Chương 152: Declaration

The ritual barrier faded with Lysyra's forfeit. Swirling grey clouds immediately spilled into the crowd. Gale winds fluttered countless robes, but that was the only movement. A hundred thousand cultists stood in silence. Not a cheer. Not a jeer. Despite the conclusion of their Trial, nothing stopped the continued growth of the corrupt ocean. Its waves writhed. They grew towering… yet remained contained to the pit of the arena. She doubted it would stay that way.

Nyxila took Lysyra's proffered hand, and climbed the wall. She eyed the crowd warily. There was a strange, antsy energy buzzing below the surface. None of it was celebratory. Cultists all around her stood out of their seats. They waited for something. A flash of crimson ringed the edges of the growing sea. From high above the crowd, and climbing up the walls of the arena, the Trial ritual spread. It filtered around seats, sucking in all other light.

When it had fully permeated the amphitheatre, it pulsed once, and a thousand strands of silvery ribbons flowed inwards. Over everyone's heads, a tiny ball formed of the strands folding and condensing into a point.

"The Amaranthine core," Lysyra commented.

"I wonder if the… excessive nature of our Trial will reflect through its power." Slowly, once the silvery orb finished pulling itself together, it sunk through the amphitheatre into Nyxila's palm. As the result of the collective importance the cults put into the Trials, the Amaranthine core was a treasure beyond compare. A free evolution. Either now, or she could hold onto it until she was stronger and its effect would be endlessly more efficient. The orb was hard, but felt slick in her hand. Like ice.

Everyone dreamed of getting their hands on this, yet Nyxila's mind was elsewhere. Lysyra had Invowed. Nyxala hadn't even considered that a possible path to avoid their soul-bound duel to the death. Well, after she realised their similarities, she had assumed the girl would never go through with it. Nyxila wouldn't. At first, it looked like Lysyra had become mindless. She had become too similar to that Fleshsmith who willingly became a slave to retain his life. It was a relief she retained some personality.

Nyxila despised the idea of working with someone who only ever spouted what they thought she wanted. One's mind was entirely defined in their soul. While Nyxila's name had been carved into Lysyra's, it remained mostly the same. She could feel it. Unlike the Fleshsmith, she felt no great desire to kill the girl. While the deaths of so many kids not yet initiated into any cult was… less than ideal, and she'd also tried to take Nyxila's life, it was easy to look past it for such a valuable ally against the cults.

She could trust her. That Lysyra now couldn't betray her certainly helped. Nyxila wanted to have a long discussion with the other girl, but that would have to wait. From the crowd, Shelo'Su'Senalos walked beneath the bulk of his arachnoangel. Mechanical maggots swam through his skin, agitated. Ep'Nanorschi followed, her spine straight for once. Thick tension trailed them both. Every eye in the massive chamber seemed to trail the two, waiting.

The Machine God Worshipper's gaze fell on the orb in Nyxila's hand and before the cultist had the chance to let any greedy thoughts cross his mind, she pushed her palm to her chest. The Amaranthine core slid into her soul. It immediately fuelled her names to the point of evolution, no different than when she'd sacrificed Sekhhath'Ra. Shelo'Su'Senalos's expression turned sour, and Nyxila was glad she'd made the choice.

No matter how much better it would be to wait until a later evolution to use it, she didn't want to deal with the nightmare of trying to protect it from those she couldn't yet handle.

"Not interested in keeping it as an offering?" Ep'Nanorschi mused. While her words were gratified, Nyxila didn't miss how she edged around the side of Lysyra, keeping the Worshipper and his arachnoangel in sight.

"Any upper creed would have helped you rise two evolutions for that."

"N̪ỷx̱ila, the Trials are yours." Shelo'Su'Senalos's words were abrupt. No longer did he seem to hold the impartial visage of the Adjudicator. He hadn't wanted her to win.

"Designate which cult shall gain the privilege of the Grand Sacrificial Chamber." Nobody moved. It was as if the world awaited her word. She'd assumed each of the cults would throw some representatives at her, even if they thought she would choose the Bodytwisters, as they had after the second Trial, but not a soul made the effort. She glanced around. Even now, having achieved her side of the deal, Tarchon didn't appear. Not a single Technocultist was present.

Their absence was almost enough to make her not elect them. Almost. Unfortunately, every other option was a million times worse.

"The Technocult." The Worshipper's immediate reaction was surprise. He stilled for a few seconds, clearly not having predicted her answer. When her choice finally breached his mind, anger overwhelmed him. The small metal machines reacted to his snarl, twisting through the flesh of his face, and forming rather dangerous looking blades along his cheeks and jaw. Ep'Nanorschi chuckled.

"Well, I don't think anyone expected that." He gave her a look that could kill, and raised his arm. Immediately, the world fell to chaos. An explosion rocked the stands. Nyxila was thrown back, only to find Ep'Nanorschi's arm hold her steadfast. She twisted out of the grip. The reaction almost had her thrown back into the waves from a second bomb going off. This one, amongst the Scriptures. Her feet found balance at the edge of the arena, teetering over the raging waves below. Lysyra was gone.

The explosions had wiped out her replica. If there were any non-physical ones nearby, Nyxila had no way to know. It had all happened in a moment, but now the entire Grand Sacrificial Chamber had become a battlefield. The Scriptures had thrown themselves in amongst the Bodytwisters, tearing apart those disoriented by the first explosion. Rituals, summons, and countless name effects flew through the chaos. Dozens died each second.

Their bodies rarely had the time to fall before allies and enemies alike fought for the resource. Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation. Some corpses became feral monsters. Others dissolved to power rituals. Not a drop of blood went to waste. Which was good, because Nyxila really didn't want to be covered any more than she already was. The limited space of the viewing area should have made such a battle difficult, but apparently it wasn't a concern.

More than one cultist had ways to expand the field. One entire wall had been knocked down, revealing the dark neighbouring halls beyond. The other side looked like the seating warped. To Nyxila's eyes, there were tens of thousands of tiny ants fighting in a space that could fit her hand… yet she didn't doubt that the cultists within were any less dangerous than before. The Scriptures weren't alone in their fight against the Bodytwisters. Nyxila spotted many Worshippers joining the fray, and some Fleshsmiths.

Three cults on one. Despite the war going on around them, Shelo'Su'Senalos had kept his scowl directed at Nyxila. His arachonoangel twisted its massive blade legs through its body as it lumbered over him. Each step made it larger. More threatening. He really didn't like the Technocult.

"Oh, you really thought she was with us, didn't you?" Ep'Nanorschi taunted as her stitches snapped.

"What? Was the plan to use her choice as justification?" She barked a laugh that came out horribly guttural through that worm-like face of hers. Instead of answering, his arachnoangel stepped forward and swung a leg at her. Grinning — or what looked like it — the Bodytwister dislocated her shoulders and elbows, before catching the leg ten times her height.

A visceral shout of excitement escaped her horrific maw as the massive machine's leg pushed her back a dozen metres, but eventually came to a standstill in her grip.

"Your bug's gotten weaker," she mocked.

"When was the last time you sung it lullabies? You didn't forget to feed the dull thing, did you?" Nyxila couldn't tell if the arachnoangel or Shelo'Su'Senalos was more enraged. He twisted to strike her, but the machine got there first. Another leg battered Ep'Nanorschi from where she tried to climb the first leg. The woman shot across the amphitheatre within a blink, splattering a couple unfortunate lower creed harbingers before she hit the wall. Still pissed, the Worshipper turned back to Nyxila.

"You choose the Technocult? While I stand before you?" Once again, the arachnoangel stood over the man. Its scythe-like leg raised in preparation for an execution.

"Did you expect to live?" Before she had the chance to so much as stress, the entire amphitheatre lurched. The arachnoangel barely moved, but Shelo'Su'Senalos slipped to the side, only to grab his machine's leg and steady himself. Nyxila, for all her balance, was not so lucky. She was thrown to the side as a tsunami broke free of the arena and swallowed a swathe of battlefield. Nyxila pushed off the ground in time to watch a shadow shift below the rushing water. Hundreds of cultists vanished.

Not a drop of blood remained to signal their disappearance. She wasn't the only one to have fallen. All around, cultists clambered to their feet before their opponents could capitalise. Something had shaken all of Coral. While most cultists were desperate to throw themselves back into battle, there was one group that didn't. The Worshippers all froze, their eyes on their machines, which had collectively turned their mechanical heads upwards. The arachnoangel standing above Nyxila dropped its leg and shrieked.

A whistling howl of scraping metal through iron pipe. Instantly, it leapt hundreds of metres before drilled itself through the ceiling.

"Ŝ̩̠͞h̕ě̘᷀l̀̌ͬ︡oͮͮ," Shelo'Su'Senalos called after the subject of his worship, but it was already gone. He turned with a snarl, and thrust a hand riddled with metal maggots towards Nyxila.

"That is enough of that." A massive, mechanical hand grabbed the Worshipper's arm before it could reach Nyxila. Shelo'Su'Senalos's arm was crushed like a soggy twig, along with all the machine maggots. The steel fist now clenching the pulped arm held vibrant blue glowing veins across its surface. The energy thrummed, making Nyxila's hairs stand on end. Each finger was as long as her arm, and as thick as her torso. It had encased the Worshippers arm completely.

"T̆a̹̅r͐chö̠n̩͂͑," he spat. Somehow, the cultist's scowl found a way to deepen further.

"What have you done?" Nyxila looked up, and sure enough it was the Technocultist's face peering through the narrow face-plate of the towering warmachine. Tarchon had already been tall, but this thick-bodied ball of steel encased him completely, and raised him to twice his normal height. He turned to Nyxila, ignoring the question completely.

"I have come to accept the Technocult's new privilege." Crimson lines through whatever remained undamaged flared in response to his words. Tarchon kneeled to Nyxila's height, yet still came up a full metre too tall.

"Welcome to the cult." He paused.

"You have done well, N̪ỷx̱ila." Rising again, he stepped toward Shelo'Su'Senalos. Blue lines pulsed with power along mechanical arms. The threat was clear, and without his metal spider, the Worshipper was quick to back out of range, then flee through the battle.

"Come. We cannot stay." Tarchon offered the fat palm of his mech, and while Nyxila would have liked to run with her own feet, there were a lot of powerful cultists throwing dangerous abilities around. She stepped in, and his fist wrapped around her like a protective shell.

"What was that?" she asked.

"Where did his arachnoangel run off to?" Nyxila noticed all the Worshippers were fleeing the amphitheatre in droves. The machines scuttled along the walls to reach the hole the first dug.

"Where are they all running?"

"Just a little distraction." He moved to leave, but of course that would be too easy. A familiar chain of screaming flesh and metal shredded through space. Tarchon leapt back. Considering how much weight must be in this warmachine of his, the speed he moved was astonishing.

"You won't keep her from me again." Solan walked besides her chain. She was tiny compared to Tarchon's mech, yet she seemed larger than life. Her mere presence demanded reverence. The chain was only as wide as she was tall, but Nyxila knew it could grow so much larger. It coiled over the woman's head; a viper ready to spring on its prey.

"Hand her to me, and walk away." Nyxila twisted her head to Tarchon. She was held tight enough that it was all that she could move. Did he have a plan? No matter how powerful this weapon he wore was, it could never come close to the heights of a cult leader. Tarchon didn't speak. Nor did he hand off Nyxila. He simply lowered himself until his legs clanked, locking together and the same happened with both oversized arms. One fist clicking in place over another. His mech became a semi-spheric slab of steel.

A slab of steel that flared blue energy. Another explosion rocked the battlefield. An entire wall disappeared in a wave of power that sent ripples through the amphitheatre. The ocean was thrown skyward. Cultists, both Bodytwister and Scripture were replaced with a fine red mist closer to the blast, while those further away were blown off their feet. Solan's robe fluttered, threatening to tear off her body, but she remained unmoving. Tarchon, with so much weight below him, didn't budge. Nyxila was not so fortunate.

The blast struck her as hard as any cultist. Even pinned, it felt as if her head was trying to be pulled from her torso. A deep, thrumming growl came from the depths of Tarchon's warmachine. Whatever he was doing, he actually intended to take on Solan. Nyxila could hardly believe it. Yet he never got the opportunity. Not because the fleshsmith leader attacked with overwhelming power as expected, but because of the appearance of someone else. Someone Nyxila immediately recognised.

"Z͓͈̥̫̱̯̐͒͒̕͝o̘̠͊́͂̾̈̌̾ą̳̥̞̤̤͔̑̏̑̈́͠ü̥̖̜̗̳̙̍̾̌͘̚͠͠l̟̠̥̈́! Do not get in my way." Solan now stood face to face with the Scriptures leader, who had manifested into existence faster than Nyxila could process.

"Change of plans." His voice was abrupt, leaving no space for argument.

"P̝̦͆h̥͝ŏs͂p̢̑ḣ͓o̻̮̭̗ŗ̀t͉a̐n̮i͋͒͒̀̂̋͘͠s-Ã͍͓̐̊͊l͍̭̗͎͑͜'o͍r̫ has shown up. You are with me." He moved to touch her, but she growled.

"This was not the agreement."

"No. You're part of the agreement was to drag the Worshippers into this war, and now they've all gone." He tilted his head back to look upon Tarchon.

"A full-scale siege on their Machine God, I hear." His eyes snapped back to Solan.

"Unless there's something you're more interested in over here…?" Solan had enough time to give a filthy glare to both Zoaul and Tarchon before she ceded through grit teeth.

"Fine." Nyxila swore she caught Zoaul's eye for only a brief instant before he was gone again. This time with Solan. Despite the cult leaders leaving to deal with another of their own, Tarchon never ceased that growl. Whatever he was doing came into reality before Nyxila could ask. Fire tinged the edges of her sight, and she almost passed out from the sudden pressure. She felt flat.

The world around her changed in an instant, and it took a few more moments of insane acceleration through corrupted halls to realise that they'd already fled the Grand Sacrificial Chamber. Well, she got that war she was after. Hopefully they would drive themselves to extinction.