The 108 Chapter 48: The Cracked Throne (Patreon)

My preparation loop continues. This time, the bomb explodes slightly ahead of schedule, sparing more elders than usual. I hear rumors that there was to be an announcement, now interrupted by the carnage: something to do with the eternal game. I focus on improving. None of that matters unless I can end the bomb plot in a repeatable manner, and there is still much left to improve.

It’s not because I can use the cat form that I am good at it, a fact that Shadow Master Arek likes to remind me of. We have moved on to battle training, where he plays the part of the prey. I ask him a question that’s been burning in my mind for the past few weeks.

“May I ask you something?”

“What is it?” he asks as we reset the arena — cat claws are hell on any surface. “Is it training related?”

“Tangientally,” I reply after some hesitation. “When we started, you made it clear that you had no intention in letting me join the Shadows, yet I find that you’re very thorough in training me. Why is that?”

Arek passes a hand over the fine scales of his skull. It’s a more natural gesture than I’ve ever seen the overly controlled man do.

“You are not from a fleshcrafting family,” he states.

“Yes. So?”

“You must remember who we are. Should I train you any worse because I do not believe you belong in my specific group? Do you think so poorly of me as a teacher?”

I almost facepalm. It’s like me with Pale Hound. Of course, I would heal him well, because I would never half-ass flesh related stuff. And of course, Arek would train me to the best of his ability for the exact same reason. I’m so dumb.

“Although, I will add that it feels… important.”

Arek’s gaze travels to the ceiling and then Founder knows where, like he’s trying to pierce the crystal to see the cosmos beyond.

“I am now certain you meant no disrespect when you asked me to teach you. One cannot display that level of work ethic and, shall we say, frantic desperation without an ardent cause, the sort of cause that leads to the doom of entire clans.”

I nod. I did mention I wanted to kill someone to prevent them from causing harm, so Arek knows I’m learning how to hunt down a specific shadow user. His gaze now travels to me, though his head doesn’t move. He looks a bit lizardy, with the scales, and yet he’s never felt less cold-blooded.

“I would say that I misjudged you, apprentice, but it would be inaccurate. You are still not Shadow material, yet I can also spot the seed of greatness should you continue on your path. You are, most definitely, a fine fleshcrafter. I would teach you well no matter what, but having taken your measure, I can do so with the satisfaction that my lessons are received most earnestly. ”

“I… thank you.”

“You are welcome,” he finishes with a nod. He then places a tea cup in front of me, filled with fragrant red liquid.

“One more drink, and then, again?”

“Yes, again.”

***

“I have something for you,” Deza tells me as we sit in a crowded cafe.

She looks exhausted. With my warning, she managed to move away with Namun, but her mom didn’t make it. She was heading back to get some clothes or other belongings when the bomb prematurely exploded, killing her and half of the Needles when the vast cavern got open to the vacuum. Deza has a plan to fly down to Obis and ask about the soul bomb, but it’s still far too early for the royals to reveal their aces, so I am surprised she would contact me so early.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I got a squad after the Vindrius estate. We lost so much in the explosion that I was promoted! Looks like I don’t need to attend that interview after all.”

Her smile is at its most brittle.

“I have Oren, a tracker. Between the compound and the burglarized warehouse, he got a good taste of Egun Vindrius’ essence, so to speak. We found the traces of one of his recruitment drives.”

She winces.

“It looks like he had a, shall we say, selection process. To join.”

“He had vulnerable people fight to the death to join his cult, or perish. Correct?”

She nods. A few heads turn our way but I return that glance and they quickly return to their drinks. 

“Correct…”

“No need to mince words, Deza. I’ve seen his handiwork. Tell me what you’ve learned.”

She sighs like the damned, burying her face under both hands. I wait. A puff of annoyed breath sends a wisp of dark hair fluttering. A bloodshot eye glares from between two fingers. Her soul is somewhere I would consider ‘utter despair trending towards humor’. It’s not good, but nothing can be good while Malice is left to act.

“When it’s convenient, of course, dear minion,” I finish. “On your own time. It’s ok, the bomb has already gone off.”

“You can stop now, oh Mighty One. Oren found Egun’s tracks after that, an easy task considering the size of his cult and their average hygiene. Unfortunately, the trail leads to a passage with quite a few monsters, and I was wondering if you could bring your power to bear. My team isn’t exactly made of heavy hitters.”

“I know a girl,” I tell Deza.

“I know. I’m a girl.”

“No it’s a figure of… nevermind. Let’s go tomorrow. I’ll get whoever’s free.”

***

Kimera refuses to accompany me because she is at a critical junction in her research. What research? She refuses to tell me, and the additional security measures around her lab tell me this is serious business. I am sternly warned not to die before returning to save her research progress then sent on my way with a kiss and a slap on my ass. I might be majestic and very archony one day. Positive thinking. Positive thinking.

One thing I love about having subordinates more competent than I am is how they just proactively organize everything by themselves, and I just have to show up. Deza gives Krane a good look. The living wardrobe with one horn left backs me up as if I were the brain and he were the brawn, while in reality, I have brawn aplenty. 

“Is this the girl?” Deza asks. 

It takes me a second to remember how our previous conversation ended. I roll my eyes while her companions chuckle. Well, two of them anyway. The first is an unremarkable man with an unusually large nose. Mana swirls around him as if drawn inward, though I’m pretty sure he’s not meditating. The second is an older lady with a large backpack and a mechanic’s apron filled with tools on top of a reinforced templar uniform. No armor. The last member of the team stands apart with a bored expression. He’s from one of those more exotic species I see less of on the station, mostly due to the environment being tailored for humans or, at least, space humans. I’m not sure. He has flat features, impossibly ruddy skin, and quills instead of hair. As I watch, he chews on a leaf with large square teeth. He wears what looks like a uniform with a lantern on it. Hey, I recognize that one. He’s a depth guilder!

“Sorry,” I finally reply. “She said she was too busy for base monster disposal. This is Krane, my partner.”

“I didn’t know he’d been freed considering the… war crimes,” Deza replies, her signature smile noticeably cooler.

“I’m the Avatar of Redemption,” Krane replies, as if it were explanation enough.

And to my surprise, it is. The group shifts in sullen silence, but their souls only radiate acceptance. The guilder stops leaning against the massive gate’s frame.

“Are we ready to leave?” He asks with a gravelly voice.

“Brief introductions first. We know of Krane, of course, but this is my tracker Oren,” she says, pointing at the nose guy, “And that’s Nalia our depth specialist.”

“Shallow depths,” the lady grumbles.

“That’s where we’re going,” I reply with a smile. “And…”

“Stein. Depth Guild apprentice.”

“Nice to meet you. You’re our guide?”

“I am. Shall we?”

Hurried lad. We conduct one last check, then we’re good to go. I kind of feel like we’re overdoing it for a one-day delve through a cleared area, but I guess I have more than one life to spare. Stein leads us through the gate after inputting the code, then we’re through an abandoned, dark district that smells of ash. The very few souls around us avoid us completely.

I watch Stein work with some interest. He has a book of codes he jealously guards, making sure we can’t read it every time he opens it. He notes observations in a separate notebook, and always triple checks the district number as soon as we enter a new one. We don’t exactly follow the most direct route, but I decide not to make myself interesting with the song key in my pocket, just in case. I don’t need a repeat of the Phage incident. After only a few hours, we enter a maze of corridors and alleys around a few massive machines that look like fabricators, dormant for now under the gaze of a few flesh golems. Those let us pass without comment.

Every time I see one, I risk a heart attack because they have no soul yet are humanoid and alive, and I can’t get over it at all. I’m getting jumpscared by oversized walnuts built to survive a car crash. Everytime one of them I didn’t hear first comes around a corner, it takes all my self control not to tear them in half.

“We are almost there,” Stein says. It’s the first time he’s talked since we left the surface. “I need to remind you that my contract doesn’t cover battles unless they’re a consequence of our exploration.”

“We haven’t forgotten,” Deza replies with a tense smile. “Just let us know when we arrive, and my friends here will handle it.”

She slaps my shoulder. 

“You don’t recognize the place?” I ask.

“We came from another angle. Oren wisely decided to withdraw rather than risk battle, but we’re confident this is where the trail leads.”

“Alright. Krane?”

He and I exchange a glance, then we drop our small packs on the ground and grab our weapons, which takes a quarter of a second, really. I’m fast and so is the staff, but Krane just slips his tower shield on like it’s part of him. The gate is relatively small and made of metal over the bare crystal wall — more garage than giant warehouse. I don’t sense any souls nearby. A sweep later and I’ve got something farther in and to the left. Quite large. I let Krane know using a basic soul connection, then I turn to Stein.

“Alright. Can you get the door open? Please?” I ask, resisting the urge to ask him if it’s not part of the contract. This dude’s defending his labor rights, which I should respect. He owes us nothing more. Quietly, the quilled man enters a code before getting out of the way.

The gates open, and all hell breaks loose. A cloud of spores darken the corridor. Limbs like dry branches reach for us, bulbous bodies follow. There is a skitter, screeches. Krane pushes most of the smoke away with one slap of his tower shield now used as a giant fan, then he’s crushing creatures left and right. I hesitate. I could synthesize antibodies. Or create a layer of mucus.

Or, just, absorb them. They lack foreign mana. Our struggle is short and not really desperate but it is a mess. The limbs really turn out to be roots and my staff can do nothing against them, so I weave around capture attempts and smash the poorly protected central nodes. Liquid sprays the wall with every blow, smelling like blood and… syrup? I’m still not sure what we’re facing, so I jump and freeze time to get my bearings.

Ok, so what I thought were three-legged plant monster hybrids are, in fact, hybrids, but they’re all connected by thick vines that also act as limbs. It’s just one big mess. I think I can see a central cable going inward. Well, nothing for it. I charge myself with star mana, turning white then a deep red. 

Time returns.

The spore cloud erupts in a quiet explosion that sucks the air in. I charge through the thick layer of bark and vine, tendrils cracking under the heat. Red flames lick my arms, going outward like… well, this is new. They’re uneven and I can barely feel them, but they’re there. Like some sort of weak halo. 

The creature offers no resistance as I scorch my way through it. I reach the central network of roots and consider my options. I can’t exactly cut them so I just grab them, pick them up like an awkward bunch of logs. They turn to flaking charcoal under my fingers. I feel like a more incandescent Midas. Everything I touch turns to ash.

Cut off from its roots, the amalgam of creatures goes into a frenzy. I burn my way through it again, sending my location directly into Krane’s mind. There is a sudden pressure. He’s shield-bashed most of the remaining mass on top of me. 

“What the —”

He’s the gardener and I’m the blender, I guess. I emerge from the smoking pile like an underachieving phoenix out of borrowed cinders. What’s left of the tendrils shivers one last time before falling silent for good. Overhead, vents go into emergency mode to suck out the burnt out spores. It smells terrible.

I let go of the mana. Getting the star coat going is long and energy-intensive, but once it’s started it proves to be really useful. Krane unlimbers his shoulders.

“Interesting,” I say.

“What the fuck?” Stein reacts.

“What’s interesting?” Krane asks.

I grab a vine and bite down, chewing pensively now that the vegetal flesh is no longer connected to its root. The genetic material here is intriguing. I… think I can use it to reinforce my skin. It won’t be pretty or look too good, but I’d be able to resist blunt force trauma more easily. For now, I store it in my memory. I’m nowhere near good enough to improve upon the Garden-provided model. Maybe I should hunt for new genetic material in the Depths at some point.

“It’s not the organism, I mean, not the main body. It looks like we’re dealing with a mutated, carnivorous version of a Rosean root organism. It’s ah, hmmm. It looks like a copse of tall flowers but really ’s just one being that moves from food source to food source with the seasons. It should be mostly static and only supplement its diet with rare prey for protein, but this one…”

“Didn’t find soil,” Deza finishes. “Thank you Stein, we’ll take it from here. The path should be just ahead.”

“How far is it?” I ask.

“It’s just at the end of the corridor, according to the map.”

We look at the dark path ahead. It branches left and right through one bent gate. The flesh golems will repair it at some point, but right now it looks like a particularly flowery post-apocalyptic setting. I’m just waiting for the plant zombies to jump out of the foliage to throw vines at me. 

“Rebreather,” Krane orders.

“One moment,” I say. “Whatever attacked us isn’t dead. It’s down the left corridor, I think. If we want to check the location without anything biting our asses, we might want to, ah, pacify the local wildlife first.”

Oren and Nalia turn to Deza. Deza and Krane turn to me.

“And I’m in charge,” I realize.

“Oh, great one, guide us to success,” Deza deadpans.

“May your wisdom light our path,” Krane adds with a deep voice and a religious sign.

“You know, I’m more used to the person in charge being the most competent one,” I object though it’s just for my nerves.

“But then you’d never learn,” Deza replies. 

“Consider yourself… overlord intern, if that helps,” Krane adds with a serious nod. “Unpaid, of course.”

“Right. Deza, Oren, Nalia, stay here and keep our escape route open. Krane and I will burn the thing down. If it looks like we can’t do it, we’ll retreat your way so prepare to close the gate. If you close it in my face, when you get back to your house, I’ll be under your bed. Then we do the crime scene stuff. Ok with everyone?”

“How about a rousing speech?” Deza asks, smile brighter than usual.

“You get one overlord intern demerit. Ok, let’s go.”

I leave my non-combat minions behind. Krane comes to walk by my side, shield out and ready. 

‘What can you tell me about the beast’s weakness?’ he asks in my soul.

‘Well it’s mutated so definitely more mobile, but also leaner with fewer limbs than the baseline due to energy concerns. I’d say I could just walk in there and burn it to a crisp. There will be a semi-animal core where the central nervous system is hosted, the rest is just autonomous limbs with secondary nodes. As a matter of fact, the species started as a parasite-host dyad across reproductive —”

“You know I’ll just forget this at the end of the loop? Let’s just make sure you get your time’s worth.”

We stop by the corridor. It’s empty, but additional roots lead farther down and also to our back where presumably another door’s been booby-trapped. Or rather, nipplewort-trapped, as it were. 

“You could write it down in your notebook,” I silently object.

His soul radiates polite patience.

“And yet, I will not. Shall we?”

The corridor may be empty, but at some point, a side storage room must have collapsed onto the floor below. The roots lead there like cables to a mainframe due to the lack of soil. They roil, pulling back their hunters, perhaps sensing our approach. The soul I detected is just there.  Krane and I exchange another glance. He’s politely waiting for me.

“Ok,” I send to his mind. “I will use my star aura, jump down and attack. You follow, and uh…”

I try to remember how Lieutenant Osiru had us fight back when I was a merc on Obis. He would have placed the defender in front, to bait the enemy’s attention.

“Actually, you go first and get the thing to move. I’ll attack the core as soon as I spot it.”

“Understood.”

He presses a tool on the belt of his armor. A diffuse light soon surrounds him, and then he’s out and down. I hear skittering sounds behind us. We need to finish this quickly. Below, Krane slams his tower shield into a thick root, cracking it with such strength the green wood splinters. Something shrieks in the darkness. Emerging from a shapeless mass of branches, tendrils, atrophied leaves and thorns is a mouth as large as a pool lined with inward-facing teeth, sharp and white-tipped. Fragmented  corpses float at the surface, half-dissolved. The digestive organ. The central nerves should be just underneath. I jump down into the melee. My overheated body vaporizes the wet tissue so fast I cannot feel it before it’s gone. My hands form shapes of fiery death into the main body of the creature. I feel… so strong. Eternal and untouchable as a star, the plant unable to even approach me. This heat, it’s mine, the blazing embers of my hope. I will reach down and scorch it like a barren planet. You first, then the —

A torrent of pressurized water hits my chest. Steam covers the entire room. It hits me like a cold shower. My mana dips like it’s ripped out of me. It hurts.

I freeze time.

I grab my energy with all the will I have and shut down the spell. I’m almost dry. This thing quenched me? It did. And here I was forgetting than an ancient mutated organism known for its vulnerability to fire might have some fucking way to combat fire. Fucking hell. Time returns, and with it, the consequences of my decision.

The water jet slams me against the wall. I barely get my hands up in time to protect my head, then Krane is there with his shield. I got… maybe one warform left in me before it’s just me, my staff, and the most bludgeon-resistant creature in the fucking district. The brawler is suboptimal because of the bludgeon thing. The cat is built for speed while I need staying power. Fuck it. I form the brawler as fast as I can, pouring the last dregs of mana I have into it. Vines encircle my form, creaking and cracking and tearing but this warform is built for strength and I have more strength than them. The plant’s soul is hard to read but if there is one feeling that translates, it’s desperation. It uses all it can to drag me towards the digestive pool while Krane methodically punches his way towards the core. His mind reaches, just a hint of concern. I only return my frustration and annoyance at myself, then I focus. I stop my crafting at the arms.

I don’t need fingers. I need blades. With a massive effort, I bind the cat’s tearing claws to the brawler’s shape. It’s surprisingly easier than I expected, though I won’t have the explosive power. That is fine.

I roar and defoliate the entire network of vines in front of me, dozens of wrapped tendrils at a time tearing in a spray of sweet sap, but I’m trapped in the writhing remnants. That’s fine. No need to panic, I just need not to get buried. I keep both of my arms free and cut the vines around my body to free myself with methodical care. The carnage is strangely silent, and it doesn’t take long for the beast to run out of limbs. Then Krane reaches the nerves. The plant shudders one last time, then the stomach ruptures, or sphincters open, I don’t know, and acid splashes on the room with a new and stomach-turning smell. Krane and I climb on a nearby pile of melting vegetation. And then, silence.

“Is it dead?” Krane asks after a few dozen seconds, a long time for a fourth awakening.

To be fair, the thing is still quivering and some of the roots appear to be dragging back masses of questing limbs falling through the gap above us and into the vile soup this place has become, so the question makes sense.

“Yes. Its soul has departed. It is an ex-mutated plant.”

Krane pulls a few broken vines from his armor. He slams his tower shield down and a layer of gunk and spores simply falls to the ground at his feet. Otherwise, he just waits.

“I think we’re good. Let’s regroup with the others,” I suggest.

He nods. There is something in that perfect composure that just makes me want to break it.

“I’m ready to turn a new leaf,” I finish.

His face remains impassible, but his soul groans.

***

We find the others waiting for us with guarded expressions. The only major change is in Stein, who considers us with a bit of awe.

“That was a class three threat, at least! If you need work, the delvers offer good prospects. We always need talented enforcers.”

“I might be interested,” I reply. “Would I just, what, show up at one of your offices?”

“Yes, we have regular recruitment drives. You would do well.”

I know they have a high attrition rate. It’s still something to consider. 

“Ok, let’s move on then.”

Our destination is just down the corridor. The gate is one of the reinforced ones, and the plant monster clearly tried to pry it open if the thorn marks are any indication. A whiff of cadaverine on the air tells me that the monster must have smelled a buffet and now, we’ll get to smell it too.

“I’d keep the rebreathers on if I were you. I think we have bodies,” I say half as a joke, but Nalia immediately adjusts hers. I refuse her spare; I don’t need it.  

The moment the corridor opens, everyone else recoils. The darkness hides Egun’s work but not its stench, just as I expected, and a bit must filter through my companions’ masks. I find it difficult to describe the odious odor of a charnel pit. It’s not just one single thing but an accumulation of nausea-inducing fragrances, and a terrible reminder of what we’re destined to be. 

I remember the revulsion I felt when I saw my first explosion death back on Obis. He’d been a mercenary — I don’t even remember his name — and friendly. His face was still fully human, begging us to help him, but his body had been unraveled, rendered into its constituent parts for all to see. There is a fine line between human and meat, and he was straddling it. This is after. This is the rotting remains of an old massacre, long after what’s human has melted away, yet still lingers, hidden in the glint of exposed teeth or the curve of a rotting finger, or the clothes, the weapons, all the little personal items that make a person a person. As I stand there with my olfactory cells turned off, I wonder if I have gone soft, or if it’s the last dregs of softness slowly dying in the robes of weeks-old cadavers.

“Those are… Founder! Those are Elysian guards!”

Those were Elysian guards, in any case. I’m familiar with them though I haven’t seen them except in recordings. The guards are dressed in ceremonial yellow robes and favor polearms, though it’s not a rule. There are perhaps a dozen of them sprawled around the room alongside twice that number of ragged assailants. Both had been left where they’d died. Most of the guards still have their weapons. 

“What are they doing here?” I wonder. “I thought they never left Elysion.”

“They do. Rarely,” Deza says. “Stay here, people.”

It looks like Oren is going to be sick. Krane finally ties a shawl around his face, his expression troubled, but he stands guard anyway. We move in. I use a bit of star mana to cast light and realize I’ve almost stepped into a pool of sticky gunk. Deza stops for one moment, eyes unfocused, breath ragged. She recovers after a heartbeat.

“I’m good. What do you know about Elysian guards?” she asks.

“Well, they guard Elysion. And never get out. Or so I thought.”

“Look over there,” she says.

The bodies of the guards form a rectangle now that I pay attention, while their victims are sprawled a bit wider. At the center of the rectangle is a golden coffer meant to be carried over the shoulders of two porters with the convenient use of some sort of… stretchers? Looks like the kind of ancient gaudy shit Indiana Jones should be stealing. I don’t know what it’s called. I don’t need forensic whatever to understand what happened here. The guards were boxed in between two parties of attackers. They assumed a defensive formation, only to be picked off by Egun. It doesn’t look like any of them tried to run, but with the path blocked, it might not have been an option. 

“They were guarding that thing,” I say. “No, transporting it.”

“Yes. Can you guess what Elysian guards are most renowned for?” she asks.

I can tell she’s trying to make light of the situation. No, wait, I know. She’s teaching me. 

“Can’t be fighting prowess,” I comment. “And I’m not saying that because they lost. Physical might is not very useful in Elysion. Anyone who lives there can probably demolish a mountain.”

“They still have strong fighters among their numbers,” Deza objected, “But otherwise, yes, you’re correct.”

I hesitate.

“Loyalty?” I suggest.

“Loyalty and discretion. They will not talk, or break their oath. You can count on the Elysian guards to be perfectly fair and discrete. So…”

“So someone from Elysion had something precious transported in that chest, and Egun stole it.”

I frown.

“How did he even know where to get it? He’s just the lost heir of some minor family. Ugh, last time we defeated him, he mentioned two people. Maybe he received hints? He probably received hints. What was in there, anyway?” I say, approaching the chest.

Deza’s already there.

“It’s some kind of ancient script,” she answers with a frown. “We’ll need a translator.”

“Let me see?”

I can, in fact, read it.

“That’s ancient Enderlithian, a runic alphabet close to primordial magic. You can find old tomes written in that tongue.”

Like my soul magic manual.

“Right, hm.”

There are only four sentences here, each one painfully inscribed with utmost care onto the smooth golden surface. The light of my spell reflects the precious metal, bathing the ghastly carnage with too beautiful a light. And doing it no favors.

“Ok, let’s see. By the two, and the twelve, and the eighteen, and the seventy-six, you were raised to splendor. By the same hands was your grace taken, and your burden lifted. Let not… vengeance? I think it’s vengeance. Let not vengeance spoil your rest, and may peace come to you when you accept it. That’s it.”

“Cryptic,” Deza comments.

“No, no no, it’s… it’s pretty clear. Oh my God. I mean, Founder etc. Wow. I…”

My soul control vacillates. Deza winces, hands going to her temples. Krane walks in with his shield raised just in case, but it’s just excitement. Excitement, horror, maybe a bit of awe. 

“Don’t you get it? What we just read is an epitaph. Egun doesn’t start off with the bomb. He assembles it, and for this, he needs two parts. One’s the bomb. This isn’t it, it’s too small. The real bomb cannot be carried by two people, so by process of elimination, this is the second part. It’s the soul. There was a soul in there, somehow, and he took it. Holy shit, no wonder it blows a hole in the station. Do you know whose soul this is?”

“Er…” Deza hesitates.

“The two and twelve etc… Two harbingers. Twelve of the Celestial Court. Eighteen emotions. Seventy-six concepts.”

“The hundred and eight,” Deza confirms. “Yes, what are you getting at?”

“You were raised to splendor and your burden was then lifted. Do not let vengeance etc. Vengeance is also retribution.”

They get it at the same time. I explain it anyway.

“When an avatar wins the game, they get invested with additional power by the hundred and eight. There is only one person who was elevated and then cast down by the pantheon, and whose vengeance must be feared. Vrok was the Avatar of Retribution when he won the previous game, then he disappeared, possibly deposed by the same gods who granted him their favor. Don’t you see? That’s why the bomb is so destructive. Egun blows up the soul of the previous Archon.”

***

I take a moment after that to sit, rest, and meditate. It also gives me the opportunity to think on the fresh horror I’ve just uncovered. I knew that Vrok had disappeared. I just thought he was dead, or somehow kidnapped by the gods themselves or, I don’t know. Certainly not disembodied, his soul carried around the station in a nice reliquary by glorified mall cops in ugly yellow robes. What does it mean? Is it a rule? Will the same happen to me if… when my reign ends? The few history books I’ve read never mentioned what happens to the archon after their time is up. Also, why not just… let him die? Why carry him around like that? How does one extract a soul, and can I do it? How the fuck did Egun Vindrius of the water-filtration clan manage to intercept the soul of a demigod? Why was it guarded by literally twelve dudes, few of whom could possibly be at the fourth awakening? And finally, can I use this?

I don’t think so. Well, not right now. The last time I tried to communicate with the trapped soul, it instantly turned my corpse into a husk and squeezed my soul into a full reset. I might as well try to have a proper conversation with a leaking nuclear reactor. However, this is now. Maybe, once I have a higher awakening, I could talk to him. Maybe I could convince a millennium-old divine incarnation of vengeance to chill, have a pint, and wait until it all blows over. Easy. But for now, I’ll leave him alone.

“Are you feeling better?” Deza asks.

I glance at her and find the same exhausted officer and mother facing death and fear as I do every loop. 

“Your timing is impeccable. I was just done coping. Unfortunately, as far as actionable intel goes, this isn’t it, I think? I don’t have any contacts in Elysion so if I ask anyone why they stashed the previous archon’s soul in the Shallow Depths, I’ll get death squads on my arse before I can say ‘state secret’.”

“Then perhaps you should make friends with people in Elysion?” Deza suggests with a more crooked smile than normal.

“You sound like someone I know,” I retort. “I struggle with posh twats.”

All twats, really.

“You might be a little biased,” Deza says, sitting by my side.

“Well, so far the only interactions I’ve had with patricians was them calling the templars on me, leading to death via radiation exposure. And the time I contacted the temple directly and they summarily imprisoned me for a month until we all died. And some of my patients are patricians. You can tell from the colorful hair and lack of respect.”

“I think, mostly, you may have a problem with Law,” Deza notes.

“If only her avatar wasn’t working for the opposition.”

I might have a slight problem with authority. Or rather, I have a problem with assholes, and find those in a position of power to be particularly obnoxious.

“And yet here we are,” Deza continues, “engaging in proper cooperation for the sake of the station. You need all the allies you can get, friend. And look, we’re not all bad! I am useful. So useful, in fact, that I’d wager I can find your bomb’s origin before the year is out!” She promises.

How dare this woman bring good logic into this? 

“I don’t appreciate common sense and empathy getting in the way of a good moan. ‘Tis rude.”

“This minion apologizes."

She looks very smug about it.

“Are you, perhaps, the avatar of snark?”

Deza slaps her knees. 

“Well, time’s up. I need to get back to pick up Namun from school, so, if you are quite done?”

“Yes, yes.”

Krane extends a hand. He’d been hovering around us like a quiet gargoyle. I grab the offered scarred limb, and get pulled up by the solid slab of quiet muscles. It’s good to have allies.

***

The others must be as shocked as I am, but they approach the revelation with religious reverence. We, or rather Egun, accidentally pulled the veil on the hermetic gears of an antediluvian machine. They watch the coffer like I would watch the Arch of Alliance: it is a divine artefact belonging to a divine realm, one so far removed from them it’s closer to mythos than to liturgy. I know why, of course. They never considered the possibility of becoming the archon, even Krane. They do not think about the implications. 

Is this how it ends? As a contained soul in some strange receptacle? Is this the norm? None of the books I read mentioned the mechanisms behind the end of a reign because of Enderlith’s infuriatingly fragmented information realm. The worse thing is, even if it were my fate, I would have accepted it. I would have accepted a century of loops with death at the end if it meant stopping this layered apocalypse. I’m no hero; I just couldn’t live with the guilt of knowing I could have stopped it all, and then, just run away. I just wish Chronos had warned me. 

I guess I could just ask him.

“What’s next, boss?” Krane asks me.

I look at the old general, one horn broken, scarred and withered like an old prune that had survived three hails and a wasp. 

“Banter? From you? Finally?”

“I had to step up. And I’ll have you know, doctors and soldiers have the most resilient humor, for the same reason.”

He pats my shoulder. I resist the urge to frown at the paternalist bullshit. He means well.

“Speaking of, you’ve been really quiet during the whole operation.”

“You need to grow and learn, friend,” he whispers. “And I’m here to help you. So, boss, what next?”

“Next we finish preparing…”

I turn my hand into a cat’s claw. It’s getting easier and easier to change my form, not just because my reserves are slowly expanding, but also because I’m just getting better at it.

“And then we stop the bomb for good.”