The violet-black sun of the New Abyss did not rise; it festered. It hung in a sky of curdled data-clouds like a partially exploded skull, casting a rhythmic, amber-and-indigo pulse that caused the very shadow of the World-Tree to wreak havoc on the ground. The atmosphere was no longer air; it was a miserable state of pressurized soot and evaporated logic-dust that tasted of wet cedar and iron-filings. Every inhalation was an enormous piercing of the lung-sacks, a slow-motion massacre of the respiratory system that forced the survivors to cough up clotted ribbons of silver-black phlegm.
Daxian did not merely sit upon the Throne of the Remainder. He was being consumed by it.
The throne—a jagged, growing mound of obsidian iron-wood, calcified shattered bones, and the weeping silver-glass marrow of the High-Peer—had begun to send its roots into Daxian's own nervous system. He was a miserable state of a sovereign, a flayed icon of original sin. His right side was a massacre of evolution; the iron-wood roots had replaced his fractured ribs, weaving through his thoracic cavity like a cage of thorns. His bones were jutting out of the body at the shoulder, forming a jagged, ivory wing of raw, pulsing marrow and rusted copper wire.
His skull was partially exploded, and the violet crystal in the gap hummed with a low, jagged frequency of "Pure-Noise" that caused the surrounding turbid air to crack and bleed. 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.
"Dax... the... engine... is... screaming... for... a... soul..."
Vane's voice was a miserable neighing of brass and wet muscle. The Lord of the Forge was dragging his miserable state across the plaza, his lower half a ruin of mangled metal and shattered bones. His skin was peeled ruthlessly by the previous atmospheric jump, leaving his flesh and blood exposed to the "Soot-Wind." He was intensely struggling to reach the Marrow-Mill, a colossal, rotating structure of jagged iron and fused bone-shards they had built from the wreckage of the Sun-Eater.
"If it... wants... a... soul... Vane," Daxian whispered, his voice an enormous shockwave that caused the nearby ruins to tremble, "then... feed... it... the... Grief... of... the... Architects."
The Fighting Scene: The Breach of the Echo-Flayers
The slaughter reached the climax when the Echo-Flayers arrived.
These were not soldiers. They were "Residual-Agonies"—biological ghosts born from the meat paste of the Ninth Architecture that had been "Inked" but never fully erased. They were six-meter-tall towers of translucent, weeping skin and jagged, bone-ribs that moved with lightning speed and enormous force. They didn't have eyes; they had "Vibration-Pits" that sensed the unrivaled spirit of those who still dared to breathe.
A swarm of Flayers pierced into the chaotic battle of the lower districts. They moved with an enormous shock, their bodies smashing apart the survivors' iron tents. They didn't bite; they used "Sound-Needles" to peel the skin ruthlessly off the soul, turning flesh and blood into dust.
"STAY... BROKEN!" Kael roared, charging forward with an iron pylon that was already reduced to dust at the edges.
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 Flayer, the enormous force of the blow turning the creature's head into a spray of black ichor and meat paste.
"MOM! THE... CORPSES... THEY'RE... SINGING!" Elio screamed, his voice an enormous piercing of the chaos as he watched the fallen Flayers begin to hum with a miserable neighing sound.
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 Flayers' internal frames.
"IS THIS THE CLIMAX?" Vane screamed, laughing malevolently.
He was unhindered by the "Sound-Needles" that bombarded his chest. He racked his brains to find the most "Ugly" way to hit. He grabbed a Flayer by its rib-cage and peeled the skin ruthlessly off its conceptual frame, revealing the blood river of stolen memories beneath.
"YOU... WANT... TO... FEEL... 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 throne.
He didn't walk; he wreaked havoc on the space between himself and the enemy. He slammed mercilessly into the center of the Flayer-swarm, his meat-arm stretching out like a necrotic whip to smash apart their "Skin-Lattices."
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. He was a lunatic taking risks, his skull exploded, his gaze so blood red it ignited the turbid air.
"YOU... WANT... MY... HISTORY?" Daxian roared, his voice an enormous piercing of the super-void. "I'LL... STAIN... YOUR... ENTIRE... EXISTENCE... WITH... ROT!"
He grabbed a Flayer's "Core-Spindle" and smashed it apart until the flesh and blood were reduced to dust. The Flayer perished in a burst of miserable neighing sounds, its "Memory" 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 Flayers 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 Marrow-Mill
The slaughter ended when the last Flayer 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... mill... Dax... it's... hungry..." Vane wheezed, coughing out blood.
Daxian walked toward the Marrow-Mill. He looked at the massive, rotating blades made of shattered bones and rusted iron. He didn't use fuel. He used Entropy.
He slammed mercilessly his own wooden meat-arm into the gears.
The enormous shock of the "Soot-Infection" caused the mill to start turning. It began to grind the meat paste of the Flayers into a thick, black-and-silver "Grief-Iron." The sound was an enormous piercing scream of metal and bone that vibrated through the very fractured ribs of the city.
Vane crawled toward the output-chute, his unrivaled spirit flaring. He took a piece of the red-hot "Grief-Iron" and began to beat it against his own jutting bone.
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
The sound was the heartbeat of the New Abyss. They weren't forging weapons of "Logic." They were forging weapons of Permanence. They were turning the massacre and the soot into a material that the universe could never "Un-render."
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 "Refusals." They were the unrivaled spirit of a world that had died a thousand times and finally decided to stay dead—and dangerous.
"The... fire... is... Cold," Daxian whispered, a smile of disdain on his face.
The World-Tree began to grow once more, its branches heavy with the Soot of the Unrivaled Spirit, casting a shadow of meat paste across the horizon.