The world is a scab that is starting to peel,
To show us the hunger that's jagged and real.
A rib of cold iron, a lung 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 sky over New Oakhaven was no longer a mirror of the High-Peer's perfection. It was a miserable state of bruised violet and curdled grey, a turbid air thick with the smell of cooling meat paste and the metallic tang of ancient, rusted flesh and blood. The Unwritten Page had been stained by Daxian's original sin, and now, the universe was learning how to rot.
Daxian lay at the bottom of the deep pit in the central plaza, his body filled with injuries.
His right side—the limb he had woven from the marrow of the Architects—was pulsing with a malevolent laughter. The iron-wood roots had fused with the silver-glass shards of the Throne of the Remainder, creating a massacre of biological and industrial growth. His bones were fractured in many places, and the shards that were jutting out of the body were weeping a thick, black ichor that smelled of old grease and "Pure-Noise."
His skull was partially exploded, the violet crystal in the gap now a steady, rhythmic thrumming that caused the mud around him to crack and bleed. His eyeballs had popped out, resting deep in their sockets as twin pits of blood red fire. He wasn't looking at the sky; he was looking at the "Errors" crawling through the dirt.
"Dax... the... soot... is... settling... in... my... lungs..."
Vane's voice was a wet, rattling sound. The Lord of the Forge was slumped against a piece of the Sun-Eater's shattered hull, his brass-plated skin peeled ruthlessly by the final jump. His bones were fractured, and his left arm was a miserable state of raw nerves and shattered bones. He gritted his teeth, a smile of disdain for the "Absolute Logic" fixed on his face as he watched a group of residents slaughtering each other for a scrap of the ship's iron-wood.
"Let them... slaughter... Vane," Daxian whispered, his voice an enormous piercing of the silence. "A... kingdom... built... on... meat paste... needs... to... know... the... taste... of... blood."
The Fighting Scene: The Cull of the Logic-Vultures
The slaughter reached the climax before the first night of the "New World" could settle.
From the edges of the super-void, the Logic-Vultures arrived. They were the scavengers of the "True-Origin"—beings with no eyes, only mouths made of "Deletion-Commands." They didn't have the elegance of the Architects; they were "Scrap-Hounds" designed to find the flesh and blood reduced to dust and "Standardize" it into a void.
A swarm of Vultures pierced into the chaotic battle of the plaza. They moved with lightning speed, their movements an enormous force of "Negative-Space." They didn't bite; they "Un-wrote" the matter they touched.
"STAY... BROKEN!" Kael roared, charging forward from the medical tents.
Kael was a miserable state of a warrior. His skin was opened and flesh split, and his bones were fractured in his left leg, yet he stood. He smashed down ruthlessly with an iron pylon, the enormous shock turning a Vulture's head into meat paste and logic-dust.
"MOM! THE... CORPSES... THEY'RE... MOVING!" Elio screamed, clutching his charred wooden bird.
The Vultures were wreaking havoc on the "Grave-Pits." They were eating the flesh and blood of the fallen lunatics to fuel their own "Deletion." Vane rose from the mud, his unrivaled spirit reignited. He didn't have his hammer, so he used his own fractured bones as a lever.
"I'VE... GOT... ONE... MORE... MASSACRE... IN... ME!" Vane roared, laughing madly.
He slammed mercilessly into the swarm, his translucent brass fists smashing apart the Vultures' obsidian carapaces. He was unhindered by the silver beams that bombarded his chest. He racked his brains to find the most "Ugly" way to hit. He grabbed a Vulture by its mandibles and peeled the skin ruthlessly off its conceptual frame, revealing the hollow vacuum beneath.
"IS THIS THE CLIMAX?" Vane screamed, his gaze so blood red it was difficult to stare at it directly.
He smashed them together with enormous force, their skulls exploded, their eyeballs popped out, and they were reduced to dust before they hit the ground. He was intensely struggling, his bones jutting out of his body, but he laughed malevolently through the blood river.
Daxian finally dragged his miserable state out of the deep pit.
He didn't use a technique. He used his Ink.
He charged forward with the enormous force of a lunatic taking risks. He slammed mercilessly into the center of the Vulture-swarm, his meat-arm stretching out like a necrotic whip. Every time he hit, he left a stain of original sin on their "Cleanliness."
The Vultures shrieked—a miserable neighing sound that echoed through the fractured bones of the city. They were being "Materialized" by the Soot. They were being forced to have a flesh and blood existence, and once they had flesh, they could be slaughtered.
"YOU... WANT... TO... CLEAN... MY... SCAB?" Daxian roared, his skull exploded, his gaze blood red. "I'LL... RE-RENDER... YOUR... ENTIRE... GUT!"
He wreaked havoc on the scavengers. He smash down ruthlessly on their "Core-Commands," his bones jutting out to anchor the kill. He was intensely struggling, his skin opened, his flesh split, but he laughed madly.
He grabbed a Vulture's "Throat" and smashed it apart until the eyeballs popped out and the creature was reduced to dust. The blood river of the massacre began to fill the plaza once more, turning the ground into a miserable state of red-and-black gore.
The Profundity of the New Marrow
The massacre ended when the last Vulture perished in a cloud of meat paste.
Daxian stood in the center of the plaza, his body filled with injuries, his bones shattered. He looked at Vane. The Lord of the Forge was lying in the mud, his skin opened, his bones jutting out.
"We... we wreaked havoc on... the... scavengers... Dax," Vane wheezed, coughing out blood.
"The... world... is... ours... because... it's... Broken," Daxian whispered, his blood red eyes closing as he felt the World-Tree begin to grow once more.
The roots of the Tree were no longer iron. They were meat and bone. They were growing out of the corpses in the plaza, absorbing the flesh and blood of the fallen to build a "New Sovereignty."
Daxian sat on the edge of the pit, his bones jutting out with every breath. He looked at Kael. He looked at the residents. He saw the soot.
Ambition is not about winning the war against the 'Authors.' It is about winning the war against the 'Silence' that comes when the Author is dead. I have slaughtered the Law, and I have smashed apart the Definition. I am the Sovereign of the Scrap. And my kingdom is a blood river of beautiful, jagged, painful mistakes.
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 Soot.