The chain lunged.
Rick's grip tightened on the spear, its pulse syncing with the frantic rhythm of his heart. He met the first strike with raw instinct, swinging the weapon upward. Steel did not meet steel—this was older, deeper. The clash rang like the cracking of mountains, the air itself screaming as sparks of shadow and white fire scattered in every direction.
The plain of stone shuddered beneath his boots. The fissure overhead yawned wider, vomiting more chains, each one slick with the Root's spiral glow. They weren't just attacking. They were hunting, coiling around him like serpents scenting blood.
Rick dug his heels into the white stone. His arms shook, his breath ragged, but he raised the spear again. If you want me, then take me.
Another chain whipped across the ground, carving trenches into the stone. He dodged, rolling to one knee. The spear thrummed in his hand, heavier with every second—as if it knew what was at stake, as if it remembered every vow that had been broken and forged to bring it here.
The circle of pale light around him, remnants of the seal, flickered. Cracks split across it. The barrier was failing.
And then—
"Rick."
He froze.
The voice wasn't Devil's. It wasn't the Root's. It wasn't even the still voice that had demanded payment before. This was something else—richer, resonant, neither shadow nor flame. It came from inside him, blooming like a whisper from the hollow in his chest.
"Who—?" Rick's voice cracked, strained.
"Choose," the voice said. Calm. Measured. "Crown or root. If you take the crown, you rule the hollow. If you take the root, you feed the chain. Choose—now."
The words vibrated through him. The spear's glow shifted, flickering between pale white and deep black, as though waiting for his decision.
Another chain struck the barrier. The light cracked further, shards flying outward like glass. The ground trembled, threatening to split open.
Rick's knuckles whitened. "I don't even know what I am anymore."
The voice pulsed, low and steady. "Then this choice will tell you."
The Storm of Chains
They came all at once.
Dozens of chains, hooks gleaming with void-fire, surged inward. The barrier shattered like a broken mirror. Rick spun the spear in both hands, catching one, severing another. Each strike rattled his bones, each parry left trails of burning light across the air.
But they were too many.
One slammed into his shoulder, sending him staggering back. Another wrapped around his ankle, dragging him toward the fissure overhead. He stabbed downward, driving the spear into the chain, splitting it apart with a flash of fire.
More came. They always came.
"Crown or root," the voice urged again, firmer now. "Rule or submit. Decide."
"I don't—" Rick bit down on the words. His chest heaved. Sweat—or maybe blood—ran into his eyes. How do I choose something I don't understand?
The hollow inside him pulsed, answering with silence.
A chain lashed across his chest. He gasped, stumbling to his knees. Another hook tore through his shield of light, scraping against his ribs. Pain blossomed, white-hot, but he clung to the spear.
Then, through the storm, he saw it.
The spear's reflection. His reflection.
Not the face he remembered. Not Rick, not soldier, not friend. The features blurred, distorted, shifting like wet ink. The hollow inside him was erasing more than his past—it was erasing him.
Panic clawed at him. He slammed the spear into the ground. White fire erupted again, throwing the nearest chains back. The fissure above screamed, the Root's spiral eye widening in rage.
"Time ends," the inner voice said, heavy as stone. "Choose."
The Visions of Root
The world convulsed.
Rick's knees buckled. The plain of white stone fractured, and with it came visions. Not memories—roots.
He saw himself as a boy, running through fields of rain, his mother's laughter chasing him home.
He saw Devil, younger, chained, whispering promises into the dark.
He saw every battle, every scar, every oath.
But the images weren't steady. They twisted. Warped.
The Root's eye pulsed, and the visions blackened. His mother's laughter turned to screams. His battles blurred into blood and ash. Even Devil's face shifted—eyes hollow, mouth whispering not I promised but I belong.
"No," Rick hissed. He clutched his head, trembling. "That's not real!"
The chains hissed in answer.
"It will all become real," the voice within warned. "If you feed the root."
Rick staggered upright. "And the crown?"
"Then you cut it away. All of it. You keep only the hollow. Rule what remains."
Rick's breath caught. Cut away everything? Become nothing but emptiness, a shell filled with a crown of hollow power?
The spear trembled in his hands, glowing brighter, as though urging him to decide.
The Hollow Decision
Another chain struck. This one coiled tight around his arm, digging deep, burning with shadow-fire. He screamed, slamming the spear against it. Sparks showered, but the chain refused to break.
"Decide!" the voice thundered now.
The fissure above split wider, and the Root's spirals began to descend directly. The eye burned, patient no longer.
Rick clenched his teeth. His whole body shook. If I choose the root… I'm theirs. If I choose the crown… I lose everything else.
He thought of Devil. Of promises. Of standing side by side in the throne room. Of his friend saying, You shouldn't have done that.
Rick's chest burned with the hollow, aching, demanding an answer.
"I…" His voice cracked. "I choose—"
The spear exploded with light.
The Crown's Ascent
The ground split apart. Chains shrieked, recoiling from the sudden burst. White fire roared upward, twisting into shapes that weren't seals or runes, but something rawer. Something born not of past vows, but of the hollow itself.
The fissure shook. The Root's eye flinched—flinched—as the blaze rose to meet it.
Rick stood at the center, barely conscious, the spear lifted high. His reflection in its blade showed no past, no history—only eyes burning with a pale, golden fire.
The voice within whispered, softer now. "You have crowned yourself. The hollow is yours."
Rick staggered, almost dropping the spear. His heart hammered, his body screamed. But the chains had paused, circling warily, as if uncertain whether to strike.
The fissure hissed, spirals twisting with fury.
Rick raised his head, meeting it. For the first time, the Root's endless eye looked… hesitant.
"I don't know who I am," Rick rasped, voice shredded. "But I know this—" He lifted the spear, light blazing. "I'm not yours."
He swung.
A wave of fire and hollow force ripped across the sky, slamming into the fissure. The Root shrieked, chains convulsing, spirals recoiling.
The plain shook, fractures racing outward like veins of glass.
The fissure cracked wider—then froze.
For one heartbeat, silence.
Then a laugh.
Not Devil's. Not Rick's. Not the Root's.
Something else. Something that had been waiting inside the hollow, wearing the crown he had chosen.
The laugh whispered into his bones. You chose well. But every crown has a weight.
Rick's stomach dropped. The spear pulsed harder, almost tearing itself from his grip.
The fissure above closed with a snap. The chains fell limp, retreating into the sky. The plain grew still again, silent and empty.
Rick stood alone, chest heaving, spear trembling in his hands.
Then, slowly, he realized.
He was no longer alone.
A figure stood at the edge of the plain. Cloaked in black and white threads, face hidden behind a shifting mask of light. Eyes that mirrored his own hollow fire stared back at him.
The figure tilted its head.
"You wear my crown," it said.
Rick's breath froze in his throat. "What are you?"
The figure's smile was sharp as a blade.
"Your beginning. Your end. Your hollow made flesh."
It raised its hand. Chains of white fire burst from the ground, snapping toward him.
Rick lifted the spear, too slow, too late.
The chains closed around his chest.