Chapter 698 Betrayal of the Spiral Court

At the peak of the ruins of Gaia, the spiral-shaped building that once served as the headquarters of the magical arbiters of the world—Spiral Court—now lies in black rubble and moss-covered walls inscribed with glyphs. The wind whispers through the cracks of the stone fragments, as if recounting the remnants of a glorious era that has now fallen. Inside, only a few great wizards, senior arbiters, and a handful of guardian angels remain. They gather in a magic circle, discussing the fate of the world under the looming pressure of the Eye of Rejection in the sky, radiating a dark aura that threatens to invade the depths of their souls.

The head of the Court, Arkhamis, looks around with weary red eyes. Every crack in the walls and arch in the ceiling seems to reflect the emptiness in his heart. His voice trembles: "Everything we protect is collapsing. The glyphs no longer respond. The spiral system—built from the beginning to protect the world from the void—is now rejected by the world itself." His face is filled with pressure, a reflection of lost hope, while the shadow of the Eye of Rejection continues to intimidate, instilling despair in the hearts that still hope.

A young wizard, Althena, holds back tears: "The key glyph of the Sanctuary is lost. The leyline connection is severed. Even our magic refuses to be touched!" In that uncertainty, the flow of energy around them begins to feel cold, as if the world is holding its breath, waiting for the moment of emptiness that is drawing closer.

The entire room feels the same pressure: all the systems, knowledge, and beliefs that once united Gaia, Oda, Earth—now lie in fragments of memories under the merciless gaze. The collapse of the Spiral Court creates dark shadows that tremble on the walls, symbols of profound loss. Every word spoken echoes, as if another world, estranged, begins to listen, recalling that all rooted in harmony is now dominated by uncertainty and betrayal lurking in every corner.

In the chaos, discordant voices emerge—whispers of betrayal long hidden among the members of the Court. The sky outside dims, as if reflecting their mood, with dark clouds gathering, resembling waves of anger that overflow. Every second feels heavier, adding pressure to the air, making every word spoken resonate with suffocating vibrations.

Theren, a former Oda magus, glares at Arkhamis with repressed hatred: "All this time, the Court has only protected Gaia and Oda, oppressing other worlds under the guise of spiral stability. Earth rebels because you prefer to keep secrets rather than help them!" His voice, like thunder in the middle of the night, disrupts the remaining peace. The room trembles as if resisting that statement, echoing with paralyzing despair.

Althena interjects, her voice angry: "If we open the system to anyone, the world will collapse faster! Earth—" A sudden flash of light reflects the mounting tension, making their shadows tremble, as if the walls of the Spiral Court itself were watching them with glimmering eyes full of suspicion.

Suddenly, an old wizard, Maitreya, throws his arbiter robe to the floor: "Enough! Nothing can be saved anymore. I choose to join anyone who can guarantee my survival—even Earth or the Eye beings!" Maitreya's voice echoes in the dust-filled room, as if inviting the cold wind from outside to strengthen his resolve. The aroma of despair and hope unite in that moment, creating a confusion that could potentially destroy everything.

Arkhamis is taken aback but unable to stop it. Half of the Court members begin to argue, some accusing each other, some fleeing, and some secretly opening communication channels to Earth or even trying to woo the Eye entities. The atmosphere inside the Spiral Court, once filled with order and hierarchy, now unravels into total chaos. The walls and ceilings, once grand, now appear crumbled and alienated, filled with strands of dust that shimmer as the light of the Eye of Rejection seeps in, casting a far more terrifying aura than the deep darkness.

In the midst of the uproar, the gray light of the Eye pierces through the roof of the Spiral Court, enveloping everything inside. The walls of the once-majestic building now look fragile, fine cracks appearing like wounds, flowing with fear and anxiety. One by one, the members of the Court begin to see the shadows of their past: sins, failures, betrayals, and the sacrifices of war they allowed to happen for the sake of "balance." Shattered dreams float in the air, filling the space with the dark aroma of unspoken grief.

The shadows of souls—children who were never born, victims of spiral rituals, and wizards who were cast out due to political defeat—appear before each arbiter, pointing and crying: "You chose who deserves to live and die. Now you are judged by the world." Their voices resonate in the emptiness, filling every corner of the Court with a guilt that cannot be released.

The glyph fire, which is usually blue, now turns gray, burning the circle of the Court. Thick smoke envelops everything, like a deathly embrace of despair. One by one, the wizards lose control; some choose suicide rather than endure the gaze of the Eye and the souls demanding justice. Every decision feels as if woven into the threads of broken time, intertwining lost fates within painful complexities.

Arkhamis tries to utter a protective spell, but his magic backfires, burning his hands and mind. His body feels trapped in the midst of a storm, every second passing like a year. He falls to his knees, tears mingling with blood, his convulsing body representing the collective pain that fills the Court. A heart that trembles seems to listen to the cries of the souls, bringing him back to the place where he fought for a safety long lost.

Outside the Court, Joanna stands with heavy breaths. Michael's fiery wings have returned, though darker, nearly black-red. She steps inside, piercing through the whirlpool of ash and fire, each step resembling a dance on embers. The rumble and hiss of the tense air seem to speak, reminding all present that their decisions carry defining consequences. On the walls of the Spiral Court, the scars from the reversed magic still show, transparent yet terrifying, as if telling the tale of suffering etched into every brick.

Arkhamis stares at her in horror, "Joanna, you… you are not an angel, not an arbiter, not a savior. You… are Fitran himself—the uninvited will!"

Joanna does not answer. She simply walks slowly to the center of the Court, staring at all that remains with unblinking eyes. An aura of anger and sorrow creates a thick pool of emotion in the air, as if the Spiral Court itself responds to her presence. "All this time, you chose who deserves to survive, who is sacrificed. You made the spiral your throne, not your protector."

Althena moans, "What… what should we do? The world rejects us, magic rejects us, even the Eye rejects us…"

Joanna raises her hand, "If you want to survive, stop believing in the old system. The new world does not accept rulers who fear losing their own names. Stand as humans—or vanish as shadows of your own judgments." The atmosphere around them grows tenser, like the wind whispering through the cracks of the stone walls, carrying the whispers of the abandoned souls, hoping that the decisions made will not only change them but also free them from the shackles that have long restrained them.

Outside the Court, the remaining angels accuse each other, filled with suspicion. The dark, cloudy sky reflects the tension among them, as if the angels are trapped in a storm of restless souls. Zadkiel begins to doubt Joanna: "She… is not Michael. She has blood that heaven has never known. Should we follow her will?"

Remiel whispers, his voice nearly lost in the sighing wind: "We lost Michael due to Fitran's will. Now the world demands a new price. Perhaps we must choose: remain as angels or become something else." Around them, the ruins of the Spiral Court stand silent, mute witnesses to an era that is now destroyed. Every corner feels like an open wound, revealing the relics of history that have been neglected.

One by one, the angels begin to turn away, some joining the remaining people seeking their own protection, some trying to ally with the humans they once protected. In their journey toward uncertainty, their once-majestic wings now appear dim, signaling that not only trust has been lost, but also hope buried in the dust of the ruins.

In the remaining city streets, the surviving protectors are now without command. The rumble of broken stones and the sound of trembling breaths add to the eerie silence. Some remain in small groups, protecting children, mothers about to give birth, or simply tending to wounds that may never heal completely. At the end of the road, the tears shed depict a sorrow deeper than what appears on the surface.

Ordinary people, after witnessing the collapse of the Spiral Court and the loss of hope in their magical and angelic leaders, begin to build new communities. In the dark of night, they gather under the dim light, whispering softly yet firmly: "We must survive without magic. We must become protectors of ourselves." Each word feels like a declaration of weaponry, containing hope for a new survival, even amidst the lurking threat of the Eye of Rejection that still haunts their every step.

As night truly falls, the Spiral Court has been destroyed. The collapse of that grand structure resembles a dream erased; its once towering pillars now lie like remnants of shattered hope. Joanna emerges from the ruins, leaving behind a building and traditions no longer recognized by the world. Behind her, the surviving arbiters are merely frightened humans—without the right to choose who lives and who dies. The rumble from the ruins sounds like the last breath of the gods that have awakened, leaving a suffocating silence.

Under the sky still split by the Eye of Rejection, which emits a cold and terrifying light like the punishing eye of God, Joanna gazes ahead. She knows that the world has truly entered a new era—an era without judgment, without absolute rulers, without magic that has been misused. In her gaze, the sky seems to signal that every story that begins must end, but in this wounded land, a new beginning cannot be assured. The wind whispers softly, recounting tales from the past that must be faced.

That night, the world falls silent—but in its silence, one question is born: "Who is worthy to choose the fate in a world that does not even accept its own existence?" In her thoughts, Joanna imagines the lost call—the voices that have been severed, as if hoping that the glory of the past could echo again, though dim and faint.