Chương 44: 43: The Eleven Abominations

Far away, in a pocket of reality that was neither New Zealand nor any place that truly existed, a symphony of annihilation neared its crescendo. This was Clock's arena. A false world carved from un-space and wrapped around the battlefield like a cage. Creating it had cost a significant amount of Gloom, but far less than fighting at full power on Earth. There, a careless strike could split continents. Here, everything remained contained. The realm stretched endlessly in every direction. Rolling hills. Gray plains.

Jagged ridges. Scattered ruins. A horizon that never seemed to grow closer no matter how far one looked. The sky was a bruised, starless violet. The ground was dust made from dead possibilities. Gravity itself had been rewritten into something heavier and more obedient. Anything struck stayed down. The Eleven Abominations: Gurtu - a basalt giant veined with magma, wielding a tectonic spiked mace. Malakhi - a spectral frost-wraith draped in tattered gauze, her face a hollow porcelain mask.

Silas, the Verdant Cradle - a walking grove of black wood and razor vines, centered around a rotting golden fruit. Kael - an insectile horror of oil-slick chitin and crystalline claws, absolute-zero light spilling from his maw. The Warpfluff - a house-sized sphere of warped gravity and shifting impossible geometry. The Screamsong, Elara - a violet mass of flesh crowned by seven serpentine throats singing psychic devastation.

The Twin Razors, Lethe and Mneme - mirrored silver figures that moved like glitches carved into space itself. Ankou, the Void Maw - a person-shaped absence that consumed light, color, and coherence. Iriz, the Reflection - a flawless alabaster mirror that reflected not appearances, but intent. Ouro, the Chain Serpent - an endless quicksilver serpent of runed links and mournful vibrations. Rhizome, the Spore Mother - a towering fungal queen trailing bioluminescent growths and reality-warping pollen.

Each powerful enough to devastate nations. Each now staring at the lone figure suspended overhead. For a moment, nobody moved. The false world stretched around them without end. The abominations found themselves standing within it and paused. Disoriented. Several turned slowly, scanning the endless landscape before their gazes drifted upward. Clock floated above them. At first glance, he looked almost ordinary.

A young man suspended in the violet sky, pale-skinned and lean, wavy white hair stirring in a wind that didn't exist. Faint violet eyes glowed beneath lowered brows. A black king earring hung from one ear, a white queen from the other. His clothing looked absurdly normal compared to the horrors gathered below. Folded sleeves exposed pale forearms.

A fitted black shirt sat beneath a charcoal jacket tailored with obsessive precision, while a dark scarf rested loosely around his neck, shifting gently despite the still air. Dark gray trousers. Polished black boots untouched by dust despite standing in a world made entirely of it. Sapphire-and-diamond rings adorned several fingers, each unique yet meticulously coordinated. Spirals of blackened silver and white gold framed matching sapphires, understated but impossible to overlook once noticed.

His nails bore flawless patterns of violet, black, and white, intricate spirals and geometric swirls mirrored with obsessive precision, each one a miniature work of art. A minimalist watch rested on one wrist, thin black gloves protruded from a jacket pocket, and a matte-black electric guitar threaded with luminous violet strings hung across his back. Around his neck rested sleek black headphones etched with subtle clockwork filigree.

He smelled of fresh paper in an old library, polished cedar, expensive tea, cool violets, and the faint petrichor of rain settling over stone. Even floating above an army of nightmares, he somehow looked like someone who would pause an apocalypse to straighten a crooked painting. The Choir of Nightmares had been dragged into his private world alongside five Talons and three Operatives. Before them, Clock hovered in the violet sky with his hands in his pockets while the assembled horrors stared upward.

For a moment, nobody moved. Then Gurtu's molten gaze narrowed.

"Who are you?" His voice rumbled across the wasteland like tectonic plates grinding together. Clock didn't answer immediately. Instead, his gaze drifted beyond the battlefield and the assembled abominations. A faint smile touched his lips as the endless plain reminded him of Lucien's training room. From the outside, the place looked barely large enough to hold a storage closet. Inside, it contained entire worlds. Mountains, oceans, cities, forests, whatever scenery Lucien felt like creating on a whim.

That day it had been a football pitch beneath an artificial summer sky. The memory surfaced uninvited.... A whistle sounded as the ball dropped from above. Clock's team consisted of himself, Mango, and four humanoid training bots. Winter and Butter occupied the opposing side alongside four identical machines. Lucien had insisted the teams were balanced. Nobody believed him. The robots had been designed specifically for sports.

Sleek white synthetic bodies, black joint plating, glowing blue optics, and athletic frames built to mimic human movement without matching supernatural physiques. The goalkeeper units stood nearly eight feet tall with reinforced limbs and reaction speeds that bordered on unfair.

"IT'S OVER!" Winter declared. Long hair whipped behind her braid as she twisted into a bicycle kick before the ball touched the turf. Barefoot as always, she wore black athletic shorts, a white crop top, and Boytes wrapped around her wrists. The suppression bands reduced everyone to ordinary physical limits and forced them to rely entirely on skill. Clock met her in the air.

"Not a chance." Their legs collided with a heavy THUMP, sending the ball ricocheting sideways. Butter was already waiting. Pink eyes blazing with mischief, she caught the rebound and immediately pointed at Clock.

"Ref! Ref! Assault! That's assault!"

"There is no referee."

"Then I'm punching you if you foul." Clock rolled his eyes.

"You can't break out of every problem, sis." Butter grinned.

"Watch me." She charged anyway. Mango intercepted.

"Sorry, Butter." Mango looked genuinely apologetic while stealing possession. Brown-skinned and hazel-eyed, with dark ginger locs tipped gold, she somehow managed to appear perpetually confused and completely in control at the same time. Her oversized yellow hoodie bounced as she accelerated downfield. Butter pointed dramatically.

"Traitor."

"We're on opposite teams."

"Exactly." Mango immediately looked guilty.

"Uhhh."

"Don't listen to her!" Clock shouted.

"Okay!" Mango nodded. Then passed directly to Butter.

"MANGO!"

"SORRY!" Butter burst into laughter. Winter had already recovered. One of the defender bots stepped forward to intercept her. She planted a foot against its shoulder, sprinted vertically up its torso, flipped backward over its head, landed on one hand, and spun across the turf before stealing the ball without ever properly touching both feet to the ground. Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

"Mine." Clock stared.

"That feels illegal."

"Skill issue. Try to keep up buddy." Three more robots converged. Winter threaded the ball through one machine's legs, launched into a spinning double-leg kick that carried her over another, then folded sideways in midair and whipped an overhead heel kick around the third defender's head while maintaining perfect control. The ball never left her feet.

"See?" Clock pointed.

"That." Winter ignored him. The attack surged forward. Then Mango appeared. Nobody saw her move. Mango was already halfway across the field. Butter pointed accusingly.

"How do you keep doing that?!"

"Doing what?"

"Exactly!" Mango genuinely looked confused. Clock groaned. Mango was infuriating. Winter possessed the best speed, Butter the greatest physicality, and Clock the sharpest tactical mind, yet Mango somehow embarrassed all of them without appearing to realize she was doing it. The game accelerated. Passes became blurs. Tackles turned into ambushes. Players crossed the field so quickly that even the robots struggled to keep up. Clock slipped into a low capoeira stance and flowed beneath a tackle.

One leg whipped upward in a meia-lua kick that sent the ball sailing over a defender's head. He rolled through the motion, balanced briefly on one hand, spun completely around, and volleyed the ball forward with his heel. The ball ricocheted off a defender bot. Off another. Then rebounded skyward. Chaos erupted. Bodies flew everywhere. Winter intercepted upside down. Clock intercepted Winter. Butter intercepted Clock. Mango intercepted everyone. Nobody understood how. Winter landed, looked at Clock, and sighed.

"Dude, you're ass." Clock gritted his teeth.

"Get wrecked." Butter doubled over laughing.

"Oh my." Clock pointed at her immediately.

"You're cheeks too. Why are you laughing?" Butter wiped a tear from her eye.

"Whatever sails your boat, brother." Mango took the shot. One of the goalkeeper units launched itself through the air and blocked a shot that should have been impossible to reach.

"NO!" Clock pointed accusingly.

"That one's cheating."

"They're robots," Butter replied.

"Exactly. You might've programmed them to cheat."

"You overestimate my intelligence."

"Well, you're full of surprises. Never let your guard down." The goalkeeper launched the ball back into play as the argument continued.

"We can't lose this match anyway." Butter caught the ball against her chest and raised an eyebrow.

"Why?" Winter sprinted on all fours between players before vaulting over a robot and landing on its shoulders. Butter kicked the ball off her knee, her shoulder, then her head before attempting an absurd spinning volley. Clock stole it immediately.

"Well, if we lose, I have to wash Winter's clothes by hand for a week." Silence. Butter stared at him.

"Why would you agree to that?" Clock dribbled past a defender.

"Irrelevant."

"CLOCK." He accelerated away.

"Focus on the game."

"That's the dumbest bet I've ever heard." Mango jogged alongside them, her oversized hoodie bouncing with every step.

"We should make a bet too." Butter immediately perked up.

"What kind?" Mango thought for a moment.

"If we win, you buy me yoghurt."

"Deal."

"And if we lose?" Butter grinned.

"You wash my dishes for a year." Mango nearly offered her hand.

"Deal-""NO." Clock appeared between them so abruptly both girls flinched.

"No." Mango blinked.

"But I like yoghurt."

"You can have yoghurt." Clock pointed at Butter.

"Her." Butter rolled her eyes.

"Oh, relax. I wasn't actually going to make Mango wash dishes for a year. I just thought it'd be funny."

"That's still a terrible bet." Mango raised her hand.

"If we win twice, can I get two yoghurts?" Butter nodded immediately.

"Done."

"Excellent." Mango looked genuinely pleased. Clock sighed.

"Never trust an albino." Butter frowned.

"You're albino too."

"Exactly." Before she could process that answer, Clock flicked his fingers. A gust of air smacked directly into her face.

"HEY!" Butter squeezed her eyes shut. Clock was already sprinting toward their goal.

"THIEF!"

"STRATEGIST!"

"COWARD!"

"TACTICIAN!" Butter tore after him while Mango watched them go, then she looked down. The ball was still at her feet.

"Yay." Nobody had noticed. Again. Mango shrugged and continued forward. A defender bot stepped into her path. She slipped beneath its reaching arm, planted a foot against its thigh, vaulted over its shoulder, and landed still dribbling. Another lunged. She spun around it. A third tried to intercept. She passed the ball through its legs and followed it before the machine realized what had happened. Across the field, Winter danced through two defenders and glanced toward Clock with a grin.

Wagging a finger, she said, "Get those pretty hands ready, Chess Boy." Clock immediately looked offended. Winter remained completely serious.

"I like my clothes ironed." She pointed at him.

"Neatly arranged too." Butter doubled over laughing.

"You're doomed."

"I am not."

"You absolutely are." Clock folded his arms.

"I'll wash the clothes." He pointed at Winter.

"I am not washing your stinky bras, though." Winter raised an eyebrow.

"I don't wear bras." A beat passed.

"Or underwear." Mango looked up from the ball.

"Or shoes!"

"Or shoes," Winter agreed with a nod. Clock's gaze slowly drifted downward as though only just noticing. He frowned.

"…So you just freeball?" Butter dissolved into another fit of laughter.

"She doesn't have balls, genius." Mango's hand shot into the air.

"I like balls!" Clock pinched the bridge of his nose. Butter wheezed. Winter didn't even blink. Mango tilted her head.

"… Footballs." The match rolled on beneath a chorus of laughter, accusations of cheating, impossible saves, and increasingly ridiculous wagers while everyone paid remarkably little attention to the actual score. Meanwhile, Mango quietly scored another goal before anyone remembered she existed. For a moment, the memory felt more real than the battlefield surrounding him. Then the football pitch dissolved. The summer sky vanished, replaced once more by the endless violet wasteland....

Gurtu's voice dragged him back to the present.

"I asked you a question, bastard." Clock blinked once, his expression tightening with visible irritation.

"Excuse me?" The abominations exchanged glances. Clock looked genuinely confused.

"You are beneath me," he said.

"Why would I introduce myself?" Several of them physically recoiled. One of the Operatives lowered his rifle slightly. Even they hadn't expected that response. Kael's mandibles clicked together.

"You speak as though you've achieved true strength." His voice carried a dry, chittering amusement. The insectile horror laughed. Several others joined him. Clock looked directly at Kael. The world cracked. There was no gesture. THOOM. Kael became a black speck screaming across the horizon at impossible velocity. Hills erupted one after another as his body tore through miles of landscape before vanishing from sight entirely. Several seconds later, the shockwave finally arrived.

Clock lowered his gaze to the remaining monsters.

"I have." Clock regarded them with the expression of a man discovering muddy boots on an antique carpet.

"Your numbers were greater when we began." Clock's gaze drifted across the assembled abominations.

"I eliminated eight of you before bringing the remainder here." His voice remained calm.

"The alternative would have involved fighting all of you there." A faint crease appeared between his brows.

"What a nuisance that would have been." His eyes lowered toward the endless landscape beneath them.

"This world is disposable. The other one is not." His violet eyes returned to them. Silence settled over the battlefield. Only then did he look back at the assembled horrors. Several moved immediately. The Twin Razors sliced at space itself. Warpfluff distorted reality around its immense bulk. Ankou opened a wound of perfect darkness. Three separate escape methods activated simultaneously. Half of each abomination vanished. The other half exploded.

Flesh, metal, shadow, and conceptual matter detonated across the false plain. The survivors staggered backward as regeneration rushed to repair the damage. Clock stared at them.

"... Really?" His disappointment somehow felt worse than anger.

"I specifically established the first rule before bringing you here." He gestured vaguely toward the endless landscape.

"No one leaves until I do." The silence stretched.

"Did I actually need to explain that?" Malakhi drifted upward as frost gathered around her fingertips.

"What did you do?" Her voice was quiet and brittle, like ice cracking across a frozen lake.

"I attached the consequence of escape to self-destruction." Several abominations looked genuinely horrified. Gurtu laughed. The sound rolled across the battlefield like mountains collapsing into magma chambers.

"You hope that little trick will save you?" Malakhi's pale eyes narrowed.

"Do you truly consider yourself powerful enough to slaughter every being standing before you?" The Twin Razors rose into the air without visible motion. Their mirrored forms split and overlapped through impossible angles.

"You die here."

"We have seen it." Their voices overlapped perfectly. Warpfluff's immense body twisted the landscape around itself. The Screamsong's seven throats opened.

"Sing."

"Break."

"Rend."

"Consume."

"End." The layered voices merged into a single discordant chorus. Rhizome's pollen thickened the air.

"The ecosystem rejects you." Its voice sounded distant, as though spoken through roots buried beneath continents. Around them, power began to gather. The battlefield woke. Clock sighed. His gaze drifted across the assembled nightmares before settling on Silas, the Verdant Cradle. The towering grove of black timber shifted uneasily, razor vines writhing around the rotting golden fruit embedded at the center of its trunk. He winced.

"You." Silas slowly straightened, branches creaking.

"Yes?" Clock pointed.

"I hate your face." The rotten fruit quivered.

"…What?"

"Be gone." Clock extended one hand. A small sphere of violet light appeared above his palm. Then he released it. FWOOM. The orb shot forward. After a single meter its speed tripled. After another, it tripled again. Then its power tripled. And tripled again. Reality folded around its passage as exponential acceleration compounded upon itself. Silas had just enough time for its vines to recoil around the fruit before the orb struck. Then it disappeared.

A violet column punched through hills, mountains, and horizon alike. The shockwave split the landscape for hundreds of kilometers as the unfortunate abomination accelerated faster and faster until it became a fading speck against the endless false sky. Clock lowered his hand.

"Much better." The remaining abominations stared. Clock regarded them with mild disappointment.

"Don't misunderstand," he said.

"If that had been sufficient to kill either of them permanently, I'd have thought considerably less of the Choir." His gaze drifted toward the distant horizon where Kael had vanished, then to the fading violet scar Silas had carved through the false world.

"It takes far more than a simple attack to put down an Abomination. Especially one as absurdly durable as Kael…" He sighed.

"…or one as obnoxiously self-replicating as Silas." The remaining abominations stared. Rhizome's countless fungal tendrils twitched.

"How do you know our names?" Several of the others glanced toward Clock. None of them recalled introducing themselves. Clock looked faintly puzzled by the question.

"I can read minds." Silence.

"Yours are especially loud." He adjusted one glove.

"Now then." A barrage crashed into him. Frost. Gravity. Void. Sonic annihilation. Nothing happened. Several abominations froze. Clock sighed. Another volley struck him. Again, nothing.

"Transport." The word fell from his lips with quiet finality.

"The consequences of anything that reaches me are redirected... elsewhere." His gaze drifted across the battlefield.

"Your attacks cannot reach me. My defense supersedes them all." Gurtu laughed. The sound resembled mountains grinding together.

"Defense?" Molten fire spilled between his jagged teeth.

"By the time we're finished with you, you'll be begging for death." Malakhi's pale eyes narrowed.

"We will peel apart every secret you possess." Screamsong's seven mouths stretched into grinning maws. The air thickened around the Choir. Clock listened patiently. Then he tilted his head.

"How strange. You speak as though my fate rests in your hands." His violet eyes swept over them.

"You threaten. You promise punishment. You describe my end in exquisite detail." A faint smile touched his lips.

"And yet every one of you is still looking up at me." Nobody spoke.

"There is a word for that." The smile widened slightly.

"Reverence." Gurtu's grip tightened around his mace.

"Keep talking." Molten cracks spread across his basalt flesh.

"Your head will soon decorate my throne." Clock's expression didn't change.

"A charming ambition." He smiled. Sapphires glimmered behind his lips. The gemstones caught the false sunlight like tiny stars. Then the smile disappeared. The Choir of Nightmares surged forward. Talons launched skyward. Operatives ignited their systems. The false world trembled beneath the sudden eruption of power.