The argument about the doors was a thin, buzzing noise in Elijah's ears. Chloe's tactical reasoning, Marcus's derision, Vivian's whimpers—they were radio static. His entire focus was on the screen, on the Favor meter and the deletion poll, watching the numbers twitch with every comment. It was a language he could parse. Cold, numerical, predictive. He opened his mouth to suggest Door Two—the analytics of the chat's indecision pointed there—when the floor dissolved.
Not metaphorically.
The matte grey panels of the control room floor, from wall to wall, retracted with a series of heavy, hydraulic clunks. They folded away into recessed slots, revealing not a pit, but a new, impossible surface far below. It was a vast, seamless square of dark, volcanic stone, etched with a single, colossal sigil that pulsed with a deep, amber light. The room's walls now felt like a balcony overlooking an ancient arena.
Then the arena moved.
It wasn't the floor rising. It was something emerging from it. The stone itself bulged upward at the center of the sigil, cracking, shedding rubble the size of cars. A shape pushed through, shouldering aside the bedrock of the world.
First, a hand. A five-fingered hand of stone and dull metal composite, each finger as thick as an ancient oak, each nail a polished obsidian slab. It planted itself on the arena floor with a ground-shaking THUD that sent a physical tremor through the remaining control room floor, vibrating up their legs and into their teeth.
Then the arm, sculpted with impossible, beautiful human musculature, but on a scale that made a mockery of humanity. Shoulders broader than houses broke free, followed by a chest that was a mountain range. A head, tilted slightly downward, crowned with flowing, solidified locks of reddish stone that looked like a frozen inferno. The face was a masterpiece of serene, androgynous features, eyes hollow and dark as cave mouths, watching nothing. A cape of some impossibly dense, shadowy material hung from its shoulders, not flowing, but suspended in a permanent, majestic drape, like a bridge to nowhere.
It rose and rose until it towered, a silent, mountainous god-figure kneeling in the vast space beneath them. In the center of its chest, directly over where a heart would be, a symbol glowed with a steady, warm light—an intricate, circular emblem of interlocking gears and sweeping wings that spoke of ascension and absolute judgment.
It was beautiful. It was the most terrifying thing any of them had ever seen.
A choked gasp came from Chloe. Her hand, which had been lightly touching Elijah's arm for reassurance, suddenly clamped down, her fingers digging into his bicep with bruising force. Her entire body began to tremble, a fine, uncontrollable vibration he could feel through her grip.
Elijah's own composure, the cold operational shell, didn't crack.
It shattered.
All the blood drained from his face, leaving it the colour of old paper. His lips parted, but no sound came out. His eyes, usually so focused, went wide and blank, fixed on the colossal figure's hollow eyes. He didn't look scared. He looked unmade. It was the expression of a man watching the foundation of his reality collapse into a forgotten nightmare. He froze so completely he seemed to stop breathing.
In the background, a new artificial voice chuckled—a wet, phlegmy, sadistic sound of an elderly man who enjoyed the discomfort of others. "Oho… looks like someone recognizes the old stories."
Vivian let out a small, mewling sound and pressed herself into the nearest console, as if she could merge with it. Richie, from his spot on the floor, didn't even look up. Defeat was his world now. Marcus, however, tore his gaze from the titan to look at Elijah. His own displeasure at the situation morphed into pure, unvarnished confusion. He'd seen Elijah face collapsing floors and screaming toys with the calm of a bomb disposal expert. This was different. This was a system crash.
The chat, of course, noticed.
User 'MaskFan': WAIT. LOOK AT THE QUIET GUY. HE'S GLITCHING.
User 'BallHog': lol he looks like he just saw the ghost of christmas 'you're a terrible person'.
User 'ReaperFan': Maybe he gave his balls to the Halvern princess for safekeeping and she lost the purse.
A cascade of laughing emojis scrolled past.
Marcus saw the comments, then looked back at Elijah's ashen, frozen face. His analytical mind short-circuited. What possible connection could there be? What was wrong with him?
Inside Elijah's skull, the world had not just changed; it had rewound.
No.
The word was a silent, desperate prayer. No no no no—
The control room bled away. The smell of ozone and fear was replaced by the sterile, lemon-scented cleaner of a long, narrow hallway. He was small. The floor was cold linoleum. In his hands was a toy—an action figure about ten inches tall. It was made of cheap, painted plastic, but it was unmistakable. The sculpted, heroic physique. The flowing, red-painted hair. The tiny, blank eyes. The cape molded onto its back. It was a cheap, mass-produced copy of the mountain-sized god now kneeling below him. The name on the packaging flashed in his mind: CAEL – GUARDIAN OF THE CEN REALM.
He was little. He was moving the figure through the air, making soft whooshing sounds, his own small hand its universe. He was Cael, mighty and brave, flying down the hallway toward a closed door at the end.
The door was always closed.
In the daydream-memory-nightmare, the door swung open.
Little Elijah stopped. The figure hovered in his grip.
The room beyond was dark. But in the darkness, a shape was framed in the faint light from the hall. A person. A man, but hunched, his outline warped and wrong. He was sitting in a deep chair. His hand extended out into the strip of light.
It was a horrible hand. The skin was a mottled, waxy grey, like a thing left in water. The veins stood out dark and ropey. The nails were long, yellowed, and thick, curling slightly at the tips. It was a corpse's hand, offering a welcoming, beckoning gesture. It shook slightly, a palsied, eager tremor.
A voice slithered out of the dark, dry and whispering, like pages rubbing together. It was amused. Intellectual. "Ke ke ke… hey, little one. I see you. A fan of Cael, are you? Of the Cen? Intergalactic beings… dwelling among the stars. A rather interesting fiction. Heh. You imagine yourself to be him?" The hand beckoned again. "Well. That is meaningless. An ideal you can never, ever achieve. But… you can be something else entirely. One that is nothing compared to Cael… but within the realm of mortals… you can be worth more than everyone. So, boy…"
The corpse-hand waited.
Little Elijah's heart was a trapped bird hammering against his ribs. He didn't want to. He was terrified. But his legs, small and clad in little sneakers, moved. One step. Then another. Carrying him closer to the dark room and the waiting hand.
"SNAP OUT OF IT!"
The world warped violently. The hallway stretched, the linoleum melting into the grey control room floor. The dark door frame became the edge of the viewing platform. The corpse-hand dissolved into Marcus's furious, living face, which was suddenly inches from his own. Marcus's palm, stinging and solid, had just connected with his cheek.
Elijah recoiled, blinking rapidly. The past was a viscous fluid draining from his senses. He was back. The colossal figure, Cael, still knelt in silent judgment below. The sadistic old man's chuckle echoed in the speakers.
He turned his head, slowly, towards the main screen. The left side still showed Witnessing Hollow, relaxed in its study. But the posture seemed different now. It had leaned forward infinitesimally. The tilt of its head was no longer academic curiosity. It was the focused attention of a collector who has just seen a rare specimen twitch in the jar. It was enjoying this. This specific, personal unraveling was part of the entertainment.
A cold, corrosive fury boiled up through Elijah's residual dread, mixing with it into a potent, dangerous cocktail. His expression shifted. The blank terror was burned away, replaced by a tight, pale mask of rage. His eyes, locked on the masked figure, glinted with a new, dark understanding. This wasn't random. This was a targeted excavation.
A new voice, bright and artificially sweet, piped up—a mischievous little girl. "Ooh, is he back? Goody! Now, for the main game! You get to go inside the big sleepy giant! Isn't that fun? I could tell you the rules, but that would spoil all the suuurprises! Hee hee! Better to learn by doing, don't you think?"
The chat roared with approval. USER 'ChaosEnjoyer' SUPERCHATS $500: "YES! NO SPOILERS! THROW THEM IN!"
Beneath them, with a sound of grinding tectonic plates, the colossal figure's leg—the one closest to their platform—shifted. A vertical seam, previously invisible, cracked open along the calf, revealing a dark, rectangular entrance leading into absolute darkness. A gateway into the mountain.
The choice was made for them.
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