Chapter 28 - The Library of the Unspoken

Several months before the birth of General Igorus' son, Voidanos, Queen Kaliga and King Kasama received the happiest news they could ever imagine. They were expecting their first child together, a daughter. Morana Barthier, as she would be named, the unborn princess of the Dominion Kingdom.

Her chamber was already prepared: a vast room filled with stuffed bears, drawings, and walls painted a soft shade of pink. For Kaliga, Morana would be her third child. For Kasama, his first. In truth, the royal lineage belonged to Queen Kaliga; Kasama had once been nothing more than a general, indeed, the most powerful Dominion general of all time, who won the queen's hand after she separated for the second time from a royal marriage.

Her two previous children, the two former kings, no longer lived. The first, Beathan Finns, had been a commander in the Dominion army. He was slain in battle against hybrids possessed by the Petal of Darkness, 530 years ago, in a manner befitting only a warrior, by the hand of King Agnostias himself.

The second child, Treasa Barthier, had tragically fallen victim to the "Infant Virus." She died moments after the queen gave birth to her, 425 years ago. It was one of the darkest days in Dominion history.

The second king, Dolaiddh Morlon, overcome by grief, was found dead in his bath. It was believed he had cut his veins and bled out within seconds. The first king, Briannan Finns, had lived alongside the queen for more than fifty years. Their marriage had been one of joy, cooperation, and mutual respect. They had been proud of their son, even though he was not a general. Under the command of General Kasama Barthier, he had taken orders and carried them out not as a royal, but as a soldier, a duty he fulfilled without resentment or pride.

But time betrayed Briannan. Kaliga began to notice him forgetting details of their lives. Days passed, then weeks, then years, and at last, came the moment when Briannan asked:

"Who am I?"

It was a devastating case of Alzheimer's. Entirely unheard of among divine beings. A defect that only mortals had ever suffered. To this day, no explanation has been found for why such a fate befell the king.

Kaliga was forced to take the unthinkable step: she ordered her husband executed before the eyes of the Tamasi Kingdom, not as a sovereign, but as a failure beyond redemption.

"You no longer deserve to be king," she declared, fighting back the tears, lest their fall flood the marble floors of the royal palace.

Briannan Finns was burned alive 531 years ago. One year later, his son fell in battle, as already mentioned. Some say he could have survived, for the cause of the conflict lay in one of the petals of the Flower of Darkness, whose mysteries endure. The hybrids, enslaved, brought endless war to the mortal realms, stealing, destroying, laying waste to everything before them. And yet, though survival was possible, Beathan had lost the will to live. His father's death had carved a wound too deep to heal. He met his end at the blade of Agnostias.

Life had not been gentle with Queen Kaliga. For more than four centuries she sought no new bond of marriage. She wanted no more grief, no more holes torn open by love itself. Better, she believed, to rule alone. Until Kasama proved himself worthy. The general resigned 250 years ago, and was crowned king twenty-five years past. Under King Kasama, the Dominion has known stability once again, guided by a ruler of true strength and wisdom.

And yet, one question lingers: who saved the hybrid race from the Flower's malignant grip? Strangely enough, it was not the Dominions, though they struck down many of those enslaved by the darkest divine forces.

It was Alfons Barner, the most powerful mortal to ever live.

But he paid a terrible price...

Igorus and Alfons stood face-to-face, preparing for the duel. Their gazes locked, each full of severity and malice. Igorus looked down into Alfons's unsettling crimson eyes, eyes that returned a glare sharp enough to cut.

"Are ye ready then, lad?" Alfons asked with an arrogant smirk.

"More ready than ever," Igorus replied, as a massive aura of fire erupted around him, the sign that he was fully prepared for battle. Alfons, unbothered, simply watched.

The general conjured a sword of flame, stepped back a few meters, and with a sweeping strike, unleashed a blazing mass, several meters wide and long that surged forth at Alfons. Calmly, Alfons raised his staff before him, splitting the inferno in two equal halves. The flames roared past on either side, leaving him untouched.

Igorus was stunned at such power. But before he could recover, Alfons charged straight through the divided fire, striking at him with his wooden staff. With no choice, Igorus blocked the attack with his burning blade.

Steel and wood clashed, and the impact unleashed titanic shockwaves that scattered the floating red motes of the dimension like loose electrons.

"I knew you were strong," Igorus said through clenched teeth, summoning a second blade of fire in his other hand. He swung swiftly, attempting to catch Alfons off guard.

But Alfons read the move instantly. He twisted his staff with precision, catching both flaming swords at their edges.

"Not bad," Alfons sneered, slamming his foot into the ground. The strike sent shards of rock and stone into the air, a sudden storm of distraction that momentarily startled Igorus.

Where did he go? Igorus thought.

Then Alfons appeared above him, hands clasped together. With a deafening roar, he brought down a double-fisted blow. The sheer impact obliterated much of the terrain around them, scattering what remained of Igorus' flames.

"Quite the strike," Igorus muttered, having barely blocked the blow with his hands. With a swift shift, he tried to counter, aiming a fiery punch toward Alfons' stomach.

But Alfons stomped on his fist mid-swing, seized his airborne staff, and struck downward. Igorus evaded at the last possible instant. The impact tore open a rift in the dimension, three hundred meters long and one hundred meters deep.

"Impressive," Igorus admitted. "If this weren't Daugranki, the cavern, no, half a continent would already be destroyed."

"Aye, and I'm only warmin' up. I've not even shown ye my true power yet," Alfons replied with a crooked grin.

"So I underestimated you after all," Igorus said, his voice echoing as fire exploded outward from his form, five times greater than before. The heat alone grew deathly.

He spread his wings, surging toward Alfons with even greater speed than before, his fists engulfed in flame.

"Fernia Relica: Third Reveal — Hands of the Phoenix!"

His fists transformed into blazing phoenix heads, shrieking with fiery life.

"Now that is somethin' worth seein'," Alfons chuckled, spinning his staff at a blistering pace. The motion created a massive vortex, twisting the air into a whirlwind that slowed Igorus' advance and siphoned away his fire.

"Impressive," Igorus strained against the pull. "But..."

With a roar, he unleashed even more fire, flooding the space with unbearable heat. The vortex dried and crumbled under the inferno's intensity. Wings blazing, he closed the gap, striking relentlessly with the phoenix fists.

Alfons dodged with uncanny ease, weaving through the fiery onslaught. Then, with the back of his arm, he deflected one of Igorus' strikes, dispersing the phoenix form. Seizing the opening, Alfons thrust his staff into Igorus' stomach with unimaginable force, snuffing out all his flames in an instant.

But Igorus' body vanished, like a candle flame in the wind.

"What?!" Alfons gasped.

"Fernia Relica: Fourth Reveal — The Faith of Ankostra," Igorus' voice called from behind.

"Ye slippery bastard," Alfons muttered with a grin he couldn't suppress.

From behind Igorus, a colossal woman of fire materialized, her hands pierced with copper nails, her eyes veiled in white flame that bathed the dimension in a trembling brilliance.

"So this is Ankostra? The vampire cursed by the flames of Magrael? I'll admit, I didnae think ye had such a technique, Igorus," Alfons said, his voice filled with both awe and challenge.

Ankostra reached out with her searing hand to seize Alfons, the heat nearly unbearable. Each strike shook the realm, carving craters of ash with every blow. Then three more blazing women of equal size emerged, igniting the dimension into an apocalyptic furnace.

Alfons drew on every ounce of his physical might to evade them, bounding and twisting with impossible speed. His staff became a springboard, launching him away from each devastating strike. Flames split before him as he slashed through them, darting, leaping, crashing downward in bursts of strength and skill.

At last, he struck the air itself, propelling his body high above Ankostra and the three towering fire-wraiths, ready to unleash his counterstrike.

"The situation's grown troublesome," Alfons muttered as he reached a breaking point.

Summoning a surge of raw physical power, he spun his staff at near-sonic speed, perhaps dozens of times faster, until the winds themselves roared. Hundreds of tornados formed in the span of a heartbeat, vast and titanic in scale.

"Hmph." Igorus stretched out his hand, and in an instant, every tornado ignited with fire, transforming the goblins' dark hell into a furnace of true damnation.

Ankostra seized all that fire within her colossal hands, drawing it into herself and into the three massive women of flame as well. The inferno was sucked inward, as if a great vacuum consumed everything in its path.

"Fernia Relika: First Reveal — Sheol."

In Ankostra's palms, a crimson sphere took form, seething with millions of souls drowned in fire. From her back unfurled eight burning wings, her blazing gaze fixed upon Alfons.

"Perhaps it's time I used a wee bit o' magic," Alfons muttered to himself as he slowly descended, falling toward Ankostra.

The entire dimension filled with burning crosses, each one heavy with scorched souls, raining from the sky above. The sphere in Ankostra's hands shrank smaller and smaller, yet its density grew ever greater.

"Strike, Ankostra!" Igorus commanded, and all of Daugranki filled with shattered, fiery crucifixes.

"Hmph!" Alfons scoffed as he stretched out his hands, ready to be consumed by the flood of fiery souls.

The whirlwind of spirits rose as a monstrous tidal wave of flame, set to devour Alfons whole. They screamed, they howled, they cursed and blasphemed, clawing at one another's faces, tearing, devouring themselves alive.

"A sight fit for the damned indeed. These be all the poor wretches ye've slain, Igorus?" Alfons said with a crooked grin as he fell into the maelstrom of burning spirits.

Igorus merely watched, arms folded, his gaze cold as death. Hundreds of thousands of sinners churned beneath Alfons' feet, and at last, they swarmed him, pulling him down into the torrent of death.

Ankostra opened her mouth, unleashing violet flames in an unfathomable flood. Daugranki itself twisted into an apocalyptic inferno. The spirits howled and pressed on, ravenous beyond all reason.

"A truly divine technique," Alfons' voice rang out through the chaos.

"Hm?" Igorus' eyes widened. He had assumed nothing but Alfons' ashes could remain in this world.

The tide of spirits ebbed, revealing Alfons, his left arm clad in a gleaming emerald shield.

"So this is yer magic," Igorus admitted, impressed.

"This be Armor Number One. Altogether, I wield nine. This one here is called the Mirtas Armor, the weakest of the lot," Alfons replied, stepping upon the very air as he charged headlong against the raging tide of fiery souls.

He cut through, piercing the impenetrable deluge. Spirits split in twain as he drove forward. At last, Alfons drew close to the violet fire streaming from Ankostra's mouth.

"Mirtas! Lend me all yer strength!"

Alfons' body became fully encased in an Anglo-Saxon style armor, its surface traced with glowing green lines, a dark horsehair crest flowing from the helm.

"Not bad," Igorus murmured, still standing with arms folded, unmoving.

In Alfons' hand materialized a sword, its texture matching the armor itself.

"Mirtas! Unleash yer wrath! Upon the foe! Upon the evil before us!"

Alfons swung the blade, releasing a razor-sharp surge of energy. Like a divine knife, it sliced Ankostra clean in two. Her head split down the center, along with her body and wings, all in perfect symmetry. Her halves fell into the seething firepits that bound Daugranki on every side.

Half her burning face struck the ground before Igorus, who stood unmoved, arms still folded, amidst this most abstract of apocalyptic visions.

Alfons, clad in armor, landed upon the ground beside the flaming crucifixes Igorus had summoned. Kneeling, with his sword resting upon his left shoulder, he glared forward.

Igorus regarded him in silence, betraying not a single emotion.

"I reckon that's enough," Alfons said as his armor and blade shattered all at once, vanishing without the faintest trace.

"I see," Igorus replied.

"I brought ye here hopin' we wouldn't lay waste tae anythin', yet look at the ruin we've wrought," Alfons muttered, glancing about at the flames that engulfed Daugranki from every side.

"If I'd taken this seriously, I'd have burned the whole world down. Still, its tale intrigues me, and I need answers from you," Igorus said, lowering his arms from their folded stance.

"Very well then... Saatre bamro noru kom, kom chuëob norki robsalam, chamnegor kurt porchia, ryy slalab venus..."

The instant Alfons finished his incantation, the two of them returned to the cavern where they had first met.

"Follow me," Alfons gestured, leading Igorus behind the hill of bones that held his throne aloft.

"Smakra."

Upon the wall of stone, a doorway began to appear. Instead of a lock, there emerged the skull of a baboon.

"What is this?" Igorus asked, curiosity sharp in his voice.

"See fer yersel'," Alfons said, twisting the skull twice to the left. After two long seconds of tense silence, the doorway creaked open.

Light spilled from within, growing brighter and brighter. Igorus watched intently, eager to glimpse what lay beyond the mysterious gate. At last the door stood wide open. A vast corridor stretched forth, six doors lining the sides, and at the far end, a single colossal gateway, already ajar.

"Seems the sun's light will soon be swallowed by the clouds," Alfons murmured.

"What do you mean by that?" Igorus asked, confused.

As soon as the sunlight no longer touched the corridor, creatures emerged, small-bodied, cloaked in shadowed robes. Their most grotesque trait was their massive heads, so absurdly heavy they could not hold them upright. Bent forward, they cradled those wrinkled skulls with long, jagged nails as they shuffled along. They paid no heed to Alfons or Igorus, walking slowly, inexorably, as though neither man existed.

"These are the Morloks. Toilers o' the Underworld. We've stepped intae their realm now," Alfons said as he strode through the doorway.

"H-Hey, wait for me," Igorus stammered, hurrying after him.

They walked down the corridor, surrounded by these creatures. The Morloks never turned their gaze, their lifeless white eyes staring ahead, ears monstrously large, their silence unbroken.

"Why don't they notice us? These Morlocks?" Igorus asked.

"They're blind, deaf, and mute," Alfons answered, never breaking stride.

"Earlier you said the sunlight was fading," Igorus pressed, still studying the creatures with fascination.

"The Morlocks freeze when sunlight touches 'em, aye, their time itself halts. Wars've stripped 'em of any land steeped in eternal darkness, so this is how they live. Though I dinnae think they care much. They can live for thousands o' years... maybe more," Alfons said.

"Numbers that would daunt even a god. Wait, hold a moment. Isn't the Underworld supposed to lie beneath this earth?" Igorus asked, eyes still on the bent creatures.

"It's no' directly part o' Ladnoria. Causes contradictions, ye see. Like the so-called guardians o' hell, though no hell exists," Alfons explained as he walked.

"Like the dark goblins," Igorus added.

"Exactly. Yer used tae thinkin' our world's naught but seven nations. Well... here ye'll learn somethin' altogether different," Alfons said, stepping through the massive door at the corridor's end.

Beyond the gate lay a vast library, its walls towering with shelves of books on every side. Morlocks tended to the tomes, watered patches of grass that grew between the stones, and moved in groups, or alone, about their work. Wherever Igorus looked, shelves and stacks stretched on without end.

"Astonishing. This surpasses even the Grand Library of Tamasi," Igorus whispered in awe.

"Here ye'll find everythin' that's ever happened in our world. I call it the Library o' the Unspoken. Charming, aye? Heheh," Alfons chuckled, planting his staff on the ground like an old man leaning on a cane, eyes fixed ahead at the heart of this paradise of books.

And there, beyond the endless shelves, loomed a vast and ancient tree, its leaves a dark, brooding green, clearly concealing some great and hidden secret...