The screens surrounding Sion showed the desert in shades of infrared and gravimetric false color.
The leviathans were blots of crimson heat against the golden sand, their bodies displacing millions of tons of silica with every movement.
Faust slithered like a continental plate, leaving a glass chasm in its wake. Regie galloped beside it, a behemoth of bronze and iron and flesh that should not have been able to move at all.
"They have landed," a researcher said. "The serpent and the mountain are moving inland, they are coming straight toward us."
Sion did not answer. His eyes tracked the path of the leviathans, the way they curved around dunes, the way they adjusted their course to maintain the most efficient line of travel. They were not searching. They were not exploring. They were navigating.
"How?" The word escaped his lips before he could stop it. His voice cracked. "How is this possible? We have put every method of concealment available into this facility. The spheres are camouflaged. The thermal signature matches the sand. The dielectric constant is identical. Ground-penetrating radar sees nothing. Satellite imaging sees nothing. We are invisible."
The researcher looked at him, her face pale, her hands trembling. "Director—"
"Unless." Sion's mind raced through the possibilities, discarding each one as it formed. "Unless he could calculate the delta in gravity across every part of this desert. Every dune every valley every shift in the wind. He would need to process coperbytes of data per second. He would need to map the gravitational gradient to the nanometer. He would need to filter out the noise of the shifting sands, the tidal pull of Regie itself, the centrifugal force of the planet's rotation. He would need to..."
His voice trailed off. The supercomputers in this facility, the most powerful machines ever built by human hands, would take weeks to perform that calculation. Nulls had done it in seconds. Mentally.
"Fuck!"
Sion slammed his fist into the desk, the impact cracking the surface, sending papers and coffee cups scattering across the floor. The researchers flinched, backing away from his console, giving him space that he did not want and did not deserve.
"Valerius." He spoke her name like a curse. "This is her fault. She was supposed to contain him. She was supposed to keep him in that cube, in that ocean, in that prison we spent decades building. Instead, she let him escape. She let him grow stronger. She is the one who let him take the leviathans and slaughter that tribe and perform the Rite of Reclamation. She let him become this."
He looked up at the screens, at the leviathans, at the countdown that had reached three hours.
"Our parents would be ashamed of her. The Valerius family has served the Rapax Morsatra for generations. They have given their blood, their treasure, their children to the cause of protecting humanity. And she... she threw it all away. She is a disgrace. A disgrace to our family, to her species, to everything we have built."
A long breath escaped him. His shoulders sagged. The anger was still there, burning in his chest, but he pushed it down, forced it into the same compartment where he kept his fear and his doubt and his desperate hope that the next report would contain good news.
He had a much bigger problem to face.
"We cannot contact any Arcanists," he said, turning to the communications officer. "They have refused to engage. Even when commanded by the directors. The Rapax Morsatra barely succeeded in capturing the leviathans the first time, and that was with the element of surprise and the support of an entire fleet. What chance do we have against him now?"
The officer shook her head. "None, Director. The Arcanists have made their position clear. They will not sacrifice themselves for a facility that has already been compromised."
Sion closed his eyes.
A memory surfaced, unbidden, unwanted. Phantasm-1250. He had read the report years ago, had dismissed it as theoretical, had filed it away in the archives and never thought about it again. But now, with Nulls bearing down on them and no other options remaining, the memory returned with the force of a revelation.
The phantasm took the form of a papyrus and a pen. The papyrus was old, yellowed with age, its edges frayed, its surface covered in symbols that predated human civilization.
The pen was made of bone, carved from the femur of something that had never drawn breath in this reality. Together, they formed a contract.
The contract was simple. The signer offered their name, their blood, their loyalty. In return, a Morbus would burst forth from the gut of the Inferno, a creature whose power would not merely match but decuple the strength of the beings who signed the document.
The creature would obey any command, would fight any enemy, would destroy any target. It could not be commanded to kill itself, directly or indirectly, but beyond that, its loyalty was absolute.
For three hours.
After that time, the contract would expire. The Morbus would become uncontrollable, would behave like any other member of its species, would hunt and kill and destroy without distinction. The creature that had been their weapon would become their executioner.
Sion opened his eyes.
"Phantasm-1215," he said. "Where is it?"
The researchers stared at him.
"The Morbus summoning device," he continued. "The papyrus and the pen. I know it is in this facility. I signed the transfer order myself."
A woman in the back of the room raised her hand. "Director, that phantasm is classified as a last-resort weapon. Its use requires authorization from the Grand Arcanas. Without their approval—"
"I am the director of this facility." Sion's voice was cold, flat, absolute. "I have the highest authority on this continent. The Grand Arcanas answers to me, not the other way around."
The woman lowered her hand.
"what Echelon 4 Arcanists are currently available?"
The operations room fell silent. Sion's question hung in the air like a blade waiting to fall.
He looked at the researchers, at the officers, at the men and women who had been working themselves to exhaustion for the past eleven hours.
None of them looked back. Their eyes remained fixed on the screens, on the maps, on the endless stream of data that poured from the satellites and the sensors and the simulations.
Their hands moved across keyboards, their mouths formed words that their minds had already forgotten, their bodies went through the motions of work while their spirits retreated somewhere else.
Sion understood. They were afraid. Not of him, not of the consequences of their silence. They were afraid of the crimson figure moving across the desert, of the leviathans that carved glass chasms into the earth, of the end that was approaching with each passing second.
They had nothing left to give. No plans, no strategies, no hope. Only calculations and data and the desperate need to keep their hands busy while they waited to die.
The world dissolved around him, the operations room bleeding into a smear of color and light, and reformed into the familiar walls of his office.
The desk was clean, the books were organized, and the photographs of his family were arranged in a neat row along the windowsill.
He had always kept this space separate from the chaos of the facility, a sanctuary of order in a world that had become nothing but noise.
He sat down, fired up his computer, and began to search.
The database was vast, containing the records of every Arcanist who had ever served the Rapax Morsatra. He filtered by echelon, by availability, by combat readiness. The results appeared on his screen, and he read them with a growing sense of despair.
Strauss.
He was holding six tsunamis at once. Each one was the work of Nulls's leviathans, each one capable of swallowing entire coastlines, each one demanding every ounce of his attention and power. He could not be recalled. He could not be replaced. If he left his post, millions would die.
Aaliyah
She was out of commission. The entropy wounds Nulls had inflicted on her had healed, but her aetherion reserves were still depleted, and her body was still recovering from the strain of the battle. She would be useless in a fight, and bringing her to the desert would only give Nulls another opportunity to kill her.
Simon
He was currently occupied. The summoner and his Egregores were fighting five Morbus rifts simultaneously, their bodies scattered across the Logos continent, their minds stretched thin by the demands of maintaining so many manifestations at once. He was the only thing standing between the armies of Morbuses and the civilian population. If he fell, the continent would fall with him.
Abel
As of right now he was working alongside Simon, his innate knowledge of machinery allowing him to patch the rifts as fast as they opened. His presence was essential to the containment effort. Without him, the Morbuses would pour through unchecked, and the death toll would be catastrophic.
Rango
He was fighting an Archon-class Morbus at the Logosian Gulf. He had a myriad of echelon five Arcanists with him, and they were barely holding their own. If he left, the creature would break free and lay waste to the coastal cities.
Fasha.
He was decommissioned. His last fight with two Archon-class Morbuses had almost killed him. The creatures had been subjugated, but at the cost of his health. His body was constantly decaying and regenerating, the radiation from the Morbuses eating away at his flesh even as his innate knowledge of biology repaired it. He would be out for at least six months, maybe longer.
The sixth one. Sion's cursor hovered over the file, then moved on. They did not talk about that one...
Simon was the best option. He was the most versatile, capable of summoning an Egregore for every situation. He possessed the highest firepower out of all the Echelon Four Arcanists, and his combat record was impeccable. If anyone could kill Nulls, it was him.
Sion closed the file and opened another. The data was grim. Ever since Nulls had escaped containment, Morbus activity had skyrocketed tenfold.
The rifts were opening faster, the creatures were growing stronger, and the number of incidents was increasing every day. The Rapax Morsatra was stretched thin, its resources depleted, its Arcanists exhausted.
He teleported.
The Ministry of Defense was a fortress of grey stone and reinforced glass, its walls lined with portraits of the men and women who had served and died in the defense of humanity.
Sion appeared in the office of the Eirene Committee, the body responsible for deploying Rapax Morsatra troops to the battlefield. The room was empty except for a single man.
Kaisiepo Pakage sat behind a desk that was covered in maps and reports and photographs of soldiers who would never come home.
He was old, older than most of the Arcanists under his command, with grey hair and a face that had been carved by decades of hard decisions.
His eyes were dark and tired, but they still held the sharpness of someone who had spent a lifetime assessing threats and allocating resources.
Sion did not waste time on pleasantries.
"I need every available Arcanist on the Logos continent to go to Simon's location," he said. "I want Simon to sign Phantasm-1215. The Morbus that emerges will follow his commands. It will kill Nulls. We have seen what an Echelon Four can do to him. A Morbus with decuple his power will surely—"
Pakage raised one finger.
Sion stopped.
The old man did not speak. He simply looked at Sion, his eyes steady, his expression unreadable.
The finger remained raised, a gesture that was neither a command nor a question, but something in between. A request. A demand. A reminder of who was in charge.
Sion swallowed. "I apologize. I will give you the entire plan. And I will give it to you fast."
Pakage lowered his finger and waited.
Sion bowed his head, the gesture deeper than protocol required, deeper than he had ever bowed to anyone in his life. The polished floor of the office reflected his face back at him, pale and drawn, a stranger's face that belonged to someone who had not slept in days.
"Forgive my entrance," he said. "I should have announced myself the situation has made me careless, and carelessness is an insult to the office you hold."
Pakage said nothing. His dark eyes remained fixed on Sion, unblinking.
Sion straightened his back and clasped his hands behind him. The words came slowly, measured, each one chosen with the care of a man walking through a minefield.
"The facility beneath the Osiris desert will fall within the hour. Nulls has located us. His method of detection is unknown, but the trajectory of his leviathans leaves no room for doubt. He is coming directly toward our position."
He paused, waiting for a reaction. None came.
"We cannot fight him. The Arcanists have refused to engage. The leviathans are beyond our ability to contain. The facility itself, for all its defenses, was never designed to withstand an assault from an Armageddon-class entity."
Another pause.
"I intend to use Phantasm-1215."
Pakage's finger, still raised, lowered to the desk. The old man's expression did not change, but something shifted in the air between them, a tension that had not been there before.
"The summoning device requires a signer," Sion continued. "I have reviewed the files of every available Echelon Four Arcanist. Simon is our best option. His Egregore is the most versatile summon in our arsenal. It can adapt to any threat, counter any ability, exploit any weakness. With the power of Phantasm-1215 amplifying his strength by an order of magnitude, he will be capable of ending Nulls."
He stopped. His throat worked as he swallowed.
"The creature will be bound to Simon's will for three hours. That window should be sufficient to locate, engage, and destroy the target. After that..." He trailed off, unwilling to finish the sentence.
Pakage waited.
"After that, the Morbus will become uncontrollable. It will behave as any other member of its species. It will kill indiscriminately until it is stopped or until it exhausts itself. The cost will be high. The loss of life will be significant."
Sion met Pakage's eyes for the first time since entering the office.
"But the alternative is the extinction of our species. Nulls has made his intentions clear. He will not stop. He cannot be reasoned with. He cannot be contained. Every day we delay is another day he grows stronger, another day he gathers souls, another day he moves closer to completing his contract with his Codex."
He spread his hands, palms up, a gesture of supplication.
"Phantasm-1215 is a gamble. It is a desperate, reckless, unforgivable gamble. But it is the only gamble we have left."
Pakage's finger moved. It tapped the desk once, twice, three times.
"You want me to authorize the deployment of every available Arcanist on the Logos continent to Simon's location."
"Yes."
"You want me to sign off on the use of a weapon that will unleash an uncontrollable Morbus into our world."
"Yes."
"You want me to accept the deaths of everyone in that facility, everyone in that desert, and everyone within range of that creature when the three hours expire."
Sion's jaw tightened. "Yes."
Pakage leaned back in his chair. The ancient wood creaked under his weight. His eyes never left Sion's face.
"Sit down," he said.
Sion sat.
Pakage leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, his fingers interlaced beneath his chin. The maps and reports and photographs that covered the surface rustled with the movement, settling into new configurations that Sion could not read.
"Contingency plans," Pakage said. "If you cannot give me a full timeline of this operation and its alternatives, then you will not touch the Phantasm. Do you understand what number is etched into that artifact?"
Sion nodded. His throat was dry. "The Magna Carta."
"The Magna Carta." Pakage's voice was soft, almost gentle. "The great charter. The contract that bound the first Morbus into extermination. The document that made this organization possible. And you want to use it as a weapon. You want to scrawl a name on its surface and hope that the thing which answers will be content with only one kill."
He spread his hands, palms flat against the wood.
"Show me your timeline. Show me your contingencies. Show me that you have thought about what happens when Simon's will breaks, when the creature decides that Nulls is not its only target, when the three hours expire and the thing turns on us."
Sion's hands were shaking. He pressed them against his thighs to still them.
"The creature will follow Simon's commands for exactly three hours. I have read the reports. The binding is absolute. The Morbus cannot refuse an order, cannot interpret it loosely, cannot act against the spirit of the command. If Simon tells it to kill Nulls, it will kill Nulls. Nothing else."
Pakage waited.
"The contingency—" Sion's voice cracked. He stopped, swallowed, started again. "The contingency is time. We have three hours to kill Nulls and then kill the Morbus. That is the plan. That is the only plan."
Pakage's fingers unclenched. He sat back in his chair, the wood groaning under his weight.
"You want me to approve the release of a Magna Carta Phantasm without a fallback. Without a reserve. Without any assurance that the thing we summon will not simply replace one extinction event with another."
Sion's jaw tightened. "Yes."
Pakage was silent for a long moment. His eyes drifted to the window, to the grey sky beyond, to the clouds that were gathering on the horizon.
"Timeline," he said. "Give me the timeline. Stage by stage. Minute by minute. And then tell me what you will do when each stage fails."
Sion closed his eyes. He saw the screens, the leviathans, the countdown that had reached two hours.
"Stage one," he said. "Simon signs the Phantasm. The Morbus emerges. It will be disoriented for approximately thirty seconds while it acclimates to this reality. During that window, Simon will imprint the command to kill Nulls. The command will be absolute, specific, and unambiguous."
He opened his eyes.
"Stage two. The Morbus will locate Nulls. Its senses are superior to any conventional detection method. It will find him within ninety seconds of receiving the command. The engagement will begin shortly thereafter."
"Stage three. The battle will last between five and fifteen minutes. Nulls is powerful, but he is not invincible. The Morbus's power will decuple Simon's own, and Simon's Egregore is already capable of matching an Archon-class entity. The combined force will overwhelm Nulls's defenses."
"Stage four. Nulls dies. The Morbus will return to Simon for further instructions. Simon will command it to remain stationary and passive. The creature will obey."
"Stage five. We deploy every available Arcanist to the Morbus's location. We hit it with everything we have. Conventional weapons, magical attacks, whatever we can muster. The creature will be exhausted from its fight with Nulls. Its regeneration will be compromised. We will have a window of approximately thirty minutes to destroy it before it recovers."
Pakage's expression did not change.
"And if the Morbus kills Simon before he can give the command?"
Sion's hands trembled. "The creature will be uncontrollable. It will rampage until it is destroyed or until it exhausts itself. The death toll will be catastrophic."
"And if Nulls kills the Morbus?"
"Then we have wasted the Phantasm and lost our best chance to stop him. The facility will fall. The continent will fall. The world will follow."
"And if the battle lasts longer than fifteen minutes?"
"Then we have less time to kill the Morbus before it recovers. The window will shrink. The risk will increase."
Pakage nodded slowly. He reached for a pen, uncapped it, and wrote something on a piece of paper. Sion could not see what it was.
"One more question," Pakage said. "What happens when Simon refuses?"
Sion stared at him.
"Simon is an Echelon Four Arcanist. He is one of the most powerful humans alive. He is also a man, with fears and doubts and loyalties that may not align with yours. What happens when he looks at the Phantasm, reads the contract, and decides that the price is too high?"
Sion opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"I... I will order him to sign."
"You will order him." Pakage's voice was flat. "And if he refuses?"
"Then I will find another signer."
"Who? The other Echelon Fours are occupied or decommissioned. The Echelon Fives do not have the strength to execute the job. You are left with Simon or no one."
Sion said nothing.
Pakage set down his pen. The paper with its mysterious writing slid across the desk toward Sion, stopping just within reach.
"Write your contingencies," Pakage said. "All of them. Every failure mode. Every branch. Every possible outcome. When you are finished, I will read them. And then I will decide whether to authorize the use of the Phantasm."
He stood, walked to the window, and looked out at the grey sky.
"You have one hour."