Kiron took a slow, deliberate bite of the Echo-Fruit. It tasted of rainwater and the smell of the forge back in Koda—a memory of a time before he was a king, before he was a corpse. He swallowed the sweetness, but his heart remained cold.
"A generous offer," Kiron said, his voice soft, almost fragile. "Safety is a rare currency these days. But tell me, Saint... if I give you the blade, what happens to the 'Decline'? It's already carved its name into my bones. Without the sword's anchor, wouldn't I just crumble into silt within the hour?"
The Pale-Vane's eyes twinkled with a practiced sympathy. "We have the 'Still-Vats' in the Deep-Vault. We can preserve you, Kiron. You won't be a king, but you will be eternal. Think of it—no more pain, no more responsibility. Just a long, beautiful dream of the sun."
A museum piece, Kiron thought. He wants to put me on a shelf next to the other relics.
"I would like to see these Vats," Kiron said, standing up. He swayed slightly, feigning a dizzy spell, and leaned heavily on the table. "And the Vault. If I am to surrender my life's weight, I want to see the place where it will rest."
The Pale-Vane hesitated for a fraction of a second. He was measuring Kiron's weakness against his own greed for the blade. "Of course. It is only fair. But the walk is long. Perhaps tomorrow, after you have slept?"
"Now," Kiron insisted, his black veins pulsing a jagged, sickly violet. "Before my resolve turns back to stone."
The Descent to the Deep-Vault
The Pale-Vane led the way, flanked by two massive Revenants whose armor was etched with white-gold filigree—the mark of the Usurper's "reprogramming." They descended through the foundations of the Spire, past levels where the "Heavy-Taint" was so thick it dripped from the ceiling like black tar.
As they walked, Kiron closed his eyes, extending his "Void-Link" not to the Revenants, but to the Lament itself.
Don't roar, he whispered to the blade in his mind. Don't fight. Just listen to the pulse of the marrow-siphons.
He realized then what the Pale-Vane had done. The Revenants weren't being commanded by "Authority"; they were being fed by a Caelum-Relic—a piece of Celestial technology stolen from the Gods. The Usurper was using the enemies' light to keep the dead in a state of hypnotic obedience, pumped through a network of brass veins embedded in the floors.
They reached the Deep-Vault. It was a cathedral of glass and cold iron. In the center sat the Still-Vats—cylinders of glowing blue fluid where high-ranking shades from the old era floated in a dreamless stasis.
But in the very back of the room, behind a screen of violet lasers, sat the truth.
It was a Celestial Heart—a pulsating gold engine that hummed with the frequency of the Sky-Isles. It was the "refrigerator" for the dead, keeping the Underworld stable by force-feeding it Divine Light through the floor-conduits.
"You made a deal," Kiron whispered, his "humble" mask finally cracking. "You didn't 'survive' the Zen-Zun. You became their jailer. You're keeping this city quiet so the Gods don't have to bother wiping it out."
The Pale-Vane's face transformed. The kindness vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp-edged pragmatism. "I saved them! I gave them a thousand years of peace! What does it matter if the power comes from the sun or the soil, as long as the children can play in the streets?"
"It matters because it's a lie," Kiron said, his hand finally closing around the hilt of Lament. "And because the dead don't want to be 'still.' They want to be heard."
"Guard him!" the Pale-Vane shrieked, backing away.
The two filigreed Revenants lunged. But Kiron didn't draw the sword to strike them. He drew it and slammed the point into the primary Energy-Sump—the bronze hub where the Celestial Heart distributed its light.
"Lament!" Kiron bellowed. "Eat!"
The sword didn't glow. It became a vacuum. It began to suck the golden light out of the conduits, out of the Heart, and out of the Revenants' armor.
The "Peace" of Dis was about to end.