The Queen, measuring six meters tall, slowly turned her head toward Salomeh. Her gaze hidden behind her veil, a strange aura emanated from her, subtle but oppressive, as if the very air bent to her presence. Salomeh remained motionless, both fascinated and wary, and suddenly, foreign whispers infiltrated her mind.
She stepped back, surprised, eyes wide.
— Am I dreaming… or did she just try to communicate with me mentally? she murmured.
Isissis 3 intervened, his tone calm but firm:
— Don't stare at her too intensely. Yes, she can speak all languages and, even more dangerously, manipulate the emotions of anyone who catches her attention.
He then pointed to the Queen's sewn mouth.
— That divine thread we used is not there to physically contain her. It prevents her from speaking. Her voice is a law in itself. Any creature weaker than her would lose autonomy, unable to resist. A single word from her can command, destroy, or bend entire beings to her will.
Salomeh averted her gaze, her mind turning to the scale of what she had just perceived. The Queens were truly terrifying. Fortunately, there were only sixteen. If their number equaled that of the Workers, the resulting chaos would be unimaginable.
— Can a Queen control another Queen? she asked, a note of concern in her voice.
— No, replied Isissis 3, crossing his arms. They seem to function as one entity, animated by a single will, but incarnated in different bodies. It's as if destruction and apocalypse itself had taken form to expand.
He paused, silently contemplating the aligned cages.
— We believe the Queens are living expressions of Raktabīja Rāvana's will, destined to spread chaos. Each of them is a fraction of his essence, a parcel of his destructive force.
Salomeh closed her eyes briefly, letting the breath of power-laden air pass over her face. She visualized the danger hierarchy: the Kings, the Queens, the Soldiers, the Workers… all born from a mere fragment of Raktabīja Rāvana's scale, yet already capable of sowing unimaginable chaos across multiverses.
Her mind returned to the Demon Emperor himself. If a single scale could generate billions of such powerful creatures, what would happen when Raktabīja Rāvana emerged from Tartarus? His size, power, will: all became a threat of an almost divine scale.
— Time is running out… Salomeh thought. The more unstable he becomes in Tartarus, the faster we must act. We may have to face the origin itself before it is too late.
Behind her, Bakuran and Niyus⁵ also observed the Queens silently, instinctively sensing the overwhelming difference between the raw power of the Workers and the cold intelligence of the Queens. Every movement of the latter seemed calculated over eons, every black thread of blood on their sewn faces concealing a will beyond anything mortals — or even great beings — could conceive.
Salomeh took a deep breath. She had not come here to kill the Queens… not yet. But she had to understand their functioning, their limits, and their hierarchy before thinking of confronting them. Because here, in this place, every lost second could turn Tartarus' fragile balance into an impending apocalypse.
The quest was nearing its end. Salomeh, Bakuran, and Niyus⁵ found themselves in an extremely remote reality. The massive scale of Raktabīja Rāvana had been removed from their reality by the gods before it could explode, bringing an almost unreal calm.
They arrived in a city bathed in a festive atmosphere. Colorful garlands hung from every building, and the air vibrated to the rhythm of drums and songs: it was the martial arts festival, an event where tradition, discipline, and joy blended harmoniously. The inhabitants smiled, danced, and immersed themselves fully in the celebration.
Bakuran turned his head, the mask distorting his features but revealing a sigh:
— Tsk… Sakolomeh is really in this kind of weird reality?
Salomeh, attentive, scanned the surroundings:
— According to Bakuzan's indications, yes… Besides, he is here too, but I have no idea where exactly.
Their gazes were drawn to a woman passing nearby. Silently, they followed her, making their way through the lively alleys to a huge hall where a dense crowd had gathered. In the center, the greatest martial arts masters of the region performed impressive demonstrations, chaining complex techniques and fluid movements with almost supernatural precision.
Salomeh, Bakuran, and Niyus⁵ seated themselves calmly among the spectators, watching the fights attentively. Each gesture, each attack, and each parry seemed to tell an ancient story, knowledge passed down generation to generation, where strength, discipline, and mastery mingled with art and honor.
The contrast between the peacefulness of this reality and the recent chaos they had faced felt almost unreal. Here, the world seemed light, alive, vibrating with an energy that neither scales, nor Abominables, nor gods could corrupt. And yet, deep inside, each knew this calm was only a respite before the next trials.
The festival's multicolored light bathed the hall in an almost unreal warmth.
Salomeh, Bakuran, and Niyus⁵ had seated themselves in the middle of the crowd, mingled with the human throng whose enthusiasm vibrated like a collective heart. Fights succeeded one another on the central stage, each accompanied by shouts, feints, impossible dodges, and muffled thuds as fists met trained torsos.
Around them, vendors circulated tirelessly: smoked grilled skewers, sparkling drinks in improbable colors, glittering sweets as if they had absorbed the festival's light. Bakuran, despite his stoic posture, ended up buying some kind of purple drink "to analyze its composition" — and also because it looked good, though he would never admit it.
"Tsk… they really drink anything here," he grumbled when a group of youths passed by with fluorescent smoothies.
Niyus⁵ shrugged, looking almost relaxed for once. "Maybe it improves martial skills."
"Shut up, Niyus," Bakuran replied, taking a sip that, against himself, gave him a shiver of satisfaction.
In front of them, an old man grumbled continuously.
Every time a fighter fell, he threw his arms to the sky, cursed, turned around, yelled:
"But it's not possible! This guy was the favorite! I was told he won the last fifteen editions! I don't understand anymore!"
And for every complaint, Salomeh and the two others stifled a laugh.
The old man eventually noticed their smiles:
"Oh, come on! You, there, with the weird mask and brown hair! You think you'd do better in the ring maybe?!"
Bakuran, behind his mask, waved a vague hand meaning move along, insignificant human, which irritated the old man even more and amused Niyus⁵ all the more.
The fights continued, becoming more and more impressive. Some masters seemed to move the very air itself; others made the ground vibrate by stamping. The crowd pulsed, children shouted, the elders commented, the hall lived.
Then, as the referee announced a short break, a particular silence fell on the ring, as if the air itself had held its breath.
A young girl had just entered.
She stood tall, motionless, arms at her sides.
Brown hair tied in a high ponytail, impeccably cold blue eyes, tight bandages around hands, black tank top, black shorts. Every feature of hers evoked absolute self-mastery, an almost unsettling calm.
She simply raised her hand.
"I want to challenge all the champions."
The hall first burst into laughter, then surprised murmurs.
Some masters objected:
"Kid, you should go back to school."
"This isn't a game."
"Where do you come from, anyway?"
But she remained perfectly still. Her eyes showed no emotion — neither defiance, nor arrogance, nor doubt.
Just a calm emptiness.
Salomeh tilted her head, intrigued.
Without waiting, the first master stepped onto the ring: a colossus renowned for his grapples, brute strength, and endurance. He gave a confident smile.
"Very well. We'll show you what a real fight is."
The gong sounded.
The girl disappeared.
Literally.
Salomeh frowned: even her senses had not detected her directly.
The master turned his head, lost.
Then he collapsed.
A single blow, placed with surgical precision on a vital muscular point. A movement so pure it erased even the notion of effort.
The audience was stunned.
Not a single applause.
Not a single cry.
Just that void.
The second master stepped in, then the third, then the fourth.
All fell the same way:
— an invisible move,
— a minimal impact,
— an immediate fall.
Some were thrown ten meters without anyone understanding how.
Others were paralyzed with a simple touch.
The very air seemed to bend around her, as if reality's structure obeyed her movements.
The crowd watched, mute.
Even the old gambler had stopped complaining. He stared at the scene, trembling slightly.
After about ten victories, the girl turned to the referee.
"Are there others left?"
Her voice was as flat as her gaze.
Bakuran crossed his arms.
"This kid… she's not just strong. Her movements are… impossible for her age. As if she erased trajectory variables while acting."
Salomeh, for her part, no longer laughed.
Her eyes were riveted on the young fighter, and her expression grew more serious, more focused than since the day began.
She murmured:
"That kid… vaguely reminds me of something."
Bakuran turned his head to her.
"How so? You know her?"
"No."
She breathed slowly, placing her hand on the railing.
Her gaze deepened, as if probing far beyond the girl's body.
"What she radiates… it's as if she were connected to us. Not by blood, not by origin…"
She closed her eyes for a second.