FINAL CORE - Chapter 134 (Patreon)

“I don’t think you understand the scale of what is happening here.

My life, your life, the lives of everyone you know and everyone they knew — they're all just a glimmer of candlelight in an ocean of flames. The heroes of grand and old ages, the devils of reins of terror now past — all of them mean nothing, as they are nothing more than crumbles of sand in the grand desert of existence.

You try to find the gods from where you exist, but all around you is nothing but sand — to your left, to your right — desolation. Above is nothing but emptiness; below is nothing but more sand, having been ground there by the churning of generations. Those grains had their chance to see the sun, and now you too will be churned down to rest below the surface with them, and new dust will come to take your place.

And of them, all of them, no matter how grand or small, will be ground bare and fine in the true emptiness that is existence.

It’s not that the gods aren’t here. They are. It’s not even that they’re ignoring us. They aren’t.

It’s just that they’re not even aware that we exist. We’re less than sand beneath their feet.

That’s how small and insignificant we are.

— And that is why I can do whatever I want.”

~ Monologue of a rogue priest turned to an enemy of the state

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Isaiah

‘Coalescence’ is the concept referred to when many things come together to form a whole. It is when two droplets of water merge to become one larger, heavier droplet. The final product remains a droplet, as two is not enough to surpass the arbitrary limits as to when a droplet becomes a flow, a puddle, a lake, a river, and so on. Important in this context is that the final product remains the same as its components.

Two droplets. One droplet.

This is not to be confused with the familiar word of ‘emergence’ — that is when something made up out of many smaller pieces gains capabilities and aspects not attributable to its individual parts. The body is made up out of water, out of sinew and meat, all of which are dumb, simple things — yet together, somehow, they create a functioning machine that is, indeed, greater than the sum of its parts. The water that had come together to form a big droplet combined with many other things to allow something new to emerge that seems most impossible from a rational point of view.

Life.

Life is a strange concept, coming into play only through the power of the emergent properties of the materials of the world — yet what force sets these into motion? What force tells the droplets of water to combine into one larger droplet, which then combines into another larger droplet, and so on until an ocean is formed, and in this ocean thrives life abundant, which then in turn works with the world’s natural cycles to allow life on land. What power is there that tells the wind to blow, the sun to shine, and for feathers to fall from the sky, drifting slowly towards the world below?

For simple men, it cannot be said. For men of faith, it is because it is the will of the gods. For men of leisure, it is unimportant, as all that matters is to live life — to understand it is pointless, for the knowledge cannot be used anyway in any sensible manner.

Spring, summer, autumn, and winter come together to make the fullness of a year.

And the events of the things that happen within that year, from a personal perspective, determine whether this year was fruitful or not.

Time doesn’t really seem to move all that much right now, however.

Isaiah finds itself shooting through the air, its limited hands trying to reach as many of its precious children as it can, but it has far more cherished souls than it has the ability to grasp as they fall. It has far too few eyes to cast its vision all around the sky and the tower that cuts through it as suddenly, something changes in the world, for reasons it doesn’t understand in the least.

There’s a screeching in the air, and it can’t tell from where exactly it stems, whether from its sharp feathers that cut the wind or its own voice, which has never had to take such a tone before, or from the foulness that encroaches on the sanctity of its island from below, is impossible to say. However, it hangs in the air, never seeming to fade from its ears nonetheless, as time simply stays frozen, its heart striking so violently in its breast that its ribs feel as if they are about to break.

What is this?

A striking bell cuts through the air as time seems to return to its normal state. The grand bell of the tower crying out aloud, the heavy metal gong striking and ringing out the hour of true midnight with not a single soul there to man it. Rather, it is the wind itself, moving it with such impossible intensity, given the otherworldly weight of the gargantuan construction, sending out a resounding cry that reverberates around the world, the monster below screaming in rage as its evil repelling nature pushes against her — but not being enough to drive her away as it had once done before.

Isaiah crashes against the very-big-tree violently breaking through many of the branches, catching Red, some of the other uthra who remain unharmed, catching Crystal and the others.

It holds its quiet child for a moment, looking at her and trying to understand the wickedness that has befallen her, but being unable to do so.

The bell tolls, the violent winds howling to signal the end of days that has come, as thousands of boots crack like thunder, as they march up through the exit of the sub-tower, cracking, crashing, hammering strikes breaking apart the island, causing mountain sized rocks to fall into the black ocean, resulting in violently churning waves the likes of which have never been seen by the most experienced seamen of any age, present or forgotten.

Isaiah rests the uthra against the base of the broken tree, which has become bare and free of leaves that have all been torn off in the howling gales that scream and mourn at the loss of autumn, carrying with them a bare, cold, witches’ tinge.

The light of the moon and the pin-prick eyes of ten-thousand stars and then ten-thousand more gleam through the heavy clouds from above as if to observe the spectacle of life — the coalescence of their lights coming together to form a moonglow that radiates brightly in the sheen, lustrous metal of a sword that rests against the dying foliage.

Isaiah sets its hand onto the weapon, its taloned grip resting around its hilt as it looks around itself at the anarchy unfolding all around. The remaining uthra shoot around as fast as they can, trying to help with whatever they can manage to do. The people of the village scream, the last of them running into the tower to hide from the grand crusade, befouled, which marches up the staircase and finally sets foot on the island — their armor marred and dripping with blackness, avatars of great light standing amongst beasts and demons, as if unaware that they were nested within the bosom of their foe. And the witch…

…The witch…

The blade pulls free from the dirt.

This is its own fault.

If it had killed her back when it had the chance, so much suffering would have been avoided. This entire thing is unnecessary. If it had plunged this sword through her heart instead of being a naive idiot, hopeful for the goodness in every heart, the world would have long since been at peace.

There are some souls who cannot be saved.

A great, white, elongated beast, the wyrm, wraps itself around the tower like a coiling snake, its roar shaking the world as it rages at the encroaching crusade, led by men such as the great dragonslayer of old.

Enough.

Isaiah’s wings open wide as it rises into the air, turning to look at its many foes, who have come to destroy and take everything it has — snakes. Its eyes go wide, the golden radiance flickering like clashing lightning as it raises its blade into the sky, its body plummeting down towards the island below. 

It has had enough.

Life is supposed to be good.

— The bell tolls one last time, as everything sets into motion at once. Wild energies cascading freely from the sword and the tower at the same time, cutting through the air together against one another like the closing blades of scissors, ripping through the threads of heaven and fate.

NEW FLOOR

Floor 200

THE FINAL GATEWAY

The entrance to the spirit-world.

(Isaiah) HAS ACTIVATED: [FINAL CORE]

The wyrm lunges down towards the crusaders, who press forward toward it. Perchta, the foul mass that she is, pulls down the island, clambering up its edge and clawing towards the tower that is now at a full lean, the stones crumbling and cracking.

The air shifts and wobbles, reality’s seams ripping at all ends and edges, as teeth and blades clash all around the island.

Isaiah swings its sword, an arc of light cutting through a tendril of blackwater that swipes out towards it, another hand grabbing its body as a whole and trying to crush it.

The entity presses its energy outward, a burst of radiance dispersing the water off into all directions, the storm never-ending.

— Pieces of the tower crack and crumble, massive segments of it fall free through the air and down towards the ground below.

“I’LL TAKE EVERYTHING FROM YOU!” roars the blackwater monstrosity, its face the size of a hundred houses.

Isaiah lands on a free-floating piece of rock, looking at the beast that she has become.

“You would still have nothing, Perchta,” replies Isaiah, narrowing its eyes and readying the sword.

She screams, endless teeth and claws made of poison lashing forward to strike at it.

The island begins to shake as they fight, the tower starting to collapse, the wyrm and the great crusade locked in a fight over the entrance to the next section of the dungeon, as all around the world, prayers amass by the millions, begging for this anarchy to finally come to an end — one way or another.

Isaiah shoots through the air, the wings of a blackbird reflecting off of the bronze metal of a massive bell that tumbles down through the air in a violent free fall as it falls out of the tower and craters into the breaking world below.

The spirit-world and the physical world begin to intertwine in wildly unnatural ways, with the flash of godless white heralding the break of winter.