The summit of the Black Pyramid wasn't a cold stone floor. It was a pool of perfectly still, pitch-black water that felt like walking on liquid silk. There were no walls, only the open, red-streaked sky and a massive, rotating ring of silver light that acted as the "Lens" for the Void-Engine.
In the center of the pool sat a throne.
It wasn't made of gold or obsidian. It was made of junk. Rusted "Tiger" generators, broken plastic chairs, piles of unpaid bills, and old, stained singlets. It was a throne built from the misery of a decade in Mowe.
Sitting on it was the King.
He didn't look like a monster. He looked like Tunde but a version of Tunde that had never known hunger or exhaustion. His skin was flawless, his hair perfectly groomed, and his eyes were a calm, terrifying silver.
"Welcome home," the King said. His voice didn't echo; it vibrated inside their marrow. "I was just looking through the archives. Did you know you spent 4,380 hours of your life stuck in traffic, Tunde? And Amina... you spent three years of your soul's potential worrying about the price of onions."
Tunde stepped forward, his starlight blade humming. "That life made us who we are. It's not a pile of trash for you to sit on."
The King laughed, a sound like glass breaking. "Is it? You cling to the dirt because you're afraid of the light. Look at the Lens."
He pointed to the silver ring. Inside it, Amina saw a vision of Lagos. But it wasn't the Lagos she knew. There was no smoke, no potholes, and the lights never flickered. People walked the streets with a strange, rhythmic grace.
"I am not destroying your home," the King lied, his voice like honey. "I am perfecting it. I am removing the friction. No more bills. No more hunger. No more 'Lagos stress.' I just need the Star-Core to stabilize the frequency. Give it to me, Tunde, and I will make you the King of that paradise. You and Amina can live a thousand years in a world that never breaks."
Tunde hesitated. Amina could see the reflection of the "Perfect Lagos" in his golden eyes. For a man who had worked twelve-hour shifts at the bottling plant, the temptation was a physical weight.
"Tunde, look at the people," Amina whispered, grabbing his arm.
She pointed to the vision in the Lens. The people in the "Perfect Lagos" weren't talking. They weren't laughing. They were moving like dolls, their eyes flat and hollow.
"They aren't living," Amina said, her voice trembling. "They are just... there. There's no friction because there's no soul left. A world without stress is a world without life."
The King's smile vanished. The "Perfect" version of his face began to peel away, revealing the grey, ashen skin of a Void-Seeker underneath. "Friction is a slow death, girl. I am offering you an eternal peace."
"I don't want peace!" Tunde roared. He raised the "Kill-Key" crystal Kola had given him. "I want the noise! I want the rain! I want to hear my neighbors arguing at 6 AM!"
The King lunged from the throne, his hand transforming into a massive, jagged scythe of Void-Steel. "Then you will die with the noise!"
The collision threw a wave of energy across the summit that shattered the junk-throne. Tunde blocked the scythe with his blade, but the King was older, stronger. The silver water beneath their feet began to boil.
"Amina! The Lens!" Tunde screamed, his obsidian armor cracking under the King's pressure. "If the Lens finishes the sync, it won't matter if we win! The bridge will open!"
Amina looked at the rotating silver ring. It was spinning faster, the image of Lagos becoming more solid, more real. She didn't have a weapon. She didn't have Tunde's strength.
She looked at her hands. They were glowing with the blue "Binding" energy, but it was fading.
The friction, she thought. It's not just between us. It's between the worlds.
She didn't attack the King. She ran toward the Lens. She didn't use her magic to break it she used her magic to anchor it to the only "Real" thing she had left.
She pulled the blackened, shriveled jasmine petal now a hard coal from her pocket and threw it into the heart of the silver ring.
"This world belongs to the living!" she cried.
The "Mortal" object hit the "Ethereal" lens. The reaction was instantaneous. The jasmine petal didn't melt; it expanded, its scent of Mowe rain and cooking fire exploding through the summit.
The "Perfect Lagos" in the vision began to distort. The tall, clean buildings were replaced by the beautiful, messy, chaotic reality of the real city. The "dolls" in the vision began to scream, to dance, to fight to live.
The Lens began to vibrate violently. The synchronization was breaking.
"NO!" the King screamed, distracted for a split second.
That was all Tunde needed. He slammed the Kill-Key into the black water at the King's feet.