In the veil of time, Ezmelral felt Raiking's hand rest upon her shoulder—a familiar warmth that preceded the shift. In a single, seamless pulse, the fabric of reality folded, and they were carried twenty-four hours into the future.
They emerged above a nightmare.
"What is that?" Ezmelral breathed, her eyes widening as she stared down at the landscape below—a massive, pulsating structure sprawled across the ravaged plains like a tumor upon creation. It rose in uneven domes of gray flesh, its surface glistening with a sickly sheen that caught the light like wet stone. Veins the size of rivers ran through its hide, pulsing with a dull, bioluminescent glow. Every beat of its core sent tremors rippling outward, as if the land itself recoiled from the thing's existence.
"The Heartmash," Raiking said quietly, his voice steady against the unease that hung in the air.
Ezmelral's gaze lingered on the grotesque rhythm below—the way the surface quivered with every pulse, expelling faint plumes of black vapor from fissures that opened and closed like breathing wounds. Around it, the terrain had decayed into a barren wasteland: soil turned to ash, air thick with corruption. The outer layers of the Heartmash resembled a living fortress—rib-like spines jutted from its crown, curling inward to form a defensive shell, while slick tendrils extended into the ground, anchoring it deep beneath the crust.
Occasionally, the flesh would shift, parting just enough to reveal the horrors inside: half-digested silhouettes writhing beneath a translucent membrane, the remnants of the captured—mortals, their forms twisted and half-consumed by the hive that fed upon them.
"It's... alive," Ezmelral whispered, her voice a thread of horror.
Raiking's crimson eyes remained fixed on the pulsating abomination. "The Praexar Overlord I told you about."
The memory struck her with the sharpness of a blade—his sword cleaving a corrupted commander, his grim words: An Overlord got away.
"That's it? The Overlord?" she breathed, her stomach turning.
"No," he said, his voice low and cold. "That is its hive. Its heart. A nursery for its kind."
As he spoke, the Heartmash's rhythm deepened, its pulse syncing faintly with her own heartbeat until she felt the sick illusion of life resonating through her chest. Every throb seemed to whisper beneath the surface, a low, collective murmur that wasn't mere sound—it was thought. Hunger given form.
Her gaze fell to the plains below, where her lookalike charged across the gray horizon, her white robes flowing like a streak of defiance through the dark haze. Behind her marched five of her Consilium Disciplinae—each a pillar of strength in their own right.
Meryal, the leader of the twelve, her Essence Core radiating with the fluid calm of Water.
Bellavius, head of the guard, his Earth Essence grounding the team with quiet resolve.
Iraetius, master of the astrological hall, Lightning Essence crackling faintly around his form.
Libinea, steward of relations, her Fire Essence flickering with restrained intensity.
And Avorlas, master of infiltration and intel, Air Essence swirling in subtle eddies around his silhouette.
Together they advanced—five elements bound under a single banner, marching toward the abomination that beat like a heart beneath a dead sky.
Ezmelral's eyes widened as her lookalike drew her blade in one smooth, unbroken motion—each slash through the air releasing a crescent of silver light that hissed with compressed Essence. The strikes carved shimmering trails through the gloom before converging in a blinding flash.
A heartbeat later, the wall of the Heartmash erupted.
The explosion tore outward in a shockwave of gray ichor and congealed flesh, the living membrane of the hive convulsing as though in agony. Shards of hardened tissue and droplets of black fluid scattered across the battlefield like molten shrapnel, sizzling wherever they landed.
Through the breach they surged, swallowed by a storm of dust and stench. The air inside was suffocating—thick with rot, humidity, and the acrid sting of corruption. The walls pulsed like the inside of a living lung, faint veins glowing beneath translucent layers of tissue.
From the shadows ahead, several PraLumunix stirred.
Their heads twisted unnaturally, eyes igniting with malignant hunger as they turned toward the intruders—grotesque silhouettes molded from ash and sinew, their movements jerking like puppets pulled by invisible strings.
The nearest one lunged, claws extended—
—but its head was already gone.
A single stroke from the lookalike's sword cleaved cleanly through it, the body collapsing before it even understood death had come. She pressed forward without pause, each motion measured and exact. Her blade sang through the thick air, carving radiant arcs that left streaks of silver light hanging briefly before fading into the gloom. The corrupted fell one after another, their bodies crumpling like discarded shells.
Mid-slash, her voice cut through the chaos—sharp and commanding:
"Meryal, Bellavius—find the PraLumunix Commanders!"
Yes, m'lady!" they responded in unison. Meryal leaped left in a graceful arc, her Water Essence rippling around her, while Bellavius charged right, his Earth Essence grounding his steps—both Ascended Level warriors poised to tackle the second-tier threats with unyielding force.
The lookalike pivoted, her foot skimming the quivering floor before she leapt high into the air. She spun once mid-flight, trailing a wake of wind and silver, then leveled her sword toward the far end of the Heartmash—the direction of the Overlord's pulse. Her voice carried like thunder through the hive:
"Iraetius, Libinea, Avorlas—handle the PraLumunix!"
The lookalike's own Essence flared—Wind rippling beneath her as she launched forward in a blur of white and steel, soaring toward the hive's beating core. Her robes streamed behind her like a comet's tail, radiant against the darkness, as the hive's pulse grew louder… heavier… angrier.
Below her, the battle raged in a symphony of elements—lightning, flame, water, and air converging against corruption incarnate.
And above it all, she pressed on—
toward the heart that would not stop beating.
---
On the far side of the Heartmash, a great cocoon pulsed in gory sync with the hive's heartbeat—a drum of impending war. Its slick, pearlescent surface glowed faintly from within, veined with threads of blue and black. Then, without warning, a hand burst through.
The sound was wet, visceral, and final.
Fingers, long and blade-thin, tore through the fleshy casing as the cocoon split open. Its occupant clawed its way into the world, dragging its form from the pulsing ruin of its gestation. Ichor poured down in thick rivulets, and the Heartmash shuddered in response, its veins constricting as if the hive itself recoiled from the new predator it had birthed.
---
Meanwhile, Ezmelral's lookalike flew deeper. The ranks of the PraLumunix thinned beneath her until she crossed into the Heartmash's innermost sanctum. A silhouette coalesced from the gloom ahead—a figure seated gracefully on its knees, eyes closed in a facade of peace. She quickened her pace, Air Essence carrying her forward until she glided to a halt and touched down soundlessly upon the floor, facing it.
The being was a paradox of grace and violence. Its robe was pale gold silk, adorned with fading cherry blossoms that whispered of a forgotten gentility. But this serenity was a lie, stitched together literally at the seams. Meticulous threads crisscrossed its face and neck like a cartographer's record of sins, each suture grafting flesh taken from slain victims over the gray rot of its own decaying form—a desperate, final denial of its own corruption.
Its right arm was a monument to death, not forged of metal but of murder itself. Countless broken blades had been melted and fused into the limb, their final runes and inscriptions still visible beneath the metallic sheen, each one whispering with the trapped Essence of a life it had ended.
This was not ornamentation. It was evolution—a deliberate step beyond the mortal, a testament to its relentless ascent.
The air trembled as its eyes opened—twin slits of voidlight, cold and ageless, reflecting no thought or mercy, only an unyielding, predatory awareness. At that gaze, the Heartmash stirred to life.
The floor itself obeyed the Overlord's will. Streams of gray matter swelled from the ground, curving inward like molten wax in a grotesque metamorphosis that eclipsed the once open area. The substance solidified into polished, lacquered wood; the ceiling folded itself into arching beams that gleamed like black resin; and hanging veins bloomed into lanterns, casting spheres of false, warm light.
In a single breath, the space where they stood was remade into a tranquil hall—a beautiful illusion built upon a foundation of pulsating rot. The air hung heavy, the sweet scent of perfume barely masking the stench of decay beneath.
The Overlord rose to its feet, standing tall within its manufactured peace. A faint hum of Essence rippled outwards, and the shadow of its blade-arm caught the lantern light, glinting like fire trapped in glass—a silent, unmistakable promise of the violence to come.
Ezmelral's lookalike steadied her stance. Her eyes narrowed, her hand tightening around her hilt until her knuckles were white. Her fingers brushed the familiar leather wrap, a resolve hardening within her that perfectly mirrored the Overlord's own unyielding presence.
The stillness between them stretched, thin and sharp as a wire—a declaration unspoken, yet deafening in its intensity.