Ferenc’s smile was a chisel, carving away years of shared history, leaving behind only the stark, unforgiving rock of his true self. The bile-tinted haze around his forearms, once a subtle thrum, now pulsed with a dull, greenish glow. “Figure what out?” Bence’s voice was a ragged whisper, strained against the roar of the Axiom’s continued assault on the outer wall, “That you’re… bound? What does that even mean, Ferenc?” Ferenc took a step closer, his gaze sharpening. “It means I’m chosen, Bence. Chosen to see the truth, to make the hard decisions no one else can stomach.” He gestured vaguely towards the beleaguered city, then back towards the swirling conceptual essence that still bled from the Axiom of Rust, even as it consumed more of the Bastion’s structural integrity. “Do you know what the prime concepts demand? Tributes. Not just random lives, but *purposeful* ones. Conceptual offerings, to stave off the end.” Bence recoiled. “The end? What are you talking about?” “The Grand Dissolution, Bence. The final Axiom.” Ferenc’s voice dropped, becoming a chillingly calm recitation. “It’s coming. It will erase everything. My family, your family, *everyone* will simply cease to have ever been. My parents… they’re already held. Hostages, by a power you can’t even begin to fathom. The Dissolution demands sustenance, conceptual anchors to tie it down, to delay its coming.” The pieces clicked into place with sickening precision. The manipulated missions, the ‘accidental’ collapses, the deliberate empowerment of the Axioms. Ferenc hadn’t been protecting Bence; he’d been *cultivating* him, cultivating the opportunities for these monsters to grow. “You’ve been feeding them,” Bence accused, the realization a bitter acid in his throat. “Strengthening them, so they can be… harvested?” Ferenc nodded, a shadow of pain – or was it resignation? – flitting across his features. “Controlled surrender, Bence. That’s the only way. A few lives, an entire Axiom’s essence, given willingly, channeled into the Dissolution. It buys us time. It saves millions. It saves *your* friends. My parents.” He extended a hand, the one not glowing with sick energy, a gesture of hollow camaraderie. “Come with me, Bence. Your abilities… your *culinary* insight into these things. It’s exactly what we need. We can manage the process. Control the menu. A controlled loss is better than total oblivion, isn’t it? Join me. Help me save the world, the only way it can be saved.” Before Bence could reply, a stern, familiar voice cut through the cacophony of crumbling masonry and battle cries. “Ferenc Nagy! Stand down!” Commander Jolan strode into the ravaged corridor, her armored boots crunching on debris, her jaw set flat against the dust. Behind her, a squad of elite Bastion guards, their weapons raised, fanned out, their expressions a mix of confusion and alarm as they took in the scene: the monstrous Axiom of Rust still tearing through the wall, and Ferenc, facing Bence, his hand outstretched, sleeves alight with curdled light. Zita Varga was with them, pale and clutching a slate of notes as she took in the scene. She met Bence’s gaze, a silent plea for answers. “Commander Jolan,” Ferenc said, his voice laced with mock deference, “Always arriving just in time to interrupt a crucial conversation.” His smile returned, colder than before. “I’m afraid I can’t stand down. Not when the stakes are so high.” Jolan’s gaze flickered from the Axiom to the glow around Ferenc’s hands, then to Bence. “What is the meaning of this, Nagy? Bence, explain.” “He’s… he’s working with them,” Bence stammered, pointing a trembling finger at Ferenc, then at the Axiom of Rust. “He’s feeding them, Commander. He’s bound to the Axiom of Sacrifice.” Jolan’s eyes narrowed, disbelief warring with the cold evidence before her. “That entity? Are you saying…?” Ferenc laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. “He’s saying the truth, Commander. And he’s about to make a choice.” He dropped his outstretched hand, then slowly raised both, palms facing outwards. The sickly glow intensified, throbbing with an unnatural pulse. “You want proof of my power, Commander? Proof of what I can do for humanity?” One of Jolan’s guards, a grizzled veteran, took aim. “Don’t even think about it, traitor!” Ferenc merely tilted his head. “Too late.” The energy around his forearms flared, not exploding outwards, but arcing across the cracked stone towards the colossal form of the Axiom of Rust. The monster, which had been gnawing at the inner wall separating the military sector from the civilian districts, suddenly shuddered. Its focus, previously fixed on the fortified structure, shifted. A new wave of rust-induced decay erupted, not towards the command center, not towards Jolan’s squad, but towards the less protected, densely populated residential towers beyond the breached wall. A distant wail, high-pitched and terrified, echoed through the Bastion. “No!” Bence lunged forward. Ferenc had deliberately aimed the Axiom at the most vulnerable part of the city. Thousands of lives, unprepared, undefended, would be consumed in moments. Ferenc’s eyes met Bence’s, devoid of remorse, shining with a chilling certainty. “A small offering, Bence. To prove my point. To show them what I can do. Join me. Or watch them all rust away.” The Axiom of Rust, obeying its new, subtle command, accelerated its devastating work on the civilian sector, screams rising to mingle with the grinding decay of the city.

The Traitor's Banquet