The atmosphere of the New Abyss was no longer a vacuum of logic; it was a miserable state of atmospheric pressure that felt like being submerged in liquid lead. As the bruised, violet sun of the Un-Woven Dawn climbed higher into a sky made of curdled data-clouds, the scent of the world changed. It shifted from the metallic tang of the Origin to the heavy, cloying stench of meat paste and wet cedar.
Daxian did not stand. He wreaked havoc on the very concept of "Standing."
He was slumped in the Deep Pit of the plaza, his body filled with injuries that refused to knit back into human shapes. His right side—the limb he had grafted from the marrow of the Peers—was now a massacre of obsidian roots and weeping, silver-glass shards. The iron-wood had grown jagged, piercing through his skin opened and flesh split until he looked like a tree that had been fed on nothing but flesh and blood.
His skull was partially exploded, and the violet crystal in the gap was no longer humming a melody of order; it was pulsing with the malevolent laughter of a dying star. His eyeballs had popped out, resting deep in their sockets as twin pits of blood red fire that saw the "Profundity" of the world's new, beautiful ugliness.
"Vane... the... marrow... is... boiling..."
Vane's voice did not come from a throat. It came from a miserable neighing of brass and bone. The Lord of the Forge was dragging himself across the turbid air of the plaza, his lower half a miserable state of mangled brass and shattered bones. His skin was peeled ruthlessly by the previous jump, leaving his flesh and blood exposed to the "Soot-Wind."
"If it's... boiling... Dax... then... it's... time... to... pour," Vane wheezed, coughing out blood that was thick and clotted with silver ink.
The Fighting Scene: The Cull of the Marrow-Leeches
The slaughter reached the climax when the Marrow-Leeches arrived.
These were not Architect-tools. They were the "Biological-Errors" of the Ninth Architecture—beings that had been born from the meat paste Daxian had left behind. They were five-meter-long ribbons of raw muscle and jagged, ivory teeth, their movements a blur of lightning speed and enormous force. They didn't want to kill for a cause; they wanted to feed on the "History" contained in Daxian's fractured ribs.
A swarm of Leeches pierced into the chaotic battle of the lower districts. They moved with an enormous shock, their bodies smashing apart the iron tents of the survivors. They didn't bite; they "Injected" a frequency of "Pure-Amnesia" that turned flesh and blood into dust.
"STAY... BROKEN!" Kael roared, charging forward with an iron pylon that was already reduced to dust at the tip.
Kael was a miserable state of a man. His skin was opened, his bones were fractured, yet his unrivaled spirit kept him upright. He smashed down ruthlessly on the first Leech, the enormous force turning the creature's head into a spray of black ichor and meat paste.
"MOM! THEY'RE... DRINKING... THE... SOOT!" Elio screamed, his voice an enormous piercing of the chaos.
Vane rose from the mud, his eyeballs popped out from the internal pressure of his rage. He didn't have his forge-hammer, so he used a jagged shard of his own jutting bone that had snapped off his ulna. He slammed mercilessly into the swarm, his translucent brass fists wreaking havoc on the Leeches' internal frames.
"IS THIS THE CLIMAX?" Vane screamed, laughing malevolently.
He was unhindered by the silver beams the Leeches spat. He racked his brains to find the most "Ugly" way to hit. He grabbed a Leech by its rib-cage and peeled the skin ruthlessly off its conceptual frame, revealing the blood river of stolen memories beneath.
"YOU... WANT... TO... BE... REAL?" Vane shrieked, his gaze blood red.
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 madly through the massacre.
Daxian finally rose from the pit.
He didn't use a technique. He used Entropy.
He charged forward with the enormous force of a lunatic taking risks. He slammed mercilessly into the center of the Leech-swarm, his meat-arm stretching out like a necrotic whip. Every time he hit, the enormous shock sent a spray of meat paste across the plaza. He was unhindered by the pain of his own opened flesh.
"YOU... WANT... MY... GRIEF?" Daxian roared, his voice an enormous piercing of the super-void. "I'LL... STAIN... YOUR... ENTIRE... GENE-POOL!"
He grabbed a Leech's "Core-Spindle" and smashed it apart until the flesh and blood were reduced to dust. The Leech perished in a burst of miserable neighing sounds, its "History" turning back into logic-dust under the weight of Daxian's Ink.
The massacre between the two sides reached the climax.
The blood river in the plaza overflowed, carrying the corpses of the Leeches toward the roots of the World-Tree. Daxian was intensely struggling, his bones fractured in many places, his skin opened, his flesh split, but he laughed malevolently.
The Profundity of the First Tear
The slaughter ended when the last Leech was reduced to dust.
Daxian stood in the center of the plaza, his body filled with injuries. He looked at Vane. The Lord of the Forge was lying in a pool of black ichor, his skin opened, his bones jutting out.
"The... forge... Dax... it... needs... a... Spark..." Vane wheezed, coughing out blood.
Daxian didn't answer with words. He reached into his partially exploded skull and pulled out a jagged, crimson-and-violet shard of "Pure-Grief"—the First Tear. It wasn't water; it was a crystal of absolute, unyielding sorrow that smoked with a breath of turbid air.
He slammed mercilessly the shard into the cooling engine of the Sun-Eater.
The enormous shock of the ignition caused the ship's hull to wreak havoc on the ground. The engine didn't roar; it shrieked. It began to consume the meat paste of the Leeches, turning their flesh and blood into "Spite-Iron."
Vane crawled toward the heat, his unrivaled spirit flaring. He took a piece of the red-hot iron and began to beat it against his own fractured ribs.
CLANG.
The sound was an enormous piercing of the dawn. Vane wasn't forging a sword; he was forging a New Logic. He was turning the Soot and the Grief into a material that the Authors could never "Delete."
Daxian sat back on the Throne of the Remainder, his bones jutting out with every breath. He looked at the survivors. They were no longer "Errors." They were "Blacksmiths of the Void."
Ambition is not about finding the 'Author.' It is about becoming the 'Ink' that the Author can never wash away. I have slaughtered the Peace, and I have smashed apart the Silence. I am the Sovereign of the Scrap. And my kingdom is a blood river of beautiful, jagged, painful weapons.
Daxian gritted his teeth, his smile of disdain fixed on the flickering stars.
"The... fire... is... Alive," he whispered, as the World-Tree began to grow once more, its branches heavy with the Soot of the Unrivaled Spirit.