Chapter 27 - The Abyss of Truth

Igorus soared above the endless ocean. His gaze stretched toward the horizon, over the vast waters that covered the entire planet, the Varna Ocean. In this world, there were only two landmasses: the Divine Isle of Ladnoria and the supercontinent of mortals, Zagros. Zagros was many times larger than the holy isle, like comparing Australia to Eurasia.

It was said there should be two oceans, but in truth, only one stretched across the sphere of this world, dotted with mysterious islands whose inhabitants remained unknown. The lack of civilization among these distant isles made contact impossible, leaving them shrouded in secrecy.

After a few minutes of flight, the coastline came into view, harsh cliffs teeming with colonies of seagulls. He swept above them, proud and mighty, like an eagle exalting in its grandeur. Beyond, green fields and gentle plateaus spread across the land, a serene contrast to the unforgiving forests of Guhojre.

Igorus pressed on northward, his wings carrying him effortlessly across hundreds of kilometers of rolling greenery. He passed over mountains, crags, and rugged landscapes where feathers drifted into the wind, until a vast forest emerged before his eyes.

This was the Simbei Forest, lying south of the hybrid nation.

"Hmm?! What is this I'm feeling?" Igorus muttered to himself as an unfamiliar sensation stirred within him from the heart of the forest.

"The very first oddity thou shalt feel upon this vast supercontinent, aye, the very first, is the presence of Alphons. Hrrhmmm... (growling noises)" Skorona's words echoed in his memory, Kindu's voice dripping with theatrical exaggeration, as though delivered from the stage of some drunken bard's play.

"I hope he's right," Igorus muttered, resuming his flight.

The senses of divine beings were far beyond anything mortals could comprehend, so Igorus' reaction was entirely justified. As he drew nearer, skimming low over the boundless Simbei Forest, he spotted below him a cavern of impossible scale, at least three kilometers wide and of unfathomable depth.

Without hesitation, Igorus descended into the gaping hollow. The sunlight above soon faded, its strength diminished, and the interior shimmered with an eerie glow: veins of crystal in green, aquamarine, blue, and red lined the cavern walls in every direction. Within the shadows, strange and fearsome creatures stirred, massive-bodied bats, horned serpents, amisfabana (two-headed snakes), and uncanny fish with humanoid legs, clambering across the rocks like herds of mountain goats.

"It seems I am far beyond the Holy Isle. At the very least, the creatures here are utterly different," Igorus thought aloud, awestruck.

He continued his descent until at last he reached the cavern floor. Folding his wings tight to his body, he marked the end of his flight. Darkness consumed everything; no trace of the sun remained. With a flick of his hand, Igorus conjured fire, its glow serving as his guide through the abyss.

Along the path, remnants of history revealed themselves, painted urns, skeletal remains of hybrids strewn across the ground, and primitive cave drawings in the style of Neanderthals, depicting hybrid clans locked in war against other peoples.

"This place was once inhabited," Igorus murmured, absorbing the echoes of ages past.

At the end of the path, a colossal throne rose above a heap of jagged stone, presiding proudly over a vast hollow chamber. Stalagmites and stalactites crowned the space, dripping with rose-hued water that glittered in the firelight.

From the throne itself, a crimson light began to stir.

"Well, would ye look at that... a god seekin' out a mortal," came the voice from the throne.

Igorus widened his eyes, startled by the sound echoing through the darkness.

"I suppose you must be Alfons, am I right?" Igorus asked.

From the shadows, a black lion with blazing red eyes emerged, his form twisted into a humanoid shape. Draped in a golden cloak, he sat upon the throne, illuminated by the fire burning in Igorus' hand.

In the hidden chamber of the angels' royal palace, where Bakabali's incomplete body rested in absolute stillness, Lazrael slowly opened the great door.

"Your Majesty," he said, bowing slightly as he saw Tarnael gazing intently at Bakabali and at the severed arm of Edin'Borghia, preserved beside the tube that held the latter's body. Glauk stood silently behind, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

"Lazrael. It has been days since I last saw you. Care to explain where you've been all this time?" Tarnael's voice carried authority, his eyes never leaving Bakabali's broken form.

"I have been somewhat... occupied with the other kingdoms of our nation, my lord," Lazrael answered, closing the door behind him. "They requested assistance in various scientific matters. It seems my expertise is in rather high demand."

"You mean my nation, don't you?" Tarnael asked calmly, at that moment.

Glauk arched his left brow in reaction.

"W-What do you mean by that, Your Majesty?" Lazrael stammered, thrown off guard.

"Do you take me for a fool, demon scientist?" Tarnael turned his head at last, fixing Lazrael with a piercing, threatening stare.

"My lord, I don't—"

"The demons required the expertise of a mad scientist, one Lazrael Hathwaye," Tarnael continued in his steady tone. "A man proficient in countless sciences, disguise, manipulation, cunning... and most of all, in madness itself."

"Where could you have possibly read such a claim, Majesty?" Lazrael asked with an awkward, uneasy smile.

"Lazrael... it does not suit you to play the idiot. Even if you try, it doesn't fit. Your blatant lack of Lapis has stripped away your pathetic disguises. And besides..." Tarnael let a dark-covered book fall to the ground with a heavy thud. Its title, etched in yellow letters, gleamed faintly.

"Wh-What!? H-How did that end up in your hands?" Lazrael gasped when he recognized it.

"The Chronicles of Despair." Tarnael's lips curled into a faint sneer. "A title most fitting for vermin like you. As for how I acquired it, you are in no position to question me."

He stepped forward, his pace slow and intimidating, each word pressed like a weight against Lazrael. The book lay between them on the floor. Lazrael froze, torn between retreat and paralysis. He glanced at Glauk, who remained motionless, silent as though he were merely an audience to the unfolding scene.

"Drop the act, Lazrael," Tarnael said, now standing before him. "I know you are in league with Aldes and Atbara. I know you murdered the brother of General Igorus Friola."

At once, several small portals flared open around Lazrael, his agitation mounting to panic.

"I have eyes and ears everywhere. Nothing escapes me. Perhaps you wonder why the general has not yet slain the so-called 'protectors' of the forest, the infamous duo of supposed villains? It was I who spared them, Lazrael, by scattering fragments of my feathers after you killed his brother. That alone should explain much." Tarnael's grin was cold, wicked.

Lazrael's face drained of color. "H-How did you scatter your feathers there?"

"I sent my brother on a suicide mission. Do you think I cannot send mere feathers into their territory? Laughable. It is true I cannot teleport there myself, their barrier prevents it. But something so trivial? Child's play."

The portals vanished, leaving only Tarnael, looming before Lazrael.

"I need you, Lazrael. Since you've nearly perfected your adaptation to my kingdom, I'll allow you to indulge in whatever pleasures fall within my interests. Eat, drink, sleep, rut, assist me with Bakabali... but you will remain confined to this chamber, together with the creature you have so pitifully 'adopted.' Your performance has grown tiresome, and those ragged strands of hair, perhaps taken from a slave worth less than a handful of salt, disgust me. Remember this: angels can be far more repulsive than demons."

Tarnael strode past Lazrael, who could only watch Bakabali drifting senseless in the green fluid, cut off from any awareness of the world outside.

"One last thing," Tarnael added as he reached the door. "I'll have Eliael join your research. At least then you won't be alone with that mute." He closed the door behind him.

Lazrael stood frozen, staring ahead. Just staring. And then—

"Kh—Kahahahahahaha... GAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" His laughter burst out, wild and unrestrained. "You excite me beyond measure, Tarnael. I could not be more delighted to serve beside such a tyrant. Perhaps you will even change my opinion of angels. I cannot wait to see what becomes of this accursed world."

Glauk observed him in silence, expression unchanged, his face an impassive mask.

Meanwhile, in the cavern where Igorus confronted Alfons...

In Alfons's silhouette, Igorus saw the legendary hero who, five centuries and thirty years ago, had halted the wrath of the hybrids, proud, leaning on his simple staff above the bodies of those whose hearts had been twisted by the petal of malice. The dark lion gazed skyward then, when the bud of victory blossomed. From afar, Igorus had revered him as a warrior. Now he stood honored to face him at last.

"So then, what is it ye want of me?" Alfons' arrogant tone shattered the memory that Igorus held.

"You speak the Arnhaic language remarkably well," Igorus observed with a note of respect.

At that time, each kingdom had its own distinct language. The language of the Dominions was Arnhaic; the angels spoke Sabdovan; the demons, Kendarian. To mortals, these three were wholly separate languages, different grammars, alphabets, and structures. Yet if an angel, a dominion, and a demon gathered in one room, they could converse fluently, as though speaking dialects of the same speech. Still, the languages of the divine were nearly impossible for mortals to master, for their alphabets contained sounds that demanded vast reserves of energy, magic itself, to memorize and wield. Since magic was the weakest form of energy, to learn such languages was a great achievement for any mortal.

"There're others aside frae Atbara who speak the divine languages," Alfons replied.

"You know Atbara?" Igorus asked in surprise.

The vampire guardin' the holy forest, Guhojre... what, a hunner an' thirty-two years now? Gie or tak' a year, I may be off."Alfons muttered to himself.

"Beyond that, I have been told you are exceedingly wise. I've come to ask you about certain matters," Igorus said, his tone serious.

"A god, seekin' answers from a mortal about things he himsel' doesnae ken? Hah! That's no' somethin' ye hear every day, that's for sure," Alfons said, his voice dripping with irony.

Igorus' eyes remained fixed on him, unwavering, awaiting affirmation.

"Like it or no, the years take their toll. Though it may sound ironic, I'm older than any divine being that yet lives. Perhaps ye might even call me a god. You must be a dominion. I can feel the Fernia radiatin' from ye," Alfons said.

"Correct. I am General of the Dominion army, Igorus Friola."

"Ah, a figure of high station indeed. I'm honored by yer presence," Alfons said with a faintly cynical smile.

In less than the blink of an eye, Alfons appeared before him, the sheer force of his speed shattering stalactites and stalagmites all around. The lion loomed, 2.5 meters tall, his presence overwhelming. Igorus stood motionless, unflinching even as the massive figure towered before him.

"So then... what is it ye seek from me, General Friola?" Alfons asked, standing with intimidating poise.

"Who is the Twelfth Kindu?" Igorus demanded gravely.

Silence fell between them, their eyes locked in a battle of wills that could have torn the cavern apart at any instant.

"I see... ye too seek to know who she is," Alfons finally said.

Igorus' eyes widened at Alfons' statement. The lion noticed his reaction.

"If ye want to know, ye'll have to challenge me in duel, General Igorus Friola."

"A duel, eh? And if I defeat you, you'll tell me everything?"

"If ye give me a worthy fight, aye. If not... you'll join the collection of skeletons just behind me." Alfons gestured with his staff toward a hill of bones, upon which his throne rested.

"Perhaps you'll become part of that collection instead," Igorus replied with a maniacal laugh.

"Knog pipin muyo phasengt,
Lausa pi moussa slab ghangu,
Kanlang del sams min traub bankli,
Kanlang del ponu mon krak,
Kanlang del sechakrib min aucku melelkubab,
Kanlang del krivit nahkrov samrab akrav..."

Alfons began chanting in a language more ancient than memory. Igorus could not grasp the meaning, but before his eyes, the cavern dissolved. The two of them were transported into a different dimension altogether.

All was blue. Tiny, red snowflake-like motes drifted everywhere, floating ceaselessly. It was a blue void, suffused with a strange, oppressive essence. Nothing could be seen, nothing could be heard, nothing could be perceived, save Igorus and Alfons standing face to face.

"Daugranki," Alfons said. "The hell of the dark goblins. They roamed this world millennia ago, until the Twelfth Kindu erased them from existence. These red motes ye see, they're the souls of those goblins, doomed to wander and wail forever in the hell they themselves brought forth."

"Dark goblins, eh? I've heard of them, but not that the Twelfth Kindu destroyed them," said Igorus.

"As ye feel it, this is a realm not our own. In some ways akin to Ladnoria, but not quite. Nothin' ye do here will touch the world we live in," Alfons said as he readied his wooden staff.

"Seriously? You mean to fight me with that stick?" Igorus asked, incredulous.

"I'd advise ye no' tae underestimate me, General..."