Tar-colored ichor poured forth from his eye-sockets and emerged from the skin of his torso and legs, shifting like a sentient flood to cover his entire form in a split-second. Two solidification pulses came in quick succession, turning black liquid to solid of white and bronze, solidifying the energy geyser from his right eye to a horn and tightening the exhaust port within the left, turning the geyser to a concentrated trail. The rib-like protrusions on the right side of his chest burst forth from under the right side’s still-forming skin, and the upward pointed blade of his right leg emerged just the same.
Less than half-second elapsed in real-time before his transformation was complete, and this time there was no concussive blast. Were he not encased, the colossal void energies that now coursed through him would have thrown violent arcs of void lightning across the chamber, so potent as to be compared with actual lightning-bolts.
Whence he strode towards the altar in the center of the chamber its surface shifted at his approach. Slots for dataplugs began to form on the altar’s surface, only to stop abruptly before even the first slot could manifest.
He wouldn’t need datacables to aid in the transfer. So it was that he called upon all the voidfire that now raged within him, slamming down his open palm into the altar’s surface with such force that Apeiron’s muzzle broke the surface, his grippers stabbing forth and wholly sinking into the stone.
At first, a faint lilac glow spread out through the cracks, seeping out of the stone as a glowing vapor. Then came a spark, and another. Much like when he opened the door to this very chamber, sparks turned to arcs and arcs turned to great tendrils of lightning, leaping down his right arm and onto the stone beneath.
Alert: Target system energy requirement for re-initialization exceeds safe threshold.
Dragonrider Casement likely to disintegrate if Power Output is pushed any further.
Proceed?
“Proceed.”
The light in Ouroboros’ left eye grew more intense, nearly filling out the entire cavity, the exotic particle exhaust so long it whipped about from one side of the room to another, billowing in nonexistent wind. In his grasp raged voidfire with the strength to wake a dead god, yet he remained unburned. Ouroboros opened his mouth as wide as his jaw would allow, and from his throat there issued forth a command, one spoken in the language of the void.
“A̛wake̢n͏.”
----------------------------------------
“A͎̰̬̋ͭͣw̕ak̠͖͓͛͐̐e̵̘̰̱̐̽͋n!” Asura and Shell commanded, each of their six hands placed upon the head of a different statue.
There was the arcing of void lightning, the smell of burning synthfiber, and the clattering of sand against the floor. Immunized against pain through Asura’s machinations, together they could call forth enough voidfire to rouse these ancient warriors from their slumber.
At the sight, the six statues they awoke dropped into kneeling positions, and from them there came six simultaneous transmissions, all carrying the same message.
Override protocol accepted.
----------------------------------------
His armor began losing color and turning to sand, starting at his right shoulder and spreading out. Even still he pushed on, the violent arcs of void lightning scoring gashes into the exposed portions of his synthetic flesh.
“H͏ea̶r me ́a͝nd obe͟y, Viridi̕t̶as҉! Ă̘͈̩̇͛W̖̳͖͗͊͌ȦK̯̻E̴͓̐N͎͑!̥ͫ” he repeated, forcing into the stone every drop of void energy remaining within his crumbling armor. All at once the remainder of his Dragonrider Casement turned to dust, the crystalline horn of his right side exploding into ephemeral, glittering dust. For a moment there was utter silence and darkness, even Ouroboros remained motionless as if his joints had locked to stop him from falling over, his eyes empty and dead.
Then, there was light. From the altar’s shattered form it spread, myriad glyphs upon each and every surface within the chamber coming alive. A pair of piercing lights flickered alive in Ouroboros’ eye-sockets, and with a swift motion, he ripped his arm free of the stone, clutching a diamond-shaped piece of black-stone in his grasp, incomprehensible glyphs perpetually shifting just beneath its surface.
The voice of the Armorer - or rather, the voice of Viriditas - thundered now within the chamber with perfect clarity, and it spoke unto them a set of instructions.
“Return to the surface at once, bring your people and your possessions into my halls,” it said. “Then, and only then, he who holds this ornament may raise me from the earth, so that I may walk these wastes and turn them green.”
----------------------------------------
It had been a while since the three departed on their expedition into the mountain’s depths, and Nesgon had managed to find a moment of time away from things. He called the Accursed Bartender into the ruler’s office, sat him down at that ridiculous wooden table that the Ecclesiarch had commissioned.
“In the back room… What did you mean?” Nesgon asked the Accursed one. “I certainly hope you did not channel the curse just to jest with me.”
“The mountain wakes again, and you are to command it into movement. This is all I know.”
“My blessing is gone, and besides… I would need years to set up the proper rituals, even if I still had the Voice. So how then…” the old man thought aloud. He was interrupted by feverish knocking on the office’s door, to which he responded “The door is unlocked, come in.”
It was a builder-caste, one of the Skulls - that much he could tell by the patch she wore on the breast of her jumpsuit. She stared with shuddering eyes, stuttering out “E-e-elder… W-we’ve been digging to expand the wall tunnels as you instructed, but the…. The mountain, it…”
“A cave-in?” Nesgon assumed. She must’ve been rather young, to be this shaken by a cave-in. Worry washed over him as the possibility of someone’s death in said theoretical cave-in sparked in his mind.
“Y-yes, but it’s… Unnatural.” Skull-48 stuttered. “The reinforced tunnels are holding, but everywhere else the stone’s crumbling away. We’re getting reports of black-stone being exposed under layers as thin as an inch or as thick as several meters. It’s like the whole mountain is just-”
“-a casement,” Nesgon finished her sentence.
Just then, the old man’s radio came alive. The voice on the other side was Ouroboros.
“Order all tunnel expansion efforts to be stopped and meet us in the town hall’s back rooms.”
Seconds later, he heard the commotion associated with the Serpent’s presence, his chaplains on the floor below audibly scrambling to seem more busy than they were.
----------------------------------------
Standing atop the highest walkway, Ouroboros looked down on the ant-like flow of people and walkers to and from the cargo lift’s shaft. He was flanked to either side - to his right there stood Nesgon, the Accursed Bartender, and Skull-48, while to his left there were Red-eye and Vezkig.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
The walkers capable of scaling the shaft served as a major help for moving heavy objects into the underground, while the lift’s tracks were quickly repurposed using impromptu vertical conveyors, made with a mix of parts salvaged from rovers and printed for this purpose.
They would’ve used one of the other places where privacy could be found, but… Those were gone, now. In mere hours, all of Canyontown had upturned itself, presented with the promise of the great ship’s reawakening, all for their sake. Most surprisingly, those liberated from the depot took most eagerly to work - or at least, those capable of moving.
“Are you sure it will be safe for the still-blessed?” Nesgon asked, and was given a simple nod. “When asked, the Gatekeeper promised that everything outside the vital areas will have only minimal free-floating void energy,” Ouroboros said. “The whole thing was supposedly built to be safe for non-humans.”
“Good,” Nesgon huffed, holding up the ornament as he examined it. “Hopefully there will be enough space for the remaining survivors of the northern depot incident.”
----------------------------------------
Seventh. It was more than just a number, it was his name. He had always been Seventh, ever since his earliest memory. He was to be the Seventh Son, the first among his clan to bear the Ruler’s Blessing at its full strength without debilitating genetic defects - a biologically perfect specimen of his kind.
In a way, he was. He had never been ill, he could exert himself for days without feeling exhaustion, his body recovered from wounds and exhaustion faster than even the most resilient of his lessers. And yet, he was a failure. The blessing not only didn’t manifest strongly in him, it was the weakest incarnation ever seen. He could scarcely grasp a few dozen minds at a time even with intense concentration. His sector of Oasis City was ruled by his more blessed siblings in all but the official capacity.
This would be his chance to elevate himself. The Legion System, the Twins called it. Speculations of what specifically it was raced through his head as he rode an elevator with the Twins, deep into the earth, deeper than he had ever been. He knew not to question them - not out of fear or respect, but rather because he knew they wouldn’t answer. They’d just tell him to wait and see for himself.
And so, he waited. Minutes passed, and the elevator kept going down through layers of sandstone, until sandstone turned to metal and concrete, and the sounds of heavy machinery became audible. Soon, the solid metal turned to glass, and he saw a sprawling chamber, a… What was it called again? A hangar?
It was bustling with activity, dozens of shapes carrying things to and fro across the floor. Were they man or machine? He couldn’t tell, from this high up.
The elevator touched down, they stepped out into the hangar, and Seventh saw that the workers were neither man, nor machine - or rather, that they were both. Metal and armor fused to exposed flesh, their faces covered by opaque face-plates that constantly displayed their designation and their current task.
He stared at the Twins with disgust apparent in his face, nonverbally accusing them of nerve-stapling slaves - a practice so cruel only the disfavored clans would dare resort to it.
“They are neither slaves nor nerve-stapled, brother. We are above such barbarism. Come, let us show you your legions,” the Twins rebutted his wordless accusation, walking further into the hangar. He followed.
As they walked, Seventh noticed the workers stopping to look at them, or should their hands be free, even give a brief salute before continuing with their work. They didn’t bow, or utter feverish reveries in the hopes of being ignored.
“They are not blessed,” he muttered, flabbergasted by the sight.
“Yet they are loyal. We took their husks from the mines, gave them new life through man’s technology. They have intelligence, but no independent will. You will be that will.”
“Necromancy.”
“No such thing. Their mortal selves are dead, we merely gave their cadavers greater purpose.”
“What’s stopping you from doing the same with the Ecclesiarch’s body?” Seventh questioned, more trying to see the Twins’ disposition than wishing for a straight answer to the question.
“Only the First has access to the Clan Mausoleum,” the Twins stated without hesitation. “His body is likely voidburned beyond recognition, if the rumors are to be believed.”
“Why expose all these heretical things to me so freely? How do you know I will not reveal them to the First or the Fourth?”
“You are less favored than us. Any accusation would merely lead to further disfavor against you.”
Seventh barely restrained a laugh. The Twins were known for their blunt honesty, but this was a little far for nobles. “I appreciate your honesty,” he nevertheless admitted.
They continued to walk through the hangar for a while longer, until they at last reached the other half of it. While at first glance it seemed to be a single straight room, it turned out to in fact be an L-shape, with an entire walker gantry constructed in a recess, concealed by a colossal wall - or was it a door?
Seventh learned of the recess the only way there was, and that was to be led to walk directly through what looked like solid rock by the Twins. “Is that-” he wondered, and the twins filled in “A proper holoshroud, yes. Those we supplied to the palaces were damaged units. We keep the sweetest fruits of our archeology to ourselves, as you might expect.”
He was led through a tunnel and onto another elevator ride, this one upward and mercifully short. When the doors slid open, he was greeted to his right with the image of a laboratory straight out of old recordings recovered from human ruins, a perfect replica.
To his left, there towered the head of a walker, and below, there stretched its body, all of it utterly perfect, covered in gleaming plates of blackstone and livingmetal, with naught but a strand of synthfiber to see. So seamless was the armor that one might mistake it for a human in armor, were it scaled down.
“Another living walker?” he questioned, enraptured with the sight.
The twins cackled in unison at the remark, walking out into their lab.
“Our works far surpass those technological miscarriages.”