Chương 137: The Rampart After Death

Maelor was dead. The whole capital had felt it. Not the way one feels the end of a man. The way one feels a pillar vanish beneath a house too large for itself. For one second, every protection in the city faltered. The blue circles laid over the rooftops trembled. The barriers beneath the streets turned transparent. The underground shelters cracked. Then Maelor opened his eyes. And the world understood that some men were capable of turning even their death into delay.

The archmage's corpse stood atop the ramparts, pale, torn open, threaded through with forbidden lines glowing beneath his skin like constellations carved into bone. His heart no longer beat. His breath no longer came. The blood on his robes no longer flowed. But his hands still moved. His fingers rose. The capital answered. Defensive circles surged up around the evacuated districts. Bridges of light formed between broken towers. The wounded were dragged out of the streets by invisible hands.

The underground chambers where the high officials trembled were covered by fresh layers of protection. Zayn looked at Maelor. He should have laughed. He should have been furious. He should have thrown himself at him immediately. But for a few seconds, he did nothing. Because Maelor had taken something from him. Not a revenge. Not an answer. An ending. He had killed him. And even that had not been enough. The fused scythe vibrated in his hand.

"That's insulting." Zayn answered softly,"Yes." Maelor raised his broken staff. His voice came out without warmth, without breath, but with the same precision he had possessed in life.

"Fourth day." Zayn clenched his teeth. The phrase was simple. And it was a declaration of war. Not against him. Against time. The battle resumed without a cry. Maelor no longer moved like a man. He no longer ran out of breath. He no longer blinked. He no longer trembled from fatigue. He no longer felt pain fast enough for it to slow his motion. But he had lost something too. Flexibility. The unpredictable. The warmth of instinct. This was no longer a living archmage improvising on the edge of death.

It was a forbidden spell carrying the name Maelor. A will reduced to one sentence: Protect until the heroes return. Zayn understood that on the third exchange. The scythe cut through a blue barrier. Maelor raised two. Zayn used Ruined Time on the runes. Maelor sacrificed an entire tower to feed the circle. Zayn activated Right of Seizure on the anchor points. Maelor shifted them beneath the foundations of an empty district. Every attack from Zayn met a response. Not perfect. But prepared.

Maelor had prepared even for his own death. That made his death even more unbearable. Zayn beat his wings and rose above the ramparts. His forge-blood ignited in his veins. Heat climbed to his shoulders, burned through the black membranes, lit red flames along their edges. Pain had become background noise. He dove. The fused scythe became cloaked in dark aura. Not a true aura. A corrupted version, stolen from the beastfolk, refined in hunger and rage, laid over the blade like a filthy will to dominate.

Maelor raised a hand. Seven shields appeared between them. Zayn shattered four by force. The fifth gave way under the dark aura. The sixth rotted beneath Ruined Time. The seventh did not defend itself. It opened. Zayn passed through. And fell into a trap of light. Hundreds of blue lines wrapped around him, not to immobilize him, but to read his movement before he completed it. The entire capital became a network of calculation beneath his feet. Maelor raised the staff.

"Stopping formula: left wing." The spell struck. Zayn's left wing tore from base to tip. He fell. Before he hit the ground, his right hand opened. The mark of Avarice burned in his palm.

"Right of Seizure." He seized the fall. Not entirely. Just enough to give it to something else. The ground beneath him split, absorbing the impact in his place. Zayn rolled, rose, spat black blood, and looked up. Maelor was already there. The archmage's corpse brought the staff down on him like a blade of judgment. Zayn blocked with the scythe. The impact drove his knees into the stone. Maelor spoke in a dead voice:"You are stronger." The pressure increased.

"But you are more worn down." Zayn smiled through blood.

"You're dead."

"Yes." The staff pressed harder.

"It's a form of economy." The scythe snickered despite the strain.

"I hate that he still has a sense of humor." Zayn roared. Drakhar's blood exploded in his left arm. The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. His fist ignited. He struck Maelor in the chest. The blow went through the robes and shattered dead ribs. Maelor finally stepped back. But he did not bleed. He had no more blood left to lose. He placed one hand over his opened chest. Runes lit inside his bones. The ribcage closed with the sound of a lock. Zayn stared at him.

"How many times?" Maelor raised the staff.

"Until the spell exhausts itself."

"And when it does?" The corpse remained silent. Then answered,"I vanish." The phrase dropped between them. Not "I die." He was already dead. He vanished. Zayn did not know why that hurt more. On the fifth day, the sky above the capital had no color left. It was blue from Maelor's spells, red from the forge-blood in Zayn, black from the Throne's shadow still tied to his soul. The inhabitants saw almost nothing from the shelters. Only flashes. Tremors. Chunks of towers collapsing. Barriers reforming before breaking.

Prayers. Then silences. In the underground chamber where the high officials were being protected, fear had changed its nature. At first, they had feared Zayn. Now they feared Maelor. Not because he threatened them. Because they understood what it was costing him for them to remain alive. Each hour of survival was being paid for by the soul of a dead man. The chief prelate murmured,"He'll hold." No one answered. A minister of the Crown stared at the blue lines on the ceiling.

"And if he doesn't?" The woman from the Circle of Ashes gripped her weapon with both hands, but she was trembling.

"Then he'll find us." An archivist shook.

"The heroes will come back." No one asked when. Because they all knew the answer. Not soon enough. At the top of the broken Archivium tower, Maelor created his greatest spell. He did not speak. He no longer needed to. The circles surged into the sky like the rings of an artificial star. One circle for the capital. One circle for the ramparts. One circle for the shelters. One circle for the guilty. One circle for the innocent. One circle for the absent heroes. One circle for Zayn.

The last circle descended around the Demon King. Zayn felt the danger at once. It was not a prison. It was a mirror of causality. Every blow dealt to Maelor would echo elsewhere. Not upon civilians. Maelor would never have done that. Upon the structure of the fight itself. Upon the spells already active. Upon the barriers protecting the city. If he struck too hard, he would shatter what was keeping the capital from collapsing. Zayn understood. And burst out laughing. A broken laugh, exhausted, almost desperate.

"Even dead, you force me to choose cleanly." Maelor stood at the center of the circle. His eyes had become empty blue flames.

"Yes."

"You know I can just let it all fall. The city. The barriers. Everything."

"Yes."

"You know I can kill you with them."

"Yes." Zayn tightened his grip on the scythe.

"Then why are you showing me the filthiest door?" Maelor answered,"Because you see it." Silence.

"A real monster would never have noticed." The words struck harder than any spell. Zayn did not move. Then his face twisted.

"Stop." Maelor raised the staff.

"No."

"Stop doing this."

"Doing what?" Zayn gestured at the barriers, the city, the shelters, the circles.

"This. Talking to me like something is still recoverable." Maelor's voice grew weaker. Or perhaps farther away.

"I don't know if anything is." He took one step.

"But I know you still hear it when I say it." Zayn threw himself at him. Not with fire. Not with aura. Not with Right of Seizure. With the scythe alone. Maelor blocked. Blade against broken staff. Dead man against king. The tower collapsed around them. They fell amid stone. In the fall, Zayn struck. Maelor parried. Zayn struck again. Maelor diverted it. The two of them tore through ruined floors, burning archives, old study halls, until they crashed into the great courtyard of the College. Zayn stood first.

Maelor too. Always. Always. Always. That was what broke something inside Zayn. Not the power. Not the magic. The permanence. Maelor had been the first wall between Zayn and death. Then the last wall between Zayn and the capital. He had not protected the boy enough. So he was protecting the world from what that boy had become. It was unjust. It was logical. It was unbearable. Zayn raised the scythe. The dark aura thickened around the blade.

"If you wanted to be forgiven, you chose a very bad method." Maelor answered,"I'm not seeking forgiveness."

"Then what?"

"The least bad ending." Zayn smiled.

"You never understood." He beat his wings.

"There is no good ending left." The next impact split the College courtyard in two. By the sixth day, Maelor was beginning to fade. Not weaken. Fade. His fingers turned translucent between spells. Pieces of his robe became blue dust. His voice disappeared at times in the middle of a sentence, replaced by the hum of circles. Zayn saw it. And instead of feeling triumph, he felt a hollowness opening before the man had even vanished.

"You're reaching the end." Maelor raised his eyes. Half his face was almost without substance. The runes behind the skin were visible.

"Yes."

"The heroes still aren't here."

"They are drawing near." Zayn narrowed his eyes.

"You can feel them?"

"No." Maelor looked east.

"I know them." Zayn gave a weak laugh.

"You're betting on them."

"Yes."

"Like Lyséa bet on me." The dead man did not answer at once. Then he said,"I should have bet on you sooner." Zayn froze. The wind passed through the broken courtyard. There were no more spectators. No more Council. No more soldiers. No more screams. Only a dead man fading away and a Demon King too tired to know whether his hatred could still stand on its own. Zayn spoke more quietly.

"Don't say that."

"Why?"

"Because it changes nothing." Maelor looked at his own body vanishing by fragments.

"I know."

"Then shut up."

"No." Zayn closed his eyes for a second. His hand tightened around the scythe.

"You really are the worst obstacle imaginable." If Maelor had still been able to smile like a living man, perhaps he would have.

"Because I'm strong?" Zayn opened his eyes again.

"Because I can't pretend you never tried." Silence. The sentence remained between them. And for the first time since the beginning of the battle, Maelor lowered the staff slightly. Not in surrender. In recognition of the truth.

"Zayn."

"Don't say my name."

"Zayn." The Demon King clenched his teeth. Maelor raised his nearly transparent hand.

"You were not condemned by your first breath in this world." Zayn trembled.

"The Throne says otherwise."

"The Throne is a memory. Not a judge." The sentence entered him like a crack. Maelor continued,"Perhaps the cycle was real. Perhaps your soul carried ashes before you even arrived. Perhaps you would have found the Throne another way. I don't know." His fingers were disappearing.

"But what we did that day was not necessary because the future was written. It was cowardice because we were afraid to read it any other way." Zayn did not answer. Maelor raised the staff one last time.

"That is my fault." The capital's circles lit up. All of them. At once.

"And this is what I have left to pay for it." The sky turned blue. Not as before. Clearer. Vaster. The entire capital was covered by one last barrier. A barrier that did not merely protect from attacks. It isolated the city's heart, the shelters, the still-inhabited streets, the children, the old, the guilty and the innocent. Everything Maelor had decided to carry until his disappearance. Zayn felt the price. The spell was no longer consuming mana. It was consuming what remained of Maelor. His name. His memory.

His presence. His right to leave a trace. The undead archmage was turning what remained of himself into a wall. Zayn froze.

"Stop." Maelor looked at him.

"I can't."

"I order you." The word resonated with the title of Demon King. The capital trembled. Maelor, however, did not bend.

"You are not my king." Zayn remained still. Maelor added,"And even if you were, I would disobey." The fused scythe murmured,"This man is unbearable." Zayn slowly raised his weapon. His dark aura covered the blade. Sloth flowed into the edge, ready to wear down what even death had not taken. The Avarice in his palm wanted to seize the remains. Wrath wanted to burn. Gluttony wanted to bite into the final spell. Envy wanted to absorb. Pride wanted to break this rampart that refused to bow.

And something else, still locked, stirred in one corner of his soul. Not yet open. Not yet named. But drawn to this moment. To the pain of being seen by someone who knew exactly what he had become and who, even so, kept speaking to him as if he were a lost boy beneath the king's ruins. Zayn struck. Not the city. Maelor. The scythe passed through the blue barrier. The final spell resisted. Maelor's body began to disintegrate faster. The dead man raised the staff against the blade. One last time.

The clash made no sound. Blue light climbed into the sky. Then split. Maelor looked at Zayn. He almost no longer had a face. Only eyes. Dead eyes. And still apologetic.

"They're coming," he murmured. Zayn did not answer.

"Then I held long enough." The scythe entered the last core of runes. Ruined Time poured into it. The circles withered. Not the barrier over the city. Maelor cut it free from himself at the last instant. He saved his final spell from his own death. Of course. Even his end had a precaution in it. The archmage's body cracked. Fragments of blue light escaped from his shoulders, his arms, his chest. Zayn almost reached out a hand. He did not know why. Maelor said one last thing. Not to the Demon King. To Zayn.

"I'm sorry I didn't open the door." Then he disappeared. Not like a corpse. Not like an explosion. Like a book whose every page burns in silence. The broken staff fell to the ground. The final barrier remained above the capital. Weak. But there. And the world felt Maelor Asterian disappear. Truly. This time, there was no return. The silence that followed belonged to no one. Zayn remained standing in the ruined courtyard. The scythe hung in his hand. His wings smoked. His body trembled.

His veins burned, then dimmed, then burned again. His regeneration could no longer keep up with everything. He had killed Voragna. Drakhar. Vaelthor. He had crossed Ghelkar. Nhaless. Velmour. The Throne. The sky. The capital. Maelor alive. Maelor dead. He was exhausted beyond what a body should have been able to contain. But Maelor was gone. And something in the world had become emptier. Not safer. Not fairer. Only emptier. Zayn looked at the staff on the ground. Hatred should have filled the space.

It did not arrive fast enough. So something else entered. A need. Filthy. Shameful. Burning. He wanted those who had watched Maelor sacrifice himself to understand. He wanted them to regret. He wanted to see their faces when they understood that the only man capable of protecting them to the very end had died for them, and now all that remained was him. He wanted to be seen. Not as an anomaly. Not as a mistake. Not as an abstract consequence. As the answer. The final Depravity stirred.

In the depths of the palace, the high officials felt Maelor's disappearance. The blue lines on the ceiling weakened. The chief prelate fell to his knees.

"No…" The minister of the Crown backed against the wall.

"He's dead?" No one answered. The woman from the Circle of Ashes gripped her weapon with both hands, but she was shaking. An archivist whispered,"The barrier is still holding…"

"For how long?" Silence. Then a sound. Above them. Footsteps. Slow. Uneven. Tired. But descending. Someone opened his mouth to give an order. No order came. The doors of the underground chamber did not open. They lost the right to remain closed. The locks fell one by one. Zayn entered. He was covered in blood, ash, and dying blue light. His mask was broken. His right palm open. His scythe nearly dragging across the floor. His black wings, too large for the room, folded behind him like those of a burned angel.

No one screamed. They were too afraid. Zayn looked at them. All of them. Slowly.

"Maelor is dead." The chief prelate began to cry. Not with grief. With terror. Zayn smiled.

"Now you see me." Something opened in his soul. The system appeared. [Extreme existential condition detected.] [Desire for recognition: exposed.] [Refused gaze: inverted.] [Need to be seen: corrupted.] Zayn inhaled. He understood before the word appeared. It was not flesh. Not seduction. Not pleasure. It was the shameful desire to stand at the center of the gaze of those who had denied him. The need for them to finally understand. To regret. To be unable to look away. [Depravity recognized.] [LUST.] A black mark opened on his chest, over his heart. Not a heart of love. A heart that demanded to be seen. The high officials raised their eyes in spite of themselves. They could no longer look away. Zayn smiled. A smile exhausted. Terrible. Almost sad.

"There." His voice filled the room. Not loud. Impossible to ignore.

"Now you're going to look at what you've done." He raised the scythe. The massacre began at the exact moment when, very far to the east, the heroes were finally reaching the first walls of the capital.