The sounds came first.
The beating of the Fafnir's colossal wings as it rose from the bay.
The wind from those wings carried the stench of a dragon across Tokyo. So strong it drowned out the sea-salt tang, the flowers blooming on the rooftop where we stood. So sharp it cut.
It was the scent of a predator. Which predator? Every predator. The chemical code, designed to hijack human neuroreceptors, to inflame the primordial regions of memory — the limbic areas of the brain. To induce fear and terror.
But there was more than just biochemistry at work. Underneath, a psionic impression crept in. Together, they amplified each other — mundane and supernatural — until their combined weight was almost too much to bear.
Even with my training in biofeedback, it took effort not to overproduce adrenaline, not to trigger heart palpitations and the other symptoms of terror.
"Left front leg," Archer spoke, naming the first target as he fired. It was unfortunate that the optimal one was not available at this time, but that was a matter of perspective.
I did not wait for the shot to hit or the dragon to react. Almost before Archer had finished speaking, I had already loosed the first priming shot from the Portal Gun, laying the orange portal on the concrete wall behind us, and already lining the second one on a similar wall of the next building over.
Immediately, we both ran through it, and yet it was almost too late.
Fafnir could move very fast for something of his size. That should not have come as a surprise to me. He had followed behind that tsunami wave by flying above it. That was over three hundred kilometres per hour — faster than many race cars.
We did not look back through the closing portal. We didn't need to — our new position gave us a front-row seat to the deadly spectacle we had avoided by a fraction of a second. The dragon had dived, and in passing had torn the top off a building like a man biting into a popsicle.
Even with Eldar sight it was barely more than a blur, as it swooped downward and almost casually sheared off the roof, exposing the building's insides.
But that spectacle was no reason to miss the true observation: the shape of the wound, the movement of the rot.
"Not that," I said.
"I have a shot lined, but your contraption needs to charge," Archer said in his dry tone. "I have no such problems with a bow."
"Let's not compare my sophisticated combination of science and magecraft with a stick with a string," I joked, using the fake annoyance to regulate my humors.
The dragon had risen back into the sky, its shadow blotting out the sun, creating a false night.
"A stick with a string doesn't need to recharge," Archer said dryly.
"But it can run out of ammunition. Mine does not," I bantered back. But then I felt something in the shadows that drowned the city. "Can you feel it? It's almost like whispering. Almost like the dragon is saying: I have to feed. But it need not be you. Feed me others. When I am sated, I might spare you."
"Just what we need — people turning on each other in crisis," he said, sounding tired. "I've seen it too many times. The last thing they need is a dragon making it worse."
There was also a trace of disgust, not just in his tone, but in how he stressed certain words and in the micro-expressions — the way his facial muscles tightened, betraying revulsion.
I, on the other hand, was less emotionally invested. Condemning Fafnir's actions seemed too much like base hypocrisy. After all, using a declaration-roar to create philosophical justification, a fear-scent to render minds pliable to his cause, and a shadow-whisper to fracture the unity of opponents — in the end, it was not dissimilar to how I might approach a similar problem.
Nor was I ever overly disappointed in humans. I did not believe in any innate goodness — or innate badness — of man. To claim that a man's true essence was revealed in despair, when all that kept him civilized was stripped away, always seemed to me either oversimplification or, worse, a glorification of base instincts.
No — discipline and proper organization in crisis were like any skill: they had to be taught and maintained. Civic virtue was not a trait one should expect to be born with, but a habit to be cultivated. And that had an unfortunate implication when it came to Fafnir's manipulation. Because if virtue was a habit, then so was vice. And once one indulged in it, some habits were very difficult to shake off.
"Such wicked seeds will find fertile ground among the desperate and selfish who remain after evacuation," I said in a philosophical tone. "But that is a self-correcting problem. And perhaps even an opportunity."
"You mean the dragon will be easiest to hit while it stops for a snack?" Archer's tone was sharp as a well-oiled blade. "Hopefully we'll get it before we need to resort to that."
"Hope for the best, prepare for the worst," I said, and heard the ping announcing that the Mystic Code was once again ready to fire.
I didn't wait for Archer to answer. I immediately fired the Portal Gun at the wall, then shifted aim to the next spot I had selected — not another rooftop, but the concrete barrier separating the motorway from the city.
I didn't want to be predictable, and when the dragon turned after being shot in the hindquarters, this would again place us at its back. It would both hide us from its sight and let me examine the wound.
Archer didn't wait either. By the time I was done, so was he, and together we ran toward the open portal as the dragon turned with a roar of pain, anger, and annoyance.
Anyone would feel annoyed if stung repeatedly by an insect. And in comparison of sizes, we weren't even a wasp or a bee. At best, we were that irritating little mosquito. Not really dangerous — just itchy.
But hurting was never the point. That was only a pleasant side effect, keeping the dragon somewhat distracted here in the harbour — a place most people had already been evacuated from — instead of pushing further inland, toward the places they had been evacuated to.
No — the point was always to find the source of Vril. I was secretly glad the bioengineered Vril-ya leader favored elegance over brute sturdiness; that suggested to me there would be a single, concentrated source.
With this final rotted wound, I could finally determine the source.
It was either embedded in one of the limbs attached to that wound or — by process of elimination — in the right front leg.
Unfortunately, it was difficult to observe properly, since the dragon had descended onto our previous position, tearing through buildings in its rage as if they were cardboard boxes rather than marvels of Japanese engineering.
The deafening sounds of reinforced concrete tearing apart, glass shattering, and the intermittent blasts of ruptured gas lines were distraction enough. Fafnir's movements — short, jerking, and awkward on the ground compared to the fluid grace he had shown in flight — didn't help either. And the choking dust and smoke reduced visibility further.
It would have been completely impossible to collect proper visual data with human eyes. Fortunately, Eldar's eyes were better.
"So it's the tail," I said aloud. No reason to hoard the conclusion. Archer could make some tactical use of it. And I had to admit — it was unpleasant to solve such a conundrum only to keep the solution to myself. Even if my only audience was Archer.
"That explains the peculiar velocity," I continued. "Pulled from the tail, Vril accelerates along the spinal column. Then, as it passes through the body, it is drawn toward the Crown, which sits lodged beneath the spinal line. Most of the flow is dragged downward, but part of it — by inertia — is flung forward, accelerating first. We could almost say the Crown behaves like a black hole, with the Vril forming something akin to an accretion disk. Eventually, every strand of Vril drains inward, but not in a straight fall — instead in spiralling motion along the spine, which allows it to reach all the peripheral parts: limbs, wings, even the head."
"Isn't that a bit too wasteful?" Archer asked, explaining further. "I mean, most of the Vril ends up in the Crown."
"That is the point. Remember, this is probably a defense against Gram and my imitation," I said, gesturing at the Mystic Code I lent him. "From my experiments, Dark Vril is a lower energy state of Vril. Thus, when exposed to a proper catalyst—like the alien metal Gram was made from—it rapidly transforms into that lower energy state, converting its anti-entropic properties into hyper-entropic ones. By creating a fast flow of Vril that is all absorbed in one place, any tainted Vril is consumed before it can spread its taint. Remember, the last time Fafnir was active, it was defeated by a single wound from Gram. With the Crown in place and this configuration, that wouldn't be possible, even if it's slightly inefficient in terms of Vril expenditure."
"But Gram is stuck on the far side of the Moon, in the hands of that Nazi brat," Archer noted.
"But he doesn't know that," I continued. "He only knows what stopped him last time. Besides, while my imitation is much lesser, a single drop would be enough to kill a human-sized Vril-ya, even one gorged on Vril. And you've been pumping litres of it in with each shot."
"Do you know where the source is exactly, or do I need to make more probing shots?" Archer asked.
"No need. I've calculated that, based on the speed of the Vril's movement and the fact that the tip of the tail isn't starved for it, the source must lie at the end of the spine. So it should be in that lumpy part near the end of the tail," I said. "But to be sure, we should probably fire one more shot at it."
"Wouldn't that solve the problem?" he asked.
"Not with this weapon. I think we'll need your special arrow to destroy the source," I explained. "But since we only have one of those, we need to be sure."
That was one reason I was so comfortable talking so much. My Mystic Code needed time to recharge for that final confirmation shot.
"If the origin is there, how will it look when I hit it?" he asked.
"Since the Vril is very concentrated in the area near the source, the rot will spread very fast. It should be quite distinctive," I replied.
"So I can shoot immediately after," he said. "I don't think the dragon will stay distracted much longer."
I thought about it for a moment. He was right. It was just a matter of time before Fafnir spotted us. After all, we were irritating, but not truly dangerous to him—from his perspective.
"Do it."
He moved with the swiftness of wind and the flowing grace of water, first firing the Spellweaver Mk 20. As always, he hit, and I could immediately see that I had been right in my supposition.
"Confirmed," I said, clipped. But there was no need; he was already dropping the rifle-shaped Mystic Code and drawing back his bow. Before it could hit the ground, I silently called to the Threshold Slime, and it immediately engulfed and pulled the weapon into itself, into the half-space between here and Irem. The orbiting gems, disconnected from their source, crumbled into glowing motes.
Next, I could feel the mana from Archer like a bonfire. Mana Burst. Again.
I opened a portal directly under his feet as he unleashed another super-imposing arrow with monstrous throughput.
Blood burst from his nose like fountains, staining his lips and chin, and even his eyes tightened in pain. I was pleased. It meant he had listened to my advice and not used his suicidal method, accepting the backlash instead.
But just a brief glance was all I could spare for him. The dragon needed to occupy my attention.
A flash of golden light. Almost as bright as looking at the sun, but surprisingly gentle; it did not hurt my eyes.
And then showers of fast-moving golden mist. The whole city block bathed in Vril. I could feel all my aches and pains disappearing under the Vril-induced warmth.
It faded as quickly as it came, and I could see the dragon again.
In the brief moment I had been blinded, the beast had turned towards what caused it pain—us. The beast was rushing towards us like a bull, its steps like thunder, as the asphalt was torn under its clawed feet.
For a moment, I aimed the portal gun to escape. But almost immediately, I saw there was little need.
Its great wings were already dragging, raising clouds of dust. Its muscles were withering, as if the dragon had been starving for months in mere seconds. Its beautiful eyes were covered with white cataracts.
Each step was less steady than the last.
Fafnir's monstrous vitality was deserting it now that the source of Vril was gone.
And then, it fell.
With a great and terrible sound.
But it moved on, driven by inertia, Fafnir's carcass dragging along the ground.
It stopped a mere dozen meters from us, its mouth open like a great cavern in death.
"Well, this looks like an invitation," I said, glancing at Archer. He was standing straight, the brief wave of Vril enough for him to almost completely recover. "It would be rude to refuse."
"You know, Master, I have heard of people who have a fetish about being eaten," he replied with a teasing smirk. He paused just enough to make me wonder where this was going, and from experience, I knew it was nowhere good for me. "I just didn't know you were one of them."
"It's called vore," I replied in a deliberately unamused tone. It took some effort to make my tone of voice perfectly neutral. "But I don't think it counts if the beast is dead."
"I see," he mused, "by feeding yourself to a dragon corpse, you have managed to combine it with another fetish—necrophilia. You're efficient. A testament to your genius."
"And my genius tells me that we need to go into the dragon's guts to retrieve the Crown before it wanders off again," I replied, turning my attention back to the cavernous open mouth. It did not look particularly inviting. "That's one piece of family jewellery I don't like to leave as an inheritance to Damien. Besides, it would clash with the rings I gave him. Ruby and onyx don't really go together."
"Yes, because a fashion faux pas is the greatest reason not to put those two together," Archer dryly said, "not because one has a demon bound into it, and the other is a piece of a God of Evil."
"A very small piece," I replied, "and I'm not sure 'God of Evil' is the precise definition. Archangel of Evil? Prime Rebel? No matter. Another reason we need to retrieve it post-haste."
And with those words, I began marching towards our unpleasant doom. As I neared the open mouth, I noticed a broken scale lying on the ground, the size of a riot shield. With a glance, I ordered the Threshold Slime to pick it up and store it for later analysis. I did the same for several knocked-out fangs, a few of which were almost half my height.
"Collecting souvenirs?" Archer dryly commented, walking by my side.
"A privilege of a dragonslayer," I replied, as I entered the mouth through a tough place where teeth had been knocked out. The dead tongue was a mountain of flesh, rising many feet high. "If I could, I would take the whole corpse with me."
"I'm sure you'd love to do all sorts of unwholesome things to the poor dead dragon," he replied. If I had turned my head to look at him, I was sure that I would have seen him wiggle his eyebrows, suggesting those unwholesome things were sexual in nature.
"Your jokes about my necrophilia have gotten so old they deserve their own tomb," I replied dryly.
"Ahh. So that's why you love them so much," he zinged back.
The dragon's stench was bad outside, but it was even worse now that we had entered its corpse. Not only was the fear-scent much stronger, requiring me to consciously use biofeedback to keep it from affecting me, but it also had the sickly-sweet scent of rot.
"It's too soon," I commented.
Archer just inquisitively raised an eyebrow.
"The rot. As you know, long-time users of Vril tend to rot quickly," I explained. With a business-like gesture, I ordered the Threshold Slime to push back the closed muscles of the dragon's throat, opening the path to its guts. "But not this quickly. It must be its hyper-metabolism—the same thing that killed the dragon."
"I thought it was the Crown," he asked as he followed me into the depths, the darkness illuminated only by glowing gems held in tendrils of the Threshold Slime.
"Not directly. Unless my bindings failed, it cannot feed directly on its bearer," I continued to explain. "But it can devour a foreign energy source like Vril. And if the host is dependent on that energy…"
As we delved deeper, I continued taking samples, knowing that time was not on my side. Not just because the samples were being spoiled with each passing second; the exposed flesh was softer, almost mushy as we went. It was just a matter of time before the dragon's corpse lost structural integrity. I was not looking forward to being buried under tons of rotting meat.
The air was also getting more unpleasant, especially with the mixture of gasses caused by decomposition, so I repurposed part of the Threshold Slime to act as an improvised gas filter over my and Archer's nose and mouth.
It made further talk impractical, but on the other hand, it could be counted as an indirect kiss.
The dragon's gullet was a cavern of flesh, the walls slick with mucus and ribbed with powerful muscles, frozen in death but still coiled with latent strength. The slope pressed downward in the natural way of anatomy — belly-down collapse had spared us the disorientation of a sideways carcass — though the weight of its own bulk had shifted things. The walls bowed oddly inward, the great lungs pressing down from above, and the whole passage felt tighter than it should have been for a creature this size.
Ahead, the way was sealed by a massive ring of muscle — the cardiac sphincter, clenched even in death. It was this valve that had kept the stomach's acids from flooding back into the throat. At my silent command, Threshold Slime pressed against it, prying it open with methodical force.
Beyond lay not the stomach proper but a muscular vestibule, a transitional chamber. The air here stung with the acrid tang of the black mist it had breathed upon us. Semi-translucent membranes revealed the shadow of its colossal lungs pressed above, slack but vast, proof that the respiratory and digestive systems had been deliberately coupled here. Pools of caustic fluid glistened along seams in the floor. This, I judged, was where its breath weapon was brewed: digestion re-routed, volatilized, and expelled as a weapon.
Past the narrowing tunnel we finally arrived at the stomach proper, a chamber vast enough to rival Rome's Colosseum. Fortunately, the dragon had expelled most of its digestive juices during the battle; rather than being submerged, we found only wide, reeking puddles scattered across the uneven floor, each one slowly burning through the sloughed linings of decayed flesh.
It was obvious the Crown was here. Not because of any palpable presence—but because of its absence. The air was stripped bare of psychic impressions, drained of mana. Even the dragon's fear-scent, so overpowering outside, here was reduced to a merely chemical sting, acrid but hollow.
And it was not difficult to guess where. One growth stood apart from the natural grotesquery of digestion. Suspended in the centre of the chamber, half-hanging in the air, was a grotesque sphere—something between a tumour and a hairball. It did not throb or breathe; it simply hung there in unnatural stillness, tethered in place by colossal cables of sinew, nerves, and blood vessels. They converged from every direction, drawing tight like a spider's web to cradle their malignant prize. The only motion came from rot: occasional drips of fluid falling from the withering cords, vanishing in the acid pools below with faint hisses.
I called the Threshold Slime, and it delivered the Stone Grail—now freed from the Spellweaver—into my hand. Removing the protection over my mouth, I tasted the foul air of the dragon's stomach. The stench clung to my tongue, but I drowned it beneath the warmth of Vril as I drank deep from the Grail.
Like liquid sunlight, the Vril spread through me—banishing fatigue and pain, replacing them with terrible strength and a vitality that bordered on frenzy.
Then I offered the Grail to Archer. For him as well, the change was unmistakable: a golden glow passing from thought to muscle, suffusing his whole body with borrowed vitality.
Armed with that superhuman vigour, we leapt into motion. Together we ran across the tangled cables, slick with rotting blood, where damaged veins and arteries bled sluggishly into the air.
The path might have been both narrow and slippery, but that was hardly an obstacle for a pair of Elves, especially ones cheating with a potent elixir. We ran like the wind, barely disturbing the hanging cables. Half a minute at most, but perhaps a little less, and we found ourselves standing on the sphere.
It was even more disturbing at close range. The growth here was uneven and tumorous, unlike the rest of the dragon. Cartilage mixed with scales, mixed with muscle, mixed with bone, without rhyme or reason. Broken symmetry and twisted form.
"You take me to the nicest places," Archer muttered next to me, then grimaced as opening his mouth had exposed his tongue to the foul taste that I imagine lingered here.
I returned a slightly mocking smile, miming zipping my mouth. I was not going to repeat his mistake. The Threshold Slime, at my command, deposited Larmo in sword form into my hand, and Niquis, also in sword form, to Archer's.
Even surprised, he firmly gripped the Elven sword. But then, I had faith in his reflexes. That's why I didn't warn him about it. Also, I did not want to taste the air again by speaking; it was unpleasant enough having to taste it when I drank from the Grail.
But then, that foul taste was a small price to pay for an efficient way to enhance us. And drinking Vril didn't risk any of the World's backlash.
I was not looking forward to excising the Crown from beneath the whole cancerous mass. I considered reassembling the Spellweaver to brew alkahest, to dissolve the tissue. No. Unpleasant as it was, Vril-enhanced strength and Elven-forged blades would suffice.
This was no time to test whether the Crown could strip alchemical liquids of their properties at range. And as for mundane acids—without knowing the tumour's exact chemical composition, there was no predicting whether the result would be dissolution, toxic fumes, or even an explosion.
Better to keep it simple.
Flesh, bone, and scales parted easily. The dead blood seeped slowly in the gash we made together. But on the third slash, the shadow began to rise from the rotting blood.
I pulled back and signaled by hand for Archer to do the same.
The shadow congealed into the shape of an Elf that I had not seen in decades, but I had still not forgotten. Tall, alike to my own elf form. Black of hair and eye. Dressed in black raiment of Noldorin make.
But there were differences from how I had last seen him. His hair was more than dark; it absorbed the light with an unholy hunger. And there were traces of malice reflected in his black eyes. And yet he held to Elven beauty, though it was tainted somehow.
Fair, but foul.
Then again, if I was right, this was not my very wicked cousin. But instead, a memory of him, seen through the eyes of the first and greatest of Dark Lords. Re-enacted by a single shattered shard.
And yet, even the dream of a small splinter of that dread majesty had power.
"Hail to thee, Rin Ranyarion Fëanorion, my dearest cousin. And hail to thee Fano, my cousin-in-law." The dark Elf's eyes flickered toward Archer, who shifted his grip on the Elven sword." Ill may be the place of our meeting, but I am still glad for it," the dark Elf spoke in archaic Quenya, in an accent not heard since the end of the First Age.
No. Not "spoke." My senses, both natural and supernatural, were good enough to catch that all of this was an illusion.
It was a way to communicate, especially for an object with no mouth. That meant either it had taken no new host, or it wanted us to think so.
The method had merit. If I emulated it, I could speak without drawing the foul air of the rotting stomach into my mouth.
I did not open my mouth, but my voice was heard. In the same tongue, but with a more modern accent, suitable for the end of the Third Age.
"A star shines on the hour of our meeting," I used the standard greeting. And it was even true, in a way. Although whether it was well or ill-fated for which one of us was yet to be seen. "But which should I address you as, dear cousin? Maeglin or Mel?"
If he would address me as cousin, I should return the same courtesy. For one, I could have been wrong, and this was Maeglin, backsliding into darkness. Or I could be right, but this shard had forgotten its own truth and believed itself to be Maeglin. In which case, it was best not to remind it of the truth. Better to face the might of a corrupted elf than a shard of a fallen angel.
And if there was a third option—that this was all a deception, just a play—then I wanted to see where it went.
"Mel? The name you used when you robbed me of my memories to render me pliable? I think not, my sweet cousin," the illusion replied.
Not the way I remember it, but close enough that I could not guess whether his memories were damaged or he was just twisting what happened to suit his purposes better.
Memory loss was both a temporary and a side effect of moving Maeglin's fea from the corpse he had inhabited as a wight to the Crown. And I had both warned him and obtained his consent for the procedure. Any benefit of making him slightly more pliable was more than balanced by the inconvenience; I never did manage to get his father's recipe for refining meteoric iron.
The illusion continued, "But that does not mean, despite all of it, we cannot remain friends. And in the spirit of that friendship, I must ask your intention before you proceed. Endelómeríe might have been built as a prison, but it has become my home. Thus, before you go any further, I must ask for assurance that you will not unmake it."
The air in the stomach cavity grew still. Beside me, I sensed Archer shift his weight, his patience no doubt wearing thin.
"Done," I answered immediately. The word echoed through the foul air with all the weight of judgment, my sincerity as inviolate as cosmic law.
Because I was utterly and truly sincere.
There existed almost no possible circumstances in which I would unmake my unfortunate creation.
Not because I wanted to examine it in detail, although I certainly did.
No, the reason was simpler and more dire than that.
Endelómeríe contained a small amount of the essence of Morgoth. A few, perhaps even just one, divine spiriton. Breaking the Crown would spill that corrupting essence out.
If we were still in Arda, it would have been a lesser problem. Like an overeager teenage boy, Morgoth had splattered his essence over Arda entirely. But this World was untainted by it, and I planned for it to remain so.
He rewarded my statement with a brilliant smile, like a shark would give to a drowning sailor.
"Then you shall take it up yourself. My home, my prison?" the illusion of the dark elf asked. "We will do great things together. Like before." His shark-like smile softened, twisting into a roguish, conspiratorial grin. "Like when I helped you steal the palantír from Minas Tirith?"
The smile of a shark, then the smile of an accomplice. Both dangerous—in different ways. His every word, each expression, each subtle cue, was a masterstroke of action. A symphony conducted to make me dance to his tune.
And yet, paradoxically, I found manipulators in a way more sincere than honest men. Because those who believed themselves honest in their hearts believed not only their own truths, but also that such truths were self-evident. Thus they did not bother to properly communicate them. While with manipulators, by decoding what and how they emphasized things, one could discern more of their true intent. Or that might just be my own preference.
Still, one could not assume an argument was true just by depending on the sincerity of the person stating it. That way lay logical fallacy. After all, a manipulator might be speaking the truth, intentionally or not. And just because a speaker is sincere did not mean that person was right. There was merit to his proposal.
The Crown was not without its uses. It had been so before, and could probably be so again. It wasn't even the potential corruption; that could be managed.
It wasn't even the potential betrayal, for I planned to betray him first.
After all, if I promised to take the Crown, I didn't need to promise for how long I would wear it. I could take it just long enough to render the spirit within cooperative, then simply store it in a safe place.
It was a risky stratagem, but so were all other ways of claiming it. Just a different kind of risk.
I felt a warm grip on my arm, just over the elbow. I turned and looked into Archer's stern eyes. He didn't need words to say no.
Since he had taken my advice about not risking himself, I supposed I should do the same. It was only fair.
"No," I said, almost reluctantly. "Not until I have time to examine and perhaps repair your home. You do want it repaired, and perhaps even improved? Made more comfortable?"
For a very brief moment, the illusion flickered, looking almost like a crack in a porcelain doll, revealing the hungry darkness within. But the dark elf recovered his composure almost immediately.
"No need for that," the illusion replied in an almost friendly tone. "I am satisfied with my home as it is. But if you won't wear me yourself, how about giving me to your enemies again? I have brought your foes to ruin, and I could do it again. For what better way to show yourself virtuous and wise than by making those who oppose you vile and foolish? After all, a star shines brightest in a moonless night sky, surrounded by empty darkness."
It was disappointing how much he had misread me. Being seen as virtuous and wise was a means, not an end. I cultivated that image so others would listen and obey, not for my own self-satisfaction.
My pride ran deeper than that. It was not enough to be a lonely star in an empty sky; I intended to be the brightest star in the most brilliant heaven.
Besides, I was running out of enemies significant enough to justify such risky tactics. There were the Moon Nazis, but one hardly needs help to make Nazis look vile.
And in any case, I would soon be leaving this World. There was no point in wielding the Crown here.
"You have done hard work," I replied, in a soothing tone, "but you can rest for a while. You will come willingly, or you will come by force. But either way, you are coming with me."
His pleasant expression transformed into an ugly sneer, and that sneer cracked his face in two, revealing a hole from which shadows poured.
"You will wear the Endelómeríe or your corpse will! But you will wear it!" the dark, regal voice came from the boiling shadows as the illusion dissipated into nothingness.
A tremor began under our feet, the dead flesh pulsing almost as if it were a great heart, were it not so irregular. With a series of loud snaps, one by one, the ligament-cables that held the sphere aloft broke, until both it and we began to fall.
With elven grace, and a slight shift into the wraith-world, Archer and I landed gracefully, barely disturbing the spongy flesh of the stomach.
The sphere crashed with a thunderous roar, splattering everything around it with rotted mucus.
The tumor's shell split with a wet, rending crack, and something vast clawed its way into the air. Not born, but extruded — a parody of life pushed out of death.
It loomed in a mockery of bipedal stance, a silhouette almost humanoid, but every detail betrayed the truth: scales stretched too thin and splitting into lesions, wings half-rotted and fused into ragged cloaks of membrane, bones erupting outward into uneven spurs. The flesh did not align cleanly — it sloughed and folded, like tumors forcing themselves into the idea of limbs without ever quite achieving them.
In its hand-that-was-not-a-hand it dragged a bludgeon of ossified growth, a mace crowned with jagged spurs of calcified marrow. Its head swelled unevenly, bone ridges twisting into horns, the jaw splitting into overlapping hinges. Eyes burned from random fissures in its skull — not arranged in pairs but scattered, each socket a raw ulcer glowing with cold fire.
And above that misshapen brow sat the Crown of Might, fused directly into its warped cranium. The metal gleamed incongruously bright against the tumorous ruin, as if mocking all order with its authority.
When it moved, the whole chamber convulsed. Stomach walls split further under the strain, acid sloshed, and the vast wings tore free from their moorings, collapsing around it like a veil of carrion banners.
I took a deep gulp from the Stone Grail, passed it quickly to Archer, then rushed with Vril-borne speed toward the towering monster.
The fleshy ground blurred under my feet as Archer's attack overtook me: a tide of swords. Blades of heroes and villains rushed past like a swarm of hornets at the monster. And yet, it was for naught. As the blades approached, they dissolved into glittering particles, then in great spirals, swirled and fell into the Onyx that was the centerpiece of the Crown of Might. It was once onyx, but now it looked as if some sinister hand had taken the empty darkness between galaxies and carved it into a gemstone. "Radiating darkness" might be a paradoxical and nonsensical description, but there was no better one for it.
The closer I got, the warmth of the Vril that had filled my limbs began to fade much faster. It was as if some unseen, spectral wind were stripping it away — as if the Crown itself inhaled ceaselessly, without pause, without exhalation.
And there was no time for idle thoughts, for I had reached the monster's range and it was already swinging its massive bone mace at me. It took precise calculation, but I jumped at the very last moment, high into the air, landing on the shaft and sprinting along its arm to the shoulder. Damaging the Crown itself was out of the question. The monster had no neck; its head was ingrown into its shoulders. Thus, its head was not a target I could sever in a single cut.
But a single cut was a start. Larmo bit deep into the dead flesh, and black, rotting blood oozed from the gash. There was no heartbeat—just static blood. My hypothesis was confirmed: this was a version of a wight, a spirit animating dead flesh. I somersaulted over it, landing gracefully on my feet behind the monster, just in time to see Archer charging as well.
He, too, evaded the second swing of the mace, but he went down rather than up, slipping between the monster's legs to strike at the place where ligaments would be in a more conventional anatomy. Like his previous attack, it failed to achieve the desired results. This was a battle where his honed instincts were a weakness rather than an advantage. Being a carcass puppeted by a spectral will, things like bones, ligaments, or even muscles did not matter.
He reached me, took a quick gulp from the Stone Grail, and passed it back. As our fingers touched, I gave him a look that asked, Did you really think that would work? I was referring to the rain of swords and his attempt to cripple the enemy's mobility, and he knew that. With a shrug, he communicated that he had to try, at least. With a glance at the wound I had made, I communicated my plan back to him: I would cut off the head, step by step, while he handled its hands and feet—or at least hacked them apart. Raising an eyebrow, he asked if it would work. With a nod, I answered yes.
That entire exchange took no longer than the Grail passing between us.
I drank deeply, restoring my depleted reserves, the golden warmth of Vril chasing away the empty coldness of the Crown.
Archer charged first this time, and I followed. He drew the mace strike and dodged, so that when the weapon slammed down, it was in the perfect position for my jump.
And yet, there was its other hand. Not a mace, but a mismatched claw with seven fingers. It reached for me as I was mid-jump, unable to change my direction.
A brief flash of an elven sword, and Archer cut the tips of the claws just in time.
My momentum carried me forward, and I added a second cut where the monster's head met its shoulder. With a brief glance as I twisted in the air, I confirmed that the wound I had previously inflicted was not healing. As expected. Dead flesh should not regenerate, but it was good to have confirmation.
Landing, I took another gulp from the Stone Grail. The brief nearness to the Crown had depleted the Vril in my body even faster than before.
Archer arrived a moment later to take the Grail. As he drank, I briefly signalled with my hand: five fingers, then three. Eight. The number of cuts I calculated it would take to sever the head from the body.
I couldn't help but add a brief hand sign that Glorfindel had taught us. An elven scout's warning. After all, wights were not feared for their martial prowess, but for their skill with morgul. The Sable Art. Black magic.
On our next pass, while Archer managed to cut off the tip of the monster's left foot—a mismatched amalgamation of bone—making it stumble, I added my third cut, excising cartilage and twisted, ingrown bone. As I did, it opened its mouth wide and roared.
Being uncomfortably close to that mouth as it opened, I could see inside and realized there was no pharynx. In truth, there was nothing at all. The mouth led nowhere—not to lungs, not to a stomach.
So the roar was a physical sound, and yet it was not. It did not come from vocal cords or breath from lungs, but from twisted magic alone.
And as I once more took the Stone Grail from Archer and drank, I began to realize that this was more than just a terrible assault on the ears. It was also a song.
It was a song that was to death metal what death metal is to a church choir. There was no music, only vocals: a terrifying, an-harmonic roar of snarls and mangled grunts. Each tone was a blasphemy against the universe itself.
It had no decipherable words, yet its meaning burned itself into my consciousness like acid.
It was a declaration of the self against the universe. A theme common in many Hollywood movies: "Dream big, and make those dreams come true." But this version did not shy away from the underlying message: that to achieve one's dream, one must crush everyone else.
The song gloried in this. To crush, to declare oneself the protagonist of the story, and to frame anyone who dared to oppose as the villain—destined to fail.
And every cruelty, every deception, every machination... well, it was all justified. For this was his story, and the winner was always right.
The flesh under my feet rotted, turning to black sludge that simultaneously hardened into a slippery crust. I wanted to scoff at the message, but it slithered like a worm in my mind, while the sound itself rattled my bones, slowed my nerves, and stole my breath. Still, it was not enough to stop me in my tracks. I prepared for the next pass when a new sound, as clear and pure as a ringing blade, broke through the dissonance.
Archer was singing too.
His was the song of a hero's sword crying out against the enemy; of every lonely hero, standing against the darkness. Alone, abandoned, despised, and yet still standing for what was right. Their deaths unremembered or even vilified.
But still standing.
I did not like this song either. I did not like that the hero fought alone and died alone. It was too sad, and it diminished everyone else. What were all the other people doing while the hero fought? Huddling in the dark like sheep?
So I opened my mouth and took a deep breath. The air was foul. The taste was terrible and it burned my lungs, but the Vril would take care of any poison.
I sang.
The third song. I sang of the marching armies that followed behind the hero, so he was no longer alone, but at the head of shining legions.
And I added the song of industry—and the legions were now armed with guns and tanks and all other weapons of murder.
I sang of civilization, of mankind united as one. Of building fortresses to protect them, of weapon factories to arm them, and of roads to connect them.
My song embraced both of theirs. For while civilization glorified its heroes, there was also a place for ambition within it. After all, Roman roads come with Roman boots.
And thus, we drank deeply, sang joyfully, and danced merrily. Two blades against a mace.
It was an almost structured dance. We passed the Grail, rushed in, rushed out, and exchanged the Grail again.
It was an acrobatic dance, pitting elven grace and Vril-borne dexterity against a mountain of dead flesh animated by necromancy.
It was a deadly dance, where a single misstep would mean our end by the mace, while perfection would mean its end by the sword.
And so it ended, as I had predicted, with the eighth cut.
The head rolled across the now-frozen stomach lining, finally silent. We could stop singing. Good, because my tongue felt like I had been licking sewage, and my throat burned despite the gulps of Vril.
And not a moment too soon. Already, massive pieces of rotten sludge—some the size of raindrops, others as large as a man's head—were falling from the roof of the collapsing cavern.
I moved quickly and, with Archer's help, pried the Crown from the dead flesh. The cold fire glowing in its empty sockets went out.
With the last sliver of my will, I summoned the police box—our open gate to the Entrance Hall of Irem.
We passed inside, closing the door behind us.
I had just taken one sweet, fresh breath, when the door vanished as if it had never been there.
"Does that mean...?" Archer began.
"Yes, we were just in time. I can feel it. Anchor Gates are gone. Irem no longer tethered to that World," I said. "We were just in time."
"So, no more Anchor Gates until we reach the next World," Archer mused. "How long will the transition take? It was instantaneous last time, but we've never departed from here before."
"No time at all," I replied, feeling a new connection forming. "A new gate is already opening. But before we go exploring, we need to store this properly." I held the Crown up.
With Wheatley gone to Xen, there were no sentient Aleph-level objects left, and thus no reason not to move them all to Irem. I planned to place the Crown in the same tower and chamber where the Bone Tree was, to use it as a sentinel.
But as we walked toward the tower, I felt a second connection forming.
"A second gate," I mused aloud.
"We had three last time," Archer said, waving back to the citizens of Irem who had gathered to watch and cheer our return.
"Yes, but these feel different," I said. "It's almost as if they don't all lead to the same World. Strange."
"Safety first—and by that, I mean securing the Crown," he chided gently. "Exploration later."
"Yes, yes," I replied. "Boring stuff first."
By the time we reached the tower, four more gates had opened, for a total of six. This tower was one of the pristine ones. Being in constant use, it had been spared the entropic decay that preceded the arrival of He Who Abides. It had also been reinforced when three of my most valuable Items were used to block the tidal wave.
Like all the towers of Irem, it rose almost a kilometer high. One would think this implied complex material science, but the truth was that gravity itself was malleable in Irem—not just its direction, but its intensity. That was why we could have phenomena like water flowing upwards and sideways, creating a liquid curtain wrapped around the outside of the tower before falling into the canopy-covered sky.
"We also have a pond now," I noted to Archer as we entered. "All the water that rushed in when the tower blocked the waves has pooled on one side."
I couldn't say which side, of course, since there is no east, west, north, or south in Irem.
It took almost fifteen minutes to pass all the security I had placed here, but it was time well spent. It would prevent the Crown from taking another walkabout.
As I placed the Crown on the Bone Tree, it whispered, "You will use me again."
"Perhaps," I replied. "Even I can't see all paths the future will take. It might be that I will find a use for you and set you free. Or perhaps I will find a way to redeem you. No one can tell. But for now, I must keep you contained."
"But I have tried to make your prison as comfortable as possible. For punishment without the possibility of correction is just an excuse for sadism. And I don't do that without consent."