Scott's gaze drifted from one champion to the next. They stood unmoving atop their respective logs, like statues. Only the one directly ahead—the grinning man in mismatched armor—displayed any awareness.

Why do they feel like they're being… controlled?

Their rigid posture resembled reanimated corpses, yet Scott could sense no puppeteer pulling their strings.

His attention shifted to the domed barrier enclosing them. It pulsed with a regal, ancient rhythm—a presence older than words. Still, there was no pressure. No suppression. No divine compulsion.

But Scott wasn't fooled.

They didn't build this formation for nothing.

His eyes locked onto the man in mismatched armor. Scott flexed his fingers.

The war hammer shifted from its dormant state, and the white chains transformed, slithering out like cautious serpents. Within moments, they unfurled into towering, serpentine constructs, coiling with silent menace.

The grinning man didn't flinch. If anything, his expression warped into something more fanatical.

Then, he clasped his hands together in a gesture of prayer.

Instantly, the other champions followed suit—in perfect synchrony, like puppets on a shared string.

The crimson dome hummed louder.

Suddenly, several logs rose into the sky, spinning like enchanted wands guided by an unseen will. They spiraled, scattered, then reassembled—forming nothing at all, yet somehow aligning into ancient patterns inscribed upon the air.

Scott raised his right hand.

A thunderous, gong-like echo shook the area.

The domed barrier trembled violently under the surge of gravitational force. But even as the world around them strained… it didn't crack. Not even a hairline fracture.

The fanatical champion cackled.

"Fool!" he shrieked. "Do you think your pitiful weapon can challenge a formation bequeathed by the goddess herself?"

Scott glanced toward the apex of the barrier.

So… a goddess gave him this formation. And she also predicted I'd be here.

Who the hell could she be?

His gaze dropped back down. A small smile tugged at his lips.

"I'm glad you're taking this seriously," he said calmly, lowering his hand.

"I have only one request." He paused. His grip on the hammer tightened. "Don't make this boring."

Scott vanished.

So did the serpentine chains.

He reappeared beside the stunned champion, war hammer raised high overhead.

"Fool!" the man bellowed, panic leaking through the madness.

Scott swung.

The hammer traced a deadly arc, zeroing in on the man's skull—but just before impact, the swirling logs above coalesced into the form of a raven.

Reality flipped.

Everything inside the barrier—Scott, the chains, even gravity—rotated ninety degrees. What was once sky became ground.

Scott and his chains now stood at the new base of the barrier.

The champion slid his palms across one another again. The logs reformed, now shaping a phoenix in mid-flight.

The dome pulsed. Then came fire.

Massive infernos rained from above—towering fireballs like pieces of hell torn from the sky.

With a thought, Scott commanded the chains.

They surged forward to meet the storm, their silvery lengths gleaming like stars. Not a flicker of hesitation in their movement.

The champion laughed again. "You think those useless chains can withstand the flames of—"

His voice cut off.

He watched as the firestorm—dozens of searing orbs—didn't explode. Didn't scorch. Didn't resist.

Instead, the flames coalesced into a formless slurry… then merged with the chains.

The white links absorbed them like water into cloth, faintly tinged now with crimson.

The champion blinked. Once. Twice. His manic grin faded into confusion.

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Then Scott's voice drifted to him—quiet, but unmistakable.

"Give it back to them."

The chains shuddered. Then—white fire erupted. Tidal waves of pure flame surged down the chains, each crest larger than the last. The flames weren't red or orange—but clean, blinding white.

A flame that burned without heat. A fire that existed to purge.

The champion's expression twisted. He moved again, sliding his palms once more.

The world twisted.

This time, heaven and earth inverted. The sky plunged beneath them. The champions and the logs now hung upside-down.

And the flames the chains had just absorbed came screaming back toward them.

Scott didn't speak. He didn't need to.

Once more, the chains devoured the incoming flames—effortlessly swallowing the inverted firestorm. This time, the faint crimson hue vanished completely from their links.

The barrier's orientation changed nothing.

Scott slowly raised his war hammer and pointed it directly at the champion.

"I'm not the smartest," he said softly. "But I've figured out the crux of your formation."

"Nonsense!" the man barked, voice trembling. "How can your shallow mind comprehend the goddess's divine design?!"

Scott didn't respond.

Instead, he spun the war hammer around his palm.

But unlike before, the gravity didn't crash into the dome again.

No force. No clash. Only silence.

A moment later, that silence shattered.

A crack echoed through the barrier—loud and sharp.

The champion's head whipped from side to side, frantic. But no matter how hard he searched, he couldn't find the source of the cracking sound.

Scott lowered the war hammer with a single smooth motion.

Nothing happened.

Silence settled once more.

"That's it?" the man sneered, emboldened again. "I told you—your efforts are—"

Crack!

A second deafening snap split the air, cutting his words in half.

This time, the entire barrier shuddered without pause. The gravitational anomaly surged again—but it no longer pressed from a single side. It came from everywhere, crushing down on every inch of the crimson dome.

Fractures began webbing along its surface.

Scott chuckled softly, watching the champion's smile collapse into panic.

"If your goddess gave you anything else," Scott said, voice calm, "now would be the time to use it."

The champion's face twisted with fury. He ground his fists together and rolled them against each other in that familiar pattern. The world realigned as the barrier flipped back to its original orientation.

The swirling logs spun into motion once more—this time breaking into four vast units, each comprising hundreds of logs. They shot toward the barrier's edges and embedded themselves deep into its structure.

The cracks began to seal. But in the same moment, five champions exploded. No blood. No screams. No bones. Just… dust.

Scott's brows furrowed. There really is something wrong with them… but why can't I see it?

The barrier regained stability, but five logs now stood empty. They dropped to the ground, hollow and spent. The formation shrank in size.

The gravitational pressure eased, before slowly disappearing.

The champion ceased his movements and glared at Scott. His venomous gaze burned with hatred—but not fear.

"How dare you!" he spat, veins bulging across his face. "How dare you ruin the vessels the goddess bestowed upon me?!"

Scott didn't answer.

He didn't care for the words of a fanatic. But something was happening, something darker only he could see.

His frown deepened.

Thick, blackened threads crawling out of the champion's body, like tendrils of tar. They spread across the formation, toward the other silent champions.

Wait… this reminds me of Zara's strings. What was it called again?

Then the man's voice rose again.

"You brought this upon yourself," he declared, drawing a crescent moon across his chest.

He clasped his hands in prayer once more and began to chant.

"O Keeper of Endless Strings, bequeath upon me the authority to unleash your wrath upon this lowly unbeliever!"

A thunderous, disembodied chuckle rolled through the barrier.

Scott's grip instinctively tightened on the war hammer.

This feeling… My body remembers it. But I don't.

Goosebumps raced across his skin. Cold sweat beaded his brow.

Only one kind of being could provoke such a deep-rooted, involuntary fear.

A god is about to interfere.

The champion's voice rang out again, fervent and trembling with awe.

"O Keeper… thank you for answering my plea!"

He fell to his knees, bowing again and again. "Praise be! Praise be to the Keeper of Strings!"

Strings—too many to count, and too tiny to see.

Thousands of them—blackened and gleaming—emerged from the barrier's surface. They shot toward the kneeling man, embedding deep into his body like parasitic needles.

A soul-shattering scream tore from his throat. His limbs jerked violently as the strings twisted him into a grotesque marionette.

Then—mechanically—he rose to his feet.

His head drooped sideways. His eyes were glassy. Drool dribbled from his lips.

Scott alone could see the true horror: a pair of colossal, illusionary hands hovering high above the formation. They dangled the man like a puppet.

I remember now… Zara's Rule of Absolute. It was called Aga'dz Strings.

This is the same feeling… the same touch. Is Zara already a puppet of this Keeper?

A heavy sense of unease settled in Scott's chest.

I need to leave this place as soon as possible.

The champion—no, the puppet—began to cackle, a sliver of lucidity flickering behind his crazed eyes.

"Thank you, O Keeper of Strings…" he muttered, gazing upward.

Then his focus snapped back to Scott.

"So, you too possess an Authority," he said with mocking reverence. "But in the face of the Keeper's Strings, your authority will crumble like—"

"You talk too much," Scott interrupted.

The man opened his mouth to respond. But Scott's voice boomed again.

"Heed my call!"

Scott's voice thundered through the barrier, a command that rippled reality.

The possessed man froze mid-motion, dazed.

"Who the hell do you think you—" His words faltered. His lips began to tremble.

Then, as though another voice had hijacked his own, he spoke:

"We see thee, Chosen of the Mad Throne."

Scott's voice followed—sharp, asserting.

"What shall you do?"

The man's eyes widened in terror, yet his mouth moved on its own.

"We will serve thee, cursed with blackened flames!"

Confusion bled through his gaze—panic, horror, betrayal. He didn't understand the words pouring from his own mouth.

Then came Scott's voice again.

"You shall not be remembered."

The possessed champion opened his mouth to continue.

Snap!

His neck twisted violently, spinning a full 180 degrees. His head now faced backward, limp and broken.

Scott turned away without pause.

His eyes shifted to another log. Another champion.

A woman in flowing, oversized robes. Her gaze was vacant.

Then she moved—mechanically, like a puppet awakening. The black strings had found a new vessel.

Scott narrowed his eyes. "So, you can hop between hosts, huh…"

The strings twitched, adjusting the woman's limbs with unnatural precision. Her joints cracked and aligned.

And then—She spoke. A raspy, warped voice seeped through her throat. "How dare you utter such blasphemies before me!"

Her sclera bled red as veins burst, dying the whites of her eyes crimson.

She raised both arms. "Come forth, O Strings of Aga'dz!"

The barrier shivered.

From every corner, every fracture, every unseen crevice, the strings came.

Hundreds of thousands of writhing, blackened threads lashed through the air like tendrils of a dying god. They merged, tangled, and twisted together, forming an ever-thickening net of divine malice.

The woman's arm dropped—now pointing at Scott.

"Join the Keeper's embrace."

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