Chapter 971: The Tower
The tower didn’t glow. It just kept growing until the clouds had to make room for it.
I let Grey rise. Cold slid along my nerves. Space thinned, and my vision cut the haze like a knife through silk. The surface resolved—curves braided into curves, letters pretending not to be letters until you stared too long.
’Dammit.’
"This feels like the Infernal Armis," I said.
Six heads turned. No one talked over the name. The Infernal Armis helped midwife the Second Calamity. You don’t forget that kind of fire.
"But it’s not a Mythical artifact," I added. "It’s a film."
Rachel caught up fast. "Is it her?"
I nodded. "Lysantra. Lust. Her power is coating the tower like a membrane. And since she’s basically a goddess—"
"Impenetrable," Seraphina said quietly.
Even my Grey didn’t like that word. Divine-rank isn’t a door I can open. Not yet.
"What is the tower supposed to be?" Rose asked, steady. She was already mapping seams in her head.
"I don’t know," I said. "We’re going to find out."
Cecilia’s slate buzzed. She glanced down, jaw tightening. "Imperial emergency conference. Now."
I looked to my mother. Alice watched the skyline like a sentence she was about to edit out of existence if someone would hand her a large enough pen.
"Mom, take care of Stella," I said.
"Daddy, are you going there?" Stella asked from the couch, eyes still on the tower.
"Yes." I scooped her up. She locked her arms around my neck like she could keep parts of me from falling off. "I’ll be back from the palace. Listen to Grandma. Stay inside. Okay?"
"Okay, Daddy."
I set her down. Alice took her hand. "Be careful, Arthur," she said. That was enough.
We rode the penthouse lift to the garage. The hovercar doors lifted like sighs. Reika took the wheel in front; she always drives when the road has teeth. Luna sat beside me—steady, warm. Rachel checked a compact purifier kit. Seraphina took the window—sky and street both, like always. Rose skimmed feeds. Cecilia messaged district captains to keep the third ring boring.
"Master," Reika said over the hum of maglev fins, "do you think she came for you?"
"Maybe," I said. "It’s insane to say out loud. Maybe."
Luna’s mouth set. From everything we knew, one of the Demon Lords killed Julius. Some truths don’t soften with time.
’Still too weak.’ The Gates of Transcendence glimmered high above me; Divine-rank lived past that, in weather I couldn’t breathe yet. I folded the anger and put it away.
The Imperial Palace sits on stone that remembers old law even in 2050. Guards in charcoal coats waved us through. Drones tracked, then slid back into patrol patterns. We skimmed under the portico into cool air that smelled like clean ink and sealed marble.
Seventeen chairs ringed the oval table in the war room. Some were occupied in person. Most held full-height holos: grain-true projections fed by palace beam.
Adeline Slatemark—tailored black coat, hair pulled back—stood at the head, Quinn a half step behind her right shoulder, golden hair, red eyes, Low Radiant power tucked small like a blade in a sleeve. Charlotte Alaric, sleeves already rolled, red hair pinned, green eyes bright, stood by the floor array. Duke Everett Springshaper—Rose’s father—brought warmth with him like a good kitchen. Eva Lopez—red scarf, Mythos Academy crest pinned neat—took a seat near Charlotte, teacher’s eyes sharp and kind.
The holos resolved: Alastor Creighton—old tree crest at his shoulder, calm and watchful. Arden Windward—precise, pilot’s poise. Lucifer Windward—half a smile, full calculation. Marcus Viserion—jaw like concrete, boots on something expensive even when seated. Valen Ashbluff—ink on his fingers, mind three lines ahead. Mo Zenith—quiet, every silence measured. Selene Kagu—laboratory cool, eyes that count pieces.
The room stood and bowed its heads, in-person and holo together, a ripple of protocol that had weight.
"Second Hero," Adeline said, and the title landed where it should. Around the ring, the holos echoed in their own tones:
"Second Hero," from Alastor, steady.
"Second Hero," Arden, clipped.
"Second Hero," Lucifer, amused but real.
"Second Hero," Marcus, grudging and solid.
"Second Hero," Valen, already reaching for a pen.
"Second Hero," Mo, measured.
"Second Hero," Selene, clinical and exact.
Eva’s smile reached her eyes. "Second Hero," she added, warm.
Everett gave me a small nod, pride tucked behind it. Quinn’s red eyes held steady. Respect isn’t for my ego. It’s for the work.
Adeline gestured to the table. "Please begin."
I sat opposite her, my fiancées and Luna around me, and let my voice carry.
"We’re here to discuss the tower that rose outside Avalon," I said. "Observed with Grey: the surface isn’t stone. It’s script. A film coats the structure that isn’t ours—Lysantra’s power. Lust. Divine-rank. We do not cut it. We don’t try."
Charlotte stepped onto the array and pressed her palm to the rim. A low hum ran through floor and glass. "Anchored base," she said. "Keyed into something older. Hear the layering?"
We listened. Far past the hills, the tower sang a thin note that made my teeth itch. Luna’s golden eyes narrowed by a millimeter. Quinn’s attention leaned out like a hand into rain.
"Nested frequencies," Charlotte said, pen moving. "The outer shell wants attention. The inner coil counts."
"Counts what?" Rachel asked.
"Time," Charlotte said. "Or answers. Or both."
I wrote into the white space above the brass—a margin line, not a domain: "All speech here is plain."
The room eased a notch. People stopped reaching for rhetoric without knowing it.
"Containment ring?" Seraphina asked.
"Not yet," I said. "If I write ’no harm passes this line,’ the tower will decide harm is a kindness it’s doing you."
"Define harm first," Charlotte said, still writing. "Then write the line."
"Redeemer comb at the base?" Rachel asked, tapping her purifier kit. "Lanterns closed until we’re inside the shadow."
"Yes," I said. "Clean early. Clean often. Don’t let clever get a foothold."
Everett set two leather-bound ledgers on the table and flipped one toward Adeline. "Binding towers," he said. "Springshaper records. Three mentions in two hundred years. Every story ended badly for someone. The pattern’s the same: the tower listens, and the tower invites."
"Invites who?" Mo Zenith asked, his first word sharp.
"Anyone tired enough to answer," Quinn said, even.
Luna folded her arms. "If I bring Purelight first, it will mock me."
"Law early," Cecilia said, writing fast. "Purelight later."
"Words early," I said.
Charlotte’s eyes flicked up, a teacher catching a student doing it right. "Verb first," she said. "No poetry."
"Yes, ma’am."
Cecilia and Reika bracketed the table—mirrors of order. Reika’s column: cordons, evac routes, med hubs, drone patterns, Redeemer rotations. Cecilia’s column: court authority, district captains, budget lines, secure net channels, public notice language. Between them, the Empire grew a spine.
"Closer," Adeline said.
Charlotte touched two sigils. Distance folded politely. The tower’s skin resolved: not stone—script. Curves braided into curves. Letters pretending not to be letters until you stared long enough to feel them looking back.
"Not local," Charlotte said. "Imported grammar. Wrong side of the sky."
"Translate?" Quinn asked.
"Yes," she said, and kept writing.
Eva leaned in, finger on a tight loop. "That curve inverts pronouns," she said. "Any sentence starting ’I’ comes back as ’We want you to.’ Don’t start with ’I.’"
"Noted," I said.
We were settling into lanes when the palace net chimed—sharp, old-fashioned. Not Empire. Not Ouroboros. It bounced off a mirrored relay and stopped in front of Rachel’s slate.
She frowned. "That’s not our channel."
"Source?" Cecilia asked, eyes still moving.
Rachel mirrored to the center. A crest resolved—inkwork lines forming an old tree, no crown, no court stamps. One word under it in plain type:
CREIGHTON.
Rose looked at Rachel. Reika’s eyes slid to me. Seraphina’s fingers went still. Quinn’s brows rose. Adeline didn’t move. Charlotte watched Rachel like a teacher taking attendance after the alarm.
Rachel’s mouth flattened. "My family," she said. "They didn’t tell me."
"Open it here," Adeline said, calm. "Not private."
Rachel swallowed once and tapped.
Clean border. Tight margins. Ink like a ruler. The first letters started to write themselves.
No one breathed.
And then the timer blinked into the bottom corner.