The threshold of the spire was not a gate of iron, but a curtain of stagnant mana. As Ren Hanshin stood before the forty-foot majesty of the Silent Queen, the atmosphere of the Necropolis reached its terminal density. The grey ash hovered, suspended in the air by the weight of the Queen's intent.
Ren's right hand, shimmering with a fierce, amber-red light, hung at his side. His left hand was still bound within the folds of his coat, a human anchor he was beginning to despise. He looked at the Kusanagi-Vessel hilt at his hip, the sword-relic of the Earth. It felt heavy. It felt crude. It felt like a memory of a boy who played.
"Executioner," the Silent Queen's voice vibrated through the marrow of everyone present. "You carry a will of the mud into the sanctum of the sky. The ground has no jurisdiction here. Your steel is a lie."
