as if moving through thick, invisible honey. Yogawa is not just stopping the wind; he is imposing a pocket of localized, stagnant reality. He is bending the rules of the Spire, buying me a single, precious second.

My feet hit the chain.

The impact is wrong. The surface is not solid. It is not liquid. It is a field of pure, clinging negation. My boots, already damaged, begin to dissolve instantly, the leather unmaking itself atom by atom. The Phoenix-flame roars, fighting back, a golden inferno clashing with an endless, hungry void.

This time, I do not hesitate. I know the cost. I know the pain.

I lift 'First Flame'. The dagger is blazing, a miniature sun in my grip. It wants this. It needs this. It remembers this ancient war.

I strike.

The moment the golden blade touches the shadow-stuff, the Spinner King’s full, undivided attention slams into me.

MINE.

The voice is not a voice. It is a command. It is the crushing weight of a galaxy pressing down on my soul. It is not the pained, pleading voice of the Hollow-God. It is the cold, possessive, absolute tyranny of the parasite, the master, the hunger.

It orders me to stop. It orders me to die. It orders me to let go.

"NO!" I roar, a sound of pure, primal defiance.

I push the blade deeper, sinking it into the cold, dead heart of the shadow.

The chain explodes.

It does not thrash like the last one. It detonates. A wave of pure, kinetic shadow-force erupts from the point of impact, a backlash of pure spite.

Yogawa’s 'Aegis' shatters like a pane of glass.

The force hits me like a freight train. It is not just a push; it is an unmaking. It is a physical blow and a psychic assault all in one. My Phoenix-flame is nearly extinguished, beaten back to a mere flicker. The cold is indescribable, a soul-deep frost that stops my heart in my chest.

The rope snaps taut, a living thing shocked with power.

"KIZAWA!"

Hachiro's scream is one of pure, unadulterated panic.

The force of the blast, channeled through me and up the rope, hits the two anchors like a cannonball.

I am dangling, blind, my senses reeling, the world reduced to a vortex of darkness and searing pain. I hear a sickening crack echo from the platform above, sharp and wet, like a branch snapping in a blizzard.

"My arm!" Hachiro’s voice is a choked-off gasp. "Kizawa- it- it is broken! I cannot hold!"

My heart stops. He is falling. I am falling.

"DO... NOT... LET... GO!"

Kizawa’s voice is a primal roar, unrecognizable. It is not his normal, cold tone. It is a sound of absolute, desperate, terrifying fury. "I AM THE ANCHOR!"

I look up, my vision swimming, black spots dancing in the green light.

Hachiro is on one knee, his face gray, his left arm hanging at a sickening, impossible angle. The rope is slipping through his grip, the friction burns smoking on his skin. He is trying to hold on with one hand, his entire body shaking.

Kizawa is braced in front of him. He has let go of the rope.

He has become the rope.

He has looped the line around his own body, under his arms, crossing it over his chest. He is the last point of contact. He is taking the entire strain of my weight, and the furious, thrashing energy of the Void-chain, directly into his own body.

His dual blades, 'Silence' and 'Storm', are stabbed deep into the fleshy platform, driven to their hilts, two desperate points of purchase in the living stone. His body is a rigid line of defiance.

"Kizawa, no!" I scream, the words tearing from my raw throat. "It will kill you! The cold! Let me go!"

"QUIET!" he roars, his head bowed, his muscles straining so hard that I can see them vibrating even from this distance.

The cold, the Void-energy, is climbing the rope. It is not just a line anymore; it is a conduit. The shadow is crawling up it, sensing the life, the Will, at the other end. It is crawling over Kizawa.

I see it. The shadow is enveloping his arms, his shoulders, like a shroud of living darkness. Frost is appearing on his blue hair. His skin is turning a deathly, pale gray. He is freezing to death from the inside out.

"He is a dam," Yogawa whispers, his voice breaking, his grimoire forgotten. "He- he is blocking the Void with his own chi. He is burning his life to stop it from reaching the platform. Mizuki... he... he has seconds!"

This is Kizawa’s 'Will'. This is his answer to my question. This is the chasm. He is not just in it. He is it. A void of pure, stubborn, self-destructive Will, standing against a greater, emptier one.

"ERIMA!" I scream, my panic a rising tide of acid. "SHOOT THE ROPE! CUT ME LOOSE!"

"I CANNOT SHOOT HIM, MIZUKI!" she shrieks back, her own terror making her voice sharp. "He is part of the anchor! The rope is around him! If I cut the line, you all fall! He- he has trapped us!"

It is a checkmate. A perfect, horrible trap of his own making.

Kizawa will not let go. He cannot let go.

And I cannot cut the chain while he is taking the backlash.

He lifts his head.

His eyes meet mine across the impossible, green-lit gulf.

They are no longer cold. They are burning. They are blue supernovas of pure, focused intent.

He gives me a single, sharp nod.

It is not a plea. It is not a request.

It is an order.

FINISH IT.

He is accepting the cost. He is telling me to strike, even if the psychic backlash kills him.

"HACHIRO!" I roar, ignoring Kizawa, ignoring his noble, stupid sacrifice. "Your arm! Can you USE IT?"

Hachiro is panting, tears of pain streaming down his face as he clutches the broken limb. "IT... IS BROKEN!"

"I DO NOT CARE!" I scream, my voice raw. "GRAB THE ROPE! ONE HAND! BURN IT! BURN IT WITH YOUR CHI!"

My command is insane. It is desperate.

Hachiro grins. A bloody, terrible, beautiful grin.

"I... CAN... DO... THAT!"

He lets go of his ruined arm. He screams as he purposefully grabs the Void-infested rope with his shattered left arm.

The pain must be beyond comprehension.

"I... AM... THE FIST!" he bellows, his voice a broken roar.

His Miasma-chi, his life-force, ignites. It is not my golden flame. It is a raw, green, furious energy. It roars down his broken arm and slams into the rope.

It meets the Void-energy halfway down.

The clash is apocalyptic. Green life-chi and black Void-shadow war for the line.

The pressure on Kizawa lightens.

The frost recedes from his face. He gasps, a raw, shuddering breath, spitting ice.

"NOW, MIZUKI!" he coughs, his voice a wreck. "NOW! CUT!"

I do not need a second invitation.

My own Phoenix-flame, fed by my rage and my desperation, roars back to life. I am a golden star hanging in the dark, a point of defiant light.

I face the writhing, furious chain.

DIE, INSECT.

The Spinner King's voice is a bellow in my mind, a spike of pure agony and rage as he feels his prize being contested.

"YOU FIRST!" I scream back, my voice and mind united in a single purpose.

I raise 'First Flame'.

I do not strike the chain.

I strike the wound I already made.

The golden blade, my Key, plunges deep into the heart of the shadow.

The backlash is immediate.

It surges up the rope, a tidal wave of unmaking.

"HACHIRO!"

"I... GOT... IT!" he screams, his body bowing under the strain.

His green chi flares, meeting the shadow-wave head-on. The impact throws him backwards, but he holds the line. He is absorbing the unmaking energy. He is metabolizing it. He is eating the VOID.

And it is killing him.

But it is working.

I feel the chain shudder. The psychic scream of the Spinner King stabs my mind, a sound of pure offense.

I TWIST the blade.

CLANG.

The sound of a concept breaking. The sound of a lock, a billion years old, finally shattering.

The chain... snaps.

It implodes, the same as the first. A silent flash of light and darkness, a void devouring itself.

The rope goes slack.

I am falling.

But this time, I am ready.

"PULL!"

Kizawa is already moving. He has untangled himself from the line. He and Erima grab the rope. Yogawa, his book forgotten, grabs it too, his scholarly hands raw.

They haul.

The ascent is fast, frantic, a desperate scramble. I am a dead weight on the line, my arms and legs numb, my chi-reserves utterly, terrifyingly gone.

They drag me over the edge of the platform.

I collapse onto the fleshy stone, my lungs burning, my entire body a single, screaming bruise.

The silence is the first thing I notice.

The 'song' of the Hollow-God is quieter. Two notes are gone from the symphony of agony. The pressure, the agonizing keening that has been drilling into our skulls, is receding.

I look at Hachiro.

He is on his back. His left arm is a ruin. It is not just broken. It is shattered from the elbow down, a mess of blood, bone, and smoking, Miasma-burned flesh. But he is grinning, tears of relief streaming down his face.

"It... is... better..." he whispers. "Mizuki... it... is so much better..."

My gaze swings to Kizawa.

He is slumped against the wall, his twin blades lying discarded on the floor. He is shaking violently, a full-body tremor that will not stop. His skin is still a waxy, unnatural, ghastly gray. His lips are blue. He is dying of hypothermia in a warm, living room.

He met the Void head-on. He became the dam.

And the cold won.

"Kizawa..." I crawl towards him. My arms feel like lead. I cannot feel my fingers.

He looks at me. The blue fire is gone from his eyes. There is only a dull, numb, empty cold.

The chasm has never been wider. It has consumed him.

"We... are... not... done," he chatters, his teeth rattling so hard I think they will break. "Get... up, Mizuki. The... next... chain..."

He tries to push himself up, to find his swords. He cannot. His arms fail him. He collapses back against the wall.

"You... are... finished, Kizawa," I whisper, my heart breaking. "You... stay... here."

"No... I... am... the... anchor..."

"You... are... a fool!" I snap, my fear turning to a hot, bitter anger. "You are dying! Look at you!"

"I... do... not... matter."

His words are so cold. So empty. So final.

'THE... BLADE... IS... BROKEN...'

The Hollow-God's voice is a soft, sad whisper in my mind.

'THE... FIST... IS... SHATTERED...'

'MY... SAVIORS... ARE... FALLEN...'

I look at my team.

Hachiro, his arm ruined, but his spirit soaring because the pain is less.

Kizawa, frozen almost to death by his own Will.

Erima, her face pale, her quiver half-empty, her hands shaking so badly she can barely stand.

Yogawa, leaning against his grimoire, weeping silently from psychic exhaustion and the terror of it all.

And me. Empty. Aching. Utterly spent.

Two chains are gone.

Dozens remain.

The cost to free this God...

It is us.