The sky is a wound that refuses to close,
To show us the thorns that were hidden in rose.
A fist of cold iron, a heart of black mud,
To pay for the empire we built in the blood.
The weaver is kneeling, the weaver is torn,
To find the sharp place where the shadow was born.
For in the finality of the last breath,
The only true architect is absolute death.
The Republic of the Broken did not begin with a constitution. It began with the sound of a miserable neighing of rusted pulleys and the wet, rhythmic slap of meat paste being shoveled into the furnace-mouths of New Oakhaven.
When the white light of the Final Solution finally perished, it left the Abyss in a miserable state of conceptual debris and shattered bones. The air was no longer a vacuum; it was a turbid air of crushed memories, silver logic-dust, and the metallic tang of vaporized flesh and blood.
Daxian lay in the center of the plaza, his body filled with injuries, his skin opened and flesh split until he looked like a flayed animal on an altar of slag. His skull was partially exploded, a pulse of jagged violet light flickering in the gap where his "Logic-Core" used to be. His right side—the limb he had woven from the meat paste 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 a miserable state of a warrior, his brass skin peeled ruthlessly by the logic-frost, revealing a massacre of raw nerves and fractured bones. His left eyeball had popped out, resting against his soot-stained cheek, but he was unhindered by the pain. He gritted his teeth, a smile of disdain for the Peers fixed on his face as he 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 a "world." He saw a massacre of possibilities. 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 that stained the mud of his own kingdom.
The Fighting Scene: The Cull of the Residuals
The slaughter reached the climax when the "Residual-Drones"—the last, mindless echoes of the Eighth Architecture—pierced into the chaotic battle of the lower docks. They were "Logic-Ghosts," their forms made of flickering silver light and geometric wings of white fire. They didn't have souls, but they had the ambition to "Clean" the mess that Daxian had made.
"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 of the blow 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 so blood red it was difficult to stare at it directly.
He grabbed two drones and smashed them together with enormous force. Their skulls exploded, their eyeballs popped out, and they were turned into meat paste before they even 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 World-Tree's central nervous system. Silas charged forward mentally, wreaking havoc on their internal 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 from the back.
Daxian looked at the blood river. He looked at the corpses of the thousand ghosts he had slaughtered just to stay alive.
"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.
Ambition is not a 'Result.' It is a 'State of Being.' I have slaughtered the Law. I have smashed apart the Peers. And I have turned the Abyss into a Sovereignty of the Broken. The universe will never be 'Perfect' again. It will be 'Messy.' It will be 'Painful.' It will be Alive. And that is the only 'Law' I will ever write.
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 directly.
The Hive of the Scrap
The next three cycles were a miserable state of reconstruction.
Daxian lay within the Sun-Eater's wreck, his bones fractured in many places, his skin opened, his flesh split. He was intensely struggling to "Weave" a new body. He used the meat paste of the fallen drones and the flesh and blood of the Un-Woven who had perished in the plaza.
He didn't use a medical-salve. He used entropy.
He racked his brains to find the "Frequency of Survival." He stitched his shattered bones together with rusted iron wires. He replaced his exploded skull with a shard of a needle-ship's hull. Every stitch was an enormous piercing of his nervous system, but he laughed malevolently through the pain.
"He's... he's becoming a Calamity," Silas whispered, staring at Daxian's growing form.
Daxian rose from the cot. He was no longer a man. He was a Sovereign of the Scrap. His right arm was a towering structure of black iron-wood and pulsing red sinew, the bones jutting out like jagged wings of ivory. His gaze was blood red, and his skull was partially exploded, filled with the violet crystal of the "Final Noise."
"Vane," Daxian said, his voice a miserable neighing rasp.
"Yeah, boss?" Vane asked, his own bones fractured but his spirit unhindered.
"The Peers... they aren't the only ones watching," Daxian said, coughing out a breath of turbid air. "There are other Architectures. Other systems. They see the massacre we made. They see the blood river."
Daxian walked to the viewscreen of the broken ship. He looked at the super-void.
"They're coming to 'Fix' the error," Daxian whispered, his smile of disdain fixed on the stars.
"But we're going to slaughter the 'Fix'."
Daxian gritted his teeth, his unrivaled spirit flaring like a dying star.
"Get the pipes ready, Vane."
"We're going to turn the universe into a Meat-Paste graveyard."