150. Inferno

Faster than a Rakshasa could say 'funky business', the pillars of fire spread and joined each other, thus engulfing the whole rotunda in a black-green conflagration.

Serac had to stop in her tracks, reeling under the sudden heat and oppression in the air. Even so, her first thought went to those powerless to protect themselves.

"The Tamped souls!"

It was too late. And even if not, there wasn't much the Wayfarers could've done. They watched from halfway up the central branch as the floor below turned into a burning 'Netherpool', with the Tamped cubes now swaying amidst waves of black and green.

The waves proved to be the impetus needed to counteract Tyr's magic, at least as far as this 'batch' of cubes was concerned. The souls in question Untamped en masse, filling the burning sea with their various shapes. Some were Calmspawns. Many were Yakshas, both of the Anchored and Wayfaring variety. Yet all were kindling for flames summoned from the depths of hell.

Serac watched in abject horror as a room full of hapless souls perished in the most painful manner imaginable. Except they didn't die… which, if anything, made for an even more horrifying sight.

The souls remained in place, continuing to sway with the fiery waves even as their bodies joined the hellish pyre. The fire didn't so much consume these living souls as feed on them at a steady rate. For as long as these souls lived in burning agony, the fire could rage on indefinitely.

Yet Serac hadn't been wrong about the pain. It took no time for the hellscape to introduce an auditory component—a deafening chorus of cries, screams, and lamentations that filled and imbued the air with fear and longing.

Serac fell to her knees, all but Poise-broken. She shut her eyes tight and covered her ears.

It didn't help. The 'chorus' penetrated any barriers a born Penitent could hope to put up, as it burrowed its way deep into her soul—and into her memories. These memories belonged not to some phantom of a previous life; they were her own, forged and ingrained by the Furnaces of hell.

I can't! She shouted desperately in her mind, louder even than the chorus all around her. I can't let them win. I've already Ascended from hell, haven't I? What's to stop me from rising above my memories of it, too?

Slowly, she recovered herself—unclamping her ears, reopening her eyes, and getting back to her feet. Before her, the hellscape raged on, unchanged. But with her newfound clarity, Serac managed to see it from a different angle:

[IMMOLATION—AVICI]

Immolation? Avici? The terms were unfamiliar to Serac, but somehow, she knew exactly what—or who—they portended. Sure enough…

A palpable surge of heat and oppression, as a veritable tidal wave rolled through the sea of fire. The wave—a parasitic synthesis of the burning souls' collective fear and longing—sent fresh sparks of black and green into the heat-distorted air. Then the sparks combined again, taking on the recognizable shape and physical solidity of a:

[Designation: RATHOR TYRSEN—The Eternal Furnace]

[Aberrant Race: Yaksha-Rakshasa (Mixed)]

[Aberrant Class: Realm Immortal]

[INFERNAL-ZEALOUS Instrument: GUNGNIR]

A pair of onyx horns tempered by hellfire. Ash-gray mane that billowed with the flying embers. Vermilion skin and birth marks of polish basalt, all glistening in the light of their own flames. Here was Rathor Tyrsen in his basest, purest, and most primal form. A second transmutation—from Wayfarer to Immortal.

Just what had happened to this Realm in the short time Serac had spent in solitary confinement? A nigh 400-year-long reign had come to an end, only to be passed down to a blood descendant within a matter of hours! And what of the conniving Queen Loha? She of the chemically induced 'immortality' who'd been snubbed twice—once in favor of her husband and now her son…

Serac met the news with unexpected calm. The warning signs had been there from the start, ever since she'd locked eyes with Pretjord's half-blood prince. Her fight-or-flight response had perhaps originated from impurity of thought, but now, her instincts and desires couldn't be purer.

She wanted to fight Rathor Tyrsen and win. To stop him? To punish him? Yes to all such politics and feelings but most of all to humble him.

"You think you're all that, don't you?"

Serac's lungs burned with every breath. She barely heard her own trash talk over the din of burning souls. But she couldn't help herself. This was just who she was.

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"You think you're hot shit just because you happen to carry a bit of hell in your blood. But that skin of yours has never felt fire so hot it burns your soul. Those horns have never borne the weight of sins immeasurable and unknowable. This thing you call a 'Furnace' is phony and fake—just like your smile!"

The accusations only made Rathor smile ever more brightly. The Immortal prince and his fiery smile hovered in the air, held afloat by the heat of his own magic. Then with a regal, languid motion, he raised GUNGNIR—a fishing trident now bejeweled by roiling balls of fire—and pointed its barbed ends straight into Serac's face.

"Well, let me tell you something," Serac continued, undeterred and against her better judgment. Later, it would occur to her how foolish she'd been to confront an Immortal without her weapon. But in the moment, she had fire of her own to spit out of her chest: "I know what it really means to burn in hell. Because I've lived it. Because I've conquered hell itself to get to where I am now. As for you, you were always banging on about learning from your fellow Wayfarers, weren't you? Well, today's your lucky day… because I happen to be in a teaching mood!"

Rathor threw his head back and laughed—hearty and musical. As he did, more flames flared out all around him, as if he were a sun exhaling its corona.

It wasn't exactly the kind of attitude Serac tolerated in her students, but there'd be opportunities aplenty for correction. Assuming, of course, she could survive long enough to retrieve REVOLVER!

But before Serac could rally her troops and call a much-needed audible, Rathor made the first move. A freshly anointed Immortal though he was, he was still the Captain of the Kronvakt. He now put that authority to use, amplified by the uncanny charisma of an infernal demon.

[IMMOLATION—SANJIVA]

Rathor's 'corona', hitherto turbulent and untamed, organized itself into two distinct spheres. These balls of fire peeled away from the main body to then shoot towards the sea of flames below. There, they each found a burning, screaming soul to latch onto.

If soon became clear that the choice had been anything but random. For the spheres rose again, with each soul secure within their grasp. And they rapidly took on shapes Serac knew well, becoming ever more solid as a burst of healing magic washed over them.

[385!], [331!], [350!] -> [1,066!]

[364!], [376!], [361!], [336!] -> [1,437!]

One sphere held the svelte yet imposing figure of a manta-ray woman, and the other the muscular hulk of a barracuda man. Hilde Vindsdatter and Skjal Sorensen—Kronvakt team leaders both, and perhaps the two most loyal members of Rathor's inner circle.

And here, Serac was forced to reckon with the limitations of a Wayfarer missing her Instrument. She wanted desperately to interrupt Rathor's bizarre ritual, perhaps by sending a few bullets into its midst. Instead, she and her companions could only watch helplessly as the Immortal prince summoned his mightiest minions.

"Come down here and fight your own battles, you coward!"

Yet, by then, even Serac's insults had lost some of their bite. Rathor acknowledged her latest attempt with another smile of amusement, then disappeared.

[TRUEFLIGHT—KALASUTRA]

Or more accurately, he sublimated—solid into fire. The sun along with its corona broke off into a thousand separate embers, only to rejoin the raging pillars that lined and framed the rotunda. Next, each of the pillars swelled and shrank in turn as the essence of their master passed through them like Waystations along a flame-borne journey.

Serac spun in place as she tracked Rathor's 'progress'. Judging by the pillars' movement, the prince had very quickly bypassed the trio of Team Serac, before continuing his climb up the central branch—and onto the throne hall which now rightfully belonged to him and him alone. It was a novel and dramatically evolved form of [Flight], perhaps even [Truer] than its prototype.

What could Serac do but go after him? She took off, pushing up the steeply rising branch on solid legs that felt woefully inadequate for the task. As soon as she did, her two companions turned to follow suit.

But the trio didn't make it very far. For that was when Hilde and Skjal—fully healed and imbued with sacred purpose—burst out of their [Sanjiva] bubbles and landed upon the same footpath. Of them, the barracuda struck first—a buckler-forward tackle to knock a frog woman off her feet and off the branch entirely!

"Renna!"

But Skjal wasn't done. As if acting on orders privy only to him, he turned sharply from the point of impact, this time aiming his tackle at a Manusya pugilist. He and Zacko clashed, buckler against [Pauldron], right at the edge of the branch. The latter, even with the benefit of prior warning, managed to hold his ground for only a brief moment. For the beefy barracuda had enough mass and momentum behind him to overpower even a NINEFOLD master in a contest of brawn.

Just like that, Zacko too fell off the ledge, but not before dragging Skjal with him by the collar of his tunic. Serac's instinct was to go after her friends… but which one? They'd been pushed off in two opposite directions, Renna to the left and Zacko to the right.

And that moment of hesitation gave the second enemy the opportunity to make her move. Hilde spread her pectoral fins wide and took off, not up the slope of the branch like some landbound animal, but into the air like the graceful acrobat she was.

Hilde's 'flight', as plain as it was in comparison to that of her prince, nevertheless allowed her to overtake Serac, shooting towards the apex of the branch. At the same time, it stirred up violent gusts of wind—two of them to be exact, one for each fin—which rose up on either side of the branch, rending air and fire alike.

In her wake, Hilde left behind two continuous walls of fire. They extended from floor to ceiling, thus completely cutting Serac off from Zacko and Renna. Welp, at least I don't have to choose anymore!

And even as Serac squared up to face her manta-ray saboteur, she understood perfectly the 'Path' that had been laid before her and her trusted friends. Three Wayfarers, each with a direct opponent to test their mettle—their commitment to an impromptu coup d'état.

Serac vs Hilde. Zacko vs Skjal. And Renna too had her own score to settle, one at least a decade—or perhaps even a whole lifetime—in the making.

No weapon. No allies. And a whole Realm on fire besides. Yet, even with the odds ludicrously stacked against her, Serac Edin found herself grinning with boundless excitement.

She couldn't help herself. This was just who she was.

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