Till the Cetus Falls

A leaf drifts down from its branch, slicing through the dark crimson sky. It lands softly in a pool of blood, sending out a faint ripple.

A metallic sweetness hangs thick within the ancient forest. Upon the crimson-stained lichen lie the bodies that feed the soil with their blood. Silent now, their eyes still wide with defiance.

A vivid, violent dream. Crouching in the underbrush, you peer out through the gaps in the foliage, trying to steady your ragged breath.

A scimitar is drawn cleanly from a man's chest, grating with a sound that sets your teeth on edge. The warrior dusts off his armor and looks up at those around him.

He licks the blood from his scimitar, eyeing the dozen-odd people encircling him with amused interest.

He raises his scimitar; everyone instinctively takes a step back.

A torrent of armor surges toward the lone figure at the center. The knights' charge crushes moss and bleached bones underfoot. The earth trembles beneath them.

The clash of steel thunders through the dense woods, startling a black cloud of birds into flight, like dark fragments peeling away from the canopy above.

The leaves of your hiding place quiver. You huddle behind the underbrush, breath held, watching the slaughter unfold through the gaps in the tangled branches.

...

The scimitar shatters swords, pierces fragile flesh beneath gaps in the armor, severs limbs and heads with surgical precision. Every stroke ruthless, efficient, without any wasted motion.

Strength, speed, technique... Before this warrior, the elite knights fall one by one like lambs to the slaughter.

...

The charge and the battle cries soon die down. Varro tears a clean strip of cloth from a dead knight and wipes the blood from his scimitar.

He inspects the spotless edge, nods in satisfaction, then retrieves the Bone Sigil leading to the arena from the lead knight's corpse.

He glances around but finds no thirteenth body.

Snap,

A dead branch betrays your retreat, bad timing. Varro spins sharply toward your thicket.

Varro admires his own reflection in the scimitar's blade, walking toward you unhurriedly.

You glance around frantically, searching for any viable escape route.

You close your eyes, struggling to force down the fear surging within you, your mind going blank...

Rustle. Rustle. Rustle.

Footsteps come from another direction, treading over fallen leaves and lichen.

Calm. Steady. Like an afternoon stroll.

When the footsteps stop, the wind and birdsong vanish. Even the blood oozing from corpses behind you seems to freeze. An eerie silence swallows the forest whole.

A woman steps into view. Ornamental black light armor covers her frame, and in her hands she casually holds two rugged greatswords, utterly disproportionate to her build.

Her eyes sweep across the corpses littering the ground, flickering briefly over their wounds.

The woman in black armor nods with satisfaction, advancing toward him with slow, deliberate steps.

Varro waits. He searches her eyes for fear but finds only an irritating calm.

The woman in black armor gives no answer, her pace as unhurried as before, as if taking a leisurely walk. Fury ignites in Varro instantly; his hand closes around the hilt, drawing that sharp scimitar.

Clang,

The crispest ring of steel Varro has ever heard shivers past his ear, gone in a heartbeat.

The woman who stood before him only a moment ago now appears behind him. She grips a greatsword in one hand, its edge casually resting against the side of his neck.

Varro looks down. The scimitar, forged by the Six Kingdoms' finest smith and stained with the blood of countless foes, hangs just inches out of its scabbard, sheared clean off at the hilt.

His prized blade spins through the air and plunges into the blood-soaked earth, like a cold gravestone.

The black-armored woman's tone is thick with undisguised disappointment.

Varro has seen enough of the world to know when to yield. His knees buckle, and he kneels before her.

Varro has a whole speech prepared, only to find he needs none of it.

Like a man hauled back from the brink of the abyss, Varro fumbles through his belongings, finally presenting the Bone Sigils to Lotan with trembling, cupped hands.

Swoosh,

The greatsword slices effortlessly through the armor, carving a massive gash from Varro's right hip to his left shoulder.

Warm blood sprays across the underbrush before you, beading into dark crimson droplets upon the leaves.

Such speed and strength are impossible for him to resist. Varro looks up at Lotan, confusion in his eyes.

Lotan takes the two Bone Sigils from Varro's hand and shoves his corpse, face still frozen in confusion, onto the heap of twelve dead knights, like so much discarded refuse.

She glances toward the underbrush, raising her greatsword, ready to cleave the extra Sigil...

Lotan's blade halts in midair. With cold indifference, she watches you crawl out from the bushes.

You summon every ounce of courage and take a step toward Lotan.

Lotan arches an eyebrow, watching you with cold mockery.

You look at the corpses strewn across the ground, at the figure radiating primal dread before you, and swallow hard.

You know victory was never yours to claim. Every instinct screams to flee from this monster, to run as far away as possible.

You want to forget your mother who was sacrificed alive to the Astral Cetus. You want to forget your siblings who were penned like livestock in the stables. You simply want to survive.

But you can't. You can't forget. Just as you were dragged into this doomed game to be nothing but cannon fodder, choice was never yours to make.

You take a deep breath, pick up the Sigil, and use a rag to wipe the grime from Lotan's armor, just as you once did for the knights.

You bow low before her. Her calm, steady breathing presses down on you so heavily you dare not raise your head, only keeping your eyes glued to the ground beneath her feet. You feel her blade-sharp gaze linger on you for several seconds.

Lotan sheathes her greatsword and heads in the direction you indicate.

The blood has fully seeped into the earth. Deep within the dark firmament, a colossal, slowly-shifting shadow looms in and out of sight.

You shiver and hurry to keep pace with Lotan.

You look over the crumbling, wind-worn walls around you and scratch your head.

While you mutter to yourself before the ancient stone seat, Lotan strides toward the center of the vast plaza.

You clap your hands over your mouth. Lotan doesn't spare you a glance. She surveys the surroundings, one hand trailing across a broken stone pillar.

The pillar's cross-section is webbed with black, vein-like patterns, as if some living tissue were growing from within.

You press your ear against the pillar and make out a low, rhythmic pulse, like some enormous creature breathing slowly deep within the stone.

A wave of nausea and bloodlust surges through you; you stumble back.

Lotan walks toward a lapis lazuli table at the center of the plaza, its exquisite workmanship and costly materials jarringly out of place in this desolate ruin.

The table's surface is covered in a layer of fine, moist scales. Under the dim light, they part and close in the exact rhythm of the breathing you heard moments ago.

Lotan places the two Bone Sigils upon it. The instant the scales touch the Sigils, they clench like countless fingers seizing prey and devour the two Sigils whole.

As you rush toward the table, a humanoid silhouette rises slowly from its center.

Its face shifts ceaselessly, now a king, now a knight, now something unrecognizable.

Its voice seems to emerge from beneath a pool of blood, every syllable carrying an eerie resonance.

The Apparition raises both arms, and a deep, distant sound like a whale's song erupts from within it, piercing through your bones and resonating within your skull.

The song ripples outward. Wherever it sweeps, the sky is smeared a somber red. The crumbling ruins, glued by some unidentifiable slime, coalesce into a grand, ancient arena.

Towering statues of deities loom on all sides. Carved in various poses, they gaze down at the insect-like mortals below with eyes of pity or wrath.

A dozen or so challengers stand scattered across the platform, sizing you up.

Amid the Apparition's light laughter, sixteen hostile gazes turn toward you.

Lotan ignores your excited babbling. She glances briefly at the combatants, leans against a stone pillar and closes her eyes.

That gentle voice, those steady footsteps, that wide robe of costly fabric, the juniper-scented perfume... you would recognize him even if he were reduced to ashes.

The nobleman smiles gracefully. His gaze never leaves Lotan.

Lotan's gaze sweeps across the insignia on his robes and the sword at his waist. However little one cares for the politics of the Six Kingdoms, the Chancellor's insignia is unmistakable.

Elian smiles and seats himself upon the stone pillar before Lotan.

Elian laughs heartily, shaking his head.

Elian's words tumble out faster and faster. The air, thick with slaughter and ambition, stirs even his composed heart.

Sensing his own lapse, perhaps, he draws a deep breath and steps back half a pace.

Before Lotan can reply, countless identical Apparitions materialize across the arena's seating, packing the stands. That whale-song voice rings out once more across the empty arena.

The Apparitions' manic laughter pierces everyone's eardrums in the arena. Amid the hysteria, they fall silent, gazing expectantly at the empty center below.

That familiar smile slips back onto Elian's face.

For the first time, Lotan lifts her head and regards him seriously. She sees a gently smiling face, and eyes that seem to see through everything.

You wave your hands frantically at Lotan, trying to warn her how deceitful Elian truly is.

From slave to merchant, merchant to noble, noble to Chancellor, Elian's arduous path was paved with footprints soaked in lies and blood.

But Lotan doesn't look at you. She turns her head instead, gazing up at the dark crimson heavens. That colossal, whale-shaped shadow still drifts slowly, its bone-spiked silhouette flickering in and out of view.

Numbly, you step aside. Lotan walks past you and looks down at the Chancellor before her. Crimson light outlines her in a sharp silhouette.

The lust for power flowing through the air washes over you like a tide. A bitter smile creeps onto your face. Everyone here is the same, you shouldn't have expected anything different.

Elian grins. There is not a hint of surprised delight in his expression, as if this were an outcome he had long since guaranteed.

He turns and walks toward the stands.

Enjoy the battle, Lady Lotan.

The arena's circular stone walls tower high, its stands packed with rapt Apparitions.

Deep within the murky, dark crimson sky, the colossal whale-shaped shadow glides slowly.

Lotan shakes her head and yanks her greatsword from the corpse at her feet.

Shattered bone grinds against the blade with a teeth-grating shriek. The burly body is torn in two, those defiant eyes rolling with the upper half into a bloody gutter.

You've seen plenty of dead, but the sight before you still turns your stomach.

You turn away, only to catch sight of two shadows rushing toward you...

...

Two gusts sweep past you. Warm liquid spatters across your skin.

You feel no pain. Death, it seems, hasn't come for you yet. Uncovering your eyes, you see two freshly severed heads, their eyes still defiant, staring straight at you.

You stumble back two steps, nearly tripping over Gracchus's severed torso.

Amid the roaring cheers of the Apparition crowd, Elian steps over the corpses with satisfaction.

A thunderous hoofbeat and howling wind cut him off, suddenly appearing behind Elian and you.

Before you can even react, Lotan snatches you up and flings you aside.

The warhorse's shrill cry echoes through the arena. Amid the swirling dust, a general in weathered old armor reins in his charging steed, driving the spearpoint of the banner in his hand through the chest of a knight too slow to dodge.

As the dust slowly settles, it reveals a compact, battle-hardened figure. He gently turns his mount, fixing you with eyes that have witnessed endless slaughter.

You accidentally lock eyes with him for an instant. A crushing pressure buckles your legs, leaving you barely able to stand.

The dust clears. You see that legendary old armor, said to bear seventy scars, and the armored warhorse that once trampled the lands of Six Kingdoms, proudly snorting steam.

Four blood-dripping heads hang at the steed's flanks, a habit the old man has kept since his youth.

You notice, for the first time, a clear shift in Lotan's tone. Her voice turns hoarse with excitement, like a lioness catching the scent of prey.

Elian has met many dangerous people, but Lotan's voice chills him more than any threat.

He doesn't hesitate for long, stepping aside with unchanged expression.

Lotan rests her hand on the hilt of her greatsword as she walks toward Alish.

The Apparitions in the stands fall utterly silent, their featureless faces turning in perfect unison to follow Lotan's footsteps.

The low-frequency hum in the air grows clearer, like some ancient, ravenous anticipation.

There is not a trace of provocation in Lotan's words. Her hand rests on her greatsword, her eyes fixed on the aging general, her steps as solemn as a pilgrim's.

The old general throws back his head and laughs. His warhorse stands perfectly still. Man and mount remain solitary at the center of the arena, the blood-red banner fluttering wildly in the wind.

Alish's voice suddenly rises, his legs expertly prompting his mount. The steed that has carried him through countless campaigns bursts forward, its piercing neigh echoing across the vast arena...

The banner streams like a bolt of crimson lightning, tearing through the dust of the arena, charging straight for Lotan.

You see the corners of Lotan's mouth curl upward uncontrollably. This is the first time you have ever seen her smile.

She draws her greatsword and charges head-on to meet that streak of crimson lightning...

...

BOOM!!!...

The white greatsword collides with the red banner, a high-pitched shriek shaking every eardrum.

Iron hooves kick up dust, the silhouettes of Lotan and Alish flashing back and forth through the murky battlefield.

With every clash, the whale-shaped shadow in the sky trembles violently, as if savoring some rare and exquisite delicacy.

...

You strain your eyes to track their movements, but you can scarcely make them out.

Before you can finish, something cold presses against your skin.

Your throat works. Only someone born a slave truly understands how powerfully tempting Elian's words are.

You watch the poisoner conceal himself, slipping into the swirling dust. You say nothing more.

The charging general frowns when he catches a glimpse of a shadow melting into the dust. His reaction slows by half a beat.

When that ferocious greatsword swings toward him again, he barely manages to raise his banner to block it.

...

With a violent collision of force, the warhorse stumbles and crashes to the ground. The crimson banner snaps in two, and a massive blade rests across his neck.

Lotan lets out a soft sigh, laden with regret.

Lotan opens her eyes and shakes her head, ignoring the shadow lurking behind her.

The shadow in the sky comes to a halt, letting out a rumble of pleasure.

Alish stares in sheer awe at the young woman before him. The dim, blood-red light traces her silhouette. In his final moments, he beholds the very embodiment of his own faith.

General Alish spreads both arms wide, bathing in the blood-tinted light.

A clean flash of steel arcs, old Alish's head rolls to rest beside his dead horse and the broken banner.

A satisfied smile remains etched upon the weathered face. Old Alish desires nothing more from his end.

Closing his eyes for him, Lotan turns and sees the nobleman in Chancellor's robes, and the child beneath his trembling dagger.

Following Elian's voice, Lotan glances back at the figure hidden in the shadows behind her.

After a brief struggle, the Chancellor's poisoner withdraws his trembling hand and flees the arena. When faced with death, most people know what to choose.

The footsteps of death draw closer. Elian's voice begins to tremble.

The sharp dagger plunges deep into your shoulder. Your agonizing scream echoes through the arena.

The dagger twists within you, accompanied by your ceaseless cries.

Lotan remains eerily calm, as if she hears nothing at all. She strides toward Elian, greatsword in hand, her pace as steady as an afternoon stroll.

Lotan shakes her head in contempt.

A clean, swift stroke of the blade flashes by. This politician who once manipulated the Six Kingdoms meets his end with eyes wide in shock and helplessness.

Only two living creatures remain in the entire arena. The greatsword in Lotan's hand drips with blood, and that gaze devoid of any warmth turns, at last, toward you.

You've long forgotten the pain in your shoulder. You dare not look straight into those calm eyes.

Lotan says nothing. She walks toward you unhurriedly, blade in hand. Your forehead presses firmly against the ground, your body shivering before that approaching shadow.

The voice pours in from every direction, carrying an unsettling delight. Countless Apparitions in the stands rise simultaneously, identical smiles stretching across their ever-shifting faces.

A heavy, muffled sound. The arena's stone pillars crumble behind you, fragments hurtling skyward, vanishing into that mire-like dark crimson sky.

At the center of those shattered pillars, a rift leading to another realm tears reality open, like a vertical pupil slowly opening.

Lotan withdraws her gaze, she has never had any interest in you. That slender figure, greatsword in hand, walks toward the rift.

Not until her form vanishes entirely into the rift do you finally sit up, gasping for breath.

You want to flee, but an irresistible pull emanates from that rift, latching onto your bones like an invisible thread, gently yet persistently tugging you.

Your feet move involuntarily toward the rift. The rift quivers faintly, like a gentle eye watching you.

Just one look. Just one peek. You want to see what the great lord who devours stars truly looks like... You tiptoe closer and slip inside...

...

No light, no sound, you can't even hear your own heartbeat. You aren't certain whether you still have a body, or whether you've become a fragment of consciousness adrift in the void.

Then, sensation floods back. Beneath your feet, you feel a soft, warm, rhythmic writhing. It contracts gently, like a giant tongue licking at you.

Dim stars wheel across the void. A pulsating mass of shifting hues illuminates the space around you.

An endless mass of flesh undulates beneath your feet, like a vast tongue, or a stomach.

You draw a deep breath and meet the gaze of that flickering, eye-like pulse in the distance. Within a second, dizziness overwhelms you, and warm blood gushes from your nose. You hurriedly avert your eyes.

In your last sidelong glimpse, you see that shifting pulse coalesce into an ephemeral apparition before Lotan. As It speaks, a whale-song reverberates through this space.

The Apparition nods with satisfaction.

The Astral Cetus regards Lotan with amusement, a booming laugh echoing through the space.

With a whale-song's cry, a colossal whale heart materializes within this space. A torrent of blood gushes from the heart, forming dense, intricate runes before Lotan.

They arrange themselves into an incomprehensible shape, each time Lotan attempts to grasp its full form, it shifts into another entirely different form.

Merely glancing at it makes your blood boil, battering your organs and urging you to seize a blade and plunge it into the heart of the person before you... you hastily look away.

The Astral Cetus's smile carries an ancient weariness. It has witnessed this same story too many times. This time is no different.

Without hesitation, Lotan reaches out and presses her hand onto that blood-formed sigil.

Living, liquid glyphs crawl forth from the pool of blood. They climb along Lotan's arm, seeps in, and burrows beneath her skin.

Wherever those glyphs pass, Lotan's flesh rapidly decays and splits apart, leaving nothing but stark white bone and deep crimson blood.

Lotan's body convulses with agony, but she never makes a sound. Her eyes, already half-shattered, remain wide open, bearing witness to it all.

The glyphs spread along the network of veins toward her heart, finally reaching her eyes. In an instant, Lotan's pupils warp into the same spiral vortex of the Astral Cetus.

Then... the vortex fades. The color of Cetus's eyes remains in hers forever, and bone-white armor encases her newly formed body.

The entire void gives off a low resonance, and all those faces suspended in the abyss, all those who died in the arena, open their mouths in unison, releasing a silent wail.

They're welcoming their new sovereign.

Lotan clenches her fist, feeling the ancient god's power coursing through her body, sensing her connection to this world.

The world devoured by Cetus pulses within her awareness; every life created and enslaved by Cetus flickers like a faint candle flame, with a single thought, she could snuff them all out.

That pool of blood coalesces into a brilliant, scarlet Crown floating before her.

The Apparition of Cetus leaves its listless farewell and reopens the rift.

The Cetus Adytum falls into a brief silence. It does not receive the expected prayers or submission; instead, It meets the gaze of a warrior, burning with an insatiable lust for battle.

Never would you have imagined that you would see confusion in the eyes of a god.

The Astral Cetus roars with laughter. It hasn't laughed so heartily for millennia.

The laughter surges up from the deepest recesses of the void, shaking every vein of light, every scale, every face adrift in the abyss.

The flesh beneath your feet convulses violently, a thick reek of rust flooding your nostrils. This space itself is growing excited.

Pure, thick, weighty dark crimson gushes forth from the fissure of the heart, swallowing every vein of light and drifting face.

Within that rotting crimson, the colossal silhouette of the Astral Cetus looms against the heavens.

Its body, vaster than this entire world, warps the geometry of the void. The plane beneath your feet begins to curl like paper; the distant darkness starts to collapse inward.

This planet grows upon Its body; the people of the Six Kingdoms exist because of It. It is the star-devouring god, the undisputed master of this world. It is this space itself.

The Apparition vanishes utterly. Leviathan opens Its majestic eyes.

Apocalyptic power erupts from the Cetus's form. The entire dimensional space begins to collapse; an invisible force hurls you outward, slamming you hard against the edge of the plane.

Your fingers claw desperately into a crack, struggling to keep from sliding into the abyss.

At the center of that all-consuming darkness, before that unnameable titan, Lotan grips her greatsword with both hands, marching toward those terrifying, gargantuan eyes.

Her pace quickens, faster and faster, until at last she becomes an unstoppable storm. On her face blooms a fervent smile you've never seen before.

A tidal roar of exhilaration rings out, shattering the last remnants of your consciousness. Your grip on the stone weakens, and amid that howling gale, you are cast back through the rift into the arena.

In your final glimpse, you see Lotan leaping toward the deity vaster than stars, two greatswords in hand.

The storm shatters to ruin. The storm never looks back.

You crawl up from the dust-covered ground, shaking off the grit. It takes you a few seconds to recall where you are.

The arena's stone walls crack apart like paper. Massive stones crash down from the stands, and the last traces of the Apparition spectators have long since vanished.

You lie sprawled on the rubble-strewn ground, ears ringing incessantly. The dimensional rift hangs suspended at the arena's center, its edges twitching violently, like a ghastly wound.

A low, drawn-out wail emerges from the wound, piercing through your skull to the very depths of your mind, heavy as the sigh of an entire planet.

A pungent, nauseating stench of blood pours from the rift. Just as you steel yourself to edge closer, a bare, bony foot steps out of the tear.

You cannot tell whether the blood-drenched figure before you is Lotan.

Filthy, rotten blood coats her body, whether hers or something else's, you cannot say.

Beneath gore and shattered armor, half her body has been reduced to stark white bone.

The warrior, now with only half a body remaining, steps out from that reeking rift. Her pace is slow, exhausted, her broken greatsword dragging along the ground, carving a shallow furrow through the pool of blood.

In her other hand, that Crown coalesced from blood drips filthy blood, drop by drop.

Yet her eyes are brighter than ever.

Lotan's voice carries not the slightest tremor, as if she's merely stating an inevitable fact.

You don't need to ask any further. Lotan's wounds already say it all.

Now is also her most vulnerable moment.

The scent of blood seeping from the rift envelops you, that whale-song whisper growing clearer and clearer in your ear.

You stare at that crimson Crown in Lotan's hand. With every dripping drop of blood, the Cetus's whisper grows clearer still.

The whisper swells into a roar, a powerful impulse surging through your mind.

Your parched throat tightens. With a trembling hand, you raise that jewel-studded dagger Elian left behind. Its blade is still stained with your own blood.

You've already come this far, why not take one more step? It's yours... the Crown is meant to be yours...

Kill her?... Kill her... Kill her... KILL HER!!!

Three steps. You are only three steps away from that supreme glory...

Just as you summon the courage to take your first step, Lotan turns back. Those weary eyes gaze calmly toward you.

In that instant, all the whispers propping you up vanish at once. Your boiling blood turns ice-cold.

There is not the faintest trace of malice in Lotan's eyes. Looking into them, you suddenly understand, if not for meeting the Astral Cetus, no one here deserves her blade.

It is the gaze of one looking down upon ants fighting over a sugar cube. There is no other emotion at all.

The story of ants has never changed. She raises her skeletal hand and casually sets what she holds upon your head.

Warm, filthy blood drips down from your scalp. Reaching up, you feel that cold, sticky Crown formed of blood.

Countless heroes killed for it; countless souls fell into corruption for it. The power and wealth of the Six Kingdoms, supreme honor and glory, now rest lightly upon your head.

The final victor has tossed it to you like stuffing a piece of candy into a child's greedy mouth, now, you possess everything.

Lotan gazes at the greatswords that have accompanied her for so many years, sheathing their shattered remains.

She turns and, dragging her ruined body, walks forward slowly, wearily, toward the next destination beyond your understanding.

In the rift behind you, the ancient runes extinguish one by one. The decaying god reveals a smile of solace you have never seen before.

Blood drips down your forehead and cheeks, the crimson pool beneath reflecting your dazed, bewildered eyes.

The Crown upon your head is heavy, so very heavy. The weight of twelve millennia of desire brings you to your knees in the blood pool. You watch her receding figure, unable to rise for a long, long while.

The Crown atop your head feels light, so light, as if it had never existed at all.