The passage opened into a swamping bowl of air. The ground had given up solid footing, softened into a churn of mud and black water that sucked at their boots. Steam rose where the Machine's heat met the Crimson Tree's cold sap, and the air vibrated with a pressure that made their chests ache. Vines hung like wet curtains and the roots glowed faintly, pulsing with the same sick light as the generator far above.
Reid kept Rin upright, steadying her as they stepped through the sucking muck. The exertion showed on every face. Mana bled off the walls in faint threads that tugged at their clothes and skin.
Silence settled like a weight.
"Boy, I wish I was back home," Reid said, forcing a laugh that came out thin. Nothing answered but the drip of water. He looked at Rin and offered a crooked smile. "It's just a tough crowd."
Rin tilted her head, a slow, tired arch of one brow. "What is there to say? Even this tension is wearing me down." She ran a hand along a slick root. "Not even Arthur's talking, with his father here. He's usually barking orders about something." Her lips twitched.
"Awkward," Reid said. "At least it'll be over soon, you know?" He brightened, trying to push the mood lighter. "I can't wait to go home and enjoy the little things."
Rin's smile was small and private. "You're not wrong. I've wanted out for as long as I can remember. Still—" She paused, darkening. "I'm worried stopping will be harder than starting."
"Stop what?" Reid asked.
She let out a long breath. "Part of me likes this. Not the violence, exactly. The togetherness. The way everyone fits into this messy life. It's hard to step away when it feels like family." Her hand brushed mud from her sleeve.
Reid nodded slowly. "I never really got to hang out with Sosuke on a normal day either."
Footsteps flicked ahead, too light for anything their ears knew. Arthur's hand tightened on his sword hilt, posture shifting into a guard stance.
Silas slid from the shadow, armor mended but etched with fresh cracks and scorched lines. Water beaded off his pauldrons. He regarded them with cool, precise eyes.
"You walked here," Lyra said, nostrils flaring. She pushed damp hair from her face. "So we're close. Portals would be unnecessary at this distance." She narrowed her gaze like a blade.
Silas scanned the group, then his eyes settled on Ren. His tone lost none of its calm. "I have not come to harm you." He spoke slowly, for him alone to hear.
Ren met his stare without flinching. "It's me you want now?" His voice was a low challenge, fingers flexing at his sides.
Silas inclined his head as if remembering a lesson. "Each time I have fought your team, it was you who hindered my efforts. You are the thorn that tests me, the one who disturbs the balance. I would see what steel hides beneath your resolve. A fair duel. An honorable fight."
Ren's eyes went wide, and his sword dipped an inch. "B-but you're a blight, and you ask for honor?" He sounded like someone hearing a madman explain courtly manners. His shoulders eased slightly, not in fear so much as surprise.
Before anyone could answer, Ren moved. He stepped forward and set his jaw. Silas watched him with a curious tilt of the head. Ren's hand closed around the hilt of his blade and he did not look away.
Silas lifted a fist and set it to Ren's chest, not gently but not cruelly either. "I have respect for true warriors," he said, voice even. "You have devoted your life to the opposite cause and grown because of it. I will honor you by taking your life with my sword, if that is your wish."
Ren glanced at the others for a heartbeat, searching for an objection that did not come. Lyra put a hand to his shoulder, shock and fury flashing through her features, but she did not pull him back.
"This is—" Lyra began, but he cut her off with a hard shake of his head.
"Ren, you can't," Lyra said softly, fingers pressing into his arm. "This is stupid." Her voice wobbed on the edge of fear.
Ren's jaw moved as if weighing fate. Then he lifted his chin. "But if this clears the path," he said, eyes burning, "if this gives us any edge—" He drew breath. "I will accept your challenge to the death."
Silas' mouth tilted almost imperceptibly. The general's pupils narrowed as if savoring a taste. Around them the swamp hummed, as though the roots themselves leaned in to listen.
"Then the others shall decide how to move forward." Silas' hand dropped to his side. He stepped back ten deliberate paces and set his shoulders. "Prepare yourself, snow child." He reached out and tore black air between his fingers, ripping a jagged greatsword into being. The blade looked cut from night, edged with a slow red glow that made the stone at their feet sweat.
"I'll remain here." Virgil's voice held steady as he scanned the group. "The rest of you." He looked to the Starborn. "Tread onward with determination. Westoria counts on you." He snapped his cigarette between his fingers and ground it out under his boot.
They moved out together, each step crunching over rubble and ash. The tunnel narrowed and the air thickened until it felt like wading through syrup. Roots clung like hands to ankles. A faint current of dark energy pushed at their chests.
"It reeks," Reid said, wrinkling his nose. He took the lead, boots sliding in black ooze as the pressure intensified. "Even a few steps and this power spikes."
"Then we're here," Arthur said, his voice low.
Steam crawled along the walls and the same cold sap they'd smelled before had turned the stone slick. The dark smoke from earlier poured forward, coiling like living smoke until sight dropped to a handspan. The floor buckled. The rock split with a sobbing crack and a hole tore open where none had been.
The portal did not shimmer politely. It exploded: a ripping of black and green light that sucked at footprints and tossed grit into the air. The tunnel became a throat and they fell through it.
When they landed the world tilted. The sky was a low, bruised crimson. They stood on the broken flagstones of a ruined castle keep that had watched over the capital for three hundred years. The first king's fortress had been carved from the hilltop, its outer walls ringed with collapsed battlements and shattered towers. A shattered courtyard spread below them, terraces falling away to ragged gardens, a ruined chapel to one side, and the city a smoke-blurred patchwork in the distance. The wormhole hovered above the skyline like a wound in the heavens.
Arthur pushed himself up and took the view in. "They moved us away from the center," he said, breath shallow.
"No," Lyra corrected, hair whipping across her face. She pointed down at the city. "This is a battlefield." The air carried the smell of iron and ash. Far below, what had been streets were now skeletal avenues of collapsed buildings and long, smoldering scars.
A tear in the sky rent above them. A portal burst open and Cain dropped like a falling shadow, talons first, onto the north wing roof straight above Lyra. He landed a bare yard from her, scales skimming slate. His lizard-hybrid profile was all angles: ridged brow, forked tongue, a tail that flicked as if tasting the air. He smiled thinly at Rin as if meeting an old joke. "Fancy seeing you here," he hissed. "This is my ground now. I do not lose."
Lyra's hand dashed to form a weapon and the world split with claws. Cain's first strike shredded through her side, steel teeth tearing a wet line of blood onto stone. She staggered but did not fall. Before Cain could draw another breath, Reid launched himself like a catapult and caught the blight mid-air. His fist smashed into Cain's jaw with the force of two men behind it. Scales and dark flesh spat and scattered.
Arthur braced himself to draw a blade but felt a cold cord wrap around his nape. A tendril of dark energy curled and hugged his throat, lifting him from his feet like a rag. He kicked, claws raking the air, but the slow pressure was inexorable.
Julian moved like a storm. His hand was a red blur and axe-bright blood coagulated along his fingers. He struck the tendril with a fist shod in hardened blood and the black cord split apart. "Do not let the fool gape," Julian barked, hauling Arthur down.
Lyra's barrier leapt up behind Arthur and took the sting of a black projectile, cracking like glass under a weight it was never meant to hold. From that torn light Azrael emerged. The cloaked shape congealed from smoke and armor under the hood. No face showed; only depthless night.
Azrael reached out and unfurled smoke into a tight ball in his palm. It bloomed into a scythe with a razor edge, blood red along the curve. He slammed it onto the courtyard floor. Black vapor fountained out, a choking, slow mist that crawled along the stones like a living tide. The air turned thick and heavy.
They all felt it first as a smooth squeeze, a thick hand closing at the ribs. Movement slowed and muscles clogged. Their limbs felt as though submerged in cold honey. Arthur's reaction time lagged, his body obeying commands late. Sounds dragged like wool in his ears. The scythe's strike had not only filled the space with poison but with a sickness of time itself.
Azrael spun his scythe, gripping it with both hands. The weapon swept forward, its edge plunging through Arthur's stomach. The slowing effects faded, leaving behind only pain and heat.
Arthur staggered, choking on smoke and blood. His hands locked onto the scythe's curved edge. "Encase," he rasped.
Cold erupted from his palms. Ice raced along the black metal, spreading in uneven veins until the weapon froze solid. Lyra sprinted in, her boots splashing through the shallow pools around them. With a flick of her wrist, a hammer of mana formed above her hand. It came down hard, shattering the brittle ice and snapping the blade apart.
Arthur fell to one knee. Blood poured from his wound. He pressed a hand against it, fire igniting from his palm and sealing the gash shut with a hiss. The smell of charred flesh filled the mist. "I'll stop when I drop dead. If anyone's the victor, it'll be me."
He seized the broken hilt of his sword and called upon his spirits. Wisps of light circled him, merging together and reforging the blade. The new sword gleamed with radiant light that cut through the smoke.
Azrael raised an arm, shielding his eyes from the brilliance.
Arthur roared and slammed the sword downward. A wave of searing energy ripped across the battlefield, tearing through the ground and slicing across Azrael's form.
Lyra darted forward, sliding low beside the impact. Her hands swept across the muddy ground, summoning glowing shackles that coiled around Azrael's legs and anchored him to the earth. She rose swiftly, forming her scythe and swinging it in a clean motion toward the back of his head.
The blade sliced through his hood, cutting clean through the shadow beneath.