The air inside the chamber felt heavy—thick with old magic and older malice.
The demon spoke again, its voice dry and distant, as if echoing from a well.
"No one understands the mystery behind the summoning."
It began to move—slow, deliberate steps that never quite touched the ground. It circled Zen like a vulture waiting for death.
"Humans. Demons. Elves. We've all tried. We've torn open minds, dissected souls. Still, nothing."
It paused beside a suspended corpse—barely recognizable as either man or beast, its shape warped beyond nature.
"Some time ago, a rumor reached me," the demon continued. "That the humans had found a solution."
It chuckled, low and joyless.
"And if there's one thing I know, it's that humans are the most greedy and cunning creatures alive. So we captured their 'Magus' behind the so-called breakthrough."
A claw traced lazily along the glass containing the corpse.
"Disappointing. It was nothing more than a desperate lie, born from failure. They tried to force the Tower's will… and paid for it."
It turned toward Zen, its singular eye gleaming like a wound that never healed.
"Still, from that pitiful Magnus, I learned something. A device. A theory. They called it... the Resonator."
The name lingered in the air like a curse.
"They believed it could align a soul with the Tower's call. Induce resonance. Bypass its defense."
A pause. A breath that wasn't a breath.
"Of course, it failed. But I... I picked up where they left off."
The temperature dropped. The shadows stirred, leaning inward.
"I tried it. Over and over. But the soul is delicate. It tears. Implodes. Screams without sound. Humans, demons—it didn't matter. They all died."
A silence followed. One that crawled across the skin like mold.
"I stopped eventually. It was a waste. Until yesterday."
It glided closer. The eye narrowed.
"The Queen summoned me. Said you're special. Said you survived Nitya. And she thinks maybe you'll survive this."
Zen said nothing. He didn't move.
"I don't like it," the master muttered. "You're going to die. I can feel it. And I would much rather open you up, piece by piece, and study what kept you alive in that cursed place."
Its voice dropped lower, almost gentle now.
"What a pity."
Then came the rasp, dragging like rusted chains over stone: "You see that magical circle over there? Go. Sit in the middle."
Zen followed the demon's gaze.
Etched into the stone floor was a ritual circle—grotesque and unnatural. The outer ring shimmered faintly, not with light, but with the suggestion of absence—like a rim of shadow condensed into form. Inside, a five-pointed star writhed with twisting inscriptions that never stayed still, like veins in a giant eye. Each point ended in a cruel barb. Beyond them, thorn-like spires rose from the floor, twitching like things alive.
Zen froze.
Every instinct in his body screamed.
The demon noticed his hesitation. Its mouth stretched wide, too wide.
"Your sister arrived at the orphanage some time ago," it said, brushing invisible dust from its coat. "It wouldn't take much to bring her here."
A pause. A tilt of the head.
"If you don't want that to happen, sit."
The words slid into him like blades.
Zen clenched his fists. Slowly, he stepped forward and crossed the threshold.
The moment he did, the air thickened pressing against his skin like unseen hands. He sat at the center of the star, surrounded by a silence that whispered, and whispered, and whispered.
The demon turned. From a nearby pedestal, it retrieved four grotesque objects.
At first, they resembled seed pods or leathery fruit—twisted and unnatural. Their husks were dark violet and bruised grey, veined and pulsing. Root-like tendrils dangled from their base, slick and twitching. Tiny, glassy eyes dotted the surface, blinking independently.
"These are the Resonators," the demon murmured, reverent. "They echo the soul."
It raised both hands, fingers weaving through the air. Arcane seals formed, each gesture slicing through reality with practiced weight. Strands of green phosphorescence coiled from its palms like smoke.
The energy split—four trails slithering along the star's carved lines, pulsing as they reached the outer arms. The Resonators floated from its grip and anchored themselves at the star's barbed tips—lodged like cursed teeth in a divine maw.
Then the circle roared to life.
The spires convulsed. Energy burst from them in arcs, encircling the perimeter. The carvings bled light. The shadows inside writhed like worms beneath skin. A hum began to rise—not sound, but sensation. Zen felt it in his bones, in his blood, in memories he had buried.
The outer circle cracked open at four points. Black mist poured out in long ribbons, pulled toward the Resonators like breath to fire.
The star blazed.
A heartbeat.
Then another.
Zen gasped—no, he was torn open.
Something struck him. Not his body, but his soul. Like an ocean crashing down. His essence was hurled, battered, and shattered in unseen currents.
The circle groaned with demonic energy.
His body convulsed. His mouth opened in a scream no sound could carry.
It wasn't pain—it was obliteration. A destruction meant not for the mind, or flesh, but for the very concept of self.
He was dying.
He couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't even pray. His thoughts drowned in agony.
Then—her face.
His sister.
What would happen to her, if he vanished now?
Not yet, Zen thought. Not like this.
He reached. Clawed.
But it was no use. The Resonator was beyond him. This was not a test. It was a sentence.
Then—something shifted.
A tremor. A flicker.
Something inside him woke up.
It tore through him like a parasite uncoiling, not born of him, but buried.
A surge of power burst outward—cold, demonic, terrible. It didn't spread. It erupted.
The Resonator faltered.
Cracked.
Zen's eyes snapped open. But they weren't his anymore.
Something ancient looked through them.
Ekrid hovered in the air, watching.
He had seen it before—souls unraveling, breaking apart. The Resonator was absolute. It crushed the spirit until it adapted… or shattered.
He had already prepared to log Zen as a failure.
He remembered what the Queen had said:
"You want to test the Resonator on a mortal? He's more valuable than that. We must learn how he survived Nitya."
"Your Majesty, he won't last. Nitya and the Tower—they are not the same."
"Call it a hunch," she had said, with that cruel smile. "If he can survive this… we change everything. We break the summoning mystery. We dominate the world."
It was the only reason he agreed.
Now, he watched Zen come apart.
Then—something exploded from within.
Zen convulsed. The runes cracked. The entire lab trembled. Lights dimmed. Glass screamed.
And then, the Resonator shattered.
The scream turned to a roar.
Inhuman. Primeval.
The ritual circle cracked beneath him as waves of demonic force surged outward obliterating everything in its path.
His apprentice vanished—gone in a flicker of unbeing.
Walls collapsed. Centuries of research destroyed in a breath. The master was flung through space, until he struck the side of a black mountain.
Half-dead. Half-mad.
Then… silence.
The air quivered.
And something even older began to descend.
It was not energy. Not magic.
It was law.
Reality objected.
The sky went black. Not night—nothingness. Clouds that had never been born gathered, darker than the abyss. Lightning brewed within them, coiling and folding like serpents inside a storm cage. And then—they struck.
Bolts of power crashed down upon the ruin with the fury of a god's, splitting the earth and shattering the heavens. It was judgment, a punishment not for a crime, but for a violation.
Where the lightning touched, space cracked. Not burned. Not scorched. Cracked, like glass under a hammer. Entire zones of reality ruptured open, birthing momentary rifts of blind void. The demonic energy that had roared so fiercely just seconds ago didn't even resist. It had no chance. And if it did—it wouldn't matter.
The rifts swallowed the remnants of the Resonator, the circle, the castle walls.
And then—
Stillness.
The silence after something vast has ended.
Smoke. Dust. Ash.
Where the lab once stood, there was only void now.
The Ekrid stirred, broken and bleeding.
Some had survived. Barely.
Then he saw her.
The Queen.
She stood amid the devastation. Her face was unreadable. Her cloak billowed in the windless dark.
She met his gaze.
Not with rage.
Not sorrow.
Only cold, silent calculation