The stars are silent, the law is thin,
To find the place where we begin.
A fist of iron, a lung of vine,
To turn the water into wine.
The weaver breathes the heavy smoke,
To pay for every word he spoke.
For in the gathering of the low,
The only seed is what we sow.
The Republic of the Broken did not wake to a fanfare. It woke to the sound of a miserable neighing of rusted pipes and the wet, heavy slap of meat paste falling from the sky.
When the white light of the Origin finally perished, it left New Oakhaven as a miserable state of biological debris and silver-stained soot. The super-void was no longer a vacuum; it was a turbid air of crushed memories and shattered bones.
Daxian lay in the center of the crater where the Sun-Eater had breathed its last. He was filled with injuries. His skull was partially exploded, a jagged, violet crystal flickering in the gap like a dying candle. His right side—the limb he had woven from the flesh and blood of the Un-Woven—was a charred, black-wood ruin, the bones jutting out of the body through the shredded remains of his coat.
"Dax... don't... you... perish... now."
Vane's voice was a miserable neighing rasp. The Lord of the Forge was kneeling in the mud beside him, his bones fractured in many places. His left eyeball had popped out, resting against his cheek, but he was unhindered by the pain. He gritted his teeth, a smile of disdain for the "Absolute Logic" that had failed to kill them. He reached out with a trembling hand and smeared a glob of black engine-oil across Daxian's forehead.
"The... pipes... are... holding, boss," Vane wheezed, coughing out a breath of turbid air.
Daxian's blood red eyes flickered open. He didn't see the sky. He saw the massacre of the city. He saw the blood river of liquid data flowing into the roots of the World-Tree. He curled up his lips and laughed malevolently, the sound a miserable neighing in the silence of the aftermath.
"The... soot... is... the... only... Permanence," Daxian whispered, coughing out blood.
The Fighting Scene: The Final Purge of the Remnants
The slaughter reached the climax when the "Residual-Drones"—the last, mindless echoes of the First Principle—pierced into the chaotic battle of the lower docks. They were "Logic-Ghosts," their forms made of flickering silver light and geometric wings. They didn't have souls, but they had the ambition to "Clean."
"STAY BACK!" Kael roared, charging forward with an iron pylon.
Kael was a miserable state of a man. His skin was opened and flesh split across his chest, and his bones were fractured in his left leg, yet he stood. He smashed down ruthlessly on the first drone, the enormous force turning the silver-light into meat paste and logic-dust.
"MOM! RUN!" Elio screamed from the shadows, clutching his wooden bird.
The drones moved with lightning speed, their hands glowing with an enormous piercing frequency. They didn't hit; they formatted. A group of Aurelian ghosts were reduced to dust in an instant, their flesh and blood turning into featureless grey sand.
Vane rose from the mud, his unrivaled spirit reignited. He didn't have his hammer, so he slammed mercilessly into the swarm with his bare hands.
"I'VE... GOT... ONE... MORE... SLAUGHTER... IN... ME!" Vane roared, laughing madly.
He grabbed a drone by its wings and smashed it apart against a cooling-tower, the enormous shock causing the unit to perish in a burst of "Null-Data." Vane was unhindered by the silver beams that bombarded his chest. He racked his brains to find the most brutal angles, peeling the skin ruthlessly off those who got too close.
"IS THIS THE CLIMAX?" Vane screamed, his gaze blood red.
He grabbed two drones and smashed them together with enormous force. Their skulls exploded (if a drone had a skull), and they were turned into meat paste before they hit the ground. Vane laughed malevolently, a smile of disdain for the "Absolute Logic" that tried to standardize his rage.
Up on the World-Tree's central root, Silas was intensely struggling.
The Grand Chronicler was no longer indigo; he was a bruised, blood red shadow. He was trying to "Archive" the massacre, but the miserable neighing sounds of the dying were overwhelming his "Noise-Core."
"The... corpses... they're... everywhere!" Silas wailed, his flesh split along his conceptual seams.
He saw a group of drones trying to "Dismantle" the Tree's nervous system. Silas charged forward mentally, wreaking havoc on their coordinates. He didn't delete them; he bombarded them with the "Grief" of the children they had just killed.
The drones crashed heavily into the ground, their eyeballs popping out as their minds were smashed apart by the profundity of human suffering. They intensely struggled for a second before turning into meat paste under the weight of the "Noise."
Daxian finally dragged himself to the edge of the pit.
He looked at the fierce slaughter going on below him. He saw the blood river flowing into the World-Tree. He saw Kael smashing down ruthlessly on the machines to save his boy. He saw Vane reduced to dust in places but still charging forward.
Daxian gritted his teeth, a laugh malevolent escaping his torn throat.
"Is... this... what... I... built?" Daxian wheezed, coughing out blood.
He didn't use the Terminal-Command. He used his Spite.
He slammed mercilessly into the plaza, his bones jutting out as he landed. He didn't stand up; he crawled through the meat paste, his one human hand dragging his miserable state toward the center of the massacre.
"STOP!" Daxian roared, the sound an enormous piercing that caused the chaotic battle situation to freeze for a heartbeat.
The drones turned. They saw the Sovereign of Rot, his skull exploded, his bones shattered, his skin opened. He looked like the Profundity of the Corpse.
"The Peers... are... gone," Daxian hissed, coughing out a breath of turbid air. "There... is... no... more... math. There... is... only... the... Soot."
He racked his brains one last time. He didn't channel power. He channeled Nothing.
He forced the "Silence of the Hive" into the drones' remaining logic. He smashed apart their desire to clean.
The drones perished in a burst of grey "Null-Data." They were reduced to dust, their flesh and blood turning into a miserable state of grey sand that covered Daxian's face.
The slaughter stopped.
The survivors looked at the deep pit, at the Sovereign of Rot who was filled with injuries and shattered bones. They saw a man who had smashed apart the universe and now sat in the meat paste of his own creation.
"Go... home," Daxian whispered, coughing out blood.
"We don't have a home, Architect!" someone shouted.
Daxian looked at the blood river. He looked at the corpses.
"Then... build... one," Daxian said. "Out... of... the... mistakes."
Daxian crashed heavily into the mud, his blood red eyes finally closing as the silence settling slowly over the massacre.
The Architects are dead. The Law is gone. I have turned the Abyss into a Republic of the Broken. It is ugly. It is painful. It is filled with meat paste and shattered bones. But it is ours. And in the dark of the 'Source,' I can finally hear the sound of the loom again.
Vane walked over and picked up the miserable state of his friend. He looked at the deep pit and the blood river.
"He's still breathing, Silas," Vane grunted, his own bones jutting out.
"Then... the Scratch... continues," Silas whispered, his gaze so blood red it hurt to look at.
The War of the Error had ended. The Era of the Broken had begun.