Kael spent the next two days observing the Spire of Ascendance, a silent, watchful shadow among the broken, crystalline formations that ringed its base. The very air around the structure hummed with an amplified version of the Lingering Corruption, a pervasive drone that tried to lull his mind into a state of serene surrender. He had to clench his teeth, focusing on the rough texture of the scavenged rock beneath his fingers, on the cool, steady hum of the bronze slate tucked securely against his chest, to maintain his sanity. He noted the Spire's seeming indifference to the minor Shardfalls that continued to pepper the landscape; some shards even seemed to be drawn towards it, embedding themselves seamlessly into its grotesque, living architecture, as if the structure itself was consuming them.
His plan was audacious, reckless even. He couldn't fight what he didn't understand. And to understand the Mad God's ultimate victory, he had to understand those who embraced it. He needed to get inside. He waited for the opportune moment, a time when the Bleeding Sky was particularly agitated, its fractured hues swirling with an unsettling intensity, hinting at a larger Splinter impact in the distance. The chaos of a medium-sized shardfall would provide cover.
As the ominous shriek began, tearing through the air and signaling an incoming medium-sized Splinter, Kael moved. He sprinted across a stretch of open, pulverized ground, dodging newly formed crystalline outcroppings, his movements a blur against the backdrop of the swirling dust and the blinding flashes of falling shards. He slipped into the outer layers of the Spire, a gaping maw of twisted metal and fused crystalline growths that formed its lower levels.
Inside, the light was dim, filtered through layers of translucent, glowing growths and the muted, stained-glass hues of the Bleeding Sky above. The air was thick with a strange, sweet incense, a cloying, narcotic scent that burned in his nostrils. But more potent than the scent was the sound. A low, hypnotic, collective chant resonated through the vast, echoing spaces of the Spire, a rhythmic hum that bypassed his ears and vibrated directly in his skull. It was the combined voices of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of Lost souls, their serenity amplified into a pervasive, unsettling harmony.
Kael moved stealthily, navigating through corridors made of polished bone-like material and walls that pulsed with inner light. He saw disturbing murals etched into the crystalline surfaces: figures in states of ecstatic surrender, the Bleeding Sky depicted not as a wound but as a divine, cleansing fire, consuming a struggling, chaotic world. He saw the Mad God depicted not as a monstrous entity, but as a vast, benevolent consciousness, bringing ultimate peace. The sheer scale of their collective delusion was staggering.
He found himself in a vast, open chamber, its roof soaring upwards into the very heart of the Spire, where immense Hearts pulsed with a terrifying, rhythmic light. Below, on a raised dais of fused metal and bone, a ritual was underway. New recruits, their faces a chilling mixture of fear and ecstatic anticipation, were being led forward. They were thin, gaunt, clearly survivors from the broken world outside, but their eyes held a desperate longing for the "peace" that was promised.
An imposing figure, draped in robes woven from glowing fibrous plants, presided over the ritual. This was the "Oracle of Silence," as the Whispers in Kael's mind now identified them, likely the highest conduit of the Lingering Corruption within the Spire. The Oracle's face was gaunt, almost skeletal, but possessed an unnatural, terrifying calm. Their eyes, though physically human, seemed to hold the vast, swirling chaos of the Bleeding Sky within their depths, yet somehow remained utterly serene.
One by one, the recruits knelt. The Oracle, with a chilling gentleness, reached out, their hand seemingly translucent, and pressed small, glowing shards—no larger than a thumbnail—into the flesh of the recruits, often into their chests or foreheads. Kael watched in horror as the recruits convulsed, silent screams contorting their faces, their bodies spasming violently. Then, with a collective sigh of release, they collapsed. But they weren't dead. After a few agonizing moments, they stirred. They rose, their movements slow, dreamlike. Their eyes, once filled with fear or longing, were now wide, empty, and disturbingly serene, mirroring the terrifying bliss of the Lost Kael had encountered in the Twisted Gardens. They had become part of the collective. They had ascended.
As Kael watched, his gut churning, the Oracle turned, their gaze seemingly drawn by Kael's hidden presence. Their head tilted slightly, and a voice, clear and resonant, spoke directly into Kael's mind, bypassing his ears, resonating deep within his skull. It was the Lingering Corruption made manifest, pure thought, pure insidious power.
"Welcome, lost soul," it projected, the words a melody of pure, invasive thought, filling his mind with an overwhelming sense of acceptance and ancient knowledge. "The Mad God welcomes all truth. Even yours." The offer was terrifying in its directness, its seductive power. Kael felt his heart pound against the bronze slate against his chest, its hum a frantic, desperate counter-rhythm. He was no longer just an observer; he was seen. He was invited. And the invitation was to surrender everything.