“You are disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting!”
“Ngh... Gaaahhh!”
“Ah... You remind me of my hateful brother. Such unwelcome memories. How could I show mercy to a man who looks at me the same way?”
Null’s howls echoed across the battlefield, accompanied by an undercurrent of tinkling laughter.
“I did say I would cut you to ribbons, and I intend to keep my word.”
Claudia slowly flayed him open, smiling cruelly all the while.
“But never fear. I am no monster. I will kill you eventually...once I have made good on my promise.”
She smiled with all the compassion of a goddess. Her blade caught the sunlight as she drove it down into Null’s face.
＊＊＊＊＊
Silence ruled in the monsters’ encampment. No one said a word as the enemy grew closer. From the size of the dust cloud, it was clear the imperial charge would cut through to the core. Embers swirled above the front line, and blasts of heat rolled across the field; there could be no doubt as to who was approaching. Nevertheless, the defenders were completely at ease.
There were two reasons for that. Firstly, most monsters were too dim-witted to speak a recognizable language, let alone prepare for an attack as humans would. They would continue gazing at the front line, faintly bemused, until the order came to do otherwise. Secondly, the yaldabaoth radiated confidence. They had the utmost faith in the strength bestowed on them by their master. No matter what came over the horizon, they were certain they could tear it asunder. It was hard to blame them for their arrogance; they had been born and raised in the harsh world of the Sanctuarium where they had no equals, and even after emerging into the wider world, they had rarely faced truly worthy opponents. Nonetheless, both factors combined to blunt their recognition of the impending danger.
One of the yaldabaoth approached the black-haired boy. “Null is gone, Father.”
“I see,” the boy murmured disinterestedly. As ever, his attention was fixed on the front line.
If the yaldabaoth minded the boy’s coldness, he did not show it. This was nothing new. The Demiurgos had been this way for as long as he could remember. He said no more, but lowered his head respectfully and retreated to where his comrades had congregated.
“Rejoice,” he said. “Null is dead. Once this battle is done, we will choose a new chieftain.”
Another nodded. “I did not think he would last long. He was strong, but not wise.”
Laughter rang out. None seemed to grieve the loss of their kin. Null had been far from the only yaldabaoth to fall on the front lines, but they shed no tears. If anything, they were glad to have fewer rivals for the seat of chieftain.
Yaldabaoth retained a handful of characteristics from before their turning, but their fiendish transformations and the harsh environment they had endured had left them with a twisted sense of right and wrong. They thought nothing of killing their own kind; their fellow yaldabaoth were as much rivals as brethren. Whether they were filling their bellies or pursuing their desires, their hearts ruled their heads, and what they wanted, they took by force. Life in the Sanctuarium was too cutthroat for kindness.
Recognizing that the yaldabaoth would wipe each other out if left to their own devices, the Demiurgos had created the role of chieftain. The strongest among them would lead the rest and dictate how they lived—a fitting societal structure for the Sanctuarium, where might made right. As such, every yaldabaoth nursed hopes of their chieftain’s death and could not abide any rivals stronger than themselves. It was hard to imagine them helping each other on the battlefield unless it served their own interests. They did not think twice about abandoning their own kind.
“What petty creatures,” the boy murmured.
Bored of the yaldabaoth, he returned his gaze to the blaze raging across the battlefield. The crimson flames were so entrancing he could not help but want to reach out and touch them, even though they would burn his flesh to ash. The approaching clamor heralded the end of the world.
“Louder. Louder. Let me hear every note in all its splendor.”
Once upon a time, a young girl had chased a dream. Those around her had laughed at her ambition, scoffing that her dream would never come to pass, but she had refused to bend. Her misfortune and hardship had not broken her heart but reforged it as strong as iron. She had stumbled, fallen, and collapsed in the muck, only to rise again and struggle on through ridicule, hatred, and scorn. Nobody laughed at her anymore. They saw that her resolve was very real.
Even now, she pressed on, faster and faster, as if chasing greater heights. Who could scorn her for wanting to inspire her soldiers, to lead her nation, to bring her people happiness? No one doubted her anymore. Even the gods could not deny her now.
“Come. Play me the song of the end.”
And she came, burning with the conviction of a monarch, radiating the arrogance of a deity. All who stood before her were reduced to cinders. All who barred her path were reduced to ash. No one in this world could halt her march. Lions and serpents accompanied her arrival, springing forth from a fiery abyss that swirled crimson and azure.
The monsters did not stand and fight. Their instincts recoiled against the notion. Only the yaldabaoth charged forth recklessly, and the inferno swallowed them whole. Screams rent the air, howls shook the sky, roars shuddered across the earth. A worthy stage was taking shape for the coming end.
The sky blackened. The land smoldered. All that lived burned in ghostly fire. And in the center of it all stood a crimson-haired woman, wreathed in flames of resolute azure. By Surtr’s guidance, Lævateinn had come to set the world of the gods alight.
“How I’ve waited for this day.” The black-haired boy rose silently to his feet. “Welcome, Crimson Princess, to the highest of heights. To the halls of the gods.”
Where before he had shown no emotion, he now smiled in genuine satisfaction.
“Or perhaps I should call you the Crimson Empress.”
He spread his arms wide, a dreadful grin upon his face.
“Let us sound the horns of Ragnarök.”
＊＊＊＊＊
The twinblack boy showed no hesitation as he drew Dáinsleif and eased into a fighting stance. Liz recognized him—all too well, in fact. She had never forgotten him for a moment. Her chest filled with warmth at the sight of his silken hair, obsidian eyes, and soft features. He was Hiro. There could be no mistake.
And so, to be certain, she used the Far Sight. His true nature would be revealed in the color of his soul.
She looked him over, every inch. The results were unclear—several hues swirled within him, blended so closely that it was impossible to discern exactly what he was. Her heart insisted he was the boy she knew, but her body was on guard, instinctively regarding him as a threat. A wary ripple ran through the flames coiling around her protectively. They, too, seemed to think he was a foe.
“Are you really Hiro?”
In the end, all she could do was ask. Internally, she had to smile ruefully at how ridiculous she must have looked, hoping for honesty she would surely not receive.
“I am Surtr, and I am the Spirit King, and I am the Demiurgos too.” The boy’s every motion seemed intended to provoke her. “The Five Lords. That is my name.”
“Is that so.”
Liz clenched her fist so hard her nails pierced the skin. Blood oozed from between her fingers and dripped to the ground. With her eyes downcast and her shoulders trembling, she almost looked like she was crying. Yet her resolve had not wavered. Her flames flared to mirror her heart, raging and roiling not with sorrow, but with tremendous anger.
“Then I’ll tear the rest of you off him and drag him out of there myself.”
✦ ✦ ✦
