27: Herald

Leon bled.

From his fingers, blood trickled down his arm, staining his tattered clothes. He scaled the vertical city with one hand, the other holding both Soot and Nyssa close.

The grey snake was exhausted. Hours of coiling around Nyssa's waist to keep her from falling had drained it. But it did not sleep. It did not rest.

It observed.

The strange rain, the figure in the white hood, the overwhelming emotions of its brood. It remembered how they covered the other's ears, how the white hood spoke, and how the female trembled in response.

Soot absorbed it all, feeling as they did.

Then the world thundered.

The vibrations rattled its tiny body, sending tremors through its scales. Below, the sea churned—no longer foamy black, but thick and luminescent, a viscous abyss.

The waters, once bound by the pull of the moon, had turned rebellious, clawing at the sky as if yearning to devour the heavens. Flashes of light reflected off the liquid surface, revealing shadows of things lurking beneath, creatures neither fish nor beast, writhing in the chaos.

Leon dangled from the iron roof of a crumbling building. He barely registered the deafening blasts anymore. His ears rang ceaselessly, muting even the explosions that came dangerously close. His body ached, his hands burned, and his companions were dead weight.

He just wanted to go home.

'Why do I have to do this?'

But there was no answer. Just memories of a family he might never see again.

The underside of Finch was dark, the occasional flashes of color providing fleeting glimpses of twisted structures. Towering spires jutted down in unnatural angles, defying the logic of architecture, their foundations ripped from the earth and left to dangle like jagged fangs.

The veins of the city pulsed, luminescent veins of molten gold running through fractured streets, remnants of something ancient stirring beneath the upheaval.

Leon's dull white eyes flickered as he climbed into a ruined house, moving from ceiling to ceiling, peering through shattered windows in search of salvation—a vessel to escape this madness.

Bodies littered the homes he passed. Men, women, children. Some clung to loved ones, others to heirlooms or artifacts. Some held nothing at all.

Then, he found her.

The first living person he had seen since Finch turned upside down.

A woman sat motionless on the ceiling of her home, her back to him. When she collapsed—whether from exhaustion or something else—her features came into view. Leon froze.

Her pale face was marred by cracked lips, listless blue eyes, and deep purple splotches. But the most striking detail was her abdomen. Grotesquely swollen beneath her dress, as if she had swallowed a watermelon whole. A bloodied knife lay in her limp left hand.

Leon's fists clenched. A desperate thought flickered in his mind: 'It might live.'

His fingers trembled. The idea of surgery crossed his mind—but he no longer had the confidence for such a task. He turned away, jaw tight, and pushed forward.

Then, at last, he found it.

A ship—partially intact. Half of it was impaled into a distant building. A structure that loomed deep below, it must have once towered over its neighbors. The vessel, though battered, retained an eerie grace, its hull sleek and reinforced with an alloy that shined between metal and crystal. Runes pulsed weakly along its surface, symbols of protection flickering as they struggled against the storm's relentless assault.

And this time, he heard voices.

"—us out!"

"Has—the Navy—useless—"

"Don't lie! We—"

Despite the ringing, the storm, and the barrier, Leon caught some of their words. And the anger in them was clear. They were arguing, desperate.

Leon leapt. In midair, he met the glowing, translucent barrier surrounding the structure. He knew touching it would only add to his pain.

Instantly, he decided.

For weeks, he had resisted it. Avoided it. But now, at last, Leon activated [Null].

He slipped through effortlessly, the small hole he created unnoticed by those inside. But his arrival brought something else.

To the people within, the storm had been distant. A background roar, powerful yet bearable.

But when the boy breached their sanctuary, he carried with him the raw, deafening wail of a whining planet. It struck them like a tidal wave, driving many to their knees, hands clasped over ears.

Leon landed softly on the building's surface and made his way to a wide hall where the survivors had gathered. He stood there, indifferent, scanning the unfamiliar faces.

The ringing in his head had stopped. The unbearable weight of navigating the city had lifted. Yet, he felt no relief. No comfort.

Just emptiness.

The people stared at him in stunned silence.

A child. A boy who looked barely ten, wrapped in the arms of an unconscious girl, a serpent curled at her waist.

The sounds had pounded their ears—promising to rupture them if they moved—but he had braved them. He had brought his companions through the maelstrom.

And he looked like a ghost.

His short black hair clumped together, matted with dried blood. His face was streaked with red, his body covered in wounds. His hands, wrapped protectively around the girl, looked like they had been dragged across stone.

Yet, despite his battered appearance, there was something else about him.

Some swallowed their accusations before they could leave their lips.

And some wept.

Tears they had kept locked away, because the world had been crying enough for them. But now, looking at this child—this boy who had carried his sister and his pet to safety—they let them fall.

Because he had not only brought with him the call of a dying world.

But also hope.