The "Under-Vent" was a massive, circular maw of rusted iron that spat out the mountain's hot, stale breath into the open sky. Beyond the lip of the vent, there was nothing but a terrifying drop into the endless white expanse of the Shush.
"The skiff is gone!" Taz cried out, his voice nearly lost to the howling wind. "We're trapped!"
"We jump!" Nyra shouted, though her eyes were fixed on the tunnel behind them.
The darkness of the tunnel was no longer empty. It was dissolving. The stone walls began to liquefy, turning into a gold-flecked sludge as the divine presence of Juro-Gai forced its way into the physical realm. A massive, armored hand—each finger the size of a redwood tree—reached through the rock, clawing toward them with agonizing slowness.
The pressure was suffocating. Kiron felt his lungs collapsing. The "Taint" in the air was so thick he could taste the God's ancient, bitter hatred.
He's right there, Kiron thought. He's going to crush us like ants in a jar.
Nyra and Taz were forced to their knees, the sheer weight of the God's aura pinning them to the floor. But Kiron stood. His legs shook, his bones groaned, but the "Blood-Prayer" in his marrow was screaming. It wasn't just fear anymore—it was a frantic, ancestral demand for justice.
Kiron looked at the heavy black-wood sword.
"You want me?" Kiron rasped, his voice sounding like two stones grinding together. "Then take this!"
His eyes didn't just flicker; they ignited into twin stars of molten gold. The "Dam" he had built didn't just break—it exploded. Kiron's vision turned white. He didn't see the tunnel; he saw the screaming faces of Koda.
He didn't swing the sword. He threw it.
He launched the heavy wood with a strength that should have shattered his own arms. The sword hissed through the air, trailing a wake of white, divine fire. It struck the massive, descending palm of the God.
SPLICHE.
The black-wood, fueled by the "Pulse," bit deep into the God's immortal flesh. A spray of dark, oily ichor erupted from the wound.
The mountain didn't just shake; it shrieked. A sound of pure, celestial shock echoed through the clouds. A God had been bled. By a scrapper. By a child.
The massive hand flinched back, the fingers curling in sudden, agonizing surprise.
Kiron didn't see the result. The moment the sword left his hand, the world turned black. The excessive drain on his soul was too much; his heart skipped a beat, and he collapsed, unconscious before his body even hit the ground.
"Kiron!" Nyra lunged forward, catching him before he could slide off the edge of the vent.
The God recovered instantly. The shock turned to a cold, cosmic fury. The massive hand reached out again, faster this time, ready to close around the vent and grind everything within it to dust.
But then, the air changed.
From the shadows of the vents, from the cracks in the stone, and from the very mist itself, figures began to emerge. They were silent. They wore tattered, ash-grey cloaks, and their faces were obscured by linen wraps.
"What... who are they?" Taz stammered, his eyes wide.
They were the ghosts of the Blood-Prayer.
The figures didn't attack. They stepped to the edge of the vent, shoulder to shoulder, forming a living wall of tattered cloth. Simultaneously, they tilted their heads back. From beneath their masks, thick, vibrant crimson blood began to drain down their chins, staining their cloaks.
The blood didn't fall to the floor. It floated in the air, weaving together to form a massive, glowing symbol—the Mark of the First Son.
The God's hand slammed into the symbol and stopped.
A barrier of pure, concentrated sacrifice shimmered between the God and the children. The cloaked figures began to chant, a low, guttural sound that vibrated through the mountain's core.
"The Son... returns... The Sky... will fall..."
"Nyra, we have to go now!" Taz grabbed her arm.
Nyra hoisted Kiron's limp body over her shoulder. She looked back one last time at the wall of ghosts. They were dissolving, their forms turning into red mist as they poured every ounce of their lingering essence into the barrier to hold the God back for just a few more seconds.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.
She grabbed Taz's hand and jumped.
As they plummeted toward the white sands of the Shush, the wind whipping past them, Nyra looked back up at the receding mountain. The God Juro-Gai was roaring, his golden eye burning with a frustrated, impotent rage as he struggled to break through the blood-symbol.
And beneath the roar, she could still hear the faint, haunting chant of the ghosts, echoing across the clouds:
"He returns... to free us all..."