Jarva rose from the ashes of his eight disciples.

Golden robes enshrouded his many writhing tentacles—tentacles which were littered with small cuts, long scars of flesh, open wounds. Seven of them looked ready to detach from his body completely. His eyes, a holy yellow, were open wide, his gaping maw of a mouth stuck in a tight line. It was the kind of look that hid an apocalyptic fury.

“That’s him, isn’t it?” Momo said, goosebumps rushing up her skin.

Even from far away, she could feel his presence—it was like being trapped under the wheel of a forklift. Even with this gloomy sky, he’s still that powerful? The thought gave her chills. The same thought seemed to occur to Jarva, because he tilted his smooth, slick neck towards the sky, and raised one of his tentacles; the only one that was still operable. The one representing Gorim, who was still trapped miles underground.

Faint yellow magic began to glitter around the tip of it.

“Enough of this,” he muttered. His voice crackled as loud as lightning. It seemed to come from everywhere—the ground, the sky, the piles of debris. It reminded Momo of Kyros’s voice. It had the same intonations, the same apathetic melody. It was as if he was nothing but a tentacled puppet of the god. A whispering vessel.

“Does this thing have enough charge to shoot again?” Momo shouted urgently to Viktor. She was already messing with the controls, pulling back the clutch. It caused the engine to sputter, but only briefly. She pulled it again—and the same. The flame extinguished as quickly as it came.

“No,” Viktor said, inspecting the hatch. He had to wade through Momo’s fallen couriers just to get to it. “You used up all of the electricity in that one go.” He pressed a button, and the hatch’s door popped open. Viktor gave Baryte a once-over. “The dear bird is exhausted—but I believe he can power one more shot. For Gods’ sake, he’s powered an entire city for days on end, after all. This is nothing but light work for you, isn’t it?”

He nuzzled Baryte. The skeletal bird squawked happily.

“Okay. Nyk, get ready to pull back the Nether again,” Momo said quickly. “We need to get another shot in before—”

“Stop it, you fool!”

Another voice shouted from the skies. This one was notably female—but no woman that Momo recognized. In response to it, Sumire fell to her knees, eyes wide.

“My goddess,” she murmured, almost taken in a trance.

Is that Nerida?

“You’re ruining her plan!” the voice shouted again, shrill and annoyed. “The conditions have to be right—the clouds, the hail, the forsaken city—we must keep the sun at bay, as instructed!”

“I follow no plan except my master’s,” Jarva said, his voice deep and uncaring. It felt like icicles on Momo’s eardrums. “You have proven insufficient, so you are no longer of use.”

The magic around his tentacle exploded. Its ring of light became exponentially larger, growing and growing until it was fully encompassing the sky, blocking out the storm’s darkness. No more was the hail, nor the lightning, nor the shrill insistence of the rain goddess. This enormous [Holy Enclosure] was the inverse of the Nether blanket protecting them—it was a giant sun lamp, a cape of radiant light.

“No,” Momo winced, the light blinding her as she reached for the clutch. The engine sputtered—they were too late. They hadn’t been fast enough.

Jarva’s tentacles glistened, and he sighed with relief. Momo felt his presence quadruple in strength; the air became so dry that it was hard to breathe. Grimli choked for air; Viktor coughed madly. Momo balanced her breaths in order to conserve oxygen. Luckily, they had Sumire; the former pirate cast [Humidify] around them, once again adding water vapor to the air.

At the top of the dome, Jarva languidly reached for Exilo’s fallen greatsword. He then produced a crystal-looking object from his hand. It was six-sided, and perfectly gold. He inserted it into the hilt of the sword. A flashing light—even brighter than the light streaming from above—emanated from the sword. Momo tried her best not to cover her eyes, but the sight burnt her to the very corneas.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Jarva drew the sword upwards, then stilled.

“You’re the one they call Momo, aren’t you?”

The direct address—echoing from everything around her, from every broken stone and piece of pummeled grass—chilled Momo to the bone. Once the burst of light around him faded, she found two carnivorous yellow eyes staring directly into her soul. Studying her. Analyzing her. Biting at her very sinew, the connective tissue holding her together. His pupils flitted quickly over her body; his slimy half-eyelids cradled her image. She must have looked like an ant to him, a pesky little child in an oversized, electrically powered go-kart.

Despite that, something about his stare was reverential, respectful; it willed her to speak. His question wasn’t rhetorical; it wasn’t some glib, villainous remark before the inevitable monologue. He was waiting for an answer. She had imagined Jarva in many ways—conniving, always; methodical, uncaring, a man who uses his knights like trivial chess pieces—but, seeing him now, she began to question her own deductions. Her own assumptions.

Jarva wasn’t some deluded, overconfident king. Unlike all the other overconfident knights and rooks and pawns Momo had knocked over in her journey towards Excalibur, Jarva had always held his cards close to the chest; for a disciple of the sun, he had been happy to lurk interminably in the shadows, using other people like disposable body bags until there was no other option.

So what does it mean that he’s here now?

“That’s me,” she answered, her neck bobbing. “And you’re…”

“You already know my name,” he answered. His body began to levitate upwards. “I am the one you stole this kingdom from. The kingdom you soiled with your dirty, salacious necromancy. I am Jarva, the mouthpiece of the rightful god of the Nether, Kyros.”

Momo’s hands curled into fists.

“Rightful? Please. Morgana created the Nether. Morgana created Kyros,” she spat, her blood boiling. Whatever quiet reverie she held for him before quickly vanished. “Kyros and Morgana were friends. They were co-rulers. Two halves of a whole. Before he betrayed her.”

“Wrong,” he scowled. “Wrong.” He brought his sword down. “Wrong.”

It struck the Nether barrier with the force of a thousand blades—wind and smoke and fire all exploded from the tip as it collided with the surface. The Nether screamed bloody murder, the same way it did when Sera had wielded it months before; it screamed like the soul chains stuck in the Wraith Box. It was a mourning scream, a scream before death.

As the smoke cleared, a long, interminable crack, like a tear in the tectonic plates, appeared along the top of the barrier. One more swing and the bubble would be split open. They’d be defenseless.

“The magic from the Un-inhabitables,” Sumire gasped, taking Momo’s wrist. “The islands I told you about, where Jarva had been hiding out. The ones that had been sealed off? That crystal that he inserted into the sword—I think that crystal is from there. It’s elevating his power beyond belief. Jarva is strong, but he’s only human—well, octopus. He shouldn’t be able to take down this barrier alone.”

“Only human?” Momo questioned. “I thought… isn’t he Kyros’s Lesser God?”

“What? No,” Sumire said, looking at her quizzically. “Momo, Kyros doesn’t have a Lesser God. He doesn’t let anyone approach his power, or enter his domain. Jarva isn’t even an Excalibur. He’s just a mouthpiece. You know how Azrael uses corpses to communicate? Kyros does something similar. That’s why they have the same voice—the same mannerisms—everything. Jarva used to be a real man, a real king, before Kyros got in his head. Now he’s just a body.”

Momo stared in disbelief. She realized, never once, in all of these many months, had she heard someone address the King’s class level. It was always just Jarva. It was all starting to make sense. The fact that he was an octopus—that their species produced thousands of eggs. Kyros didn't want a figurehead. He wanted to be the figurehead. Just as Jarva had uncaringly disposed of thousands of knights, Kyros would do the same to him.

“So why did he refer to himself as Jarva? Why not as Kyros?”

Sumire shrugged. “A semblance of free will? A well-scripted delusion? I don’t know. I found out the truth when I was training amongst his ranks. I found him in his throne room just staring blankly into a mirror, arguing with himself as if he had two heads. I realized there was another voice up there—a god loitering about in his subconscious.”

“Oh… my god.”

“Yeah.”

“So what happens if we kill him?” Momo muttered bleakly. Thankfully, Jarva was still recovering from his first swing, breathing heavily and raising the sword slowly towards the heavens. “Will Kyros just find a new vessel?”

“I don’t know,” Sumire admitted, looking towards the sky. “But I think that greatsword—that crystal—is what is enabling Kyros to fully take him over. It’s the forbidden magic that was locked on those islands. Outlawed magic, as agreed upon by the full pantheon—to completely take over the body of a mortal and steer the course of human history. If we get the greatsword away from him, I think we can sever that connection.”

“Okay,” Momo said. She grabbed Sumire’s hand and looked towards the dome. Jarva was raring to strike again. “Whatever happens, we see it through together, right?”

Sumire smiled at her. “So formal. Are these our vows?”

Momo blushed. Sumire nudged her shoulder into hers.

“Kidding,” she said, bracing herself. “Let’s do this.”