THE FORSAKEN LAND OF GENèSE | LOST KINGDOM

  600

  ? Leviticus ?

  The Third Great Stele of Prophecy.

  Unlike the second great stele, currently residing in his pastures, it lacked the modesty of crude stone. ? Leviticus ? was a carving of gemstone decadence, composed of the deep blue gemstone incorporated in the city’s lavish architecture.

  Including the one in his village, this was the third ‘sole existence’ divine tablet. No. It was the fourth of which the shepherd was made aware. He’d seen the third through the old man's eyes.

  Solvanel dismissed the stone tablet without reading further.

  The stele came apart at the extremes—motes of light that were quickly swallowed up by the darkness.

  His curiosity was screaming at him to dive into the contents of the next verse. But the contents of ? Exodus ? were yet to be understood. He didn’t need a warning from the crook to know it was premature.

  The silver bar shrank down to the size of a finger.

  “Oh no! Another weird power that I’ll be missing out on?” commented the coward. “At least I don’t have to see the stupid thing in my last moments.”

  “You are familiar with this stele?”

  “Familiar?” He chuckled. “Why, it’s basically family. Like the son they always wanted. They follow me wherever I go: Lotus, Sera, Cascadi…”

  Solvanel’s eyes widened. “Sera?”

  That was the name city the old man left behind.

  To the residents, it was the strongest remaining bastion of humanity, and Oscar died believing the same. Because in the decade he spent on the run, he didn’t come across another kingdom, town or straw hut to take them in.

  “Pardon me, Sir Saint. But how many places have you been?”

  “A few,” he answered, inspecting the silver. “Or a few dozen.”

  “You ventured across the Lands Forsaken alone?”

  “…I wasn’t alone.”

  His hesitation was an answer in and of itself. Traversing the various hellscapes he’d read about in his grandfather’s bestiary was inconceivable in imagination. In the real world, it couldn’t have been done without sacrifice.

  Solvanel nodded slowly. “And the steles. What exactly is their purpose?”

  “Beats me. They’ve outlived anybody who’d know the answer. Sounds like there’s one of them back in Shithole Fucktown. I bet your granny told you to call it the Great Stele of Prophecy or something like that, right?”

  “…”

  “Thought so. They called ours the Great Stele of Law. Sera calls it the Shrine of Monument. Cascadi? They just use it like a scratching post. But if you ask me…”

  His expression darkened.

  “…they’re the worst kind of nothing.”

  Beauty of the Feast was halfway up the staircase, its melody into the ear—an ancient, eerie underglow to the wastrel’s ember.

  “Most people give up trying to make sense of them. But instead of destroying them, they leave them out in the open. Which means that every so often, some ‘divine messenger’ pops up claiming they cracked the code. And each time, everybody just gets up and believes them.”

  “Let me guess,” he added, tone sharp with sarcasm, “those things have something to do with your destiny?”

  Solvanel’s cheeks had been red since the start of the conversation, but now the heat crept higher. He opened his mouth, explanation armed at the tongue, that, unlike the swindlers of the past, he saw the verses just fine. And with the finest comprehension of an ancient language, thank you very much—

  “No. No.” Saint cut him off before another righteous lecture. “You’ve made your beliefs clear.” He waved a hand lazily. “You’re the shepherd, and I’m just a sheep. And as the shepherd, I’m sure you’ll be different from all the other guys who were different from them, too.”

  The shepherd’s shoulders drooped.

  A sigh. “Let’s just focus on not dying in the next fifteen minutes, yeah?”

  Saint reached out in an odd direction.

  Over the sound of the shadespawn and its army’s advance, there was a projectile’s rapid approach. A glint rotating in flight. It chopped through the air as if aimed for the wastrel’s head.

  Saint caught the Apothecary’s Axe and tapped the silver bar against the blade.

  Solvanel witnessed an imperfect, but familiar purifying light settling in the grooves. Showcasing the abilities of [Loyalty] and [Lesser Conduit], Cedrick Goodhall’s instrument had chosen a new wielder.

  “Yeah,” Solvanel confirmed, tightening his grip on the crook.

  “How far is it?” Saint asked, lowering his stance.

  “About halfway…”

  “Good. Make a barrier on both sides of the staircase on my signal.”

  Solvanel eyed the wastrel’s new weapon warily.

  The Apothecary’s Axe’s composition was lacklustre.

  Its secondary ability excelled in convenience. But the main ability was preceded by the word ? Moins ?, meaning ‘lesser’.

  Silver, on the other hand, was an incomprehensible sight. The serpentine etched into the diving metal was shifting, morphing, changing at a rate that far surpassed the clarity of his [Discarded View].

  Despite taking on a pitiful portion of the silver’s ability, its inferior structure was approaching a rapid collapse. Or, in layman’s terms, the instrument was about to explode.

  “You should really-”

  “Now!” Sir Saint pivoted.

  He launched the instrument down the stairwell.

  The shepherd brought up a new barrier at once.

  Beauty’s tune was cut short by a blinding flash that swallowed the darkness for an instant. Shards of slacksteel howled against the barrier, ricocheting like jagged hail off its unseen surface. Fragments slammed into the surrounding walls, ricocheting in the narrow space while tearing through stone and flesh.

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  The character of ? Aegis ? flared—alone against the impact. Rather than silver, which functioned solely as a power source, the regal threads in the shepherd’s divine breath were drawn into the Blue Scarab’s Husk. This time, the characters were bordered in gold instead of bronze.

  Solvanel remembered how the previous barrier changed according to his will.

  On a whim, he thought up a single word in Serpentine:

  ? Br?lez ?

  A second set of characters appeared beside ? Aegis ?.

  The command exerted his will within the sealed space of the barrier.

  The cold wind rushing through the hole in the side of the watchtower was suddenly overtaken by heat.

  The shadespawn’s vessel blackened. Rotting skin blistering in a furnace. Goodhall’s dry hair and tattered clothing ignited. However, the creature had stopped screaming.

  Beauty of the Hunt continued its ascent.

  It laughed softly, like the kiss of flame was nothing but a warm breeze. “What is it about you living folk and this constant burning?” It asked. “You use it as a weapon, knowing that to burn is to be hurt. And yet it’s the only thing that keeps you alive.”

  Solvanel’s brow furrowed. Why didn’t that work?

  Swaying as it walked, one hand on the wall for balance. “I left humanity behind because I was sick of all those embers. The fires of love, of regret… all born from a relentless yearning blaze. It’s a fire that eats and eats and eats and never stops wanting more.”

  Silver was divine because it was said to incinerate the creatures of darkness.

  “All that constant, burning pain is the curse of the living.” A sticky, squelching step. “And to live is to be weak.” It let its hand fall away from the wall and raised it in front of the barrier.

  “In abandoning that fire,” it whispered, “I ensured that your words of violent immolation would scathe my pretty flesh no more.”

  Beauty licked its burning fingers and exhaled in satisfaction.

  Unafraid.

  Untouched.

  Unburned.

  ‘To burn is the curse of the living…’

  And the earth was meant for the living. Creatures of darkness did not belong here. If some of them were immune to fire, then there had to be another word. A word he’d read before. A word written in silver, somewhere in the steles. Not as direct as ? Br?lez ?, to burn, but similar in meaning.

  [He wields a sword of fire that incinerates the darkness.]

  In his daydreams, he was a figure bathed in divine light. However, his goal wasn’t to incinerate the darkness, was it? The mercenaries were monsters, but the world didn’t change when they were burned.

  It changed when they were killed.

  When their futures were severed.

  Their bodies gobbled up by the Essaifamè.

  It changed when every trace of their being was swallowed, erased from the face of the earth.

  Beauty of the Feast was wrong.

  This wasn’t about pain.

  It wasn’t about vengeance.

  It wasn’t even about justice.

  Burning the darkness was never meant to hurt them.

  He had misunderstood. Overreached, perhaps. Misread the language of what he was fighting for. In this moment, ? Br?lez ? had been wrong. A word soaked in heat and fury when what he needed was absolute.

  There were a thousand different words he could’ve spoken. Words etched into the divine breath. Words etched into him. But one stood above all.

  It appeared beside ? Aegis ? in the barrier’s composition.

  Beauty screamed—echoes of bitter agony for the first time since its revival.

  The violet core in its abdomen trembled violently, writhing like a parasite being expelled by the host. A colourless mist escaped through shrivelled pores. Cracks in its very existence. Blistering. Flaking dust.

  Solvanel didn’t need to peer into the beast to know what was happening.

  If every instrument is a tool to shape the world, then the composition is the schematic by which these instruments were made. Each word is a command etched into the instrument, which could be called upon to exert its influence.

  ? Aegis ? was the central command written into the Blue Scarab’s Husk. However, the rest of its composition was a blank slate, so anyone with a decent grasp of Serpentine should be able to fill the gaps as desired.

  By establishing a barrier on both sides, both sides were trapped inside the watchtower. But while he and Saint were on the other side of the barrier. The shade was in the middle of the barrier’s composition. Therefore, he chose a command that rejected its very existence.

  ? Purifiez. ?

  The word was radiance incarnate. A flawless promise bathed in light.

  There was nothing on this earth superior to its radiant glow. Save for the star falling from the sky.

  Beauty fell to a knee, both hands on the abdomen. Its core no larger than a spark.

  And for a moment, Solvanel thought it was over.

  The barrier cracked.

  Collapsing by contradiction. The composition, overwhelmed by a command too pure, too absolute for the foundation it was built upon. The stalwart defender, ? Aegis ?, crumbled in the middle of the formation.

  The resulting explosion gave no time.

  Solvanel and Saint were blown back, sprawling on splintered wood. Dust crept into the watchtower perch, drawn through new seams in the invisible wall. The Blue Scarab’s Husk dulled, its brilliance leeched away.

  Slowly, the monstrosity straightened—its rotted silhouette visible through the smoke.

  And across the fractured silence…

  Beauty smiled. All teeth. No flesh left around the lips.

  Smoke curled from its scorched frame, but its eyes gleamed with terrible knowing.

  The scream had passed. What remained was the reward. Sula’s head peeked through the tears in its stomach—whole.

  It yawned. “I’m done with this farce.”

  The vortex activated.

  Air screamed as it was drawn into the battle—pulling instead of standing still. Dust surged, blood lifted from the ground, and the world tilted toward its open maw.

  Solvanel went flying.

  Caught in the pull before he could brace, his body pitched forward, crook torn from his grasp.

  Saint threw an arm around one of the crumbling support beams, boots skidding as he anchored himself. His other hand snatched the shepherd mid-flight—fingers locking tight around his arm.

  “Gotcha!” he hissed through gritted teeth.

  The wind howled. The pull strengthened.

  Solvanel’s eyes widened. “Let go—”

  “Shut up!” Saint barked. “I’m not letting you die!”

  “No!” The boy struggled in his hold. “My crook!”

  The staff tumbled end over end, spinning toward Beauty's gaping maw.

  Saint's jaw clenched. His grip on the beam groaned.

  Was he really going to risk his life for a stick?

  "Fuck it." He released the beam.

  His body lurched forward into the pull. One hand still locked on Solvanel's arm, the other stretched out—grasping. The crook's worn wood met his palm just as the vortex's edge caught them both.

  With a roar, Saint twisted his whole body and hurled Solvanel backwards, the crook pressed into the boy's chest. Beauty took his arm, the Black Hand poison infecting his pale flesh.

  Saint winced.

  “It looks like I’ve taken your hand after all, my handsome prince.”

  “Keep it!” Another axe swooped into the perch, severing the wastrel’s tainted arm at the elbow. Silver radiated in the spaces between his fingers as it was sucked into the creature’s maw. Beauty’s eye sockets widened, but it was too late.

  The silver bar erupted in its gut.

  The shade convulsed.

  Its back arched, spine cracking as the light of purity burned inside. Light burst from its mouth. Cracks spider-webbed across its flesh vessel, splitting its chest open with the sound of wet papyrus. Light screamed through the fissures like molten metal seeking escape. Every wound, every hole in its corrupted body became a beacon, rays carving through the darkness and painting the city in fleeing shadows.

  Beauty clawed at its own stomach, fingers digging into rotted flesh, seeking to tear the agony out. Strips of meat came away in its bony fingers.

  The light of silver swelled.

  “Close your eyes!”

  Then, it exploded.

  Saint and Solvanel threw their arms across their faces. The brilliance consumed everything. A merciless purity that seared through closed eyelids. To them, it felt like solace. But to the monster, it was erasure.