The Circle greeted them with a squad of chitinous forms. Ryu counted four, but Thirty-Seven was not among them. Before they could reach them, Nil stepped in front and held out his blade. It exploded.

Shards of metal raced towards the Bugs ahead, but they stopped short of impact. A tense moment of silence passed as all watched. Then arcing blue electricity shot between the shards, catching the Bugs between them.

Then they continued. More groups of Bugs dashed out, none of them part of the Sixty-Four, and by the time they reached the base of the towering Spire, they were in the midst of melee.

Solitude sent a head spinning from its body, and Ryu turned about, yanking on the spear embedded in his armor. Yellow ichor spattered into the sky. He heaved a breath. A body pushed into him. They fell. Ryu ended on top and brought his fist down in a burst of black smoke, smashing and punching and bludgeoning until his face was coated in wet, sticky ichor.

Between the sea of black, he could see the black stone of the Spire punching into the sky. Then he was surrounded once more, and the world became scenes of messy murder. He pushed, grunted, snapped his head into hard chitin, jerked his elbow into the Bug behind him. Solitude pierced the abdomen of one. A shortsword snatched up from the ground caved in the skull of another.

The sea parted. He stumbled over a carcass, nearly brained an armored figure, realized it was Nil, and stumbled back. A projectile flew past his head. Thirty-Seven. Thirty-Seven. Thirty-Seven. Where?

He roared. When had things gone so wrong? Moments blurred together, a messy madness bleaching the colors from the world. He killed. And killed. And killed. Killed until there was nothing left.

At its end, five figures stood. Ryu greeted his companions with a nod. They looked towards the black building.

The wooden doors of the Spire swung open without a creak. Ryu knew. He knew without a single doubt what lied in wait at its top. Revenge. The dead had never been happier.

Ryu led the way up the steps, taking them four or five at a time. The air pulled at him, but he charged through it. As he went, a particular sound reached him.

It was the soft, hiccuping whimper of a child. He glanced back at the others. They had not heard it yet. Perhaps they wouldn’t, if the Bugs were doing what he believed.

“The Gate is ahead,” Ash shouted from behind him. He grunted. Aye, he felt it, but the noise he heard was beyond it. The others skidded to a stop behind him. He continued. “Ryu!”

Ash’s shout followed him up the steps, and he stopped. “I will enter the Gate, but not yet. My revenge will come first. You may go ahead.”

“I will-”

“Ash.” Horde’s voice cut past the other woman’s. “We must go. More Bugs are coming, and I sense they are… strong. Stronger than us.”

“Is it really so important?” Nil asked him.

“A man once told me there was no way to lose sleep over a good deed. I plan to find out.”

Ryu did not glance back. Strange. He was unsure which he was running for: the cry of the child or his own petty revenge. In the end, it hardly mattered why one ran, only the direction, and for Ryu the direction was simple. Onward, always. Escaping from the Bugs had taught him that.

The top of the Spire was an empty bell room. A bronze, chipped bell hung above, leaving Ryu to face Thirty-Seven alone. The Bug turned when he entered.

“The child? Emotion clogged his voice. Rage, dependable as ever.

“There is no child here.” Thirty-Seven’s head turned, the expression oddly human. “Are you hearing things, human?”

He almost laughed. If only it knew. “I know what I heard, but it matters not. You will die first.”

The Bug’s hand rose. “Wait a moment, human. The One would rather have you alive than dead. The data you have gathered has proved most valuable, and now we know how to welcome you to the Colony.”

“Data?” His hand tightened on Solitude’s hilt. In his head, he confirmed something with Ender.

“Yes, the information the One received from the Wayward larvae inside of you has proved… most helpful in our experiments. In fact, we-”

Ryu never had been one for talking. He exploded into action, leaving a trail of black smoke behind him. Solitude met the Bug’s arm.

A blow blasted the side of his head, sending him bouncing across the stone floor. His vision blackened, and he swung Solitude up, catching Thirty-Seven in the chest. Heat washed off of the Bug. Red glowed between the chitinous plates of its abdomen.

Ryu exploded to his feet in a swirl of black smoke. His armored shoulder caught a chitinous fist, which turned him sideways. He let his other hand take Solitude, swinging the dark blade at Thirty-Seven’s head.

Above them, the bell rang. Solitude flashed the Bug’s hands. Gong. Chitin cracked. Gong. Two blows caught Ryu in the side, nearly too fast for him to see. Gong. [Whisper Step] carried him out of the way of a third. Gong. He swung Solitude down like a hammer. The red-tinted blade bit into a gap in the Bug’s armor, staining the chitin around it yellow. In the back of his mind, the dead were singing a haunting chorus.

Stolen novel; please report.

Memories flashed past him, though they were not from Soul Eater. They were of the dead, however. A man lay below him, his side caved in and his breath escaping a mouth full of blood.

“Water,” he had croaked.

“Be at peace, my friend,” Ryu had whispered, closing his eyes with two fingers. The man’s chest had shuddered to a stop. Then they had burned him, cremating him in the center of an empty stone warehouse.

The man was not the only one. How many had died at Ryu’s hand because of the Bugs’ games? How long had he sat in that empty stone cell? How had their clone ruined his life and destroyed what relationships he might have had? How… How afraid had Thirty-Seven made him? The Bugs had taken his child from his life with their emptiness.

A fist cracked his chest, a kick swept his legs from beneath him, and a stomp threw his head back onto the stone behind him. Blood filled his mouth. A hand grabbed his neck and jerked him to his feet.

“When will you learn escape is futile, Wayward one? You have not gone anywhere we have not allowed you to. Have not made you, even. Did you think we had no connection to that larvae? We have infected your very thoughts. I see it in you.”

Ryu fought the hands at his throat. A pained grunt escaped his lips. Blood dribbled down his chin. Black smoke flared. Nothing. Pathetic, always pathetic. Always weak. Not worth living. Solitude dropped from his hand, clattering to the stone below.

No. Onward always. He spat blood into the face of Thirty-Seven. It did not move. He accepted the offer in his head.

The dead roared, and for the first time, Ryu listened. He remembered the screen that had appeared after he killed Lucius.

Upgrade: Soul Eater -> Soul Listener

By listening to the dead, the user has agreed to undertake his penance in the form of his victims’ whispers. To achieve their goals, they offer a portion of their strength to the user. Amount of uses is equal to the number of headstones in Shard Realm. Uses can only be charged on successful completion of a request by the dead. Technique multiplies user’s strength and amplifies other Techniques to a greater degree than previously.

---

In an empty, lifeless swamp, a man stared. White stained the roots of his inky hair, and hollows dipped in his cheeks. He was thin, it had to be said, a fierce leanness pulling at the pale, alabaster skin of his body. He stared at a wall of steel. Qi-infused steel.

A large, fist-sized hole ran through its center. Ender was pleased.

---

Madness for power. When had Ryu made any other choice? Red entered the black smoke around his wrists, and he pried the Bug’s hand from his throat. For the first time in years, rage no longer coursed through Ryu’s mind. Only hollowness remained, though this was emptiness of his own devising.

[Whisper Step] thrusted him in the air above Thirty-Seven, his hair grazing the swinging brass bell. He fell. Black and red swirled around his cocked arm. His fist met Thirty-Seven’s.

Pain. He skidded back, his boots sliding across the stone floor. His arm hung limp. He snarled and swung again. Gong. He could hardly tell if the sound was their bodies meeting or the bell above. He swung again. Gong. And again.

His arm was a bloodied, ruined mess. Cracks coated Thirty-Seven’s arm, specifically in the area where the limb met its shoulder. Perfect.

Soul Listener thrummed through his body. Its icy flavor coated his tongue. Red and black smoke puffed from his lips on either side. He moved, a series of movements already ingrained in his mind.

A blow rocked his head back. His fingers fumbled at black carapace, finding a gap in the natural armor. He tugged, and a sound like wet paper met his ears. Soul Listener strengthened his body, keeping his head in place when the next blow blackened his vision. He tugged again, digging and tearing and pushing and pulling until he ripped Thirty-Seven’s arm off like a toy from the shelf. His pale arm consumed the limb, growing tough chitin of its own that threatened to spread along his body.

It was then for the briefest of moments the two opponents looked at one another. One of Ryu’s arms hung limp. One of the Bug’s was missing, a dripping shred of flesh in its place. The red light of Thirty-Seven had dimmed. Ryu’s chest heaved. Blood coated him. Ichor coated it. Two equals, perhaps, but he would be lying if he said he felt a drop of respect for the Bug.

Man didn’t respect monsters. He slayed them. And so it was.

Gong. Ryu knew for whom the bell tolled. The moment passed in a blink, and then their fight became the sharp crack of chitin on chitin, of carapace on flesh, of grunts and chitters and all the sounds men in pain make. He checked one punch with his shoulder and leaned back to avoid a kick aimed at his head. Ate a blow that snapped his nose. Returned with a punch that cracked something. It was merely madness in the dark. Until it wasn’t.

Thirty-Seven tried to kick him once more, and Ryu stepped in, caught the kick, and swept the Bug’s remaining leg from beneath it. They rolled to the ground. Manibles tore the flesh from his shoulder. His fist cracked the Bug’s head. Bang. The floor rattled beneath them. Bang. A mandible turned sideways, half torn off. Bang. Blood leapt from his mouth, his head snapping to the side. His world went woozy. Thirty-Seven threw him off. He clanged into the swinging bell above and dropped to the ground limply, the mad gong echoing through the chamber.

He rose on an elbow. A carapace-clad leg rolled him over, and the Bug’s hand reached for him. Ryu laughed, a single word leaping out between his choking chuckle.

“Headsman.” A one-handed axe materialized in his hand instead of the battleaxe he knew. It was one-sided with a blade that looked like an angel’s wing. Thirty-Seven’s fist came down. The axe went up, spinning end over end. The Bug tried to dodge, but the axe’s blade sliced through its carapace like a knife through butter.

Thirty-Seven’s mandible twitched. Once. Twice. A shudder ran through its body, and yellow ichor bubbled from the canyon between its eyes. It fell to the ground beside him, twitching and convulsing and leaking as the dead were fond of doing.

Then Ryu settled into sleep. Rest. Permanently, maybe. His duties were… incomplete, but he had tried. Gods, he had tried. And failed. Always failing. That was life, however, and he was satisfied to be free of that disappointment. He was even happier to be free from himself.

“S-sir… Are you awake, sir?”

He cracked an eye open and spat a mouthful of blood, not caring as it dribbled down the side of his face. Weakness had no pride. A young, dark-haired girl stood above him, a worried look scrunching the lines of her face. She wore a dirtied, worn yellow dress. More dirt covered her face, hiding tan skin and freckles beneath the smudges. He pegged her at no more than eleven or twelve at most. Where? There was no way she could have survived their fight, no way that-

“Hello,” he said beside himself, spitting once more. Might his own child resemble this one someday? Could he ignore her? Aye, he could. He knew what he was. It was for that reason, however, that he wouldn’t. Her cry had drawn him here, after all. In part.

“Are you okay, sir? You look hurt. Can I… Can I help?” Her voice came in bursts, quiet one moment and overflowing the next.

He popped a greater restoration pill from his ring and tossed it in his mouth, propping himself on a single.

The adrenaline had started to fade, leaving him stiff and in pain. They would have to move fast.

He climbed to his feet, casting an eye about the bell tower room. Strange. He saw no place to hide. A question for later, perhaps. He grabbed the Qi crystal from Thirty-Seven’s body and nodded at the girl.

“Hop on my back. We have to go. Bugs’ll be here in a moment.”

She paused for a moment, and he sighed, dropping to his knee. A grimace crawled onto his face. She climbed onto his back after another moment. He began limping.

They were coming. He could feel it. The Sixty-Four were on their way. He had moments, if that. He kept a hand on the wall beside him, descending the stairs in staggering, stiff steps. Pain covered him like armor. His broken ribs his breastplate, his limp arm his pauldron and gauntlets, and his swelling, bloodied face his helm. Quite the look he imagined.

They had entered the Spire when he reached the Gate. It was a tall archway lined with dark marble. A void of empty black laid in its center. He looked back. Steps rang through the building as dozens of pairs of feet climbed. Onward always.

He sighed and stepped through.

Welcome to the Seventh Ring

Detecting lifeforms…

Designing Crucible…

Entering First Stage…

The Seventh Ring is made to test those who climb. Proceed with caution, traveler, and let your true heart be bared beneath its weight.