The chains did not pierce.
They embraced.
Cold fire coiled around Rick's chest, ribs creaking under the pressure. He strained against them, knuckles white on the spear's shaft, but the chains weren't pulling him toward the fissure anymore. They were rooting him in place, anchoring him to the plain of stone as though declaring: Here you belong.
The figure moved closer. Each step rang across the empty expanse like a tolling bell, each echo heavier than the last. The mask it wore shimmered—sometimes smooth like ivory, sometimes cracked like obsidian—never still, never whole. Its eyes were steady, though, twin flames of pale gold, the same color that now burned in Rick's own.
"You wear my crown," it repeated, voice neither male nor female, neither kind nor cruel. It was balanced, measured, an edge honed by eternity. "Do you even know what that means?"
Rick struggled to breathe. The spear pulsed violently, as if it wanted to speak but lacked the tongue. "I didn't choose you," he rasped.
"You chose me the moment you chose the crown." The figure tilted its head, the shifting mask settling on a sharp grin. "You cut away the root, severed history, burned the chains of memory. That emptiness you hold inside? That hollow you thought was yours alone?"
Its hand rose. The chains binding him tightened, fire sinking deeper into his skin. Rick clenched his jaw, refusing to cry out, though the taste of iron filled his mouth.
"That hollow is mine."
Rick forced air through his teeth. "If it's yours… why am I still standing?"
The figure's grin widened, the mask splitting like glass under strain. Beneath it, for a heartbeat, Rick glimpsed something worse than shadow: an absence so deep it bent the air around it.
"Because you interest me."
The chains slackened, only enough to let him gasp for breath. His knees buckled, but he remained upright, leaning on the spear.
"Crown-bearers are rare," the figure continued. "Most feed the root, surrendering to hunger, memory, history. You did not. You severed yourself. You embraced nothing."
Rick spat blood onto the stone. "Then maybe nothing is what I'll give you."
The figure laughed. A low, echoing sound that seemed to ripple across the plain, stirring fissures into the white stone. "Do you think the crown is freedom? Do you think wearing it makes you king?"
It spread its arms. The horizon trembled, the void above stretching wider. Chains rose from the ground, countless and endless, circling Rick in a spiraling dome.
"The crown is a throne. And thrones are prisons."
The words slammed into Rick like a physical blow. He staggered, the spear's glow flickering. "No…"
The figure advanced, cloak trailing behind like bleeding shadow-light. "Yes. You severed root, abandoned past, rejected history. That makes you fit to sit upon the hollow throne. But every throne demands one truth."
It stopped just short of him. The mask leaned down, close enough that he could see the cracks crawling across its surface like veins.
"You are not free. You are mine."
The chains snapped tight again. Rick screamed, fire tearing through his chest. His vision blurred, sparks swimming before his eyes. The spear howled in his grip, thrashing, but the hollow inside him pulsed in rhythm with the chains—obeying, not resisting.
The figure's hand hovered over his heart. Its voice dropped to a whisper, soft as breath.
"Give it to me. Surrender the hollow. Wear the crown, bear the weight, serve the end."
Rick's thoughts fractured. Images—visions—splintered through him again. Not roots, not past. Futures.
He saw himself seated upon a throne of shattered stone, spear laid across his knees, eyes empty, chains coiling around him like subjects bowing to their king.
He saw cities burning beneath pale fire.
He saw Devil kneeling in shadow, head bowed, saying nothing at all.
"No…" He tried to shake the visions away, but the crown burned brighter in his mind, heavy as a mountain. "I'm not—"
"You are." The figure's hand pressed harder. "You chose. Now bear it."
The chains pulled tighter, dragging him to his knees. The spear slipped in his grip, blade striking the stone with a hollow chime.
Rick's teeth ground together. His heart thundered. The hollow swelled, threatening to consume him entirely.
And then—
"Rick."
The voice cut through everything.
He froze.
Not the figure. Not the crown. Not the hollow. A different voice, faint, fragile—yet real.
"Devil…?" Rick's head snapped up. His eyes darted across the plain, wild. The fissure overhead had gone still, the spirals watching silently. The figure remained where it was, mask tilted, unmoving.
But somewhere—far, faint—he heard it again.
"I'm here."
The sound nearly broke him.
Rick gritted his teeth. The chains dug deeper, fire eating his veins. The figure's grin sharpened, mask splitting wider, but Rick's chest burned with something else now. Not hollow. Not fire. Something stubborn, raw, desperate.
Hope.
"Get out of my head," Rick hissed. His voice cracked, but the words carried weight. He lifted his gaze to meet the figure's burning eyes. "You're not the crown. You're not the hollow. You're just a parasite wearing its mask."
The figure laughed again, louder this time, mask fracturing further. "And what will you do, little hollow? Strike me? You barely stand."
Rick's fingers tightened on the spear. Its pulse was weak, but it was still there. Still his.
"I don't care if I fall," he growled. "As long as I take you with me."
The chains squeezed. Bones cracked. The figure's smile widened. "Then come, crown-bearer. Show me what weight you carry."
Rick roared.
The spear erupted.
White-gold fire exploded outward, shattering the chains around his chest. The blast tore across the plain, hurling the figure back. The mask cracked fully, shards scattering like broken glass across the stone.
Rick staggered to his feet, chest heaving, hollow burning brighter than ever. His vision swam, his body screamed, but he stood.
The figure straightened slowly, brushing shards of its broken mask away. Beneath it was no face at all—only a void, endless and devouring.
"You burn well," it murmured. "But fire consumes itself."
It raised its hand. The sky split open.
Not a fissure. A rift.
Through it, Rick saw… not chains. Not spirals. Not roots. Something vaster, darker, an ocean of emptiness churning with eyes too many to count. A storm of hollows.
The figure's voice boomed, shaking the plain.
"Then let us see if your crown holds against us all."
The rift howled. Chains of white fire rained down, unending, blotting out the horizon.
Rick lifted the spear, his arms trembling, his voice a ragged whisper. "Devil… if you can hear me… hold on."
The first wave struck.
The plain shattered.
Rick has embraced the Crown, but now the Hollow itself—the storm beyond the Root—has opened, and the true enemy reveals itself. Is the figure his reflection, his captor, or his inevitable fate? And what of Devil's faint voice—alive, trapped, or just another illusion?