The final step is a transition from stone to flesh.
I place my boot onto the floor of the Spire's apex chamber, and the ground gives beneath my weight, like hard, cold cartilage. The air is not air. It is a pressurized, wet, living medium, thick with the smell of ozone, copper, and something anciently, terribly alive.
The light is blinding. Not a pure, clean light, but a vibrant, sickeningly green illumination that pulses with a slow, rhythmic beat. It is the source of the Rekka-Heart's glow, the very lifeblood of Torchlight City, magnified a thousand times.
We stand on a wide, circular platform of the same fleshy cartilage. The chamber around us is vast, a colossal organic womb, its walls ribbed and pulsing with the same green light. And in the center, suspended in the air by colossal, black chains... is the Heart.
My mind stops. My breath catches.
"It... is..." Erima whispers, her voice stripped of all its cold certainty.
"A... heart..." Kizawa finishes, his hand instinctively gripping his swords.
It is a god. It is a beast. It is a mountain of living, beating tissue. It is the size of the entire Nexus building back in the city. A colossal, multi-chambered organ, it pumps with a slow, agonizing thud that shakes the very bones of the Spire. The green Rekka-light pulses from within its translucent, fleshy walls, illuminating the rivers of ichor moving within.
But it is not the size that grips us with cold, absolute terror. It is the chains.
They are not supports. They are shackles.
Dozens of them, thick as towers, composed not of metal, but of a pure, absolute... darkness. A light-devouring anti-substance that radiates a cold so profound it burns the skin, even from here. They are pierced through the Heart's flesh, binding it, impaling it, holding it captive in the center of the vast chamber.
And as we stare, a new sensation washes over us. Not a sound, but a feeling. A psychic scream of such profound, unending agony that I collapse to my knees.
"The song..." Hachiro gasps, his face ashen. "It... it is... HERE. It... it IS... the HEART."
The 'song' of the Miasma, the 'Hollow-God's Anthem' that drives the Hunters mad, is not a song of power.
It is a song of torture.
"Vor-Kin..." I choke out, my eyes fixed on the agonizing, beautiful, terrible thing. "What... is... this?"
"It... is the HEART," the blind shaman whispers. He is prostrate on the ground, his antennae vibrating so fast they are a blur. "It... is... the God. It... beats. It... gives... us... LIFE."
"It... is dying," Kizawa states, his voice flat. He is the only one of us still standing at full height, his analytical mind fighting against the tide of psychic horror. "The light... it falters. The beat... is... arrhythmic."
He is right. The thud-THUD of the Heart is skipping. Straining. With every strained beat, the black chains sparkle with cold, void-like energy, and the Heart shudders.
"The chains..." Yogawa murmurs, his knuckles white on his grimoire. "They... they look... like... my... spell. The 'Shadow-Snare'. But... infinitely... more... powerful. This... is... Void... magic. This... is... the... Spinner's... work."
The pieces are slamming into place, forming a picture of such profound, cosmic horror that my mind refuses to accept it.
"The... 'Hollow-God'..." I breathe, forcing myself to my feet. "It... is... the Spinner... King's... PRISONER."
The silence that follows my words is absolute. Even the Heart's thud seems to pause, listening.
"Blasphemy..." Vor-Kin rasps, his head still pressed to the floor. "The 'Hollow-God'... gives... the Rekka. The Spinner... is... the enemy. The eater."
"Yes!" I yell, my voice cracking. I point a shaking finger at the chains. "And... what... do... you... THINK... IT... IS... EATING?!"
The shaman has no answer. The terrible, logical, unthinkable truth hangs in the air.
Torchlight City. The Grak-ta. Their entire civilization. They are not... worshippers.
They... are parasites.
They are sipping the leaking... lifeblood... of a dying... God... while... their... true... enemy... gorges... itself... on... the... main... course.
The Rekka-Heart... is... a battery. And the Spinner... King... is... draining... it... dry.
And as this realization dawns on all of us, the agony... changes.
It focuses.
The tidal wave of psychic pain... recedes, focusing... down... to... a single... point.
A word.
It does not... enter our ears. It explodes... inside... our minds.
'SAVIOR...?'
The psychic impact slams me back a step. It is not... a question. It... is a plea. A million... years... of... agony... finding... a single... impossible... voice.
The reaction is immediate. It is visceral.
Kizawa is a blur of motion. His duty, his cold, fractured purpose, slams back into place. He is in front of me in a microsecond, his twin blades, 'Silence' and 'Storm', hissing as they clear their sheaths. He is a wall of protective steel and rage, his blue hair seeming to crackle with tension, his face pale but his eyes burning with defiant fire. He is shielding me, not from the God, but from the concept of it.
"Back... away..." he snarls, not at the Heart, but at me. "Do... not... answer... it."
Erima is just as fast, but her reaction is pure, cold pragmatism. She does not defend. She aims. She has nocked an arrow, her heavy-draw bow already at full pull, the razor-sharp obsidian head aimed directly at the center of the massive, beating organ. As if her tiny shard of rock could possibly matter. It is a gesture of pure, instinctual defiance.
Yogawa is physically, violently ill. He stumbles back, one hand clamped over his mouth, the other frantically flipping through his grimoire. He is chanting, low and desperate, "Sanctuary... of... the... mind... bar... the gate... seal... the soul..." He is trying to block the voice, to un-hear the truth.
Hachiro simply... breaks. The 'song' of agony has become a voice. It is too much. He collapses to his knees, his hands locked onto the sides of his head, a raw, animalistic keen of pure... empathy... tearing from his throat. He is feeling... all... of it.
Only Vor-Kin, the blind shaman, reacts with anything other than terror. He is prostrate on the fleshy floor, his antennae vibrating so fast they are a blur. He is in a state of religious ecstasy and absolute, bottomless terror.
"It... speaks! The... 'Hollow-God'... speAKS! The... end... is... here! The... beginning!"
The Heart pulses. A slow, agonizing throb that shakes the Spire. The black, shadowy chains that bind it tighten, sparking with a visible, cold... anti-light. The 'song' of pain intensifies, and Hachiro screams.
'THE... PRISONER...'
The voice crashes into us again. It is weaker this time, strained, as if the very act of speaking costs it everything.
'THE... FEAST...'
And with the word, images. They flood my mind, not gentle like before, but forced. I see the planet's... core. I see a web... of absolute... darkness. A sentient... gravity. The Spinner... King. And the chains... the chains... are straws. They are feeding... lines. The Spinner King is beneath... us. Drinking... the Hollow-God.
"He... is... eating... it," I whisper, the words escaping my lips. The horror is too vast. "Kizawa... it's... being... eaten... alive."
I stumble forward, pushing past Kizawa's rigid arm. His order to 'say nothing' is dust. It is irrelevant.
"Yogawa... translate!" I yell, my voice hoarse. "Tell... Vor-Kin! The God... is... a... PRISONER! The... chains... are feeding... the Spinner... King!"
Yogawa, his face ashen, his eyes wide with the terror of a man whose entire life has been revealed as a lie, forces the Grak-ta words out.
Vor-Kin's antennae stop... vibrating. He goes still. "The... Hollow-God... feeds... us. The... Rekka-Heart... is... Life. This... is... blasphemy."
"It's the TRUTH!" I scream, walking to the very edge of the platform. The green light from the Heart is warm, a living... thing. But the cold... radiating... from the chains... is unimaginable. It is the cold... of the void. "You are all... prisoners! You are... all... parasites! You... are... sipping... the leftovers... from its... table... while... IT... is... being... EATEN!"
'SAVIOR...'
The word is a sigh. A mountain... sighing.
'THE... WEAPON... THE... FLAME...'
My dagger, 'First Flame', is blazing in my hand. It is not... me. The golden light is roaring to life on its own. My hair... is igniting, a torrent of silver and pure, golden fire. The Phoenix-flame within me is answering this ancient, dying thing.
'IT... HATES... THE... FLAME...'
"It?" I project the thought, my voice catching. "The... Spinner... King?"
'YES...'
A new image. *My... dagger. 'First Flame'. I see... its... creation. A fragment... of the God's... own... power. A spark... of the 'First Flame'... it... sang... to... create... life. It... is not... a human... artifact. It... is a splinter... of the God... itself.
It... recognizes... its... own... child.
'THE... CHAINS...' The God whispers, a sound of grinding, continental plates. 'THEY... HATE... THE... FLAME...'
I understand.
It is not... a 'Weapon'. Not... in... the way... they... think.
It... is a KEY.
I turn, my mind racing, the pieces slamming into place. "Erima... lower... your bow."
She stares at me.
"Do... it, Erima! It... is... the key! The... legend... it... was... wrong! 'First Flame'... doesn't... kill... the God. It... FREES... it!"
The realization hits her. Her eyes widen. The tactical mind re-calculates. The 'enemy'... is... the chains. The 'objective'... is... the Heart. She slowly... eases... the tension... on her bowstring.
"Frees... it?" Hachiro chokes out. He gets to his feet, his entire body shaking with the 'song'. His face is a mask of tears and pain. "You... mean... if we... break... the chains... the song... the PAIN... it... STOPS?"
"Or," Yogawa counters, his voice a harsh rasp. He is the only one still... resisting. "It... unleashes... a mad... trillion-year-old... God... of agony... directly... into... the city... that's... been... feeding... on... it. This... is... apocalypse."
"It... is... apocalypse... either... way."
Kizawa's voice. It is low, dead, and utterly precise. He has sheathed... his... blades. He is staring at the Heart, his analytical mind finally... grasping... the scale... of their situation.
"The God... fails," Kizawa says, his voice flat. "The Rekka-light... dies. The city... starves. The Hunters... win. Krell's... 'cycle'... is ending. This..." He gestures to me, to my flaming... dagger. "...is the only... variable. The only... unknown."
He turns his cold, blue eyes to me. The chasm... is... still... there. But... under... it... is... the strategist.
"What... does... it... WANT?"
'FREEDOM...'
The plea slams... us... all. It... is... unbearable.
'RELEASE... ME... SAVIOR... I... AM... DYING...'
'I... WILL... HELP...'
"Help how?" I project the thought, my hands clenched. "You... will... kill... the Hunters?"
'THEY... ARE... ME...'
The answer is a wave of pure... cosmic... sorrow.
'MY... PAIN... MY... ANTIBODIES... MY... MADNESS...'
'FREE... ME... AND... THEY... ARE... FREE...'
The logic is terrible. It... is perfect. The Hunters... are not... an army. They... are a symptom. They are the God's... own... immune... system, turned septic. They... are... trying... to... kill... the... God... to... END... its... OWN... SUFFERING.
"If... we... free... it..." I breathe, the words catching in my throat. "The... Hunters... stop."
"Or... we... become... the new... target," Erima states. "A... God... scorned."
"IT... DOESN'T... MATTER!" Hachiro roars, his voice raw. He is burning now, his own... Miasma-chi flaring up in sympathy with the God's... agony. "We... HAVE... TO... TRY! The... pain... Kizawa... I... CAN'T... TAKE... IT!"
Vor-Kin is on his feet, his antennae pointed at me. "The... 'Heresy'... is... the 'Truth'! The 'Truth'... is... the 'Key'! The 'Weapon'... will... unmake... the Shadow... it... is... the prophecy!"
"Mizuki."
Kizawa's voice cuts... through the chaos.
He is looking at me. Really... looking... at me.
"This... is... your... call. Not... as... a 'Goddess'. Not... as... a 'Weapon'. As... you. Your... impulse. Your... choice. What... do... we... do?"
He... is giving... it... back... to... me. The trust. The burden. Everything.
I look at the giant, dying, imprisoned Heart. I look at the chains, the physical... manifestations... of the Spinner... King's... gluttony. I look at my team. My friends.
Kizawa, ready to die for a choice... he... doesnot... trust.
Erima, practical and terrified, her hand still on her bow.
Hachiro, suffering... in a way... none... of... us... can... even... comprehend.
Yogawa, his entire... world... inverted.
This... is it. The real... Nexus. The real... choice.
I raise my dagger, the 'First Flame'. The golden light roars to life, a pillar of fire in the green, fleshy womb. My hair is an explosion of silver and gold. The Phoenix-flame answers the Hollow-God's... plea.
"We... cut... it... loose."
The words hang in the air.
"HOW?!" Yogawa shouts, his voice cracking with hysteria. "That... chain... it... is... pure... VOID! Shadow-stuff! Touching... it... will... UNMAKE... YOU!"
"My... flame... repels... it," I say, my voice suddenly calm, certain. "The God... said... it. The Spinner... King... hates... the flame. I... am... the only... one... who... can... touch... it."
I step to the edge. The platform is wide, but the Heart... is... wider. The nearest chain... a river... of anti-light... thick... as... a building... is twenty... feet... away.
"I... can't... reach... it," I say, my heart sinking.
'THE... WEAKEST... LINK...' The God whispers. It... shudders... its massive... bulk.
A different... chain. Higher... up. Thinner... than the others. It is... vibrating, strained.
'THERE... STRIKE... THERE...'
I point. "Erima. That one. There."
Erima's eyes narrow. She calculates the distance. The angle. "The... angle... is... terrible. The distance... is... extreme."
"You... are... the 'Arrow'," I say, meeting her gaze. "You... do not... miss."
A tiny, grim, terrifying... smile... touches her lips. "No... I... do not."
She pulls an arrow from her quiver. It... is not... a normal... one. It... is a heavy, broad-headed... arrow, notched... and barbed. A thick... coiled... rope... is... attached... to... its... end. A... grappling... hook.
"You... cannot... be serious," Yogawa gasps. "The anchor... point... it... will... never... hold..."
"It... will... hold... us," Kizawa says. He sheathes one sword. He plants... his... feet. "Hachiro. GRIP."
Hachiro nods, his face a mask of grim determination. He slams his feet into the fleshy stone, his legs glowing with Miasma-chi. "I... AM... THE... ANCHOR!"
"Yogawa!" Kizawa barks. "Your... magic! Wind! Something! Steady... her... SHOT!"
Yogawa, shocked into action, slams his grimoire open. "A... cantrip! 'Scholar's... Sigh'! It... negates... local... turbulence!" He slams... his hand... on... the... page.
A perfect, still... calm... envelops... Erima. The air... around... her... is... dead.
"KIZAWA! HACHIRO! NOW!" Erima scremes.
They dig in. Kizawa's 'Will'... his... chi... becomes... a physical... force. Hachiro ROARS, his chi exploding as he takes... the... strain.
Erima looses the arrow.
It... sings.
A black... streak... against... the green... light.
It soars.
It... HITS.
The grappling hook slams... into... the void-chain.
For one... terrible... second, there... is... silence.
Then... the reaction.
The void... hates... the intrusion. The chain... violently... JERKS.
"HOLD!" Kizawa roars, his boots skidding... inches... on the stone.
"I... GOT... IT!" Hachiro screams, his muscles bulging as he takes... the... brunt... of the recoil. The rope... goes taUT... as a bar... of... steel.
"It... is... EATING... the... ARROW!" Yogawa yells, pointing.
He is right. The shadow... is... corroding... the steel... hook. We... have... seconds.
"GO, MIZUKI! NOW!" Erima shrieks.
I do not... hesitate. I grab the rope. It is vibrating violently, cold... as... death.
"Kizawa!"
He looks at me, his eyes wide... with... a... fear... he... cannot... hide.
"I... will... be... back," I promise.
I jump.