Chương 227: The Dream of Chains

The Great Crusade was over. Irwyn's grief was a simmering amber. As hot as the stars, yet no longer burning with a choking flame. It weighed on him still. Perhaps that would never pass. But it was no longer crippling. No longer drove him to desperately seek out any distraction whatsoever. The first true war had ended. Their cosmos had been shattered in every conceivable way to bring it to its conclusion. So many have irrevocably perished that the numbers defied any comparison.

The afterlife of undeath had been mercilessly cut away from a system designed to rely on it and immortals older than time had halved in number, then halved again. Then once more. So much destruction. So much death. All for nothing. As before the dust had even settled, the dead returned. Like a Rot upon an old carcass, they regrew as only an infestation could. Each of the universe's wounds that had gone foul, now spewing forth swarms of mayflies and maggots.

Their very reality was halfway towards death, and the cracks in what had been were everywhere, to the point they had become beyond mending. The sheer foulness had thus become practically inseparable from the very world. No matter how much puss they drained, some would be left behind, and more would soon rise elsewhere. Because the Betrayer was somehow acting from beyond the grave. The Aspect did die in the truest sense of the word. Of that there was no doubt nor dispute.

It simply did not affect him as totally as all other beings. Existence beyond the end of a life had been his design, after all, and not even Ignis with his dying breath had been able to sever that fully. So Irwyn decided to seek out answers. Or at least something to silence the buzzing in his head. The topmost layer of the Abyssal Ridge was a flat plane. On it stood a colossal arch and beyond a stairway. To pass through that gateway meant to lose all power, even for a Named being.

Once it and most of the complex had been parts of the Allfather's palace, which the descendants had desperately grafted together into the world's truest gaol. There was no other way to access the Abyssal Ridge than through that front gate. Unless Chronos himself arose from his grave and ruptured the boundaries, the entire dimension was locked so tightly that entering through elsewhere was impossible even with an Edict. Perhaps the last true wonder to ever be built, and it was for that.

Just the thought brought him disgust. At both the defilement and its necessity. As Irwyn approached the empty expanse, he knew the Jailor's eyes were upon him. That only made sense. It had chosen to become this place, a martyr who would watch eternally upon the greatest of sinners. And in exchange, it alone held the power to enforce the Ridge's purpose. Stepping inside, Irwyn felt even his power flee. By the time he took the first step down the stairs, he was weaker than daylight.

By the fifth he would not be able to call upon so much as a spark. And still, he carried on. For he had to have answers. They had set out to make a pit for things best forgotten and that is exactly what had been created. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. The cells passed Irwyn by, one after the other. Each floor dedicated to a single being that could not be killed and thus had to be contained.

Every single one a complex, personalised array, reinforced far beyond just the normal restriction of the Ridge. Hand-made so that there would never be the slightest hope of escape. When the first stone had been laid in the first month of the Crusade, they had expected to imprison each and every single one of them. How naive that thought seemed in hindsight. Floor by floor, Irwyn went down. 10, 50, 100, 500… eventually Irwyn reached the 998 floor, second to last. Near the top, there had been younger great Liches.

So deep down, Irwyn could recall the past hundred by both reputation and Name. Put together, the prisoners would perhaps make up over a fifth of the oldest beings in the universe - another reminder of the Crusade's price. On the final floor, the stairs ended. Instead, they opened into a dark, towering cavern. A million little chains spread across it, forming into innumerable great spells that perfectly aligned and interlaced with one another, all intersecting in one place.

High in the air, half hidden by the darkness, there lay a single skull. Most of it bound behind layers of metal, yet the eyes and jaw remained visible. Their greatest prisoner. There was no hate inside those eyes. Irwyn had learned to recognise that. He had seen it growing stronger with each day of the Crusade, as the Undead began to hear that malicious whisper of betrayals. Each and every single one of them had been filled to the brim by the end.

So hateful of the living that they could barely hold onto sanity and rational thought. And yet, for the oldest of them, for the one who must know that voice far closer than anyone else, there was not even a hint.

"Why?" Irwyn asked the being who he would have once almost called a sibling.

"You only ask now?" the answer echoed. It was cold, but without judgment. Almost hollow.

"Why the Betrayal? Why the widespread refusal to lay down? Why does your kind still return to break all that this reality had once been?"

"I do not know."

"Neither of us believes that!" Irwyn yelled. Had the Ridge not ridden him of it, he knew that power would have flowed across those emotions." YOU WERE THE FIRST TO MARCH TO WAR!"

"My father demanded that all shall be dust. It is as simple as that, son of Flame and Light."

"There is more. I know there is. You are hiding something."

"If I told you the truth, would you dare even believe?" the skull questioned instead of answering.

"If I speak the truth, is it even the truth, or am I just as deluded as you? When I marched to fight my fellow firstborn, I did not consider if the task was futile. Why should it matter now? How would you even make me speak, old friend? I can ask questions without answers too."

"You could stop it. They would listen to you over the distant whispers of a dead father. Just a few words from you, and this Rotting of everything could be over."

"Self-delusion does not befit you, once-prince."

"Damn you and what everything you and your kind have done," Irwyn stared, sorrow and anger mixing into a mixture that threatened to burst out of his chest. And yet, Az'morgis was still calm. No, more than that. Serene. Beyond emotion.

"You already have. Now we wait, for all of eternity if need be. The echo of my father still whispers to me—and in those words is a prophecy of dust."