Hodei’s ash-like hands plunged deeper into the World Core, which pulsed with an erratic, failing rhythm, like a heart too tired to beat. The light it cast was not warmth, but a deep, bruised violet, flickering and fading. A groan, low and resonant, emanated from the Core itself, a sound that seemed to vibrate not through the air, but through the very bone of the world. From Hodei, a tide of absence began to spread. A profound, lethal stillness sucked the very draft from the stone chamber. The few remaining ash-beasts, still scrambling on the higher ledges, simply ceased. They didn't fall or crumble; one moment they were moving, the next they were nothing, their forms absorbed into the pervasive, consuming quiet. Even the ambient hum of the subterranean vault, the distant drip of moisture, evaporated into the suffocating void. It was an embrace, Hodei had called it, and it felt like the world holding its breath, waiting for the final exhale. Iker felt the peculiar drag of it, an ache across his ribs that wasn’t physical but existential. It wasn’t scary, just… incredibly depressing. Nerea shivered beside him, pulling her blanket tighter. Even Bihotz, usually oblivious, let out a tiny, distressed whimper, shrinking further into Nerea’s arms, his fur bristling with an unheard alarm. The air itself grew thick with a sense of irrevocable finality. “Oh, come on,” Iker grumbled, rummaging in his backpack. “This is just rude.” He pulled out a boxy, bright yellow boombox, its antenna comically extended. He slapped a cassette into the player with a practiced flick of his thumb, adjusted a dial, and hit play. Suddenly, the chamber filled with a racket of sound. A driving, synthesized beat, a tinny snare drum, and a high-pitched, warbling male voice singing about unrequited love and midnight dances. It was awful. Truly, spectacularly awful pop music, the kind Iker listened to only when he needed a particularly potent wedge against his own thoughts. The creeping hush, so absolute moments before, recoiled as if struck. The oppressive stillness fractured, splintered by the sheer, unadulterated volume and saccharine optimism of the song. The bruised violet light of the Core flickered erratically, fighting against the invading noise. Hodei’s body, previously rigid with concentration, gave a violent jolt. His head snapped up, his ash-like features contorting in what looked like profound agony, or perhaps just intense annoyance. From his precarious perch, High Priest Gorka, having watched the mute dissolution of his guards with a terror that had left him speechless, saw his chance. The boombox was an absurd, baffling disruption, but a disruption nonetheless. His eyes darted to Iker’s back. He still clutched the ceremonial dagger, a relic of tarnished silver, meant for sacred sacrifices, not clumsy murder. With a panicked heave, Gorka pulled himself up, scrambling onto the ledge. He didn’t care about the creeping void or the world core; he cared only about ending the chaotic anomaly that was Zabal. “You… you blasphemer!” Gorka shrieked, his voice raw and cracked from terror. He launched himself forward in a frantic, clumsy lunge, the dagger glinting dully in the chaotic light. His aim was true, for a terrified, flailing man. Before the blade could touch fabric, a shadow detached itself from Nerea's side. Bihotz, now full-sized, a terrifying scaled beast of twilight and teeth, erupted into the space between Iker and the lunging priest. The dragon moved with eerie, terrifying speed, its colossal maw opening wide, revealing rows of dagger-sharp fangs that pulsed with residual ash-taint. There was no roar, no snarl, just a swift, predatory snap. One moment, Gorka was airborne, a shrieking blur of robes and silver. The next, he was gone. Swallowed whole. Bihotz closed his mouth with a soft, satisfied click, then let out a low rumble that vibrated through the cavern floor. He blinked his golden eyes, then stretched, settling back down into his compact, cat-sized form, curling around Nerea’s legs as if nothing had happened. Iker barely registered the sudden disappearance of the High Priest. He was already moving. He strode toward Hodei, ignoring the sputtering boombox and the fading remnants of the deadening spell. The air still tasted of grief, but now it was tinged with the absurd melody of the pop song. “Alright, you,” Iker said, reaching Hodei. He grabbed the Calamity by the shoulders, his grip firm on the surprisingly solid ash-like form. Hodei flinched, his head bowed, his form shimmering with agitated distress. Ash-tears, thick and glistening, traced paths down his face, pooling on his jaw, then dissipating into thin air. “Why?” Hodei’s voice was a low, fractured whisper, raw with suffering. “Why do you insist? Why prolong this agonizing torment? Let it end. Let them rest. The world… it suffers so much. Why make it hurt longer?” His words were a plea, a broken wail from a soul crushed under the burden of witness. Iker’s expression, usually so impassive or annoyed, softened infinitesimally. A flicker of something profound crossed his features, quickly masked. He looked at the weeping, shattered figure of the Calamity, then to Nerea, who watched him with calm, trusting gaze. His voice was quiet, carrying an iron ring that cut through the hollow's mournful hum. “Because we’re done running.” Iker tightened his grip. A terrifying, blinding light began to emanate from his hands, pulsing with an inner power that threatened to eclipse even the dying glow of the World Core itself. The light enveloped Hodei’s shoulders, the ash of his form rippling as if in a violent storm. “Now hold still, this is going to hurt.”

The Calamity's Embrace