The world is open, the cage is wide,
There is no shadow left to hide.
A hand of clay, a crown of rust,
To build a kingdom in the dust.
The weaver breathes the heavy smoke,
To pay for every word he spoke.
For in the gathering of the low,
The only seed is what we sow.
The silence settling slowly over the massacre was more suffocating than the silver sky had ever been.
It was a wet, heavy silence, broken only by the rhythmic drip of a blood river falling from the Sun-Eater's shattered prow into the meat paste of the plaza. The Heavenly Tribulation had withdrawn, leaving the super-void a miserable state of cooling logic-shards and shattered bones.
Daxian lay in the center of the bridge, his body filled with injuries, his skin opened and flesh split until he looked like a corpse that had been smashed apart by a giant's hand. His skull was partially exploded, a dull, violet light flickering in the gap, and his remaining human hand was buried in the silver dust of the floor.
"He's... he's cooling, Silas," Vane whispered, his voice a miserable neighing rasp.
The Lord of the Forge was a miserable state of a warrior. His brass armor was peeled ruthlessly from his chest, revealing ribs that were fractured in many places. His left eyeball had popped out, resting against his cheek like a wet, red grape, but he was unhindered by the pain. He gritted his teeth, a smile of disdain for the death that tried to claim them.
"The 'Noise'... it's not cooling, Vane," Silas wailed.
The Grand Chronicler was fused with the ship's biological core, his indigo form cracked and bleeding silver-and-red data. His gaze was so blood red it looked like a dying star. He was intensely struggling to keep the Sun-Eater from turning back into raw meat paste now that the World-Tree's law was dead.
"Daxian is racking his brains even in his sleep!" Silas cried, coughing out a breath of turbid air. "He's trying to 'Archive' the massacre! If he doesn't stop, his skull will explode from the internal pressure!"
Outside, in the deep pit of the plaza, the Republic of the Broken was meeting for the first time.
It wasn't a formal council. It was a chaotic battle situation of desperate souls. Thousands of ghosts—Aurelians with cracked and bleeding skin, Sanguine-Sentinels with bones jutting out of the body, and Un-Woven lunatics with their eyeballs popped out—were standing in the mud.
Kael stood at the center, leaning on his iron pylon. He was filled with injuries, his flesh and blood reduced to dust in places where the Peers' light had touched him. He looked at the crowd, his smile of disdain fixed toward the silver stars that still lingered in the distance.
"The Architect is a corpse!" an Un-Woven survivor shrieked, his skin peeled ruthlessly from his arms. "The Law is gone! Why should we fix the pipes? Why shouldn't we just slaughter each other until the void takes us?"
Kael didn't answer with a speech. He charged forward with lightning speed, his iron pylon smashing down ruthlessly on the speaker's head.
CRUNCH.
The lunatic's skull exploded. Eyeballs popped out and his flesh and blood were reduced to dust as he was smashed apart against the mud. Kael stood over the meat paste, his gaze blood red.
"Because the pipes are the only thing that's real!" Kael roared, coughing out blood. "The Weaver didn't perish so you could play with your madness! He smashed mercilessly into the Peers so you could have the right to be broken! Now, pick up a wrench or I'll peel your skin ruthlessly myself!"
The crowd went silent. They looked at the meat paste on Kael's boots. They looked at the blood river flowing into the roots of the Tree. Slowly, the fierce slaughter of the riot turned into a miserable state of cooperation.
The Fighting Scene: The Breach of the Inner-Hive
While the city struggled to breathe, the Sun-Eater was undergoing a final massacre of its own.
A group of "Logic-Remnants"—white-fire droids left behind by the First Principle—had pierced into the chaotic battle of the ship's lower decks. They moved with lightning speed, their enormous force turning the iron corridors into meat paste.
"VANE! THEY'RE IN THE FORGE!" Silas screamed, his flesh split along his indigo seams.
Vane didn't wait for an order. He charged forward down the main hatch, crashing heavily into the ground of the engineering bay. He was a lunatic taking risks, his bones fractured and his skin opened, but his ambition was an unrivaled spirit.
He met the first droid with an enormous punch.
The droid's geometric head smashed apart, silver fluid spraying across Vane's soot-stained face. Vane laughed malevolently, his gaze so blood red it was difficult to stare at it directly. He grabbed the second droid by its wings and smashed it ruthlessly against the core, the enormous shock causing the machine to perish in a burst of "Null-Data."
"IS THIS THE CLIMAX?" Vane roared, peeling the skin ruthlessly off a third droid with his bare hands.
He was unhindered by the silver beams that bombarded his chest, leaving his flesh reduced to dust. He gritted his teeth, a smile of disdain on his face as he smashed mercilessly into the hive-mind of the machines.
"I'VE GOT... ENOUGH... SOOT... FOR... ALL... OF... YOU!"
Vane was a massacre in human form. He smashed apart the droids until the floor was covered in a miserable state of broken glass and meat paste. He was intensely struggling, his bones jutting out and his eyeballs popped out, but he stood tall in the blood river of the forge.
Up on the bridge, Daxian's blood red eyes finally opened.
He didn't look at Silas. He looked at the turbid air of the room. He could feel the massacre in the forge. He could feel Kael smashing apart the riot in the plaza. He could feel the miserable neighing sounds of the universe trying to "Correct" him.
Daxian gritted his teeth, a laugh malevolent escaping his torn throat.
He didn't have his arm. He didn't have his system. He crawled forward on the deck, his bones fracturing with every movement. He reached the "Archive-Loom"—the central interface of the World-Tree.
"Dax! Stop!" Silas wailed, his flesh split as he tried to hold him back. "Your skull is exploded! You'll perish if you 'Sync' now!"
"I... am... the... Sync," Daxian wheezed, coughing out blood.
He shoved his nebula-stump into the Loom. The enormous force of the connection caused his eyeballs to pop out and his skin to be opened from the internal pressure. He racked his brains to find the "Frequency of the Broken."
He didn't send a law. He sent a "Fact."
A wave of violet-and-red energy erupted from the Sun-Eater. It didn't delete the droids. It integrated them. It turned the silver logic into meat and wood.
The droids in the forge smashed apart, their geometric forms turning into miserable states of biological matter. Vane stood in the middle of the meat paste, laughing madly as the enemy turned into fertilizer for the Tree.
Daxian slumped against the Loom, his body filled with injuries, his bones shattered, his unrivaled spirit standing tall in the silence.
He looked at his remaining hand. It was shaking. It was dirty. It was real.
The Council is met. The forge is warm. The Architect is a corpse that refuses to lie down. I have slaughtered the light, and I have turned the dark into a home. The Peers will rack their brains to understand how we survive in the meat paste. They will never know. Because a 'Fact' doesn't need to be 'Solved.' It just needs to Endure.
Daxian gritted his teeth, his smile of disdain fixed on the flickering purple sky.
"Fix... the... pipes," he whispered, before crashing heavily into the mud of his own mind.
The Council of the Damned had begun. And the Weaver was finally, truly, broken.