Chapter 60: The Whisper of the Flame

"She fought here."

Kizawa's words hang in the dead, silent air, a statement of impossible, terrifying fact.

I am Erima. I am a creature of logic. I run the calculations. We are on the floor of the Abyss, the central parlor of a creature that devours Gods. And Mizuki, alone, empty of her power, fought it. Here.

"Kizawa, that is impossible," I whisper, my voice shaking. "She was empty. She fell. She would be dead."

"She is not dead," he hisses, his voice a low, furious growl. He is not guessing. He knows.

He spreads his fingers, his hand flat on the strangely seared patch of silk. The area is subtle, the texture of the web changed. It is not burned black, but blighted, as if a pure, cleansing heat had passed over it, making the unholy silk recoil.

"The flame is still here," he breathes, his eyes closed in concentration. "A whisper. An echo."

Hachiro, his face pale and slick with sweat, kneels beside him. He tentatively reaches out his one good hand. The moment his fingers touch the blighted silk, he gasps.

"I- I feel it!" he chokes, his eyes wide. "It is not Miasma. It is not Rekka. It is her! It is warm! It feels like the sun!"

He is an empath. He is the conduit. While Kizawa feels the direction, Hachiro feels the emotion. And this place is soaked in it.

"It is... faint," Hachiro whispers, tears welling in his eyes. "So... tired. But... it is... angry. It... is so angry."

A spark. A memory.

A golden ember.

My mind flashes back to the Spire. To Kizawa, dying of the Void-cold. To Mizuki, pouring her entire life-force into him.

"Kizawa," I whisper, my mind racing. "When she... healed you. She... was empty. I saw it. The flame was gone."

He opens his eyes. They are burning with a cold, blue fire. "It was gone... from her. It was in ME. The ember... I gave it back to her."

"Yes," I say, "but it was... a fraction. A tiny spark! It was not enough to fight... THIS!" I gesture to the endless, silver void around us.

"It... was... enough," Kizawa states. He gets to his feet.

He knows something.

"When... she fell," he says, his voice low, his hand gripping the hilt of his sword. "I felt it. The... ember. It... did not... just re-ignite. It... exploded."

He looks at me, his eyes filled with a terrible clarity.

"The fall. The terror. The desperation. It was not enough to kill her. It... was the fuel."

"The Phoenix-flame... is not just power, Erima. It... is Will. It... is Life. It is a promise. And she... is Mizuki."

He points with his sword. Not at the burned patch. But past it.

Following it.

"It is a trail," he breathes.

My God. He is right.

I look closer. The seared patch... is not a puddle. It... is a footprint. A scorched... mark... of a boot.

And ten feet beyond it... is another.

And another.

She did not fight here.

She landed here.

And she WALKED.

"She... survived the fall," I whisper, my logic shattering and re-forming into a *new, impossible shape. "She landed here. And she WALKED."

"She is HUNTING," Kizawa corrects me. His voice is filled with a *cold, terrible pride.

He is a Blade. She is a Blade.

He knows his own kind.

"She... is hunting HIM."

He points his sword into the silver darkness, following the trail of *faint, scorched footprints.

"Come on," he says. "We... are behind schedule."

He does not run. He walks. Following the trail.

I stare at his back. He is wounded. He is in agony. He is in the heart of hell.

And... he is the calmest man I have ever seen.

He is no longer the 'Anchor'. He is no longer the 'Blade'.

He... is a hunter, following the spoor of his mate.

"Hachiro," I bark, my own voice shaking. "Get Yogawa. We are moving."

"But... where?" Hachiro pants, hauling the limp magician to his feet.

I shoulder the heavy Grak-ta bow.

I look at the *faint, impossible trail of fire and defiance that Mizuki has left for us.

"We... are following the flame," I say.

And for the first time in my life... my logic and my faith are in perfect agreement.