He sighed, a long, put-upon exhalation that stirred the dust motes dancing in the artificial skylight. Puddle, sensing Zaltis’s displeasure, gurgled a sympathetic burble from its position by the nutrient feeder. Juroq, still gripping the static-hissing receiver, watched his friend with an expression of mingled concern and exasperation. He knew that sigh. It was the precursor to something truly convoluted.
“Vane.” Zaltis finally spoke, his voice a low drone. “He always did fancy himself a dramatist. Remember the ‘Orb of Unmaking’ incident? We had a perfectly sound plan, but he insisted on a theatrical distraction involving trained cave-mantises and a flaming trebuchet.”
Juroq nodded slowly. “He called your plans ‘mechanistic.’ Said they ‘lacked soul.’”
“Indeed.” A humorless smile touched Zaltis’s lips. “That was his reasoning, wasn't it? For the rift. Not because I challenged his authority, or threatened his standing. But because my efficient, elegant solutions were ‘too boring.’ He claimed my tactics ‘lacked dramatic flair,’ then shoved me into a dimensional fracture meant to atomize me.” Zaltis closed his eyes for a moment, the memory a dull throb of irritation rather than pain. *Too boring.* The sheer, unadulterated pettiness of it still rankled. And now, the fool was at it again, threatening to blow up an entire section of the subterranean path for a grand gesture.
“Right.” Zaltis opened his eyes, a glint of cold calculation replacing the earlier lethargy. “Juroq, you need to divert the pathways. The main avenues. The central pillar near the threshold arch on Floor 90. That’s a Builder nexus, isn't it?”
Juroq blinked. “The Grand Portal? That’s where he’s planting the bomb! And yes, that pillar… it hums when I get close. But how?”
“The Ziggurat’s layout is a vast, interconnected loom,” Zaltis explained, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “Every nexus point, every gate, every rift is a thread. Your bloodline, it’s a master key. The pillar is like a grand switchboard. You need to… *re-thread* it. Instead of allowing passage *through* the arch, you need to force a bypass. A hard diversion.”
“A hard diversion?” Juroq swallowed. “I’ve never even tried to *read* the pathways, let alone change them. The architects of my lineage… they just *knew*.”
“Then it’s time to learn,” Zaltis said, his tone brooking no argument. “The energy signature from the core destabilization? That’s flowing through the old ducts. Focus on that. Find the specific frequency of the portal’s dimensional lock. Don’t try to open it. Just… redirect everything *around* it. Create a new, temporary channel that shunts all displacement traffic, even a bomb’s discharge, somewhere else. The nearest inactive rift should suffice.” He paused. “And make it quick. I don’t want to miss our old friend’s big speech.”
Juroq stared, then nodded grimly. “Right. A new conduit. Off to Floor 90, then.” He turned to leave, but Zaltis called him back. “One more thing. Grab Vorgath’s ‘Mirror of True Sight’ from the rent pile. The obsidian one with the silver filigree. And bring it to me.”
Juroq returned a moment later, carefully cradling a polished slab of black obsidian. Its surface shimmered with faint, internal light, showing not a reflection but a hazy, swirling image of distant tunnels. “This thing… it lets you see anything, anywhere,” Juroq murmured, a little awestruck. “Vorgath said it was a relic from the old seers.”
“Indeed. And with a bit of… adjustment, it lets you hear, and project sound, anywhere too,” Zaltis said, tapping a small runic array on the frame with a long, slender finger. He pulled out a coil of fine-spun copper wire and a small, humming crystal from his endless pockets, quickly connecting them to the base. “He will be projecting his triumph, I imagine. Can’t let a good monologue go to waste.”
Meanwhile, on Floor 90, High Justiciar Vane stood amidst the glittering remnants of the threshold arch, its central masonry already cracked and scarred by the planar ordnance he had armed. His plate, emblazoned with the Heralds’ blazing sun crest, gleamed under the harsh, emergency lighting. Elite sentries stood at attention around the charge, its arcane runes pulsing with malevolent crimson light. He raised a hand, and his voice, amplified by a sonic projection spell, boomed through the stone gallery.
“Merchants of the Ziggurat! Guilds of Oakharrow! Hear me! For too long, you have tolerated the stench of unregulated trade! For too long, you have allowed the scum of the lower depths to undermine the sacred order! The Heralds of Zantari stand for stability! For control! And for the rightful dominion of the strong!” His voice swelled with righteous fury. “This act, this cleansing fire, is but the first stroke! Let this blast shatter not just the trade routes, but the very notion of defiance against us! Let it remind you of the price of…”
His monologue was abruptly interrupted by a sharp, metallic squeal, cutting through the hall's ambient hum. Vane’s face twisted in annoyance. “What in the blazes is that? Is someone interfering with my transmission?”
“Ah, old comrade, always with the melodrama.” Zaltis’s voice, clear and crisp, suddenly echoed through the Morvun Ziggurat’s intercom system, layered over the fading projection. It was rich with dry disdain. “Honestly, if you’re going to blow up a trade hub, at least have the decency to make it snappy. This drawn-out villain monologue is positively *dreadful*. Have you no sense of pacing?”
Vane froze, his chin lifting in shock. His sentries exchanged bewildered glances. That voice… it couldn't be. Zaltis Vorn was dead. He’d personally seen the tactician tumble into the void!
“Zaltis?” Vane hissed, his amplified voice now laced with incredulity and dawning rage. “You… you’re alive? Impossible!”
“Alas, for your delicate sensibilities, I am,” Zaltis’s voice drawled, sounding uncannily close. “And I must say, your choice of target is quite inconvenient. I was just about to offload some rather fetching dragon-glass ingots to a mid-tier syndicate from this very concourse. Now I have to go through the trouble of redirecting my supply lines, all because you’re having a temper tantrum. Honestly, it’s just *so* pedestrian.”
“Redirecting… what are you talking about?” Vane roared, scanning the hall furiously, expecting to see Zaltis materialize. But there was nothing. Only the pulsing charge and the disembodied voice.
“Oh, you know. The usual,” Zaltis replied, a distinct clatter of tools audible in the background of his audio feed. “Juroq altered the flow lines. Your little ordnance? It’s not going to blow the concourse. It’s going to… well, somewhere much less dramatic. And to make sure it gets there without further fuss, I’ve taken the liberty of sending it a rather potent little accompaniment.”
Above Vane’s head, directly over the ticking charge, the air shimmered violently. A tear in reality, perfectly circular, the size of a carriage wheel, ripped open with a sickening *shiiing*. Vane looked up, brow furrowed in confusion, just as a colossal, emerald-green torrent of corrosive slime erupted from the rift, arcing directly downwards.
[Puddle’s Corrosive Slime (Apex Tier) deployed.]
“No! What in the blazes—!” Vane barely got the words out before the slime hit. It enveloped the bomb in an instant, sizzling and smoking as it began to dissolve the intricate arcane mechanisms. The device's crimson pulse flickered, then died out completely, neutralized with shocking speed. But the slime didn’t stop there. It splashed outwards, coating Vane and his retinue. Armor smoked, skin hissed, and terrified screams ripped through the atrium as the powerful corrosive agent began to eat through everything.
“My armor! My *face*!” Vane shrieked, tearing at his helmet, which was already melting and fusing to his skin. The once-gleaming Heralds crest dissolved into a bubbling ruin. The sonic projection spell died, replaced by his ragged, humiliated gasps. The bomb was gone, neutralized, and he was covered in vile, smoking sludge, his prized regalia ruined. Zaltis Vorn was alive, and he had done this, remotely, with disdainful ease.
On Floor 100, Zaltis watched the chaotic scene play out on the obsidian surface, a slow, satisfied smirk spreading across his face. “There. Much more efficient. And far more humiliating. That’ll teach him to interrupt my nap for his petty theatrics.” He stretched, reaching for a small, freshly brewed tea by his rocking chair. “Now, Juroq, about that Guildmaster’s blood…”
But before he could finish, Vane’s mangled voice, raw with unadulterated fury, suddenly screamed through the speaker. “Zaltis Vorn! You think this is over? You think you can shame me and walk away? I will tear you from whatever hidden hole you’ve crawled into! I will strip the flesh from your bones! You want Guildmaster blood? *I* will bring it to you!”
Across the scrying glass, Vane, his face a ruin of melted plate and rage, tore a dark, forbidden scroll from a hidden pouch. Its parchment writhed with crimson sigils, pulsating with an ancient, vile energy. With a guttural roar, he thrust the scroll forward, directly at his terrified, slime-covered soldiers. “For the Heralds! For Zantari! For Vorn’s head!”
Horrified screams erupted as the scroll flared, consuming the escort in a burst of dark, sanguinary light. Their essence, their very lifeblood, was violently ripped from their bodies, coalescing into a swirling vortex of crimson energy around Vane. His body began to contort, the blood magic twisting and remaking him, preparing for an impossible leap. The air crackled, then shattered as the betrayed warlord, fueled by the sacrificed lives of his own men and a thirst for vengeance, vanished from Floor 90, forcibly tearing a rift directly into Floor 100’s airspace.
[Spatial Intrusion Detected: Floor 100 Safe Zone Breached.]