Chapter 543: Abyssal VI
Naval braced himself against a fractured scale of his own body, grimacing as he forced himself upright. His laughter was ragged, torn through blood and bone, but fierce. "Heh... So that’s it. The damned Upper Thrones—all crowns and decree—and a climber from Earth forced them back."
Roman spat blood, dragging himself closer to Leon with his good arm. "Not forced, brother. Rewritten. Those bastards were law. He made them echo." His grin was wolfish, even through broken teeth. "Which means they can bleed."
Milim was the only one still standing tall. Her violet fire writhed uncontrolled around her, tearing her skin and remaking it in cycles, yet her grin was manic, eyes bright with madness and joy. "HAHAHA! DID YOU SEE THEIR FACES?! ALL THAT GEOMETRY—TWISTED LIKE WORMS! HA! I COULD DIE HAPPY NOW!"
Leon finally moved. Slowly. His hand lowered, the last threads of his flame weaving back into his chest. His figure looked almost fragile in the aftermath, every inch of him trembling, yet the fire within him remained steady.
He looked at his companions—broken, bloodied, burning. His voice, though quiet, carried across the stair:
"They will return. Angrier. Heavier. But next time... it will not be their Tower."
The stair beneath them flared, fire spreading outward into the abyss and sky alike, not as a cage but as a beacon.
The echoes—those countless flames of climbers past—flickered, not vanishing, but taking root in the Tower itself. Their voices became part of the marrow, each spark a law that could no longer be silenced.
Liliana’s eyes widened as she understood. "...Leon. You didn’t just free us. You freed them—all of them. Every step, every soul, every law erased—they live in the fire now."
Leon’s gaze rose toward the rift where the crowns had fled, his voice firm.
"Then let the Thrones know this. The Tower is not their script anymore. It is the chorus of every flame that ever climbed. And that chorus will never be silenced."
The stair roared in answer.
And far above, beyond the rift, the Upper Thrones seethed in silence.
For the first time in eternity, they had not passed judgment. They had been judged.
The silence of the heavens broke—not with decree, but with whispers.
A ripple spread across the abyss, as though the marrow of reality itself was gossiping, carrying the weight of what had just occurred to every corner of existence. The Tower’s stair, once a place of ascent, now shone like a wound in creation—open, burning, undeniable.
Roselia dragged herself beside Leon, emberblade extinguished, her knees barely holding her. She looked up at him through sweat and ash, her voice hoarse but steady. "...Do you understand what you’ve done? You didn’t just fight them. You’ve written a law against them. The Thrones will never forgive this."
Naval coughed blood, but his grin was unrepentant. "Good. Let ’em choke on it. They thought we were insects under their boots. Now they know the fire bites back."
Liliana pressed a trembling hand to the stair, her silver eyes shimmering. Threads of light flickered from her fingers into the fire, only to be answered by faint embers. She gasped softly. "They’re singing... every flame is singing. Leon, they choose you. You’re not just the Architect. You’re their Conductor."
Roman leaned against his shattered arm, chuckling through blood-soaked lips. "Conductor, eh? Then play the war song, Leon. We’ll make the crowns dance until they break."
Milim tilted her head back, howling laughter into the abyss. Violet fire split her skin again, but she didn’t care. "YES! YES! LET THEM RETURN! I’LL WELCOME THEM WITH MY TEETH!"
Leon closed his eyes, steadying his breath. His body was wrecked—he felt every fracture, every tear—but the flame within him no longer wavered. It was no longer just his. It was the chorus.
When he spoke, it was less a declaration than a vow.
"They built this Tower to measure us. To bind us. To erase us. But the flame remembers. Every step, every life, every law they thought forgotten—it burns here, now. And so long as I breathe, it will not fade."
Above, the rift pulsed. The crowns lingered beyond sight, shrouded in silence—but silence that trembled, silence that promised reckoning.
For the first time in eternity, the Thrones did not own the final word.
The Tower itself did.
And it was burning.
The burning spread.
Not like wildfire, mindless and devouring—but like scripture rewritten in flame. The marrow of the Tower pulsed, carrying embers into forgotten halls, into sealed gates, into every floor where climbers had once bled, lost, or triumphed.
On Floor 1, where countless had fallen before ever glimpsing the sky, sparks flickered in the dust, etching their names into fire. On Floor 200, where the Trial of Silence had swallowed thousands whole, voices whispered again, breaking chains that had held them mute for centuries. On Floor 500, long abandoned to ash, forgotten duels replayed in firelight, no longer erased.
Everywhere, climbers looked up. Everywhere, the Tower stirred.
And far above—where only the highest seats dared gaze—eyes opened. Not Thrones. Not crowns. Others. The Throne-Bearers, those who had knelt to decree in exchange for borrowed authority, felt their borrowed crowns crack on their skulls. Some screamed. Some wept. Some laughed in disbelief.
"Impossible..." one hissed, clutching his fracturing crown of light. "The law cannot change. The law—" His words cut off as flame devoured the crown, leaving only silence.
Across the Tower, warlords, sages, monsters, and gods-forged-by-trial felt it too. A shift. A liberation. A threat.
Back on the stair, Leon and his companions stood at the center of it all.
Roselia leaned heavily on her extinguished emberblade, but her eyes, despite exhaustion, gleamed with a light that had nothing to do with fire. "The Tower’s no longer theirs... but it’s not just ours either. It belongs to every climber who dares to step."
Liliana’s threads, though frayed, weaved faint constellations in the air, trembling as if guided by something greater than herself. "We’ve woken a chorus. But a chorus can’t sing forever without a guide. Leon... you’ve become the rhythm they follow."
Naval bared his teeth, dragon’s pride in his bloodied smile. "Then let him guide. And let the rest of us bite the throats of whatever crown tries to smother the song."
Roman chuckled through his pain, his one good arm resting on his knee. "Hah... we’re not just climbers anymore. We’re heretics."
Milim’s laughter finally slowed into something almost soft. Almost. Her violet fire curled around her like a crown of its own, wild and untamed. "Heretics, saviors, monsters—who cares? The sky cracked. That’s enough for me."
Leon opened his eyes again. They glowed not with borrowed decree, but with flame that carried the memory of millions. His voice was steady, quieter now, but absolute:
"Then the climb changes here. No more silence. No more erasure. Every step burns. And if the Thrones descend again... they’ll find not one flame, but all flames waiting."
Above, the rift shuddered. The crowns had not returned. Not yet. But their silence was not retreat. It was the silence of sharpened knives.
The war of law and flame had begun.
And the Tower would never be the same.