The crown is heavy, the blood is new,
To pay the debt of the chosen few.
A hand of rot, a heart of lead,
To march the army of the newly dead.
The weaver is rising, the weaver is cold,
To burn the stories that were never told.
For in the union of the great and grand,
The only law is the soot in the hand.
The Eleventh Architecture had been a grave, but the Alliance of the Eleven was a heavenly tribulation.
As the Sun-Eater drifted through the turbid air of the Outer-Void, the violet horizon didn't just flicker; it perished. Eleven distinct "Conceptual Frequencies"—the remnants of every architecture Daxian had smashed apart—had converged into a single, massive logic-storm. They weren't here to negotiate. They had racked their brains to realize that as long as the Weaver lived, their "Standardization" was a lie.
Daxian stood on the prow, a miserable state of a sovereign.
His right side was no longer just wood; it was a massacre of biological growth. Roots of black-meat had woven into his ribs, and his bones jutted out of the body like jagged, white ivory spikes. His skull was partially exploded, the violet crystal glowing with a gaze blood red and fixed on the approaching calamity. His eyeballs had popped out, replaced by twin pits of fire that saw the "Profundity" of the enemy's desperation.
"They're... they're slaughtering each other just to build a bigger wall," Silas whispered, his indigo form cracked and bleeding silver data.
The Grand Chronicler was intensely struggling to hold the ship together. The enormous force of the Alliance's arrival was peeling the skin ruthlessly off the ship's hull. Silas's gaze was blood red, his flesh split along his conceptual seams as he felt the miserable neighing sounds of a billion deleted "Variables" screaming for revenge.
"Let them build it," Daxian hissed, his voice a miserable neighing rasp.
He gritted his teeth, a smile of disdain for the "Alliance" fixed on his face. He reached into his pocket and touched the copper ring. It was a mistake. It was junk. And it was the only thing that would survive the massacre.
The Fighting Scene: The Massacre of the Unified Law
The slaughter reached the climax when the Alliance-Drones—creatures made of fused logic-glass and meat paste—pierced into the chaotic battle of the ship's deck. They moved with lightning speed, their enormous punch carrying the weight of eleven failed universes.
"STAY BACK!" Vane roared, charging forward with an iron pylon that was already reduced to dust at the edges.
Vane was a lunatic taking risks. His bones were fractured in many places, and his left eyeball had popped out, hanging by a red thread, but he was unhindered by the pain. He slammed mercilessly into the first line of drones, the enormous shock turning their geometric bodies into meat paste and logic-dust.
"IS THIS THE CLIMAX?" Vane screamed, laughing malevolently.
He grabbed a drone by its wings and smashed it apart against a cooling-tower, the enormous force causing the unit to perish in a burst of silver fluid. Vane racked his brains to find the most brutal angles, peeling the skin ruthlessly off those who tried to "Format" his brass-plated chest.
Daxian didn't wait. He charged forward into the super-void.
He slammed mercilessly into the Alliance-Core, his meat-arm stretching out like a necrotic whip to wreak havoc. He was unhindered by the silver beams that bombarded his chest, leaving his flesh and blood reduced to dust.
He reached the "Sovereign-Lattice"—the combined consciousness of the Eleven. It was a towering pillar of "Pure-Agreement," its wings made of Absolute-Logic.
"DAXIAN," the Lattice spoke, the voice an enormous piercing that caused Daxian's bones to fracture and his skull to explode again. "YOU ARE THE ERROR THAT PREVENTS THE WHOLE. YOU MUST PERISH."
Daxian laughed madly, a smile of disdain for the "Whole."
"The... whole... is... a... grave!" Daxian roared, his voice an enormous piercing scream.
He slammed mercilessly into the Lattice, his meat-arm smashing down ruthlessly on the silver-glass. The enormous force of the collision smashed apart the "Agreement," turning the "Absolute Logic" into meat paste.
He grabbed the Lattice's core. His bones jutted out and sank into the white-fire brain.
POP.
The Lattice's skull exploded. Eyeballs popped out and his flesh and blood were reduced to dust in a millisecond. Daxian stood in the center of the massacre, his gaze blood red, his flesh split and his bones fractured.
"YOU WANT... TO... JOIN... ME?" Daxian hissed, coughing out a breath of turbid air. "I'LL... GIVE... YOU... THE... ROT!"
He wreaked havoc on the Alliance-Sector. He smashed apart the thrones of the Eleven, peeling the skin ruthlessly off their conceptual forms. He was intensely struggling, his eyeballs popped out from the internal pressure, but he laughed malevolently through the blood river.
Down in the city of New Oakhaven, the earthly calamity had begun.
The Alliance had bombarded the lower districts with "Logic-Plagues." Kael was at the front, his skin opened and flesh split, his bones fractured. He was smashing down ruthlessly on any resident who tried to surrender to the "Peace."
"STAY... BROKEN!" Kael shrieked, his gaze so blood red it was difficult to stare at directly.
He smashed apart a drone that had pierced into skin and flesh of a child. The child's skull had nearly exploded, but Kael used the meat paste and the soot to plug the wound. It was a miserable state of surgery, but it was real.
"WE... ARE... THE... ERROR!"
The slaughter between the two sides reached the climax.
The blood river in the plaza overflowed, carrying the corpses of the drones toward the roots of the World-Tree. The miserable neighing sounds of the dying filled the air. Silas was racking his brains to keep the "Noise" alive, his indigo form reduced to dust as he intensely struggled against the "Standardization."
"Dax... the... massacre... it's... not... enough!" Silas wailed, his flesh split along his seams.
Daxian, floating in the super-void, looked down at his city. He saw the meat paste. He saw the shattered bones. He saw the unrivaled spirit of Kael and Vane.
He gritted his teeth, a smile of disdain on his face.
He didn't use the Terminal-Command to "Save" them. He used it to Redouble the Rot.
He slammed mercilessly his remaining human hand into the Alliance-Core, forcing his own ambition into their "Symphony."
The enormous shock of the "Rot-Infection" caused the Alliance to crack and bleed. The silver fire turned into turbid air. The "Absolute Logic" turned into meat paste. The Eleven perished in a burst of miserable neighing sounds that shattered the very super-void.
The massacre was over. The Alliance was reduced to dust.
Daxian fell from the sky, crashing heavily into the ground of the central plaza.
He lay in the deep pit, his body filled with injuries, his bones shattered, his flesh reduced to dust. He looked like a miserable state of a god, his eyeballs popped out, his skull exploded.
Vane and Silas crawled toward him, their bones jutting out, their gaze blood red.
"Dax... you... wreaked havoc on the whole universe," Vane wheezed, coughing out blood.
Daxian looked at the copper ring in his mud-stained hand. It was the only thing that hadn't perished.
Ambition is not about being 'One.' It is about being the 'Remainder.' I have slaughtered the Union, and I have smashed apart the Symphony. I am the Sovereign of the Scrap. And my kingdom is a blood river of beautiful, jagged, painful mistakes. Let the Twelve come. Let the Origin come. I will peel the skin ruthlessly off reality itself before I let them 'Solve' my Soot.
Daxian gritted his teeth, his smile of disdain fixed on the flickering stars.
"Fix... the... pipes," he whispered, before crashing heavily into the Sovereignty of the Rot.