The ground quakes.
Not a tremor—a rupture. The stone beneath their feet splits, cracks racing outward from the base of the fallen spear. The tip, still embedded in the island, begins to float—drifting upward, pulled by some force that defies gravity.
A roar echoes across Papaho. Not the sound of a beast—the sound of the earth itself, screaming.
The Abyssal Throat erupts.
Water explodes upward from the trench at the island's center—a geyser that reaches into the sky, a column of saltwater and steam that blots out the clouds. The ground shakes harder. Buildings crumble. The Papa-Line—the mountain range that separates the frozen ring from the tropical interior—splits down the middle, a fissure that glows with sickly green light.
Thye's screech of victory tears through the air—a sound that is not sound, but presence. It fills the island, fills the sky, fills the spaces between heartbeats.
General Rukun stares at the erupting geyser. His voice is a whisper.
"We have failed."
Garrett Hasapis looks down at him—not with pity, not with contempt, but with something that might be curiosity.
"Don't be ridiculous." His voice is flat. "You never had a chance."
Hao moves.
He rushes toward the geyser—toward the Abyssal Throat, toward the column of water and steam and green light. His footsteps are sure, his blade still drawn, his expression fixed on something only he can see.
Bovee calls out. "HAO!"
Marcella turns, her blade still at Meryem's throat. "Where is he going?"
Bovee shakes his head. "I don't know. He said he heard something."
Micah joins them, his boots crunching against the broken stone. His yellow ringed eyes track Hao's figure as it disappears into the mist.
"Let's go."
Marcella gestures at the kneeling queen and general. "What about them?"
Micah does not look at her. His gaze is fixed on the geyser, on the path Hao has taken.
"Bring them." His voice carries something new—something that might be anticipation. "Let them see what it is they have been keeping caged."
---
They descend into the Abyssal Throat.
The whirlpool is gone.
Where once there was churning water, there is now only stone—a spiraling staircase carved into the bedrock, descending into darkness. The steps are worn, ancient, their edges rounded by centuries of saltwater erosion. Runes flicker along the walls—the same runes that once covered Vithar—but they are dim, dying, their power fading with the spear's destruction.
The air grows colder as they descend. The smell of salt and old stone fills their lungs. Water drips somewhere in the darkness—a steady, rhythmic sound that counts out the seconds.
Bovee pauses on the stairs. His sharp ears catch something—footsteps, echoing up from the depths.
"Hao must already be down there."
Marcella's brow furrows. "What is he—"
Micah cuts her off, taking the first step downward. His voice carries the weight of command. "It doesn't matter. Let's go."
They follow.
---
The bottom of the Abyssal Throat opens into a cavern.
It is vast—larger than any hall in Mary Geoise, larger than the throne room of Pangaea Castle. The walls are black stone, veined with salt crystals that glitter in the light of the geyser above. The floor is smooth, polished by centuries of water, and at its center—
A statue.
The Hitotsume Aura stands frozen in salt.
She is enormous. Even kneeling, even still, she towers above them—thirty meters tall, perhaps more, a giantess carved from white crystal. Her anorexic, sickly human form is draped in a ancient chiton that hangs from her sharp collar bones. Her torso is long and lean, her arms outstretched, her palms open, her skeletal fingers ending in segmented, hollow tubular proboscis tips are outstretched in such a manner that could be offering or demanding.
Her head—
Her head is wrong.
Where a face should be, there is a flower—a crimson poppy bloom, its petals layered and ruffled like paper-thin flesh. At the center of the bloom, where the ovary should be, a single eye stares out. It is a human eye—massive, bloodshot, hazel-brown, with a dilated pupil that seems to look through everything and nothing.
Below the eye, a proboscis extends—fleshy, ribbed, segmented with fine annular rings, curling downward over her chest like the feeding apparatus of some impossible moth.
The salt that encases her is not smooth. It is rough, textured, crawling with minuscule glyphs—Ancient script, written and rewritten thousands of times, the seal that has kept her imprisoned for centuries. The script glows faintly, a sickly green light that pulses in time with the dying runes on the walls above.
Hao stands before her.
His hand rests on the salt statue's surface, his fingers splayed against the crystal. His head is tilted back, his eyes closed, his lips moving—not speaking, but mouthing something. A prayer? A greeting? A name?
She has chosen, Thye whispers in Micah's mind.
Micah's eyes narrow on Hao.
---
Queen Meryem falls to her knees.
General Rukun follows a heartbeat later—not pushed, not forced, but compelled. The sight of Aura—the sight of the creature they have guarded for centuries, the monster they have kept caged—breaks something inside them.
"The seal," Meryem breathes. Her voice is broken. "It's… it's failing."
Rukun says nothing. His clouded eye is fixed on the statue, on the eye that stares out from the poppy bloom. His hands tremble at his sides.
Meryem turns to Micah, to the God's Knights, to anyone who will listen. Her voice rises, desperate, pleading.
"You must not do this! I beg you!" Tears stream down her face, cutting tracks through the soot. "To unleash this power into the world—she will consume everything! She will—"
Garrett Hasapis cuts her off, his voice cold and flat.
"That would be the point." He does not look at her. His hazel eyes are fixed on Aura, on the seal, on the power that waits beneath the salt. "Whoever controls the Hitotsume, controls the world."
Rukun snaps. His voice is a roar, raw with grief and rage.
"You cannot be serious! There is no controlling the Hitotsume!" He struggles to his feet, his hands clenched into fists. "The world was almost lost to them once! There is no one who can control them! They are primal! They are—"
Marcella's blade hilt cracks against the back of his head.
He drops.
She turns and does the same to Meryem—a single, efficient strike that sends the queen crumpling to the stone floor. Both of them lie still, unconscious, their breathing shallow but steady.
Marcella sheathes Velo-Rose with a click. Her voice is flat.
"Quiet."
---
Micah and Bovee join Hao before the statue.
Hao has not moved. His hand still rests on the salt, his eyes still closed, his lips still moving. The seal's runes pulse beneath his fingers—faster now, brighter, as if responding to his presence.
Bovee places a hand on Hao's shoulder.
"Are you well?"
Hao does not open his eyes. His voice is distant, dreamy—the voice of a man speaking from the bottom of a deep well.
"I can hear her speaking to me." A pause. "She is beautiful. And wise."
Micah steps closer. His yellow ringed eyes study Hao's face, his posture, the way his fingers splay against the salt.
"She has chosen her champion."
Hao clutches his chest.
His knees buckle. He falls—not collapsing, but crumpling, his body folding in on itself as if struck by something invisible. Bovee drops to his knees beside him, his hands reaching out, his voice sharp with concern.
"Hao! What is it?"
Hao struggles to speak. His breath comes in ragged gasps. His fingers claw at his shirt, pulling at the collar, revealing the skin beneath.
"She is marking me."
The brand appears slowly—a line of fire that traces itself across his chest, just above his heart. It is not a tattoo. It is a brand, seared into the flesh, glowing with the same sickly green light as the seal.
The shape is strange—an inverted crescent, or a crescent-like arc, resting over a central cross. It looks like an anchor. Or a winged glyph. Or something older, something that has no name in any language spoken by mortals.
Hao catches his breath. His hand falls away from his chest. He looks up—
And finds Micah's hand on his shoulder.
"Well done, brother." Micah's voice is soft, almost gentle. "We will find an Axis Mundi and free her from her cage."
Hao nods. His eyes are still distant, still dreamy, but there is something new in them now—a spark, a purpose, a fire that was not there before.
"Yes, brother." He rises to his feet, his hand still pressed against the brand. "Let's—"