CHAPTER 87: THE FALSE END

Caelgorr fell to the grey stone with a thunderous crack, his monstrous body collapsing in a grotesque sprawl. A final shriek—high, raw, almost human—was cut short as he hit the ground. The many eyes dotting his malformed form shut in unison, flicking closed like iron shutters, leaving him... still.

Dead.

Eri landed softly beside the corpse, her armor blood-streaked and torn. Llarm hovered just above, his wind magic flickering as it gently lowered her. She didn’t speak or move; she simply stood there, blade still in hand, chest heaving, staring at the thing she’d just killed.

Bruma, panting like a winded bull, hunched forward with her massive hands braced against her knees. Her axe thudded against her back as she sheathed it—slow, deliberate, exhausted. Sweat gleamed on her green skin like morning dew, and her shoulders trembled with every breath.

Gindu groaned as he peeled himself from the wall he’d been smashed into, shards of stone raining from his broad back. Dust puffed up around him as he shook it off. His deep-blue scales remained sharp, refracting the dim light like shattered glass. His golden eyes were haunted but focused. He limped toward the group, every movement stiff with pain.

The chamber fell silent—not peace, not relief, just shock.

Even the temple itself seemed to be holding its breath.

Lucy stood closest to Caelgorr’s corpse, only a few feet away. And yet... his mind refused to accept what he was seeing. The fog was gone, the battle over—but something was wrong. He could feel it. The battle had been too easy, too clean.

’That’s it?’ His thoughts buzzed like a broken radio. ’Was it really that easy? Caelgorr—the protector of the Obsidian Chronicle? Without his fog, he was just... this?’

His disbelief broke into a dry, little mad chuckle. He looked up at the others, his lips twisting into a tired grin.

"Well, I guess that was it then?" His voice cracked. "You were right, Gindu. He was just a wyrmling."

Gindu gave a short laugh, arms folding across his chest as his scales began to dull and flatten. "I wish I had been the one to do the wyrmling in, but... well done, Eri. You were fantastic."

Eri didn’t answer. She only gave a single, barely perceptible nod—her eyes still locked on Caelgorr’s unmoving body. Her expression was unreadable.

"Hey!" Llarm called from above, still circling like a watchful hawk. "Let’s not forget the hero here! Without me, Eri wouldn’t have been able to finish the beast off!"

"Good job, wyrmling," Gindu said with mock gruffness, eyes still closed, trying to breathe calmly. But there was no humor in his posture—just tension and fatigue.

"Hero," Llarm corrected sharply, the word ringing with stubborn pride.

The exchange made Lucy laugh, despite the dull, heavy ache in his limbs. With a wave of his hand, he let his atomic wind and Crucible of Grace fade. The divine heat retreated from his bones, and the constant, grinding radiation finally stilled.

Relief swept through him like a cool tide.

No more burning, no more twisting, just his own battered body again.

He sighed deeply, chest rising and falling with something like peace.

They’d done it. They had survived Seraph’s Hollow.

Then his gaze shifted.

The statue of Nyxaris loomed only ten feet away, cold and immense. Her many limbs curled upward in a tangled display of symbolism Lucy didn’t understand. In her top hands, cradled as if in reverence, sat the Obsidian Chronicle.

A thick, ancient book bound in shadows.

"Time to reap the treasure!" Lucy grinned, taking a step forward.

But Bruma was already ahead of him.

She lumbered past Caelgorr’s corpse, her breath still heavy, her steps firm despite the wounds. Her outstretched arm reached toward the book, thick fingers just inches from contact.

And then—

The air changed.

It hit like a physical force—pressure, crushing and immediate. There was a shift in the atmosphere, as though the world had turned its gaze upon them. Shadows thickened, and the temperature dropped.

Lucy’s instincts screamed.

He snapped his Soulthread back online.

And his heart seized.

A pulse of pure hatred hit him like a lightning bolt. And fierce, territorial protection. The kind of malice that didn’t end with death.

He looked back.

Caelgorr’s body was gone.

The slab of stone where it had fallen was empty—black ichor still wet, steaming, but no corpse.

Lucy spun, eyes darting, following the thread of emotion like a lifeline through the static.

The signal pointed straight to the statue.

No.

To behind Bruma.

"Bruma!!!" Lucy screamed.

But it was too late.

Caelgorr rose behind her like a demon from a nightmare, towering. His form changed—he was now taller, leaner, and sharper. His body dripped with shadow, and his many eyes burned with white flame, now open again in unnatural silence.

His arm lashed out.

One clawed limb, slick with ichor and hatred, grabbed Bruma’s outstretched arm—the one reaching for the Chronicle—and with a wet, tearing sound, ripped it clean off.

Blood sprayed the stone in a wide arc.

Bruma let out a scream that shook the temple—raw, animal, full of fury and pain. She staggered back, clutching her shoulder as dark blood poured from the wound.

Lucy felt sick. The scent hit next—burnt meat, salt, copper, and the heavy musk of something ancient and wrong. Bruma’s scream echoed off every wall, bouncing back distorted.

Then—

The temple doors slammed open behind them with a crash that echoed like thunder.

A cold wind rushed in, and the scent of the outside world—salt, dust, and blood—blew through.

Lucy didn’t have to look to know.

Two more emotional signatures entered his awareness, flashing bright on his Soulthread.

One blazed with feral madness, like an animal backed into a corner.

The other trembled with fear, young, loyal, and brave despite it.

Fenric and Carlos.

They had joined the fray.

And Seraph’s Hollow was not finished.

This time, Caelgorr’s roar was beyond sound—it was pressure. It shattered what little peace they had left. It shook the stone beneath their feet, rattled their bones, and made the shadows tremble. The sound was pure wrath, a declaration:

Touching the Chronicle was a sin, a trespass, an unforgivable act.

Bruma staggered backward, still clutching the mangled stump where her arm had been. Her fingers were slick with her blood, thick and dark, painting her green skin in sick crimson. She gasped through clenched teeth, her massive form swaying like a tree in a hurricane.

Before she could even brace—

WHAM.

Another of Caelgorr’s limbs—long and gnarled like a branch of obsidian—slammed into her stomach with the force of a cataclysm. The sound it made was sickening: bones breaking, flesh tearing, air exploding from lungs.

But somehow Bruma moved.

A flash of instinct. Gravity magic flared briefly, warping the space around her, slowing the blow by mere fractions of a second.

It wasn’t enough.

The punch still shattered her ribs, ruptured something deep inside, and sent her hurtling across the temple like a ragdoll. She hit the wall with a crunch that echoed loudly and final, then collapsed onto the stone floor, twitching—barely alive. Blood seeped from her mouth, her side, her shoulder—too much blood.

Lucy’s stomach turned.

Caelgorr straightened.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

And turned toward the rest of the cohort.

His body twitched as his many limbs flexed. That split face—half flesh, half fog—contorted into something too alien to read, but Lucy swore it was grinning.

That was when he noticed it.

The eyes.

On Caelgorr’s back, they were open—dozens of them, glowing like sick lanterns, but on his front side, the eyes remained shut.

Lucy’s breath caught in his throat.

The realization hit hard.

’They weren’t just for show...’ he thought, skin prickling. ’They let him come back... and each time... he’s stronger.’

He knew it from the overwhelming aura Caelgorr gave off.

The temple’s air grew thicker by the second, dense, suffocating. A crushing aura rolled off Caelgorr’s body like a flood of invisible tar, pressing into Lucy’s chest and making his lungs struggle for air. His fingers trembled, and his knees buckled slightly.

He didn’t have to turn to know how the others felt. He could feel it.

Fear.

Paralyzing, suffocating fear.

He looked anyway.

Eri’s eyes were wide, her blade clutched tight but unmoving. Gindu’s mouth was parted, scales slowly re-sharpening as instinct battled dread. Llarm floated silently above, faltering, his usual bravado crushed beneath the weight of despair.

And then, from behind—

A sound.

Mad, shrill, unstable laughter.

Fenric.

The beastkin strode into the temple with wide eyes, fangs bared, his face twisted between joy and madness.

Carlos growled low, his small shadowy form hugging Fenric’s side. His fur bristled like smoke under pressure.

Lucy felt his terror pulling him down, urging him to wait, to let someone else act.

To freeze.

But Bruma was bleeding out on the temple floor.

’Move, damn it,’ he told himself. ’MOVE.’

She’d saved them from the fog soldiers, from the crushing depths of the sea, and now he had a chance to repay his debt. He wouldn’t let her die.

"Kill him!" Lucy roared.

It was all he could manage—raw, desperate, ripped straight from his chest like it hurt to say.

But it was enough.

The spell broke.

Gindu growled like a dragon uncaged, his scales sharpening with a harsh shhhrrkk. Llarm screamed as he dove from above, wind coiling around him like a storm. Eri’s body blurred forward, blade flashing in the firelight. Even Fenric’s laughter turned into a snarl as he lunged with Carlos beside him.

They surged forward together, war cries rising.

And the second battle for the Obsidian Chronicle began.