The Hellbound didn't quiet after Daviyi was taken.
The fragments didn't celebrate.
They dispersed.
Atramenta unfolded from its laughter like a crack closing—angles snapping back into place as if the arena was embarrassed for having bent.
Noct drifted away with the lazy grace of a sickness that had finished feeding, trailing whispers that made the nearest corpses forget why they were clapping.
And Asarlik—
the mist didn't retreat so much as exhale, thinning from the stands in slow ribbons, leaving frost on the bone-rails where it had leaned.
Ecayrous watched them go without turning his head.
Like he hadn't needed them for this part anyway.
It didn't empty of bodies—those were everywhere, packed into tiers like rot in a wound.
It emptied of meaning.
The arena stood waiting, bone-sand still disturbed, script residue still faintly etched where Knowledge had stood and refused to fall.
Ecayrous lounged on his throne like a man watching weather.
Relaxed.
Amused.
Wearing patience the way executioners wear gloves.
Cree and Hydeius waited below.
No grand posturing. No speeches. No power flares.
Just the two of them standing inside the Hellbound like the place belonged to them—like death was an old neighbor and the afterlife was only a bad venue.
The silence grew so thick it felt wet.
Komus leaned toward Qaritas, voice low.
"What is he waiting for?"
Qaritas didn't answer because he didn't know.
Ecayrous' smile widened, slow as a cut opening.
"Ah," he said pleasantly, as if he'd been asked. "Intermission."
He lifted a hand—one finger, lazy.
"Twenty minutes."
The crowd hissed. Groaned. Laugh-laughed. A thousand dead throats annoyed they weren't being fed immediately.
Ecayrous stood as if he was doing them a favor.
"Our dear opponents," he said, eyes on Cree and Hydeius, "have… been delayed."
He tilted his head, as if listening to some private amusement.
"But I'm told they're worth it."
The chains on his throne rattled softly when he smiled—like laughter trying to pretend it wasn't trembling.
"This match," he continued, voice bright, "will be different."
A pause.
"And you," he said to the Hellbound, to the fragments, to the watchers, to the universe itself, "are going to love it."
Then the arena complied.
Not like a machine. Like a beast trained by pain.
The bone-sand retracted. The geometry shifted. And the ring of script around the center didn't flare this time.
It compiled.
A cage formed—electric and divine, black lightning braided with violet runes—locking Cree and Hydeius into a circle that hummed with punishment.
The air tasted like burnt law.
Cree looked up at the bars, then at Hydeius.
Hydeius looked at the bars, then at Cree.
They smiled.
Not kindly.
The way veteran gods smile when they're told to wait.
"We can wait," Cree said.
"We've waited longer," Hydeius added.
And then, like they were in a temple instead of a slaughterhouse, they sat down on the arena floor—calm, composed—speaking in hush tones as the Hellbound watched, confused and hungry.
These weren't just Ascendants.
These were the ones closest to Qaritas and to Eon's parents—close enough that their silence felt like inheritance.
Qaritas stared at them through the crackling cage.
Inside his skull, his thoughts ran in circles.
Can they win?
He didn't speak aloud. He didn't need to.
Eon answered anyway.
Depends.
Qaritas went cold.
Depends?
"What do you mean?" Qaritas thought, sharper than he meant to.
Eon's amusement slid through him like a blade under skin.
When you know someone's weakness, you abuse it to the fullest.
Qaritas' stomach tightened.
He looked back at Cree and Hydeius.
They didn't look afraid.
Which meant something else was about to be used against them.
Something personal.
Something old.
Qaritas' mind betrayed him by going backward—back to the obsidian table, to ghosts pressed into silence, to Cree's voice saying First Light, to Hydeius saying no soul, to Hex screaming and Eon missing something and the word Aun'darion punching through his ribs like a buried command.
He remembered the way the story never quite fit right.
The gaps.
The missing piece.
The part that made the first universe feel… edited.
He started to chase it—
And Eon cut him off.
Don't think too hard about it.
Then Eon went quiet.
Not gone.
Just… closed.
Qaritas frowned, unsettled, but he swallowed it. For now.
That's when he noticed Niraí.
Her hands were on her head like she was trying to keep her mind from splitting.
Komus shifted closer. "Niraí… what's wrong?"
Niraí didn't answer immediately—her eyes fixed on the arena like she could see something behind it.
Across the stands, the other Ascendants—Ación, Rykhan, Nyqomi, Xasna, Laxiae, Shanian—stared forward, unwilling to blink.
They weren't watching Cree and Hydeius.
They were watching Ecayrous.
Shanian's jaw tightened. "Something is off," he muttered. "I don't like this."
Rivax and Zcain exchanged a look—brief, heavy.
Rivax's voice lowered. "I'm going to check on Tavran and Dheas. See if they need help with Daviyi."
Niraí's hands dropped. "I'm coming."
Rivax blinked. "Why?"
Niraí's mouth twitched—almost a smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Because I want to check on her too."
Komus narrowed his eyes. "You're not telling us something."
Niraí exhaled. "Jrin is freaking out. I can feel it."
Komus and Qaritas both stepped forward at once. "We're coming."
Rivax stared for a beat.
"Fine," he muttered. "Apparently I'm responsible."
It was all parents and grandparents of his friends—who looked the same age as him—and the unfairness of it made his skin crawl and his temper spike.
Niraí and Komus immediately started bickering.
Komus' voice sharpened. "I don't even know what you want from me."
Niraí shot back, "Try being useful for once."
Komus scoffed. "I just found out I had children, let alone grandchildren."
Rivax didn't miss a beat.
"You might not want to advertise you were an absent father," he said dryly. "Bad look on you, Ascendant of Space."
Komus' fist clenched so hard the air warped.
For a second, Qaritas thought Komus might actually swing.
Then Komus hissed, "Let's go."
Inside Qaritas' head, Eon laughed—soft and cruelly pleased.
Sometimes the truth hurts.
Then Eon's voice shifted—less amused, more… old.
Some rise through their mistakes. A light drags them out. Others drown in the same dark until they hear the cracks in their mind… right before it collapses.
Qaritas swallowed. "How do you know that?"
Eon didn't answer.
Instead—
Pain pulsed behind Qaritas' eyes.
A sudden spike, like someone driving a nail into his skull and twisting.
He stiffened, forced his face calm.
He would not give the fragments a weakness to smell.
Eon's tone returned—sharp, commanding.
Stand tall. Don't show weakness. You're fighting next. And don't get cocky, little brother.
Then, inside Qaritas' mind, something smacked him—like a backhand against the back of his head.
Qaritas' vision flashed white.
He blinked hard.
Why do I exist?
Why is Eon being—kind?
That thought tasted wrong.
He shoved it down, took the advice, and followed the group.
Komus looked back, lingering, concern cutting through his irritability.
He stopped. Waited for Qaritas to catch up.
"You okay?"
Qaritas forced a nod. "It's nothing."
Then he raised his voice—loud enough for everyone. "How do you know Jrin is losing it?"
Niraí's eyes narrowed like the question annoyed her.
"Because I can feel it through the dimension pathways," she said. "He's been begging me to open a portal—"
She lifted her wrists.
"—but I can't with these bloody shackles."
Then she smiled like a woman pulling a knife from a sleeve.
"Luckily, I've got other tools."
She reached into her cloak and produced a hand mirror—silver stem, blue flower filigree curling around the frame.
It looked fragile enough to shatter if you breathed wrong.
Which meant it was probably deadly enough to cut a god.
They moved down toward the Hellbound barracks door—toward the place Zcain had opened like a mouth and called welcome.
The stone shifted underfoot the way it always did in the Hellbound—like the world was alive and angry about it.
And the deeper they went, the more the air smelled like iron and old screams.
Niraí held up the mirror.
"This," she said, "can make one doorway. It lasts forty-eight hours. Then it closes. Seven days before it works again."
Komus frowned. "Is that a good idea?"
Niraí turned, eyes hard. "We don't have a choice. Jrin is the only one who knows how to bring Daviyi back from whatever state she's in."
Rivax nodded. "Once an Ascendant is bonded to their beloved… just being near them helps."
His blue skin flushed toward purple as he added, "We should hurry. I miss Tavran."
He paused, then muttered, like it offended him to admit it.
"Even if it wasn't that long."
They reached Gemma's house in Deepcrest—warm, lived-in, and impossibly safe compared to the Hellbound's rot.
No one talked much about why she was here.
No one talked much about the 1990 universe either.
Some stories got left quiet because saying them out loud made them real again.
Then—
A scream.
Not outside.
Inside.
Dheas burst out the door, pale, breathless.
"More water," he snapped, and ran.
The four of them rushed inside.
Daviyi was on the bed.
And she was… wrong.
Runes crawled beneath her skin like living ink, refusing to release her—punishment written directly into flesh.
The edges of her body had begun to dry and stiffen, as if knowledge was turning her into paper.
Her lips moved nonstop, spilling names and numbers in languages older than breath.
Gemma shuffled into view like she'd been waiting her whole life for this moment—and probably had.
Her back was crooked, horns curled like ram spirals, eyes glittering with the kind of wisdom that got people killed if they ignored it.
Tavran was beside the bed, hands steady, pouring healing water, forcing medicine between Daviyi's lips.
It wasn't working.
Tavran's jaw clenched. "Maybe we should take her to my mother."
Gemma snapped, "No."
The word hit like a slap.
"Lady Rnarah hasn't slept in fifty years," Gemma growled. "She has enough on her hands. She doesn't need this too."
Rivax stepped forward. "What do you need me to do?"
Tavran didn't even look up. "Go help Dheas with the water."
Rivax turned and ran.
Niraí tried to explain her plan.
Everyone shouted over her.
Panic made gods loud.
Qaritas' spine went cold.
Because Eon rose.
Not fully. Not outwardly.
But enough.
Qaritas' mouth opened—and Eon used it.
It burned—hot and immediate—like Qaritas' throat had to pay for every syllable Eon stole.
"Shut your mouths," Eon said through Qaritas' body, voice calm and lethal. "And listen."
The room obeyed.
Even Tavran froze.
Even Gemma paused mid-breath.
Niraí lifted the mirror, hands steady now that the room had stopped screaming.
"Show me Jrin," she commanded.
The glass fogged.
Then cleared.
Jrin appeared—somewhere far away—smashing windows, tearing apart furniture, screaming Daviyi's name like he was trying to rip reality open with it.
He looked like grief made into a person.
He looked like law breaking.
The room's mood shifted—not pity exactly, but recognition.
Niraí turned the mirror outward.
"Open," she said, voice sharp as a gate rune. "To the Library of Knowledge."
The mirror flashed.
A doorway formed.
Not slow.
Not gentle.
It ripped open so fast the air popped, and everyone jumped like prey.
And there—
Jrin stood in the threshold.
A mess. Eyes wild. Hands shaking.
Then he saw Daviyi.
Everything in him snapped into place.
He rushed to her bedside, voice breaking.
"Reckless," he choked, tears sliding down his face. "You—"
Power filled the room.
Not explosive.
Absolute.
Jrin's eyes lit blue.
His voice became command.
"I order Knowledge," he said, each word a hammer, "to leave her body."
He paused—then counted like a verdict.
"Three. Two. One."
The shackles—Hex's gold restraints, those invisible cuffs she'd left inside Daviyi's power—peeled off her like dead skin.
The runes hissed and pulled away, furious, resisting, then breaking—
And Daviyi's body softened back into living.
Color returned.
Breath returned.
Heat returned.
Daviyi gasped like she'd been drowning in information.
Jrin caught her immediately, pulling her into his arms, holding her tight like he could anchor her with sheer refusal.
Daviyi's eyes fluttered open.
Everyone exhaled at once.
Relief hit the room like weather.
When Daviyi realized who was holding her, she cried.
Not elegant.
Not composed.
Just raw, shaking sobs into Jrin's shoulder.
One by one, everyone filed out—quiet, respectful, leaving the beloveds alone.
Outside in the main room, Gemma lit a pipe, smoked like she was trying to fog the universe into behaving.
"I've heard rumors about those runes," she muttered. "In some dimensions… they're a curse. For scholars who fall down the wrong path. Using knowledge to become a monster."
A voice answered from the doorway.
"She created that curse."
Everyone turned.
Jrin stood there again—but his expression wasn't soft anymore.
Anger sat on his face like a judge.
"Daviyi is staying here," he said. "She's sleeping."
Then he lifted his fist and punched the wall.
Stone exploded.
A neat hole formed—because even rage was orderly for him.
"Explain," he demanded. "What happened."
Gemma didn't even flinch.
She took off her shoe and threw it at his head.
It smacked him hard.
Jrin blinked once.
Gemma huffed. "Act civilized in my house."
Eon chuckled inside Qaritas' head.
Qaritas swallowed, then explained—everything.
Mrajeareim.
The Hellbound.
The arena.
Round Two.
Deepcrest.
Taeterra.
Jrin listened like he was collecting data—cold calm returning piece by piece.
When Qaritas finished, Jrin didn't speak.
Instead—he changed.
His body reshaped, face smoothing, hair shifting, posture altering until—
Daviyi stood there.
Not just her face.
Her voice too.
A perfect imitation.
Tavran handed "Daviyi" fake shackles.
"These will hide your power," Tavran said. "Like ours. But without the pain."
"Daviyi" nodded once.
Then: "Let's go back. Better not keep the fragments waiting."
They returned to the Hellbound barracks.
They climbed.
And as they rose, a sound met them.
A song.
Not music.
A requiem.
It began with silence that breathed—watchful. Then a low drone seeped into the bones, so deep you didn't hear it, you felt it behind your ribs like graves remembering names.
Voices layered in, not singing so much as mourning in advance. Notes dragged instead of marched. Time limped. A bell tolled like a pulse forgetting its job.
It swelled into certainty, not triumph.
Then cut off mid-breath—
like death didn't need to knock.
It was already inside.
Qaritas stopped.
"Music," he whispered.
Rivax went pale.
"No," Rivax breathed. "It can't be him."
Tavran's jaw tightened. "Impossible. We watched him die."
Dheas' eyes sharpened. "We need to get back now."
They ran.
Up the final corridor—
and the arena opened before them.
And what they saw…
was a staircase descending from the sky.
Angelic creatures and demonic beasts lined it like honor guards at a funeral they didn't deserve.
And walking down—
was something wrongly tall.
Eleven feet.
Elongated. Skinny arms reaching past its knees. Muscular legs built like pillars. Feet thick and shaped to keep that impossible body balanced.
Its upper torso was thin—rib cage exposed, skin seemingly abandoned halfway through creation.
Its face was wrong: no nose, almost no skin, bone bared where cheeks should have been.
Teeth bared permanently. Sunken eyes watched the arena with a somber calm that felt… practiced.
Its throat was open to the world—windpipe and tendon exposed like strings waiting to be plucked.
It wore a cloak split like judgment—
white and gold on one side,
black on the other, skulls dripping blood like decoration.
Ecayrous stood, delighted.
"In this match," he announced, "you two won't fight a fragment."
The Hellbound leaned in.
"Today," Ecayrous said brightly, "the Ascendants of Rebirth and Souls will fight their own blood."
A pause. A smile.
"A traitor to the Ascendants."
"A hero to the fragments."
"The leader of the Djallra—the warlords of dimensions."
He spread his arms like a showman unveiling the punchline.
"Your grandson."
"Hucarion."
Rivax' breath caught.
Ecayrous' smile sharpened.
"Or, to the fragments," he purred, savoring it, "The Requiem—the warlord of the 1990 dimension."
Dheas leaned toward Rivax, voice urgent. "Do you need to call your aunt Zarayne? She's in Taeterra."
Rivax shook his head slowly.
"It wouldn't help."
His voice was thin. Broken at the edges.
"He's been dead to her since he killed Raithan… and Raithan's wife, Siyana."
Rivax swallowed.
"And their children were locked in the underworld for ten years. Until they overthrew him—with Xheavend's help."
He stared at the thing on the staircase like he was looking at a grave that had decided to walk.
"He has no right to show himself after everything."
The Requiem reached the final step.
The electric cage around Cree and Hydeius dissolved.
Freedom didn't feel like relief.
It felt like the moment before a blade hits.
Cree shook.
Their body began to change.
Not grow a little.
Expand.
Power unfolded, swelling them toward twenty feet, flames rising in patterns that weren't just fire—they were funeral rites.
Hydeius lifted his hands.
And the arena darkened.
Souls gathered.
Not metaphor.
Actual souls—white, pale, glowing—rising from the Hellbound's bones like the dead answering a call they didn't want to hear.
Everything went black.
Only the souls lit the space, floating like lanterns in a world that wanted to be blind.
Cree's voice cracked with something ancient.
Hydeius' voice came like thunder swallowing a church.
Together, they shouted—
"TRAITOR."
The Hellbound held its breath.
Ecayrous smiled wider.
Because now it wasn't a match.
It was a family wound being reopened in public.
And the afterlife loved nothing more than watching gods bleed where it could count the drops.