The violet-black sun hung in the sky of the New Abyss like a partially exploded skull, casting a rhythmic, necrotic pulse of amber and indigo that caused the very gravity of New Oakhaven to wreak havoc on the senses. The atmosphere was no longer a gas but a miserable state of pressurized soot and suspended logic-dust—a turbid air so dense that every inhalation felt like an enormous piercing of the bronchial tubes. The survivors did not breathe; they filtered the "Grief" through lungs that were slowly being replaced by iron-wood fibers and silver-black phlegm.
Daxian did not merely sit upon the Throne of the Remainder. He was being biologically and conceptually harvested by 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 that twitched with every flicker of his blood red eyes.
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 fire that saw the "Profundity" of the world's new, beautiful ugliness.
"Dax... the... marrow... is... cooling... into... glass..."
Vane's voice was no longer a human rasp. It 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 mercury.
Vane was right. The meat paste—the slurry of fallen Architects, Eraser-Wraiths, and slaughtered survivors—was no longer soft. It was hardening into a jagged, conceptual obsidian.
The Fighting Scene: The Breach of the Anvil-Sentinels
The slaughter reached the climax when the Anvil-Sentinels rose from the cooling slurry.
These were the "Final-Defenders" of the Tenth Architecture—biological puppets made of fused limbs, shattered bones, and the meat paste of the Ninth Architecture. They were four-meter-tall towers of translucent, weeping skin that moved with lightning speed and enormous force. They didn't have eyes; they had "Hunger-Pits" in their chests that pulsed with a golden nectar that turned flesh and blood into dust on contact.
A swarm of Sentinels pierced into the chaotic battle of the lower districts. They moved with an enormous shock, their bodies smashing apart the iron-wood shelters of the survivors. They didn't bite; they used "Grief-Needles" to peel the skin ruthlessly off the nervous system, forcing the victims to laugh madly as their bones were fractured and their brains were reduced to dust.
"STAY... BROKEN!" Kael roared, charging forward with a jagged pylon made of "Grief-Iron."
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 Sentinel, the enormous force of the "Grief-Iron" turning the creature's head into a spray of black ichor and meat paste.
"MOM! THE... SHARDS... ARE... EATING... THE... SOOT!" Elio screamed, his voice an enormous piercing of the chaos as he watched the pink slurry begin to wrap around the corpses in the plaza, turning them into flesh and blood puppets.
Vane rose from the mud, his eyeballs popped out from the internal pressure of his rage. 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 swarm, his translucent brass fists wreaking havoc on the Sentinels' internal frames.
"IS THIS THE CLIMAX?" Vane screamed, laughing malevolently.
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 a Sentinel by its multiple rib-cages and peeled the skin ruthlessly off its conceptual frame, revealing the blood river of stolen memories beneath.
"YOU... WANT... TO... REWRITE... US?" 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 Sentinel-swarm, his meat-arm stretching out like a necrotic whip to smash apart their "Flesh-Lattices."
Every time he hit, the enormous shock sent a spray of gold 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... AN... ANVIL?" Daxian roared, his voice an enormous piercing of the super-void. "I'LL... GIVE... YOU... THE... SCREAM... OF... THE... UN-WOVEN!"
He grabbed a Sentinel's "Marrow-Core" and smashed it apart until the flesh and blood were reduced to dust. The Sentinel 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 with pink ichor and red gore, carrying the corpses of the Sentinels 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 Sovereign Anvil
The slaughter ended when the last Sentinel 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 a pool of pink nectar and red blood, his skin opened, his bones jutting out, his throat a massacre of brass and blood.
"The... anvil... Dax... it... knows... our... History..." Vane wheezed, coughing out blood.
Daxian walked toward the slurry-pit. He looked at the meat paste that was trying to reform itself into "Beautiful" shapes. He didn't allow it. He slammed mercilessly his own wooden meat-arm into the mud.
The enormous shock of the "Soot-Infection" caused the slurry to turn black and brittle. It didn't create beauty; it created Permanence. Daxian began to weave the black-meat into the Marrow-Mill, turning the meat paste of the fallen into a "Grief-Shroud"—a material that could block the "Deletion-Commands" of the remaining Architectures.
The sound was an enormous piercing scream of metal, silk, and bone that vibrated through the very fractured ribs of the city.
Vane crawled toward the Marrow-Mill, his unrivaled spirit flaring. He took a piece of the black-iron and began to wrap his own jutting bone.
CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.
The sound was the stitching of the New Abyss. They weren't forging weapons of "Light." They were forging weapons of Grief. They were turning the massacre and the soot into a material that the universe could never "Heal."
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 "Scars." They were the unrivaled spirit of a world that had died a thousand times and finally decided to wear its wounds as armor.
"The... anvil... is... Sovereign," 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.