Chapter 544: Abyssal VII
The abyss trembled.
From far below the stair, where the Tower’s foundations bled into infinity, something stirred. Not Thrones, not crowns—older. The marrow itself, the hidden bedrock on which decree had been carved. It quivered like a beast waking from a forced sleep, its chains rattling as Leon’s flame seeped deeper into its bones.
Above, beyond the rift, the Upper Thrones whispered to one another in languages older than stars. Not decree—plots. For the first time in eternity, they did not agree.
Some demanded descent, to crush the heresy before it rooted further. Others counseled patience, warning that the fracture Leon had written could spread if pressed too soon. Their silence was no longer unity—it was division.
And throughout the Tower, climbers felt it.
On Floor 999, where the few who had risen high without crowns hid themselves in despair, fire kindled in their hearts. One lifted his head, eyes wide. "...The law bent."
On Floor 700, a forgotten queen wrapped in chains of decree screamed as her bonds turned to ash. She laughed, a broken, weeping laugh, and flames licked her ruined throne.
On Floor 300, children born inside the Tower, who had never seen the stars, saw sparks dancing in their hands. They didn’t know why, but they laughed and cried all at once.
The Tower was no longer still. It was alive.
Back on the stair, the companions stood in the wreckage of victory, their bodies at their limit. And yet, none of them fell. Not yet.
Roselia touched Leon’s shoulder, her voice faint but steady. "They won’t wait long. They’ll come again. And when they do... it won’t just be crowns. They’ll send their servants first. The Throne-Bearers who still cling to their decrees."
Liliana’s silver eyes glimmered as her threads wove faint signals into the fire. "They’re already moving. Some are breaking... but others, the ones who still believe—they’ll rally to erase us."
Naval spat a clot of blood onto the stair, his grin sharp. "Let ’em rally. We’ll burn their banners before they’re even raised."
Roman leaned back, wheezing, yet his laugh was full of teeth. "Heh. A war it is, then. About time this Tower saw something better than their endless puppetry."
Milim’s laughter rose again, softer this time, almost like a child’s delight. "A war of crowns and fire... good. GOOD! Let’s see which burns brighter."
Leon listened, silent for a moment. Then he turned his eyes upward, toward the rift. His flame pulsed in rhythm with the chorus now alive across the Tower.
"They’ll come. Servants, bearers, crowns, even the marrow itself if they must. Let them. For every step they try to silence, a thousand more will burn. And I will stand until the last spark sings."
The stair roared in answer, its fire carrying the vow to every floor, every climber, every corner of the Tower.
The war had been declared.
And in the heavens above, the Thrones prepared their counterstroke.
The heavens darkened.
Not from storm, nor from decree—but from a shadow deeper than either. The rift above the stair flexed, its edges groaning as though reality itself resisted what sought to pass through. Lines of impossible geometry etched across the void, runes that had once been immutable beginning to fracture like brittle glass.
The Upper Thrones had not descended. Not yet. But their answer was clear.
The first counterstroke was not law. It was war.
Across the Tower’s higher floors, crowns fractured, reshaping themselves into soldiers of light and shadow—Throne-Bearers reforged, stripped of hesitation, bound in rage. Some fell screaming as Leon’s fire devoured them from within, but others endured, their decrees hardening into weapons. Spears that bent cause and effect. Shields that erased wounds. Voices that rewrote gravity with a word.
And they marched.
Floor by floor, step by step, they came—not as judges, but as hunters.
Back on the stair, Liliana stiffened, her silver threads spasming as if tugged by invisible claws. "They’re moving. Hundreds... thousands. Every bearer still loyal to the crowns is being driven downward. Toward us."
Roselia’s emberblade flared weakly back to life, her grip trembling yet unyielding. "Servants first. Always the servants. They’ll bleed their pawns until the Tower itself cracks under the weight."
Naval barked a ragged laugh, his scales knitting unevenly as he forced himself upright. "Then let’s bleed them back. No pawn walks away whole if they touch this stair."
Roman smirked, though his face was pale. "Careful, brother. A pawn in their hand isn’t just a pawn. It’s a knife that bends truth. And we’re already carved to the bone."
Milim’s violet fire surged, licking the air like a crown of madness. "LET THEM COME! THE MORE THE BETTER! I’LL TURN THEIR KNIVES INTO FLUTES AND MAKE THEM SING WITH ME!"
Leon said nothing. He stood at the center of their chaos, the flame within him burning steadier than the sky. Yet his gaze was not on the rift above, nor the abyss below. It was fixed on the stair itself, the Tower’s marrow trembling in time with the chorus he had awakened.
"...They want to drown us in servants," Leon murmured. "Then we’ll answer with something they’ve never faced."
His palm pressed against the stair.
The flame pulsed.
And from the walls, from the bones, from the forgotten embers of climbers erased long ago—sparks stirred. They rose like ghosts, not bound by flesh, but carried by fire. The Tower’s forgotten dead. The erased. The silenced.
They burned anew.
Liliana gasped, tears streaking down her ash-stained cheeks. "Leon... you’re calling them."
Roselia’s eyes widened as the spectral flames gathered around their group, forming shapes, blades, wings, and banners of fire. "Not servants... not pawns... allies."
Leon’s voice was quiet, but absolute.
"They tried to erase you. They failed. Stand with me now—and the Thrones will never silence you again."
The chorus roared.
The stair blazed.
And as the Throne-Bearers descended in legions of decree, they found not five broken climbers awaiting them—
—but an army of fire.
The first war in the Tower’s history had begun.