“Advance!”

“For Galactic!”

“Incoming, left side!”

“Reform the barrier! Reform the barrier!”

Cyrus walked through a field of battle, his boots crunching over the hundreds of Unown that glared at him with dying eyes as they fizzled to ash. The Unown had taken him by surprise last time, and it had cost him, leaving his forces at two-thirds of their usual capacity.

Memories of another battle, another war, briefly flashed in his mind. He was young, stupid, but worst of all weak. He saw the cold eyes of that thing called Red, watched as the older boy ordered the death of his father, his mother. It would have ended him too, if not for Setare. He remembered the quiet cries of the survivors, how angry and useless he felt.

Never again.

Swarms of Unown swayed and danced through the air, clumping together to transform into stronger Pokémon, or to fire off attacks from afar, the glow of a thousand ethereal Hidden Power’s lighting up the chamber Galactic warred in.

And what a chamber it was! He could see it, the technology, the sheer ingenuity, the madness. This wasn’t a temple, it was a prison, and its inhabitants had gone mad long ago if the grotesque statues were anything to go by. Twisted human faces, their mouths sewn shut with golden thread as their eyes laughed for them.

“How long.” Cyrus mused, as the battle raged around them. “How long before their minds turned against them? How long before they realized their haven was their tomb?”

“Is now the time to be worrying about that?” A voice cold like the first breath of winter spoke in his mind.

A small smile touched Cyrus’s lips as he gestured towards the field of battle, “Do you see a threat down there, my friend?”

“Hmm. Perhaps not.” Weavile said, sliding up beside him.

They stood at the head of a grand platform, water flowed in rivers and became a hundred waterfalls that all cascaded down to a lower level. From there the water pooled into a glistening lake, broken apart by golden which stood as their current stage.

That was where his people did battle, holding platforms like they were battlegrounds, performing their play of death and survival. Gyrados raged above the waters, their bellowing cries falling on deaf ears as Jupiter activated her Bronzong’s [House of Glass], creating a soundproof barrier.

A contingent of his men were smashed apart by a team of Ursaring. He watched as a Grunt had his Golbat shred in half by the beast’s mighty claws, falling to the water in a splash of blood and guts. He watched a Bronzor lose a psychic battle against a Girafarig, screaming its dying cries as it was folded in on itself 7 times before being tossed to the side like scrap.

“They are failing.” Weaville snarled.

“They will take losses.” Cyrus thought solemnly, offering a prayer to the dead, “But they will grow.”

He saw that same Ursaring get tackled into the water by the same trainer who’d lost its Golbat to it, as a Quagsire appeared in the water and began to drown the struggling beast. He saw the Girafarig lock itself in another mental battle, only to be gutted by a Sneasel as it distracted itself.

The Unown were many, but they were not infinite. The more they struggled, the more they attempted to create Pokémon, the more their numbers dwindled. And they were not happy.

WALK THIS PATH NO FARTHER. YOU BREAK ALL THAT IS SACRED

He could see their attempts to communicate with him. Pitiful, really. At first they were filled with venom, threats and insults that left him chuckling to himself. But now? Now they requested, soon they would beg.

They’d attempted communication at the beginning as well. A shame, he could not read the words under all the chaos.

The Unown screamed in frustration as the last of their Gyrados was brought to heel by Jupiter’s Skuntank. Hacking and coughing up blood and poison before vacant eyes slipped beneath the surface. This was it. This would be their final push, and when the mockery of Pokémon were dead and gone he could finally, finally, explore and research to his heart’s content.

The shrill scream became a choir of the damned. The Unown chittered endlessly amongst themselves, calling, begging, creating a power that was not theirs.

“Fall back!” Cyrus barked from above, “Fall back and regroup!”

He then turned to the silent procession behind him, “Cover their retreat, prepare for combat.”

His elite, his celestials, nodded before leaping off the platforms, the lighter gravity of the room slowing their falls as they worked their way past the injured and retreating Grunts.

The Unown merged, and three Garchomp fell to the platforms, immediately bellowing their challenge. They were large, beastly things, their skin sharpened to serrated edges.

“They’re larger than Cynthia’s.” Weaville mused.

“But are they stronger?” Cyrus wondered, stepping off the platform, slowly falling down to the golden lily pads below.

“Cyrus dear,” Jupiter smiled briefly. She was trying to appear calm, but he could see the effect the Garchomp had on her. “So glad you could join us.”

“These are the ones who stopped you earlier?”

“Doubt they’re the same, I remember we’d managed to take an eye out from on–”

A one-eyed Garchomp howled, dragging its fins along each other as it gnashed its teeth upon seeing Jupiter.

“Ah.” His friend said. “I suppose they are.”

“You and the Elite will handle that one.” Cyrus ordered. “The other two are mine.”

Worry overtook Jupiter’s features, “Cyrus. You cannot be serious.”

“You doubt my strength?” He asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“Never.” She replied immediately, casting her eyes down, “But if I know you, then you only plan on using Weaville…and transference.”

“Hm?” Weaville chuckled into Cyrus’s mind, “She says she does not doubt our strength. Yet here she is. Doubting our strength.”

Another smile touched Cyrus’s lips. “Do as I tell you, Jupiter. Set up a barrier, isolate us. Use whatever you have left to handle the last one.”

“Of course, sir.”

His people scattered, and Cyrus watched as the ethereal sheen of psychic energy formed a barrier around the island Cyrus stood on, separating the three Garchomp into two groups, leaving him and Weaville alone with their opponents.

“Standing by my side could get you hurt, friend.” Weaville said, sharpening his claws.

“If I cannot stand against two imitations, how can I stand against the real deal?”

“Fair.”

Cyrus concentrated, and he felt his subconscious sink deep, when next he opened his eyes he shared his vision with Weaville, staring down the two larger Garchomp.

Transference. The highest form of psychic strength a human could be born with. Every trainer could to a degree understand their partner Pokémon. Fewer more could understand their tongue, fewer still able to discern the emotions of the Pokémon around them.

But transference? Cyrus once read that those with abilities like his, without the use of a Psychic to unlock his true potential, were chosen by the gods above. They would make the world great, or they would break the world trying.

Empty black eyes stared at the carnage. The world burned around him, yet Cyrus still felt cold staring at those eyes that held nothing in them. How? How could a man, a boy, do something so cruel and not feel a thing?

“[Icy wind]. Use it to cover your [Swords Dance]. 2 beats.”

He would test these Garchomp first and foremost. Would they be able to battle on a level as high as Cynthia? He would face his old friend eventually, but he needed to be ready, to be strong.

He watched as his partner began to make the steps of Swords Dance. Flakes of ice swirled in a vortex, the scent of winter on Weaville’s nose, the sharpening of his claws as he stepped to the beating of his heart and moved with deadly grace.

The Garchomp did not waste time, the smaller of the two speeding forward in a blur to meet Weaville before he could get the second Swords Dance off. Cyrus recognized the familiar green glow of Draconic energy coating the monster’s talons, he’d have to respond in kind.

“Drop Icy Wind and finish the dance,” Cyrus commanded, “[Ice Shard] after, test its power.”

To be a decent trainer, one should be able to utilise the moves in a repertoire outside of its intended use.

Case in point, Ice shard was a simple attack, simply creating ice and hurling it at the opponent. What made it good however, was the speed at which ice was generated.

The smaller Garchomp swung its claws down, just as Weaville managed to finish the first beat of Swords Dance, he could feel the power surge at the end of the technique. Adrenaline roared in his ears as Ice coated his claws in record time, and Weaville matched the blow with his own.

As expected, each of Weaville's attacks were no match for Dragon Claw, even with the Swords Dance boosting his ability. Each time their claws struck one another the Ice would shatter completely. But did that matter, if it could be reformed in less than a second?

Cyrus watched the two trade blows, Garchomp’s larger form meant it could outreach Weaville, but his partner was no fool. Weaville leapt over a slash, landing atop Garchomp’s arm and running up along the beast to land three good slashes on its face before leaping away.

“Weaker than Cynthia’s.” Weaville snarled, “A shame.”

“You are still outnumbered. Perhaps save your jud-MOVE!”

The ground rumbled, the larger Garchomp howled. The golden floor cracked and moulded in on itself, becoming a darker, mineral heavy rock. Rocks began to jut out of the ground, forming in the blink of an eye, getting closer and closer to Weaville.

…and him.

“Cyrus!” Weaville barked, leaping out of the way as a rock speared the place he was not a moment ago.

The Galactic boss inhaled a sharp breath as cold power flooded into his arms, and without missing a beat he smashed his fist into the oncoming rock, shattering it into a hundred pieces.

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Ice punch. He flexed his hand, letting flakes of ice drop to the ground. Another blessing of Transference.

“Domain Projection?” Cyrus mused, admiring their new battlefield, “Perhaps this will be a challenge.”

“How shall I respond?” Weaville asked, ice coating his claws as the two Garchomp began to pincer him.

“[Ice Claw]. Test your limits.”

If the mark of a decent trainer was to utilize a move outside of its intended use, the mark of a good trainer was to create a move so that you’d be ready for any situation. Ice claw was one such move, basic, but better than ice punch simply because it utilized Weaville’s biology better.

His partner didn’t exactly have traditional hands, after all.

Weaville ducked and danced, long wicked claws slashing at whatever the two dragons sent his way. He could see the cracks beginning to form in Weaville’s form however. His partner was pushing himself, fighting at 100% just to keep the two dragons at bay. Whereas the Garchomp simply needed to rely on one another if they made a mistake, Weaville fought alone.

The larger Garchomp broke Weaville’s guard, shattering his ice claws with an uppercut of draconic energy. The younger leapt into the fray, spinning in the air before delivering a heavy dragon tail that sent Weaville flying backwards.

It wasn’t over, the larger roared, and Weaville gasped as sharpened rock pierced his hide, sending blood splattering over the rock.

A dull pain entered Cyrus’s core and side.

“Wretched things.” Weaville snarled, freeze-drying his wound, “I’ll kill you both.”

A good trainer could create techniques, a great trainer created domains. One of the highest manifestations of type energy mastery, expelling nearly all of the designated type onto the field of battle itself and creating a realm that the user controlled. Instantaneous attacks, defenses, changing of the battleground to the user’s preference.

Crasher Wake excelled at this sort of battle.

“Play defense, [Protect] and [Double Team].”

So how did one counter a domain? There was always the choice of using Weaville’s own domain, many of the later battles in the League Circuit involved trainers warring their domains against one another. But a Dark Domain would do little against Rock, and to use an Ice domain would rob Weaville of the ice techniques he already had.

Cyrus could simply destroy it with Howling Dance. But the technique was still new, too taxing on Weaville’s current self. The second the technique was done he’d be too tired to face the two Garchomp.

The final method was destabilization. Weaville had rain dance, one usage of the move and the efficiency of a Rock domain would be cut in half. It would be easier, far easier for Weaville to outmaneuver and defeat the two dragons.

But if it were Cynthia…

Cynthia was a master. Her Garchomp would have smashed any attack that came her way. Would have broken them apart, piece by piece. If defeating Cynthia was to be his final challenge, then he’d have to do the same, wouldn’t he?

He was chosen, after all.

“[Cold Wind].” Cyrus commanded, “it's time we begin our attack.”

He felt the freezing wind blast Weaville’s skin as if it were his own. The temperature within his partner’s vicinity instantly dropped to a -25 Celc as he blurred forward, slashing at the two Garchomp before gaining some distance.

“We do this the hard way then.” Weaville said, “I assume I am to receive no Terrain advantages in this?”

“Correct. Pick them apart, piece by piece. Start with slowing down the smaller one. [Hidden Steps] and [Ice Claw].”

Cold Wind, a technique he’d learned from the old SnowPoint City gym leader back when he was just a simple trainer. While active it boosted the adrenaline of all Ice types, making them faster. The cold also dampened the speed of dragons and flyers when they got too close, a useful ability for now.

With hidden steps Weaville’s form blurred, becoming five flickering images that all seemed to be going towards a different direction, making them too erratic to fully predict. Cyrus rarely used Dark type moves to attack, finding their specialty in trickery instead.

The smaller of the Garchomp met Weaville first, wreathed in a coat of violent green energy it dashed towards Weaville, who avoided the attack completely. Weaville kept pace, using Cold Wind to stay at the Garchomp’s heels, flickering in and out to cut at its legs as soon as Dragon Rush failed.

A speed type Garchomp was a sight to behold, but his Weaville was the best there would ever be, out pacing and out distancing his opponent. To trade blows was stupid, and his partner knew this, keeping just out of reach, and slashing at the heels and ankles when he could.

“Incoming. Abandon the fight.”

The heat that subdued the cold wind was enough to make Weaville comply, and he leapt away just in time to see a burning brand of fire explode onto the younger Garchomp. Fire blast. It appeared the larger was tired of being outpaced.

“The larger will use its domain to strike. Play evasive, create cover.”

Sure enough, at the miss of another Fire Blast the larger roared in annoyance, causing sharpened stone to break free from the earth and stab anything and everything around.

“Drop Hidden Steps. [Swords Dance].”

Amidst the shattering of stone and the roar of dragons, Weaville danced. Slipping between rocks at the beating of his heart, the smaller could no longer track his partner with all the new obstacles suddenly in its way.

That wasn’t to say it was all good, Cyrus felt a dozen new wounds as his face twitched at the phantom pain. Cuts, scratches, one nearly piercing Weaville’s gut completely if it hadn’t been for battle experience allowing him to turn away at the last moment.

Two beats. Weaville’s full Swords Dance was almost complete. The third and final beat was under way, and both dragons could sense something was coming.

“[Taunt].” The smaller was attempting a Swords Dance as well. Weaville slipped briefly into sight, snide laughter echoing from his partner’s throat that stopped Garchomp’s dance completely, forcing it to rush back after an already disappearing Weaville.

“[Torment] on the larger.” It appeared the Garchomp learned its mistake, and was now aiming to correct it by destroying the cover it created with Dragon Rage. Weaville dashed out from his hiding spot, taking a glancing blow from the smaller before slipping into the larger’s guard.

A claw dripping in dark energy touched Garchomp, and at once Dragon Rage stopped its continuation.

“Disappear. Wait for my signal.”

Forced to put variety in its attack the larger snarled in frustration, before digging into the ground as the younger did its best to search for Weaville amidst the rubble. Cyrus began a slow walk around the edge of the stadium, noticing with some satisfaction that Jupiter had the upper hand against the one-eyed dragon she faced.

“It's dug under. You will be found.” Cyrus said.

“Let it come.” His partner sent back.

Cyrus let himself chuckle. Sure enough, Garchomp found his friend, its arrival heralded by the smashing of stone and cracking of millenia old gold. Both Pokémon were sent flying into the air, the larger Garchomp grinning wildly as it believed it finally had his partner stuck.

The two traded blows in the air, but in terms of raw power, even with three beats of Swords Dance, Weaville was no match, being knocked higher and higher into the air as Garchomp believed it had done enough, cracking open its maw with the heat of Fire Blast readying itself.

“Now.” Cyrus commanded.

Weaville’s eyes snapped into focus, a platform of ice forming upon his feet, before he leapt downwards, towards the flames Garchomp was preparing. The larger dragon’s eyes went wide, but before it had the chance to fully launch the attack, Weaville struck.

“GRRKUHK!” It gurgled, crashing into the floor in a massive heap. When it rose both its eyes were gone, deep frozen claw marks left in their wake. Its throat was a ruined mess, loose flesh hanging limply as blood began to pool down onto the floor.

“Loud.” Weaville observed, “Though not unpleasant.”

“Calm your bloodlust.” Cyrus ordered. He could feel Weaville’s desires, he wanted the Garchomp to feel pain, to hurt more, to scream more. His partner would get that, but not until victory was certain.

Another dance with death as the smaller Garchomp moved in to strike. This one preferred physical attacks, relying mostly on Dragon Claw and…Poison Jab? Interesting.

“The larger one is out of the picture for now, break the smaller, quickly.”

It would not be a fight. This would be a thorough dismantling. His partner never traded blows for long, always just standing out of reach to drive the smaller Garchomp into a deeper and deeper frenzy.

It eventually worked, as Cyrus knew it would. Out of sheer frustration the Garchomp overextended its attack, and Weaville pushed into its guard. Unleashing a torrent of attacks that left its legs bloody and immobile.

The smaller dropped to its knees, and Weaville looked at Cyrus expectantly.

“Have fun.” Was all Cyrus said.

Weaville laughed, icy claws growing dangerously long as it began to hack and slash the downed Garchomp. The larger could hear its partner’s dying protests, and thundered in blindly to help. Weaville simply slashed at the larger when it came too close, dancing away when it attempted to fight back.

Easy. Disappointingly easy.

“It’s over.” Cyrus called, knocking on the psychic barrier. “Drop this.”

The barrier fell away, and Cyrus watched with an arched eyebrow at Jupiter’s fight. She had her men retreat, using them to instead form a psychic barrier that trapped both Skuntank and Garchomp inside. She’d then used Skuntank’s poison domain, turning the small area into a simmering bog of purple fume and sludge.

Skuntank was breathing heavily, the multiple lacerations across its purple coat a clear sign of her struggle. But she had won her battle, a worthy feat.

“Return.” Jupiter said, sighing as the psychic barrier and domain fell away. “I lost three to that beast.”

The "beast" in question was near fully submerged. Vacant eyes pooled oily liquid as it sunk deeper and deeper below the bog.

“You did well.” Cyrus nodded, “Gather the others. Once Weaville is done we push forward.”

No more Unown. No more failsafes or statues blocking their way. This was the last of their tests. The whole of the place was clear now, he’d move his people in and they would take everything by right of conquest.

Lost technology. He’d put it to use better than the fools who’d built this prison. They held no grand purpose, no desire for change outside of their pitiful lives. Perhaps he could find something in here to keep Cynthia off his tail as well.

“They were weaker than her Garchomp.” Weaville complained, using ice to wash the blood of his claws.

“Good practice, all the same.” Cyrus said aloud. “Come, it’s time–”

THOOOM!

Lights flickered, the whole temple was rocked.

“Wha-”

THOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

Again, this time dust and debris fell from the ceiling.

“No.” Cyrus whispered, staring as cracks formed on the once invincible temple, “Not now, not yet.”

KRK-BOOOOOM!

The world began to rumble, and Cyrus could only stand in disbelief. Now? Why now? They were so close!

“Cyrus, darling.” Jupiter said, looking at the ceiling with concern. “I think it’s time we leave.”

“Leave!?” Cyrus whirled on her, causing the admin to flinch, “Leave!? Leave when I spilled Galactic blood for this?”

“The whole place is coming down, Cyrus.” She hissed back, “We’ve already taken much from this place–”

“Not enough.” He growled, “Not nearly enough.”

A rock fell from the ceiling, crashing into the water below. It was getting worse, his temple was collapsing around him.

“Is this your final play!?” Cyrus demanded of the temple, “Is this how you reward me for my victory!? With pettiness? Answer me!”

The temple answered, but not in the way Cyrus wanted it to.

The world became engulfed in shadow, and through Cyrus’s transference he could feel…joy? Joy at…being free, being able to…fly. At…

At being able to see.

A thousand crimson stars blinked into existence, their glow so unnatural Cyrus couldn’t help but stare. It was unlike any other star he’d seen, and he soon realized why.

“Eyes…” He whispered, “Something is watching.”

The scarlet eyes blinked, before curling upwards into a mockery of a smile. Rows upon rows of serrated teeth formed upon the red eyes, and they all began to laugh.

Cyrus and his men were brought to their knees screaming. It was the song of a hundred dead worlds, the anger of those who’d lost to death, the joys of the black void as it consumed all. Whatever this thing was, it began to eagerly rip into his mind, his memories being replaced with baleful red eyes.

His very being was being pulled apart at the seams, each thread of who he was being investigated with an otherworldly interest. Why did he prefer Pechas to Orans? Why was his favorite color blue? He was no longer Cyrus, he was this creature’s plaything. He was what a new toy was to a child. A fleeting interest.

No. No. Cyrus looked for something, anything that he could use. Finding nothing he brought his hand to his mouth, biting down so hard he could taste his own blood. Pain was good. Pain helped him think, let his mind work.

Slowly, ever so slowly, a shield formed around his mind, forcing whatever entity out. Rather than anger it, it appeared happy that he’d done so.

But still it was shattered anyways.

C̷̡̛̯̦̘͍̼̯̤̰̬̔̈́͋͌̉͆̂̀͂̓̈̉̓͜͠H̸͕̣̗͕͊͛̃͆͛̊̏̑͗̾͜͠͠͝Ȭ̷̧̻̫̠̖͖̩̠̥̥̆̃̓͒͜I̸͔̫̤͓̮͓̜͍͒̌̃̓̑C̵̢̦̲̩͚̩̹̺͎̳̊͌͒̉̀͆̌͊̅̽͛́̊͝͝ͅẺ̴͉̩̎͗̉̿͒͠͝Ṡ̶̨̧̢̧̤̪̦͔͎͚̫̇͂́̇̆̾̀̀̚ͅ

He was seated at a table. Two figures sat with him. One he recognized, Setare. She held his hand and smiled softly. The other was a child, unrecognisable. Familiar. Who–

S̶̖̜̘̲̄͐̒̐͑̓́̒̉͂̑̒̅̇͑͑̃̉̏̈́́̏̉͊Ỡ̴̧̨̖́̓̍̿̅̋͂̽̚̚͝ ̷̛̝̪̻̫̲͕̐͋̿̓̀̈̐̆̏̃͘̕͜M̴̧̨̡̢͓̟̩̯̲̟͕͍̣̳̖̦̘̰͂Ẳ̷̞̪̼̺͖̘̿͌̈̽̅͑͜͝͝͝͝Ṋ̸̨̢̰͍͓̪̫͓̹̠̣͖̝̠̑͐͑͋̑̈́̾͒̐̏̆̀̂͛̀̔̆̓̊̕̚͝͠Y̷̨̧̢̧̧͕͍̝̩͎̗͕̰̫͋̎̓̀͊͊͗͊̍̃̍̊̿̕̕͝͠͠ͅ ̴̟͆̊̐͜C̷̟̎͘H̸̨͇͇̰͚̬̝̺͕̠̙̳̮̬̩͖̗̽̀́͋͂́͑̉̊͋̽͋̈́̓͂͛̊͝͝Ọ̴̧̝̥̥̲̹̜̋̈̈̌͊̎͑̉̐̃̀̈͐̈́̍̋̇́͠I̸̧̪̰͓͈͖͔̗̖̝̻̜̝̲̗̣̮͌͜C̵͍̓̊̉̍̀́̇̍̀̂́̌͆̕E̵̛͚̪̦̮̪̅͛̏́̍̋̎̈̎́̐̈̀̀̒̓̕͝͠S̵̙̪͚̙̜̥̑͑́̇̽̄̐̉͑̔̀̄̀̍͘

He was atop Mount Coronet. Gods bowed before him, their physical forms bound by red chains as the very world began to reshape itself. Legions of his people stood at his feet. They chanted his name, over and over again.

A̶̧͇̺̫̹͇͓̞͖̗͛̂̑̀͊͐̀͋̿̔̆͐͛̄̀́̋̇̊̆͊͐̀Ř̴̮̞͇͔̭͈͗̿̆̿̽͊̾̈́͒̇͆̀̅͗͋̕͠Ḙ̸̮̬͎̮̟̌͑̓͛́͗͋ ̸̦͍̯̗̿͋̾̔͌̐̍̏́̔̈́̒͑̌̍̅̐̋̓͐̈͆͑͝Y̶̡̧̜̗̖͚̠̙̜̻̆̈͗O̵͉̦͇̐̇̋ͅU̸͑̓̈́̈́́̀̅̈͗̍̈̐͜͠͝ ̶̨̢̣͖̰͕̙̘̎̎͐̅͒̐̿͌̎͊̍͂̔̚͝ͅH̸̢̛̛͍̦̞̝̗̃̆̓̽̓̂̎̓͋̄́̑̌̈́̓̈́͘̕Ȧ̶͎͖̝͇̹̒̋͝P̷̗͉̳̥̭̖̝͔͇͈̤̦͎̼̺͉̬̯̯̪͂̈̒̈́͐͋̂͒͂͑̑͑́̀̔͘͠͠͝P̸̧̨̛̦̹̱̦̑͛͑̆͑͑̽͆͛̌̈̏̊̋̍Y̷̢͉̭̗͈͍͕̥̘̥̘̘͎̹̜̫̜̺͙̥̜̘̫͂́͆?̸̡̝̆̐̀̆̈́̀̒̂̂̎͋̄͝͝

He was alone. Dead Pokémon and trainers lay scattered about. A war? Yes. He remembered a war. Why? Someone tried to stop him. They nearly succeeded, so he did something. What did…what did he do? Why was everything so grey and lifeless?

D̶̛̛̦̗̩͇̝̣͍̣̖͕̜̹̮͔̩̻̦̞̖͚͙͍̟̋̄͋͐̍̂̑̊̆̔̋̿̌̿͒͘̚͠͝ͅƠ̷̡̯̲̦̪̰͈͕̲͋̎̅̈́̂̏͌͛͂̄́̐̈́̌̂̀͂̅̚̕͜͝͝ ̷̡̢̢̧̨̠̣͎͍͉̦̺̤͍̲̘͆͆̑́͒̈́̑̋̈́͑͐̃̂̑͒̎̇̕͜͠ͅY̶̨̢̗̣͈̘̝͎͚̯̩̱̖̹̼̹̽́́́̄̋̓̉̎͋̅́̎͆̕͠Ọ̸͍̗̪̲̤̺̹̖͍̫͖̤̗̞̞͔̠̼̖͂̄̑̔̈̒̊̈̿̃̽̆̕͘̚͠͝͝U̶̧̢͙̟̤̬̤̪͉͚̜̣͔̮͕̘͉͚͌̿̃͂̀̇̀͐͗̈́̏͜ͅͅ ̵̹̙̲̗͈͔͈̩͎̭̳̮̬̠̘̰̠̠̘̰̀͋̾͌͂̔́̀͛̀͛͗͒͌̆̓͜W̶̢̡̨̨̤̙͓͈̬̩̩̜̘͖̪̣̲̟̻̲̒͐̽̓̿̌̌́́̋͊͊͆̐̒̌͛̇͌͑̐͝͠I̸̧̳̜̮̮̥͔̭͖̥͖̻̘̓͛̎͑͑̍̓͋̑̈́̈́̍̂̆̐̂̕͜͜͝S̸̫͓̺̠̃̽͐H̸̭̤͕̣̺̹͚̫̲̞̺͖͖̱̻̮̜͒̌́̓̓̔͒͐͂͐̀͘͘͜͝ ̶̛̠̦̘͈̼̞͖̣̯̺͙̱͇͙͍̝̙̲̉̒̏̌́͂͋̎̇͗͋̓͑̈́͛͊͒͊͠͝F̸̨̨̡̢̬͖̬̩̰͎̬͋̀́̋͒̌̈́̇̑̄̂͋̄̋̂́̚ͅǪ̸̡͉̣̣̬͐͑̈́̐̀͊͋̊͋͆̒R̶̡̨̮̮̱̫͍̝̫̣̪̝͙͙̘͈̝̙͔̪̋͜ͅ ̸̧̨̲͕͕̞͔͓̻̳̦̥̱̪͓̥͍̫̟̺̲̫̘̠̈́̓̊͑̈͗͌̿̾͆͝͝B̷̡̛͍͎̻̗̭̱̤̻̳̤͈͈̺͎̩̮̒͑̈́̀̽̈́̇̽̈̉̋̋̋̓̈́̅̉͂̆̔͘̚E̵̡̨̛̖̹̲͈̭̮͖̬̜̳͍̦̞̭̽̄̂̈́̈́̒̀͛̏̅͆̆͐̌̊̓̌̾̈́̕͘͝ͅT̸̛̺̟̙̫͕̼͚̍̍̃͑̇̄̈́̈́̊̽̀̓̕̚͝Ṭ̵̠͉̺̜̝͎̣̦̞͈͈̿̎̎͛̊͂́̏̚E̷̛͉͕̩̖̎̿̋̐̒͒̇̿̾̾̅̑̒̇͒̌͐̔̔̑̕̕͝R̸̨̨͍̰̯̙̯̦̭̩͉͙̞͖̟̳̪̲̖̘̩̪̝͒̃̅̔̋̌̈́̈̈͂͊͛͒?̵̢̨͓̗͍͈̻͓͈̟̝̬̳͐̉̓̓̀́̄̓̉̏̈͋́̍͋̏́̈́̌̿̋̇͘͜͝

He was dead. Maggots swarmed his body, eating his ruined flesh from within. He tried to scream, but found his vocal cords had long since rotted away. Was this death? Did humans remain conscious after death?

Ā̶̢̢̨̧̛̻̯̘͇̫͍͓̱̣̞̥̲̝̼͎̦͚̯̟̇̃͐́̏́͆̏͂̄̑̚̕̕͘͜͝͠͝R̶̢̳̲̩̠̰̹̻̝͚̳͙̠̫̬͑̔͑̿͊͊̏̊́̐͂͊͘͘͜͝͝Ė̷̛̥̝̯͙͎͇̭͔͔̬̙̳͚̅͋̊̍̐̈́̈́̄͑̀̈́̒͛̃̔̕͘̕̚͠͠͠ ̶͉̱͎͓̖̠͎̩͑̂́̏͘Y̶̨̡̡̧̛̫̫͈̖͖̭͖̮̳͔̞̻̺̻̠̺͎̪̿̌́̊͒̊̆͑̅̀̀̽͜͠ͅȌ̸̢̢̥̬̮͇̭̭̗̘͉̦̦͖̎ͅÚ̷̧̢̨̨̨͍͎̭̭̤̼̰̝̖͚̭̯̼̥̫͕̟́̈́ ̷̳͈͚͈̝̖̖͎̞͈̱͙̘̥͙͌͜Ą̷̼̻͔̱̫̲̖̲̱͕̠̭̗͙͉͇̻̦͈̉̇̂͌͆̃̅̒̋͌ ̸̛̛̟͎̞̦̰̙̩̹̱̠̼́̅̃͂̽̈̔̿̽͛̀̈̃̽̋̆̀̿͝͠͝ͅS̸̥̤͌̉̅̀̔̈̒̏̿̒̋̄̌̕͝͝͝H̴̪̭̠͚̭̖͇̤͕͚̯̝̉̓͌͆̉͝ͅE̴̡̨̧͇͍̯̟͙̯̠̾̐̅̓͑̄͌͌̄̍̕P̸̨̡̡̧̫̣̝̯̹̣̻̫͎̦̲̙͚̮͊͋̄̋̾͜͝ͅͅHḘ̵̛͎̳͍͓͉͙͍̲͚͗̋̃͛̀̒͗̌̓̀̈́̓͗͒̎̒̋͆̑͘͜͝͝ͅR̸̭͗̋̍̄̏̇̽̌̾̋̀́͌͑̽̉̊̓̚͘̕͠͠Ḑ̶̖̻̥̦̥͕̥͖̼̦̘͗͛̌̆͗̊̽́͊̽̈͆͒͒̃̄͒̓̔͒̚͝͠ ̴̛̛̣̮͙̝͓͓̥̣̟͖̬̮͙́̾͋̐͒̉̿̍́̀ͅO̶̡̤̮̤̖͐̊̍̓̄̐̓̉͜͠F̶̛̺̯̣̄̿́̓̈́͊̊́͗̍̈̍̿̂̄͐̄̕ ̶̤̙̝̯̺͓͍̤̬̯͉͇̝̇̓̒͗̿̈́͋̉̄̒Ỏ̶̢̻̤͖̆̽͜Ư̴̢̩̳͕͓̩̻̞̥̙̯̞̦͍̯̍̒͗͋̑̐͊̑̈́͒͊̀̃̽̎́̈̕̚Ŗ̵̧͖͎̰̩̼̜̭̫̬̹͈̘̣̯͈̞̭͉̙̮͈̀̑̀̒̕ ̷̧̧͇̪̜̮̭̯̠̜̖̺͕̈̈́̽͌̌͑͒͆͊͆̆͋̑̓̋͆̉̏͘̚͘̚͘Ç̷̣̮̯̻̼̗̺̜̫̣͇̜̜̠͇͕̮̈̀Ṙ̶̤͚̳̾̈́́́̆̕Ë̷̡̨̖͇̮̠̯̬͓̰̙͎́̀̓̍̈̓̓̔̐̎͂͛̚͘̚̚͜͝ͅÂ̵̡̧̛̪͇̜̲̙̳̝̔͊̽̃̃͂̉̆̈̕Ṭ̵̓́̅̀̒Į̸̨̛̘̦̹̲͙̠͉̦͚̪̬̫̤̪̤̦̭̆̌̊͐̉̌̇͊͛̆̾̂̇͘͘͝ͅO̵̧̨͙͍̺̲͙̫̪͚̺̜̙̣͚͓͓̜̠̱̥̩̐̏͋͂̀̈́̒̇͂̈̎͜͝ͅN̷̫̬̬͇̰̬̫̖̗̈́͆̇̏̐͊͊͛̈͆̿͠!̵͒̇̑̃́̅͛͊͝ͅ

He stood at the head of a broken world. Nothing made sense here. Up was down and down was up. What couldn’t exist existed, yet Cyrus felt at peace, watching the world. Something terribly large and terribly powerful began to manifest in front of him, yet Cyrus felt no danger. Two shining red eyes, brighter than any sun, gazed at him, and he simply gazed back.

O̵̡̭͇̱͎̰̪̞̰͈͔̬̪͎̳̩̘̲̐̈́́͋̂̍͗̑̊́͌͗̾͗̊̃̅̐̃̑͜͝͝͠ͅR̷̦̼̟̰̟͈̪̬͉̾͐̆͂̓̀̅͑̂ ̵̪̖̦̫̳̠̾̔͋̃̾̾ͅÁ̶̛͈̪̱̭͓͔̼͙́́̐͗̿̀̅̌̽̌̐͆̐͠R̸̨͖͎̯̟̲̲̖̫̹̫͚͍͈̞̅̈́̽͒̏̈́̈́̏͋͒̃̍̏̕̚̚̕Ȩ̶̛̘̪͈̮̣̠̠̯͖͈̥̺̬͈̦͈̤̙̝͙̰͔̻͂͑̇̌͌́̏̈̊́̈́́̋̏͐̏̏̋̍̚̕͝ ̸͉̖͇̬̩̹͍̍̔̇̀͊̈́Ÿ̶̧͚̟̻͖̯̠͎̞̼͈̜́̓̃̌͆͆̑͒͗̊̀͘͜͝ͅͅỜ̵̝̥̤͍̜̙̳͇̼̃̆̊̈̓͆́̐̃͑͘͠͝Ư̷̘̯͖̼͌͑̾̅͊̌̊̈́͆̽͋͌̐̂̐̉̒̈̊͐ ̵̧͉̞̭̭̞̜̙́̆̐͆͜Ã̶̢͍̞̠̠̱̗̺̘̥͚̲̈́̇̄̀̂̀̾̃͐̉͘͜N̸̨͖̭̤̗̗͕̜̲̖̭͉͑̾̒̀̿̌̅͐̾̍̈̌͛͛͋͋̃͛̀́͂͝ ̸͕͚̩̹͚̯̠̦̪̳̭̼͓̭̞͎̫̝̮͛̋̑̓͋͗͂͝ͅA̸͉̿͐̑̚̕P̵̢̼̯̟̳̙͍͖͈͖̠̠̳̏̎̋͋̐̐̈͊̓̈́̄͠O̴͚̲͕͕̪̫̘̰̻̤͇͇̳͔̺̘̺̒̓̎̍͝S̵̡̢̛̤̫̜̯͇̻̹͖̞͌̌͌̈́̃̕T̷̡̧̛͕͍̯̝͍̭̝̖͕̞̭͊́͒̽̆̉̈́̊͌̉̎̆̚L̷̞̲̱̣̹͍͇̤͖̋̉̈̑̀̋̓͂͛͘͝͠E̶̛̖̦͙̠͎͎͈̅̓̾̑̓̈́̔̏͐̚̚͝͠͠ͅ ̸̡̡̛̥͈̫̟͈̥̖̺̭̲͍̯̿̃̍̂̃̉̒̌̈́̈́̓͌́̈́̏̆͛̕̚͠ͅÖ̴̢̢͚̗̦̟̩͇̥̫͈̭̤͕̦̘͓̟̗͎̘̝́́F̴̛̟͋͌̈́̏̍̒͊͒̅̔̎̽͂͐̊͒̿͝ ̴̨͖̖͇͓̦̞̙͉͚̞̂̿̄͛̎͗͂̔̿̂̎͂̽̆͝͠͠͝ͅͅT̵̨̡̡̬̗̦̳̰͙̫̺͚̮̪̫̗͚̻̲̥́̆Ḩ̸̟̳̳͉̰̣̩̳̪̾̌̐̓̔̓̓̂̊̈͜Ę̷̰̲̙͚͙͍͖͖̲͋́̇̎́Ì̷͚͌̀̒̀͌̅̎͌̚͝͝Ŗ̷͓͇̳̩̗̹͉͙̍̍̀͐͗̾̒͛͗̒̏̒̓͐͌͂̈̚͝͝͝ ̴̡̢̞̣̹̫̭̭͓̻̱̰̯̺͉̖̹̪̻͍̈́͜D̵̼̲̞̾͑̆̐̋̈́̌͗͋́̏̑̈́́̒̑̋͌̾̂̅̚͠Ȩ̴̈́́̾͛̀M̷̹̄͗̇͌̽̒̑̆͆̌̑͆͒͐͝͝Ī̸̢̘̖̼͖̦͖̲̲̹͓͎̻̫̒̈́̾̌̀̏͋́̂̂̋̑̕̕͜͜S̶̢̨̢̨̯̳͉͚͓̼̹̠̫̤̫̤͎̫̤̼̞̺̈̂̓̓̈̈͘Ẽ̴̡̡̮̱̺̘̖̟͕̣̖̣̖̭̩̺͖̜͈̬͉͗͑̍̓̈́̽̔̽̅͝ͅ

And then…it was over. The thousand eyes vanished from existence, his visions faded, and he was left alone, grappling with what was real. His hand was warm, why? Blood. He’d bit his hand to focus. His face was wet, why? Tears. His mind could not fathom what it saw, was it beautiful? Was it terrifying?

The world continued to rumble, another large piece of debris crashed into the water.

“Cyrus.” Jupiter gasped, “We have to…we have to go.”

He was inclined to agree. There was something out there now, something that was released. Was it a last ditch effort of the temple? Was it freed so he couldn't get to it first? Perhaps it was the key to everything, perhaps he wouldn't need to pick apart the temple's bones.

“Order a full evacuation.” Cyrus finally said, “Grab everything we can, leave behind what we cannot. Prioritize the personnel. Go!”

Something was freed. Something unnatural. Whatever it was, it no longer wanted them here. He would comply, for now. Cyrus was a patient man, he knew when the cards were not in his favor.

But as the troupe fled room after room, and all his hard work began to crumble away, one thought rang true in his mind.

"I will return. And when I do, everything will be mine."