Then the blood began. From each hollow eye, from each jaw split in perpetual scream, thick scarlet poured forth. The skulls vomited rivers of it until the throne seemed freshly dipped in dye, slick with crimson that dripped, pooled, and steamed. The blackened bone drank the blood greedily, as if feeding, as if preparing. The smell of copper thickened, suffocating, coating the tongue.

High above, the six dragons writhed as though seized by invisible chains. Their roars dwindled into choking gasps before they collapsed against the pillars, skulls pressed like trophies to the bone spires. Their lifeblood gushed from their jaws, cascading downward until the pillars themselves ran red, dyed as if baptized in carnage. The pillars moaned with the weight of their new inheritance, their surfaces warping with crawling veins of scarlet and black.

The sea below convulsed. From its depths rose bones—skulls, femurs, ribcages—erupting skyward in a frenzy, attaching themselves to the pillars with a wet cracking sound. What had been mere columns now twisted into demonic effigies, grotesque towers that seemed to pulse like living flesh.

The hall fell silent. For a moment it was as if nothing remained alive. 

..............

When we stared upon the throne, at first there was only emptiness.
A blank silhouette, dyed a suffocating red, as though the world had bled itself dry to paint that seat of ruin.

Then the silence cracked.
The world twitched, shuddered—like a corpse remembering breath.

With the first blink of the new reality, we saw her.

A woman lay sleeping on the throne.

Her figure was swathed in garments not of silk or cloth, but of bone—polished ivory shards layered like petals of an infernal flower, and yet armoured, cruel. The gown seemed alive, fragments shifting with the faint rattle of death. Around her shoulders hung chains of vertebrae, forming a mantle that quivered faintly with every measured breath, each vertebra clicking together like teeth grinding.

A helmet crowned her head, carved from the massive skull of some long-forgotten beast. Its fangs fell downward into a jagged visor, shielding her face in the maw of a predator. Two horns, twisted and unnatural, jutted from its crest, their tips blackened as though scorched by fires older than time. Beneath this monstrous crown, only fragments of her humanity leaked through: pale lips, still as if carved from marble, and a single eye half-cracked open, glowing with ember light.

Her arms were scripture themselves. Black sigils, tattoos shaped like curling brands, wrapped around her flesh. They did not rest on the surface, but sank into the skin as though the body itself had agreed to bear scripture. Their faint glow pulsed irregularly, waking whenever her presence sharpened. It was as if the ink remembered torment.

Her hands rested delicately, but menace breathed within them. Fingers stretched long, tipped in claws that gleamed black and glassy, sharpened to pierce stone. Her hair, heavy and damp like congealed blood, flowed down her back in streams of crimson streaked with shadow-black, tangled with thorned branches and shards of bone that gleamed faintly, grotesque ornaments fashioned by death itself.

And then—
She woke.

Not all at once, but as if her awareness had always been awake and only her flesh remembered. She rose from the throne like a queen resuming dominion.

She did not open her eyes.

A grotesque sound ruptured the silence—a slithering, wet scrape, the rolling of a tongue stretched from the void. It unfurled across the floor, a red carpet of living flesh, glistening and steaming, trembling as though forced into worship. Her first step fell upon it with elegance, a heel gracing the muscle. At once, death-flowers bloomed along the tongue's edges—petals of rot and thorns shaped like jaws, flowers that cried with the voices of the damned.

On her second step, the lotus that had lingered near the pillars fled violently, dispersing into the black waters as if in terror.

On her third, two immense pillars of bone tore upward beside the road. They were not still monuments but writhing spines, human shapes half-merged, howling, their skulls tilted in agony as though begging to die yet forced to stand eternal. Their moans reverberated like the sound of marrow being chewed.

Step after step, her presence devoured the world.

On the thirteenth step, she reached the gate.

As her foot met the ground of this plane, the world convulsed.
The earth screamed with such violence that the air itself fractured. Black fissures split the space, white fire bleeding through like light escaping from broken glass.

Then, at last, she opened her eyes.

Two eyes, burning, unblinking, awake. The void behind them swam with a storm of red suns, eclipses overlapping one another endlessly.

A smile stretched across her lips. Pale, cold, and merciless.

She raised her hand, every movement deliberate, graceful—then with sudden cruelty, she thrust it downward.

Reality broke.

From above, a long sword fell. Not forged of steel but shaped from the abyss itself. The very sky screamed as it ripped open, the air twisting into ribbons as the blade plummeted.

Before her stood only a fragile figure.

A woman on a bamboo pole, carrying an umbrella. She moved with quiet futility, tossing the umbrella skyward in desperate defiance.

But there was no use.

The sword did not stop.

Without resistance, she was erased.
No scream, no blood—only obliteration, her existence crumbling into nothingness, scattered dust swallowed by the blade's shadow.

But the world followed.

It folded in on itself, its veins flooding red, until all that remained was a sea of blood.

And within it, her voice.

Smooth, elegant, dripping with the inevitability of fate.
"How are you… sister?"

From nowhere, from everywhere, a whisper answered.

"The Thirteenth Eclipse."

........................................

.........................................

The battlefield quaked with the ragged roar of a wounded tiger. Its striped body was torn and bleeding, yet its final strike had been delivered with desperate fury. The claws carved clean through the torso of the towering, spider-limbed monkey demon, splitting its twisted flesh down the middle. For one fleeting moment, silence followed—then the wound erupted.

Flames bloomed from within the demon's sundered body, spilling outward in a grotesque wave. The fire was unnatural, hungry. It seized not only the demon's flesh but also the world around it—latching onto nearby demons and even unfortunate humans. Screams bled into the air as the battlefield was swallowed in orange and black. The tiger, its aura guttering like a candle on its last breath, collapsed and vanished in the blaze, leaving behind only the scorched imprint of its struggle.

The cursed sword, once gleaming with terrible intent, could not withstand the eruption. With a sound like shattering bone, it fractured, fragments of black steel scattering like dying stars before dissolving into ash.

From the burning wreckage, the demon's form began to collapse inward. Its grotesque spider limbs curled and shrivelled, body shrinking, tightening, until it reassembled into something smaller, eerier—an echo of the jester it once had been. Ragged clothing clung to its body, patches burned away, black blood trickling from every opening. Fire still clung to its frame, crawling along his skin like serpents of flame. Panting, trembling, he knelt, clutching the haft of a jagged scythe. Then, with a sudden burst of motion, he staggered forward, toward the man who still stood amidst the ruin.

Before the strike could land, a single feather, descended between them. It was an owl's feather. It hovered, impossible, yet absolute.

A voice, cold and commanding, followed:
"I will allow only myself to kill him. Do not lay a hand on him."

The jester froze, scythe raised, chest heaving. His painted grin twisted as his gaze lifted. In front of him stood another man, calm and still. He did not flinch. His eyes fixed upon the jester with an unyielding expression.

That man's hand clutched that sword, that stabbed him. he used his energy to melt it down totally. Smoke curled upward, yet he laughed.

"You bastards. Do you think this will stop me?"

The words hung, brittle, until something new stirred. From the wound in his chest, a purple corruption began to seep, oozing like living tar.

A betrayer's voice, jagged with cruel delight, answered:
"Don't worry. Now it can stop you. Ah… ahahahaha…"

The man slowly turned, facing his so-called friend. His smile did not falter, though his eyes glinted with something colder.

"See, my friend. This is how it is. Life changes. Time ticks. The old rules… the old sentiments… they should have died long ago. A new law must rise. A new ruler must come."

He circled, rotating deliberately from right to left, his words dripping with venomous certainty.

"You cling to your brittle codes, your dying sentiments. It is your fault, brother. Your weakness, not mine. My friend, my friend…"

His voice broke into a staccato chitter, "chchchchcchh…" as he lifted both hands, balancing two small spheres of energy.

..........................................

The jester tilted his head, a grin carved too deep into his charred face, both scythes twirling between his hands like extensions of bone. His voice cracked but gleamed with delight as he muttered, "Well done, old owl."

From the shadows came a rasping chuckle, a whisper slithering through smoke. "Well done from you also. Good to see you… my new partner."

The jester stepped forward, hungry for blood, but the owl's feather brushed the earth in warning. The man in black feathers raised one hand, eyes like deep wells that had forgotten the light. "Anha… don't go. An injured tiger is still a tiger. Even wounded, it is more ferocious than a dragon. Be patient. Wait for the poison to chew him hollow. Until then, why not… a little fun?"

The jester's grin widened, teeth reflecting the fire around them. "Sure," he hissed, spinning his scythes once more, eager for games.

The broken man, standing amidst flame and ruin, coughed through a bitter laugh. His body trembled, but his eyes burned. "Why did you do this? We could have crushed them… annihilated everything together."

The old owl spread his wings slowly, feathers dripping ash. His voice came soft, but each syllable scraped like rusted metal. "Brother, brother. What a sweet sound you make. But what a dangerous meaning it carries. You use it wrongly… in the wrong place. I merely accepted a proposal. A command, from my lord who whispers beyond the veil. He offered to you as well, but you refused."

The man's lips curled, part sneer, part grief. "So this is it… merely ego? He ordered you, and you bent the knee. You even bartered with demons. Fool. Blind fool. You should know the truth of such bargains."

His voice grew louder, words cracking like thunder through the blood-choked air.

"If a demon saves you, do not rejoice. His claws are chains. His gift is no blessing, but a hunger, a slow consumption—until all that you are rots into ash."

His hands shook as he raised the shattered hilt of his sword, but still he spoke, burning each word into their marrow.

"If a god saves you, do not be blinded. His mercy is a brand, seared into your soul. His aid is a debt that gnaws forever, your essence woven into his throne as another ornament."

His final breath trembled into silence, the fire catching his shadow like a cage of its own.

"Both are prisons—one of flame… one of light. Salvation is never free."

He question again with half scorn and half amusement

"Do you think he will live well? Wait some years, you will know. One more thing…" He coughed, blood spattering, vanishing into steam before it reached the ground. His grin widened, teeth red, voice hoarse but sharp. "I have long known, never trust the owl folk. They always backstab when most needed. You all are weaklings, every one of you. That is why your powers were stolen… stopped by…" His laughter cracked into the sky. "Hehehe… hahahaha! I should have killed him when I had the chance. A single miscalculation… and here I am." Thunder rolled as if echoing his madness, the storm itself mocking his arrogance.

Old Owl tilted his head, eyes glimmering like two cold lanterns. "Ha, my friend—no, my brother, that will be better." His smile curved, merciless. "The rope may have burned, but its twists remain. What a shame. What a shame literally. Now, watch closely. Check your city with your own eyes, for it shall be reduced to ash. Do not fret, I will kill everyone and take care of everything… hahahaha!"

At his words, the heavens split. Fire rained down, each blazing shard like a meteor cutting through the clouds. The city below shuddered as seal masters rose, their hands glowing with ancient runes, weaving barriers to hold back the storm. Yet against Old Owl's troops, their defiance looked fragile, sparks in a hurricane.

Two generals, broken and bleeding, refused to fall. Wounded, staggering, they carved through the enemy ranks like lions in a coop of chickens, desperate to reach their betrayer. Their blades sang of loyalty and rage but their breaths ragged with their resolve unbroken.

Futility weighed heavy. For every soldier they struck down, the Jester's laughter followed, echoing like a curse. His lips moved in a rhythm of dread, weaving mantras in a tongue older than stone. From corpses rose blackened sigils, spreading like roots across the battlefield. The dead twisted, their flesh unravelling into shadows, birthing horrors once buried in nightmare.

Then, another roar. The sound cleaved the chaos. Every gaze turned. The betrayed man, thought finished, stood again. His body shuddered, wounds weeping blood that hissed away into steam. Purple veins crawled beneath his skin like serpents, only to falter—then retreat, withdrawing into the wounds as if reversed by some unseen miracle. His eyes, once clouded with weakness, now burned with a vigour that should not have been.

Only a sound came... "He went beyond it..."

....................................

What is beyond it? What truly happened in that split second? Why did the purple veins retreat, as though obeying some hidden command?

The answers lie ahead… in Nirbindra.

To be continued…