Vol 7, Chapter 6

 ◆ Kingdom of Steel, First Prince's POV. ◆
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Day after day, night after night, they marched forward. No rest, no sleep, no pauses. Paving their path with bodies.

With each death of the weakest, a fragment of strength returned to the rest. Their drowsy minds cleared, the knots of hunger in their stomachs eased, and their throats once again found voice to chant litanies.

The trees parted before them, beasts and monsters fled in panic.

Neither mountains nor rivers could halt their march.

Not even the capital's river, which stretched nearly across the entire kingdom, managed to stop them. The exalted procession did not bother making a detour toward the bridge.

They walked straight into the water.

The rushing current, deep enough to drown a tall man with ease, posed no problem. The instant the first inquisitor's foot touched the water, it parted. A blinding light shone forth, driving the waters aside.

The steel boot of the inquisitor pressed into the silty bottom. One step. Then another.

The blue walls of water on either side only drove the procession into even greater religious ecstasy. People reached out to touch it, scarcely believing their eyes.

"A miracle!" they cried, not even noticing the faithful collapsing by the dozens.

The Pontiff was unbothered. The Father favored the Theocracy, never hindering it from raising churches wherever it pleased. Even if the Kingdom held fewer true believers—it was enough for him.

Here, in the royal domain, the procession would replenish its numbers.

The river lay behind them, the waters closing again with relief, washing away and hiding beneath their veil the hundreds of corpses who had paid with their lives for this miracle.

The capital's walls loomed ahead, their towering height visible from afar. Griffons soared in the sky above. They did not attack, merely watched the march.

Fortunate for them. For the High Inquisitors would not have minded tasting griffon blood.

The procession crossed the last few kilometers without incident. No one tried to stop them, not even a single guard was visible on the walls.

The Pontiff stepped out of his palanquin and raised his hand. His body, his spirit—so deeply infused with the One that calling upon its power required no effort.

He simply let the hunger slip free. He let the gates become the One. And they vanished.

The head of the Theocracy had no need to drink them away, to rust the metal or rot the wood. He simply allowed the One to consume them. All at once.

Stout shutters, heavy grates—everything ceased to exist, cast into nothingness. As too were the souls of those who had paid for this strike with their blood.

"Really, brother… didn't anyone teach you to knock? I would have opened them if you had asked," came Dastan's sarcastic voice. He stood on the wall, leaning on an impractically large sword.

"You are not my brother," the Pontiff replied coldly, pointing a finger at him.

In the sunlight his pale hand looked translucent, like a clawed paw. Behind him shone the altar, the clergy dutifully drawing knives to sprinkle it with blood. The choir of chants swelled louder.

A strike!

The fortress wall was far sturdier than the gates; it did not vanish in an instant. Granite blocks crumbled into dust, the smooth masonry pitted with cavernous scars that bit deeper and deeper into the wall. Stones wobbled, lost their hold, and came crashing down, raising whole clouds of dust.

The Pontiff lowered his hand and bit his bluish lips with long fangs. His claws retracted, and his hand took on a relatively normal form.

The silence broke with slow applause. The king sat relaxed atop a heap of granite, his sword lying at his side.

"I never cease to marvel at our kind. To draw strength from literally 'nothing'—truly fitting for descendants of those who defeated the gods," he said after finishing his clapping.

The Pontiff's hand twitched involuntarily. His essence longed to strike again, to devour, to make the king part of the void. But reason warned against it. If it had failed once, what guarantee was there it would succeed a second time? In the past, he would have rushed in, desperate to avenge his father's death, but ascension had drained his emotions, dulled his senses.

"How did you survive?" the Pontiff asked calmly.

"Do you really expect me to answer?"

"No."

The scrape of claws on steel. In the blink of an eye, the Pontiff was at the king's side, yet Dastan parried the sharpened claws without rising to his feet. Behind them, the choir swelled, streams of entropy clinging to the claws. Enough to turn any blade to rust.

But nothing happened. The bluish metal bore not a speck of corrosion. The head of the church broke the clinch and leapt back.

"I see. You came prepared," he said flatly.

"Don't flatter yourself," the king snorted with disdain. This sword was forged for another purpose."

"For what?"

The king opened his mouth, but a handful of granite dust, flung by the clawed hand, filled it. A lunge!

Three consecutive strikes—neck, flank, leg. None landed. Each blocked or parried. The king didn't even dodge. He didn't bother to rise to his feet, parrying blow after blow while still seated.

The claws of the ascended were fast. Fast enough to defy the human eye. But his sword was faster.

The flurry ended in nothing.

The king spat out grains of granite.

"You know, it's downright rude to throw sand into people's mouths."
"You are not human."

"Ha! Look who's talking!" Dastan laughed, then added seriously, "But you're right. I am better."

A blue blade flashed before his eyes. Too fast. Such force couldn't come from muscle alone… it was surely sped by magic. And yet, near the altar magic should have been impossible to use. Something to ponder later, but for now he had to evade.

Or at least try…

The azure edge pursued him, twisting, bending in an arc. It aimed straight for his neck. Block!

A severed hand fell to the ground. Stripped of protection, it burst into flame under the sun. Flesh burned away in moments, leaving bare bone.

The Pontiff stared in disbelief at the stump: the bone was cut with a perfect slice. Not a single drop of blood flowed.

"It won't grow back, don't bother trying," the King warned in a bored voice, planting his sword into the ground.

Inquisitors rushed from the altar toward the battlefield, seeing the fight turning against their master and wanting to intervene. With a wave of his remaining hand, the Pontiff stopped them. If he could not evade a blow, neither could they.

"A wise choice; I'd rather not have to lay them to rest. They still need to drink of the Commonwealth's blood," the King quipped, his pun provoking a flicker of irritation in the former First Prince.

"Where did you get that weapon?"

"I forged it myself, a very, very long time ago. Do you recognize the metal? I suppose your kind has forgotten how to make it; the pinnacle of human smithing now is sprinkling steel with your own blood. Pah, pathetic."

The Pontiff ignored the words, deep in thought, searching for some way to prevail but finding none. Even with the inquisitors, his opponent's strength was absurd.

"…incidentally, it can also store souls… Brother, pity you already gave yours to the void!" the King boasted smugly.

"What do you want?" the Pontiff asked without emotion. If he could not win in combat, perhaps he could negotiate.

"Me? It was you who came to my land, broke my wall, and tried to kill me!" Dastan laughed.

"That was a serious question, stranger. You are no demon. But you are not human. What are you?"

Silence hung in the air.

"All right, you want a serious answer? Fine. You do believe in a creator, don't you? Consider me one of them. I haven't killed you only because I need a weapon against the Commonwealth. I'm sure they'll attack you any day now, so return to your country and slaughter each other until none remain. I'll even help. Isn't that what you wanted: the destruction of all mages and the coming of the One?" The King's tone hardened. It was no advice, it was a command.

"We are not yet ready."

The Pontiff's voice had changed too, now filled with submission.

"You will never be ready. Your plan was doomed from the start. You cannot feed a black hole, you cannot tame the void. It cannot be bargained with."

"We have made progress. The One answers us. He allows us to use his power. Am I not proof? We simply need more believers. Their sincere sacrifice will humanize this force, and we will live forever in his embrace!"

"A half-empty parody of a man." The King's scornful gaze swept over the stump of the Pontiff's arm. "This is no success, this is degradation. All your kind has achieved is using faith to sculpt a mockery of a god out of nothing. Once your believers die, it will all return to how it was; gods do not live without belief."

After a moment's hesitation, the Pontiff dropped to his knees. The choir fell silent. Priests and acolytes, inquisitors and the few surviving peasants all followed suit.

The one who had taken his brother's body knew too much. Far too much, knowledge locked to the highest circles of the Theocracy.

If this being truly had ties to the creators, then he knew answers to questions that had tormented bishops and philosophers for centuries.

"Then what was the purpose? Why are we all here? Why is our world being devoured by the void? Is it a trial, an experiment?" the Pontiff asked humbly.

"Purpose? There is none. You all were never meant to be here at all. This barren rock should have dissolved into the void thousands of years ago along with its prisoners. I am only correcting mistakes."

"Then why now? People have lived here for thousands of years!"

"Time is relative; to all of you it passes faster. We would have left things as they were, but Samael managed to escape…" Dastan stepped closer to the kneeling Pontiff and raised his hand. A blow!

The slap left no trace of blood on the pale face.

"I was at the Peak of the World. You savages dragged his prison-sarcophagus into your temple like a trophy."

Another blow!

"You are like primitive tribesmen, using a staff of annihilation as a cane and praying to a magoscope as if it were a divine miracle!"

Another strike; the Pontiff's head did not turn even a degree, accepting the slap with the stoicism of stone.

"I suppose it was your Church that sealed this world's fate. If you managed to release one god, what guarantee is there you won't release others? Our Empire did not banish them to the edge of the universe so that they could return and continue the war."

Dastan shook his hand, numbed from the blow against the Pontiff's oak-like flesh.

"Then how did we end up here? There must have been some higher will, some purpose," the head of the Theocracy asked quietly.

"Your purpose is to serve me and carry out my will, and my will is the will of the Empire," the King answered firmly, pretending not to hear the question.

For he himself did not know the answer… but he did not care. The mission had to be fulfilled regardless.

The Pontiff remained silent. If the dome vanished, the world would have no happy ending. The One would devour everything. True faith had not yet managed to create paradise within the void; it would take many thousands of years of unbroken martyrdom for their will to open the path to salvation.

"If the dome falls, then you will die as well," the Pontiff respectfully reminded the being inhabiting his brother's body.

"I already died. My body crumbled to ash above the Commonwealth. In a sense… this is my true body." The King stroked the blade. "Now I want an answer: will you serve me and help bring the Empire's will to life, or will you die?"

The Pontiff lowered his gaze and nodded. He would have to submit.

For now.