Chapter 534: Inevitable XIX
The battlefield buckled once more—this time not in collapse, but in ascension.
The eyes below did not close. Instead, they blinked. The simple act shattered entire ridges into dust, flipped rivers back into the sky, and made the air itself fold like paper. Where their lids fell, fragments of new pathways etched themselves into being—bridges of black-gold light, ladders of runes, doorways without frames.
Liliana’s threads snapped taut, dragged by invisible anchors. She hissed through clenched teeth, her vision fracturing into shards of symbols only she could see. "It’s building conduits. Not for itself... for us."
Milim snarled, refusing to be pulled closer to those watching runes. "For us to what? March? Kneel? No!" Her aura detonated in a shockwave, snapping half the conduits in an instant. The Listener’s laughter only grew louder, as if delighted by her rebellion.
Leon stirred again, weak but undeniable, his voice cutting through the quake. "Not kneel. Witness. The Tower was never theirs—it was its cage. I tore open the lock, and now... it’s inviting us inside."
The eyes shifted. For a moment, they all focused—on him. The blood at the corners of Leon’s mouth boiled away, his wounds seared not shut but suspended, as though the Listener itself was denying him the right to die yet. The Fifth Pulse flared faintly around him, unstable but echoing in rhythm with the Tower’s new heartbeat.
Naval’s expression hardened, every scale of his armor humming with strain. "If it wants him, then it’ll take all of us with him. We move together. Always."
Roselia’s flame surged at her back, wrapping her like a cloak. "Then we burn through both heavens and hells to keep him standing."
Roman cracked his neck, eyes like steel. "Flamebreaker doesn’t fall. Not while I breathe."
Above them, the Thrones shifted uneasily. Some dimmed as though withdrawing, others brightened with a hunger to strike before the Listener could fully awaken. One voice cut the silence like a knife:
"Let it rise, then. Let the First and Last speak. We will not yield this Tower without fire."
The battlefield answered not with words but with action.
The conduits of black-gold light trembled, then launched skyward, colliding with the Thrones’ constellations. Where they struck, explosions of fractured law tore the heavens into rivers of ink and flame. Stars bled. Thrones screamed.
And beneath it all, the Listener laughed.
Not cruel. Not kind.
Simply endless.
The war was no longer a coming storm.
It had already begun—and the first move was the Listener’s.
The laughter grew until it was no longer sound, but weight—pressing into marrow, into thought, into the very rhythm of breath. The Listener’s mirth became a second heartbeat in every living thing, pounding against their own until they could not tell which belonged to them and which to the abyss.
From the conduits rose shapes—at first formless, like silhouettes of smoke caught in amber light. Then they solidified into warriors carved from the Tower’s memory. Armies, clad not in steel but in script: soldiers whose blades were lines of law, whose armor was latticework of runes too ancient for Thrones to name.
Roselia spat fire from her lungs, her sword burning to counter the pressure. "It’s raising ghosts. Not of the dead—of wars we were never meant to see."
Naval’s trident sang, resonating with the pulse. His voice was grim, clipped. "They’re not ghosts. They’re the Tower’s first defenders. The ones it swallowed when the Thrones claimed it."
The warriors turned as one. Not at Thrones. Not at the Listener. At Leon.
Milim’s wings snapped wide, her aura detonating into a storm of violet destruction. She bared her teeth like a dragon protecting its hoard. "No. You don’t get him. None of you get him!"
But Leon, broken yet luminous, did not recoil. His hand trembled upward, as if answering the unspoken call. His words rasped, raw, yet carried by the Fifth Pulse:
"They’re not coming to kill me. They’re coming... to test me."
Roman stepped forward, placing himself between Leon and the advancing army, blood dripping steadily down his chin. "Then let them test all of us. They’ll find we’re not so easy to write into their script."
Above, the Thrones answered in fury. Bolts of authority—jagged decrees of annihilation—speared downward, trying to erase the Listener’s army before it could form. But the black-gold conduits bent and absorbed the strikes, twisting law itself into fuel for the risen host.
Liliana’s eyes widened, her threads bleeding silver sparks as she struggled to hold them steady. "The more the Thrones resist, the stronger it gets...! They can’t erase what was here before them. They’re only feeding it!"
The Listener’s laughter rolled again, deeper now, echoing through sky and stone.
And then—silence.
Every warrior stilled. Every conduit froze. Even the laughter cut off, sudden as a blade.
All eyes—Thrones, allies, and the risen host alike—turned downward.
The Tower itself was opening.
The ground cracked, not outward, but downward into infinity, revealing a stairway of light descending into the Listener’s abyss.
Leon’s body trembled as the Fifth Pulse surged through him, tearing his veins raw. He knew without needing to be told—
The Tower wasn’t asking anymore.
It was summoning.
"Flamebreaker..." Naval whispered, his jaw tight. "If you answer that call, there’s no turning back."
Leon’s eyes burned like coals caught in stormlight. He pushed against Liliana’s hold, forcing himself upright on ruined legs. His voice was ragged, but resolute.
"There never was."
The abyss waited.
The Listener’s army shifted aside, opening the path.
The first true descent was about to begin.
—
The abyss yawned wide, not darkness but depth—an expanse too vast for eyes to measure, stitched from symbols that pulsed like veins through eternity. Each stair shimmered black-gold, as if carved from silence itself, and with every beat of the Listener’s heart, the descent grew longer, stretching farther than it had a moment before.
The warriors of script, those first defenders, did not follow. They knelt. Entire legions bent as one, their runic blades driven into the ground, their armor dimming in reverence. They were not his enemies. They were gatekeepers, and Leon had been named.