The violet-black sun did not set; it bled. It sank into the horizon of the New Abyss like a partially exploded skull, leaking a rhythmic, amber-and-indigo radiation that caused the shadows of the World-Tree to lengthen into jagged, grasping fingers of obsidian. The atmosphere was no longer a gas; it was a miserable state of pressurized soot and suspended logic-dust that felt like inhaling pulverized glass. Every breath Daxian drew was an enormous piercing of his bronchial tubes, a slow-motion massacre of his remaining human lungs that forced him to cough up thick, clotted ribbons of silver-pink mercury.
Daxian did not merely sit upon the Throne of the Remainder. He was being anatomically woven into it.
The throne—a mountain of calcified shattered bones, rusted iron-wood, and the weeping silver-glass marrow of the High-Peer—had sent its roots deep into his spinal column, fusing with his vertebrae until his very thoughts hummed with the vibration of the planet's rot. 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 that pulsed with a malevolent laughter. 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 coming calamity.
"Dax... the... shadow... it... has... your... face..."
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, his hands clenching the mud as he coughed up clotted ribbons of silver-pink phlegm.
From the Deep Pit, the Mirror-Wraith emerged.
It was not a ghost; it was a "Perfected-Template" created by the Tenth Architecture's dying gasp. It looked exactly like Daxian, but its flesh and blood were pristine, made of iridescent silk and golden logic. It did not have scars. It did not have shattered bones. It was the version of Daxian that had "Obeyed," a beautiful, hollow lie that walked with lightning speed across the meat paste of the plaza.
"YOU... ARE... THE... TYPO," the Mirror-Wraith spoke, its voice an enormous piercing melody of absolute, clinical peace. "I... AM... THE... REVISION."
The Fighting Scene: The Massacre of the Perfect Self
The slaughter reached the climax the moment the Mirror-Wraith struck.
It didn't use a weapon; it used "Formatting-Light." It moved with an enormous force, a blur of gold and white that slammed mercilessly into Daxian's chest. The impact was an enormous shock, sending a wave of "Pure-Order" through Daxian's fractured ribs that tried to "Heal" his scars into non-existence.
Daxian coughed out blood, his body filled with injuries as his own skin tried to sew itself shut over the iron-wood roots. He laughed malevolently, a smile of disdain for the "Healing" carved into his wooden face.
"MY... SCARS... ARE... THE... ONLY... WORDS... I... WROTE!" Daxian roared, his gaze blood red.
He charged forward from the throne, his meat-arm stretching out like a necrotic whip. He slammed mercilessly into the Mirror-Wraith, his bones jutting out of his body to act as jagged barbs. The collision was a massacre of physics; the "Perfect-Flesh" of the Wraith met the "Rotten-Wood" of the Weaver, creating a spray of gold meat paste and black ichor.
"VANE! THE... GRIEF-IRON!" Daxian shrieked, intensely struggling against the Wraith's golden grip.
Vane rose from the mud, his unrivaled spirit flaring. He didn't have his hammer, so he took a jagged, white-hot shard of "Grief-Iron" straight from the Marrow-Mill. He slammed mercilessly into the Wraith's flank, the enormous shock of the "Soot-Weapon" turning the creature's iridescent skin into a miserable state of scorched, black silk.
"IS THIS THE CLIMAX?" Vane screamed, his eyeballs popped out, his skin opened.
He was unhindered by the golden light that bombarded his chest, leaving his flesh reduced to dust. He racked his brains to find the most "Ugly" way to hit. He grabbed the Mirror-Wraith by its perfect rib-cage and peeled the skin ruthlessly off its conceptual frame, revealing the blood river of stolen nectar beneath.
"YOU... WANT... TO... REPLACE... HIM?" Vane shrieked, his gaze blood red.
He smashed them together with enormous force, the Wraith's skull exploded, its eyeballs popped out, and it was reduced to dust before it could "Re-Render." But the Wraith was a lunatic taking risks; it used its own shattered bones of logic to stab Vane in the throat, an enormous piercing that sent a fountain of brass-flecked flesh and blood onto the soot.
Daxian wreaked havoc on the Wraith's core. He didn't use power; he used Entropy.
He grabbed the Mirror-Wraith's face, his iron-wood fingers piercing into skin and flesh. He forced the "Grief" of every massacre he had witnessed into the creature's "Perfect-Mind." The Wraith began to crack and bleed black ink. Its "Golden-Definition" turned into meat paste.
"PERISH!" Daxian screamed, his voice an enormous piercing of the super-void.
He smashed apart the Wraith's head with an enormous punch, turning the "Perfect-Daxian" into a miserable state of logic-shards and meat paste. The enormous shock of the destruction sent a wave of turbid air across the plaza, turning the pink light back into a bruised, broken purple.
The massacre between the two sides reached the climax as the "Mirror" perished in a burst of miserable neighing sounds.
The Profundity of the Sovereign Scar
The slaughter ended when the last shard of the Mirror-Wraith was reduced to dust.
Daxian stood in the center of the deep pit, his body filled with injuries. He looked at Vane. The Lord of the Forge was lying in the mud, his skin opened, his bones jutting out, his throat a massacre of brass and blood.
"He... he... looked... like... you... boss..." Vane wheezed, coughing out blood. "Except... his... eyes... were... Empty."
"Because... he... didn't... have... the... Soot," Daxian whispered, his blood red eyes closing as he felt the World-Tree begin to grow once more, its roots absorbing the meat paste of the "Perfect-Self" to build a "New Sovereignty."
Daxian sat back on the Throne of the Remainder, his bones jutting out with every breath. He looked at the survivors of New Oakhaven. They were covered in grease. They were covered in mud. They were covered in the flesh and blood of their own survival. They were no longer "Errors." They were "Scars."
He took the black ink of the dead Mirror-Wraith and smeared it across his own partially exploded skull, sealing the gap with the Grief of his own existence.
Ambition is not about being 'Perfect.' It is about the 'Right to be Broken.' I have slaughtered the Law, and I have smashed apart the Mirror. I am the Sovereign of the Scrap. And my kingdom is a blood river of beautiful, jagged, painful mistakes. We will wreak havoc on the dawn until the universe learns that a 'Scar' is the only thing that can't be 'Erased'.
Daxian gritted his teeth, his smile of disdain fixed on the flickering stars.
"The... story... is... Bleeding," he whispered, before crashing heavily into the Sovereignty of the Soot.