Chapter 55: The Obsidian Nexus

The iron gate of the Nexus grinds shut behind us, the sound a heavy, metallic finality. We are inside.

I am Erima, and the contrast is immediate. The air in the street was thick, red, and choked with Miasma-smoke and the stench of the Devourer's corpse. The air inside the Nexus is cold, clean, and still. It smells of ozone, wet stone, and the faint, sharp, living scent of the glowing green Rekka-light.

The Nexus is not a building; it is a hollowed-out mountain. The main hall is a cavern of black, polished obsidian, so vast that the ceiling is lost in shadows. It is not a home. It is a command center, a military bunker.

Grak-ta warriors of the Phalanx, all nine feet of armored, four-eyed menace, move with a heavy, disciplined purpose. They carry spears. They move supplies. They stand guard. There are no civilians here. No children, no elders. There is only the war.

"Medic. Him."

Krell's voice is a low roar that cuts through the disciplined quiet. He points a massive, black-taloned finger at Kizawa.

The Phalanx medic, the one who first applied the moss, nods. He and another warrior grab Kizawa. Kizawa tries to resist, a spark of his old, defiant Will flashing in his eyes.

"Do not touch me," he hisses.

The medic ignores him. He is a dying insect. The Grak-ta handle him with a rough, impersonal efficiency, like a broken piece of equipment. They half-drag, half-carry him to a low, obsidian slab against the far wall. This is their 'medical bay'.

"You," Krell barks, pointing at Hachiro. "Go. Your arm is a rot."

Hachiro flinches but nods, his face pale. He cradles his shattered arm and follows the medic, his eyes wide with a mixture of terror and awe. He is in a fortress of monsters.

"Him," Krell grunts, pointing at the still-limp, catatonic Yogawa, who is now slumped on the floor. "Put it in the corner. It is useless."

A Phalanx guard grabs Yogawa by the back of his robe and drags him unceremoniously out of the way, depositing him against the wall like a discarded pack.

The General dismisses my entire broken team in three seconds.

Then, his four black eyes settle on me.

I am the only one left. The only one conscious, unbroken, and alert.

I am the Arrow. The Strategist.

"You," he growls. "With me."

He turns, his heavy obsidian armor clanking with each step, and strides toward the center of the cavern. There, a single, massive, glowing green object dominates the room.

It is a table. A duplicate of the one in the Spire, but different. The Spire's table was carved from living, glowing Rekka-stone. This is obsidian, intricately carved, with veins of pure, raw Rekka-crystal embedded in it, pulsing with a cold, steady, green light. It is a Grak-ta's imitation of a divine artifact.

It is a war map.

Krell plants his massive hands on the table. The map shows the city of Torchlight, the Spire above, and, chillingly, the Abyss below.

"You are the planner," he states. It is not a question. "The 'Blade'. He listens to you."

"We are a team," I say, my voice a dry croak. I stand on the other side of the map, a tiny, human-sized counterpoint to his monstrous bulk.

"You are a broken stick," he snarls. "But you are the only stick I have. Tell me. Again. From the start."

I take a deep breath. The air here is thin. "Mizuki. The 'Flame-Girl'. She fell."

"Yes. Fell," he grunts, his four eyes tracing a line on the map from the Spire, down. Down past Torchlight. Into the blackness. "Into his parlor. The Spinner King."

"You know him," I whisper.

"I know of him," Krell corrects, his voice a low, hateful rumble. "He is the darkness beneath the floor. He is the Void. He is the true God. The Hollow-God is just his prey. And we... we are the fleas on the prey's back."

It is the coldest, most hopeless truth I have ever heard.

"The Assassins," Krell continues, his talon tapping the map. "They hunt her. They knew you were here. They knew you crashed. They were sent to finish the job. To retrieve the Flame-Girl's corpse. Or, if she survived, to bring her to him."

A scream.

It is not a sound of terror. It is a shriek of pure, unadulterated agony.

My head snaps around.

It is Hachiro.

The medic is holding him down on the obsidian slab. Hachiro's chi-splint, his own Miasma-born power, is gone. His shattered arm is exposed.

The medic is applying the raw Rekka-moss directly to the open, shattered wound.

Hachiro thrashes, his body arching off the table.

"It burns!" he screams. "It BURNS!"

"It heals," Krell growls, not even looking back. "The God's blood is life. His energy is poison. They are at war. The God will win. He will be healed. Or he will be purified. Either way, the rot stops."

Hachiro screams again.

I am going to be sick.

"He is just a boy!" I snap.

"He is an insect," Krell says coldly. "Who claims he can punch a Hunter to death. Let us see if he can survive a healing."

He turns his gaze back to me. It is an executioner's gaze.

"The Flame-Girl is down there," he states. "The King wants her. The Assassins are in my city. This is a new war. A war I cannot fight."

"What do you mean?"

"The Phalanx protects Torchlight. We fight the Hunters. We are the shield. We cannot go down. We cannot leave the city undefended. If I take my warriors into the Abyss, the Hunters will devour this city in a day."

He leans in closer. I can smell the ozone on his armor.

"But you... insects. You are small. You are expendable. You are already marked for death by the King. And you have a motive."

His four black eyes flicker to Kizawa.

"You want her back."

I see the shape of his plan. It is a coffin.

"This is not a rescue, insect," he growls. "It is a recruitment."

"You will be my Royal Assassins. My scalpel. My expendable blade."

"You will go down into the Abyss. You will find the Spinner King's parlor. You will find the Flame-Girl. And you will bring her back to ME."

The arrogance. The brutality.

"We will die," I whisper, stating the obvious.

"Yes," Krell agrees, without hesitation. "You probably will. But you will die down there, fighting HIM. Or you will die up here, when his next Assassin finds you. I am offering you a choice of graves. And a chance at a weapon."

He is a monster.

He is a brilliant strategist.

He is right.

"We are broken," I say, my voice numb. "Kizawa is dying. Hachiro is in agony. Yogawa is gone. I am unarmed."

"They will be healed," Krell says, gesturing to the medic. "The Rekka-moss is potent. In two days, they will stand. Or they will be dead."

He turns and barks an order in his gutteral tongue. A Phalanx guard leaves.

"You are the Arrow? You need a bow. You will have one. Our obsidian bows are strong. You will learn to use it."

"We are not your soldiers," I hiss.

"You ARE MY ASSETS!" he roars, slamming his fist on the map table. The entire cavern echoes with the impact. "YOU ARE MY WAR! MY ONLY CHANCE!"

He leans in, his four eyes burning like coals.

"You will do this. You will obey me. You will be my scalpel. Or I will throw your broken 'Blade' out into the street and let the Assassins have his corpse. DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME, INSECT?"

The threat is absolute.

I am checkmated.

I hate him.

"I understand," I whisper.

"Good."

He straightens up. The General is back.

"You will rest for two days. The medic will see to your team. You will eat. You will regain your strength. Then we plan the descent."

He is dismissing me.

I am a prisoner. A conscript.

I turn to go. My legs are shaking.

"Erima."

The voice is not Krell's.

It is Kizawa's.

I turn. He is sitting up on the obsidian slab. The medic is gone. His back is a mass of glowing, steaming, green-black moss.

His face is pale, but his eyes are clear and cold.

He heard everything.

"We are not waiting two days," he states, his voice a low, painful rasp.

Krell turns, his four eyes narrowing. "You are broken, Blade. You will obey."

"We are leaving tonight," Kizawa says.

He is insane.

"You cannot even stand," Krell scoffs.

Kizawa plants his hands on the slab. He pushes himself to his feet.

A low groan of pure agony is forced from his lips. His entire body is locked in a spasm of pain. The wound on his back is stretching.

But he stands.

He is on his feet, swaying, but standing.

He looks at Krell, his blue eyes burning with a cold fire that matches the General's.

"She is down there. Alive."

"She is dying. Every second we wait, she is dying."

"We are leaving NOW."

Krell stares at this impossible, stubborn insect.

He sees a Will that matches his own.

He sees a weapon that is already sharpened.

Krell smiles. A terrible, four-eyed, toothy smile.

"The medic will give you a pack of moss," he growls.

"Go die, then, Insect."

Kizawa nods.

He walks, each step a masterpiece of painful control, to his sheathed swords. He picks them up.

He turns to me.

"Erima. Get Hachiro. Get the magician."

"It is time to go."