Chapter 61: The Thread of Madness

The walk is a silent, waking nightmare. We are four small, broken figures moving across an infinite, silver-lit plain. The silence of this place is a presence. It is a cold, heavy blanket that smothers sound. The only noises are the faint, wet drag of Yogawa's unconscious body on the silk, and Hachiro's ragged, painful breathing.

I am Erima, the strategist. My mind is supposed to be clear. But logic has no purchase here. This is a realm of concepts, a place of will. My Grak-ta bow feels useless. What good is an arrow against an idea?

Kizawa is our compass. He moves with a steady, relentless pace, his blue eyes fixed on a point in the darkness that only he can see. He follows the trail of faint, scorched footprints. He is a man possessed by a single, unwavering faith.

"The... trail is changing," Hachiro pants, his voice raw. He stops for a moment, shifting his grip on Yogawa. His good arm is trembling with fatigue.

I stop, nocking an arrow, scanning the endless, empty horizon. "How?"

"It is... fainter," he says, kneeling. He touches one of the scorched marks. "But... wider. It is not... a footprint anymore. It is... a blast. Like... she is fighting something."

I kneel beside him. He is right. The clear, defiant boot-prints are gone. Now, we are following patches of blighted silk, as if small, golden bombs had gone off, searing the web.

"She... is hurting," Hachiro whispers, his face pale. His empathic nature is a curse here. "She... is lashing out. Fighting... something... we cannot see."

Kizawa does not slow. He speeds up. His limp, a product of the fall, is gone, burned away by the urgency of his purpose. The Rekka-moss on his back glows a dull, angry green, steaming with his effort.

"Kizawa, wait!" I hiss. "You will burn yourself out!"

"Then... I will burn," he says, not looking back.

We move faster, a desperate, stumbling run. We are jogging across the roof of hell.

And then... Yogawa screams.

It is not a loud sound. It is a choked, gurgling moan. He is conscious.

"He is waking up!" Hachiro pants, nearly dropping him.

"No," Kizawa says. He stops, skidding to a halt on the slick silk.

He raises his hand.

"He... is reacting."

I freeze.

And... I feel it.

It is not a sound. It... is a vibration. A low, sub-sonic hum that is coming up from the web itself. It is a psychic drill, boring into the base of my skull.

The King.

The Spinner King.

He... knows we are here.

Yogawa convulses. His eyes snap open. They are not his eyes. They are wide, white, and filled with a *pure, cosmic terror.

"IT SEES US!" he shrieks, his voice a shattered, broken thing. "IT KNOWS! THE WEB! WE ARE ON THE WEB!"

He scrambles away from Hachiro, his limbs flailing. He tries to dig at the silken floor with his bare hands.

"GET OFF! GET OFF! GET IT OFF ME!"

He is mad. His mind, the scholar's greatest tool, is now his greatest enemy.

"Yogawa! SILENCE!" I roar, grabbing for him.

Smack.

Kizawa backhands him.

It... is not an act of cruelty. It... is a shock. A reset.

Yogawa freezes. He stares at Kizawa, a thin trickle of blood running from his nose.

"You... will bring them," Kizawa hisses, his voice a low vibration of fury.

Yogawa stares at him, his breath hitching. The madness is gone, replaced by a new, lucid horror.

"Them...?" Yogawa chatters, his teeth knocking together. "Kizawa... there is no 'them'. There... is only... HIM."