The Unmaker

Otto turned in place, boots grinding softly against the cold stone steps. A smooth alabaster wall stood in front of him, but now there was a second wall blocking the stairwell behind him as well. It wasn't there ten seconds ago. How could it possibly appear behind him without making a sound?

"... Not hallucinating," he muttered aloud, slapping a palm against the wall in front of him. It didn't budge. "What sort of technology is this?"

No doors, no seams, no latches—like the walls had just grown there.

I suppose this is the test, then.

He sighed and scratched the back of his neck, one finger brushing the strap of his eyepatch. At first, he did the practical thing. He rapped the wall in front of him with his knuckles, then leaned in and pressed his ear against the cold stone.

"Hello? Anyone there? Fool? Sun? Hangman? Am I just meant to do some interpretive dance until the wall opens, or…"

Naturally, there was no answer but the echo of his own voice bouncing off the stone, so he stepped back and squinted at the wall.

It had no inscriptions. No marks. No obvious mechanisms. He immediately knelt, pulled out his rifle, and loaded a single crimson-edged bullet—one of his customized high-pressure explosive rounds—because this was the third and final stage of the Hasharana Entrance Exam, and damn if he went home with extra bullets in his satchel.

The wall was an honest-to-god wall, so he'd break it down his way.

He chambered the round with a sharp click, adjusted the sling on his rifle, and raised it square at the wall. One shot. If it was real stone, the blast would dent or shatter it. If it wasn't, well, he'd find out quickly.

And then he heard something.

Screams.

Muffled. Distant. Not behind the wall, but… from inside it.

He swallowed.

The pitch, the texture—the high-pitched wails, the deeper howls, the crush of feet scrambling for escape—then snapping, stomping, and gurgling.

His arms dropped slightly, the rifle muzzle lowering on instinct.

He knew those sounds.

Not like anyone else knew them.

He'd heard them as a kid.

It'd happened well over a decade ago by now, when he was only seven.

He'd followed his Pioneer parents on one of their trips west into the icy mountains. They were weaponsmiths. Well, his father was; his mother handled logistics. The village they arrived at was tiny and remote—barely larger than a few families nestled between frozen ridges—but it was a worthwhile village to defend, so the two of them were there to help arm the place with basic defences.

Otto had tagged along, excited to leave the safety of his home for the first time to see new places. He'd been curious about Swarm infestations, but at the time, he was still stupid enough to believe grown-ups could stop it anytime if they really put their minds to it.

Then the bugs came.

Huge ones. Dark, steaming, clicking bastards that descended on the village like a wave of teeth. He'd been forced into a bunker with his mother immediately while his father shot flares into the sky, so while the call to Eichengott went through eventually—and a squad of Organic Armours was dropped in to swiftly clear the bug breach—he didn't actually see the village get chewed apart with his own eyes.

He only remembered the screams outside the bunker. Kids screaming. Parents screaming. And worst of all, the way the village just went silent when the bugs trampled it flat.

He'd never followed his parents out on their reinforcement missions ever again. He'd never asked them about what happened outside that day, but…

The screams coming from inside the wall in front of him were those exact same screams.

How?

Why now?

His palms were sweating. His eye itched behind the patch. Was it really a trick of the exam, or had something—something inside this worm tower—dug into his memory and decided to play it back?

He tightened his grip on the rifle, but his finger refused to touch the trigger. He couldn't. The stone in front of him didn't feel like a wall anymore. It felt like… flesh. Like bone. Like memories, guilt, and the voices of those he couldn't help had been layered into it.

So he stood there for too long, frozen in place.

… Coward.

He bit his tongue hard enough to taste iron, and the pain snapped something back into place. He gritted his teeth and shook his head.

"No more," he whispered. "You're in the past."

He raised the rifle again, eye narrowed, and this time, he didn't hesitate.

He pulled the trigger, and the shot rang out like thunder. The recoil kicked against his shoulder, and the explosive round hit the wall with a blossom of red flame and shrapnel.

The detonation tore the wall apart.

Dust billowed outward in a rush. Moonlight broke through. Squinting, he immediately stepped through the hole, rifle still raised, and scanned the top of the tower as the smoke cleared.

Now, he found himself standing in yet another snowy garden with a field of four-petal flowers—almost identical to the one on the ground floor—but instead of a flat ceiling, a cavernous opening stretched high overhead. Sharp, pale teeth crowned the top of the opening, curling inwards like the jaws of some great worm.

And above, the moon hung huge and round, casting down a silver light that painted everything in dreamlike brilliance.

…

Otto stepped carefully into the open, boots crunching on the frost. His eyes swept the space, but it didn't take him long to notice the second difference about this garden.

A boy.

Floating.

He was about five metres off the ground, cross-legged, pale-skinned, and motionless. He seemed to be dozing off. His eyes were closed. His chest didn't heave with breaths. His short white hair didn't sway in the wind. His cloak was made of four-petal diamond flowers—interlinked in seamless patterns like chainmail spun from petals—and parts of his skin gleamed in places with embedded plates of silvery metal.

There was a rifle laid gently across his lap, too, but Otto didn't need to see that to know who he was.

The… the Worm God?

The first Hasharana. The strongest bug-slayer alive. The boy all humans revered as humanity's champion, undefeated—and as Otto started shaking where he stood, the Worm God opened his eyes.

Spiral-patterned. Blue. Deep. Alien.

Otto's breath caught in his throat as the Worm God locked eyes with him. He hadn't even spoken yet, but the pressure in the room shifted like the air itself recognised a superior predator. His knees tensed. His spine locked straight. Every instinct screamed at him to be cautious.

Still, he forced himself to speak.

"Hello… sir," he said. "I… I'm Otto Glasbrenner. Pioneer rifleman. I specialize in custom projectiles and field—"

[Otto Glasbrenner,] the Worm God said coldly. [You have failed.]

The wall screamed as Wisnu cut it apart with her sawtooth greatsword.

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It screamed like the servants in the Hunahpu household had screamed, back when the Beast of Ka'lan first broke through the gates of the manor and tore through the silk banners and marble pillars and people alike.

Wisnu's shoulders were trembling, and her breaths were ragged. The greatsword in her grip pulsed with residual strength as she dragged it out of the split wall behind her, each tooth slick with blood-like stone dust. Her body ached. Her knuckles were scraped raw. But she'd carved through the wailing alabaster slab the only way she knew how: directly, with nothing held back.

She stepped forward into the open garden.

Her boots crunched into the snow, and the cold hit her skin like a slap, sharp and sobering. Four-petal flowers glowed faintly underfoot. Above, the moon sat still in a jagged mouth of curving teeth, casting silver light down across the garden.

And at the centre of it all floated a boy.

Small. White-haired. Cloaked in interlinked flowers. Patches of pale metal gleamed across his limbs.

The Worm God.

She'd never seen him before in person, but—

[Wisnu Balam Hunahpu,] the Worm God said, opening his eyes to stare down at her. [You have failed.]

The wall called to Muyang in his father's voice. Then his eldest brother's. Then his second brother's. Then his fourth.

"You are not welcome here," it seemed to say in the low cadence of the clan halls. "You were born small. You stayed small. No spear suits your hands. No helm suits your brow."

Muyang stared at the wall for a long time.

Then he lowered his stance, gritted his teeth, and drove his horned beetle helm straight into it.

The crash echoed like thunder. The alabaster wall cracked like ice. He charged right through, shaking the dust from his shoulders, and he watched as the fragments of the wall seemingly dissolved into the field of snow beneath him.

Here, the garden under the moon was beyond peaceful. Snow glittered like crushed pearls. The flowers shimmered. The air was colder than the mountains of his homeland, but calmer too.

Above him, the Worm God floated cross-legged in the sky, and—

[Wu Muyang,] the Worm God said without opening his eyes. [You have failed.]

Blaire's acids hissed as it melted through the stone. Thick grey fumes rose from the bubbling wall as she stepped through the widening hole, her boots finding purchase in the soft snow beyond.

She wasn't in a rush.

The air in the garden was lovely, actually. Cool, clean, and dreamlike. The soft glow of the moon filtered down from the opening above, and the flowers gave off a subtle, floral tang that blended with the last traces of her acid.

She smiled up at the boy hovering above. The boy's eyes were already open. He stared at her, his expression unreadable, and his mouth parted slightly as though to speak—but no words came for a long while.

After thirty seconds, he finally spoke.

[Blaire Veydris,] the Worm God said, sounding slightly hesitant. [You have failed.]

By the time the final shards of her wall collapsed, Emilia was already coughing blood. The thing was tougher than she'd expected, and she practically had to screech her voice out—cutting through the stone with layer after layer of harmonic compression—just to give it the final push it needed.

The voices in the wall weren't just strangers, after all. They were the children of Amadeus Academy, and they were screaming like they'd never screamed before.

So, when she eventually stepped into the snowy garden and looked up at the floating boy, she couldn't help but flash him a sulky grin.

"... Hi, Uncle Enki," she said, giving him a friendly little wave. "What was that all about? Some kind of test of guilt? A wall of my greatest nightmares and horrors?"

Enki didn't answer her question. Instead, he opened his eyes slowly, lips twisting in displeasure.

[Why are you here, Emilia?]

"Because I want to fight," she replied, brushing her fringe out of her eyes. "I don't want to just sit in Amadeus Academy for the rest of my life, studying and researching things other people are dying to find out firsthand. People who want to research should research. I'm not one of those people."

[Are you not?] he asked, tilting his head quizzically. [I remember you liked reading. The last time I visited Amadeus Academy, you didn't even want to come out of your room to eat dinner with me and your father. He said you were reading something… a book about a starfaring princess?]

"I was eight years old back then," she said, rolling her eyes. "I've changed. I don't wanna read books in my room anymore. I wanna fight, and I wanna do it with the Magicicada Class."

For a while, Enki was quiet.

When he spoke again, his voice was almost soft.

[In the last thirty years, many Cicada Musicians have taken this exam. A few of them have passed and received an Altered Swarmsteel System, but not one of them, though they had all spent years and decades with their Cicada Classes, had the aptitude for the Specialized Magicicada Class in the end,] he said. [You already have the Specialized Symphonic Cicada Class. How would you be any different and make the system believe you are more suited for the Specialized Magicicada Class?]

"It runs in the blood, doesn't it?" she answered with a smile.

He didn't smile back. [It does not.]

"And how would you know that?"

[It does not,] he said sternly. [You have failed.]

Her smile cracked for the first time in the garden.

"... Why?" she demanded, clenching her fists by her sides. "I killed the Mutant-Class by myself in the first stage of the exam. Sure, I wasn't as useful as I thought I would be in the second stage, but I did end up helping kill Apocia. Am I not strong enough? What's the harm in giving me an Altered Swarmsteel System and letting me try to get the Magicicada Class?"

[Okay. I will give you a chance, but only if you answer my question correctly.]

"Really?"

[Yes. Now answer: where is your home?]

She blinked, confused by the sudden change.

"Amadeus Academy, obviously," she said, standing straighter with one proud hand on her chest. "It'll always be the academy—"

[Emilia Fabre,] the Worm God said plainly. [You have failed.]

Dahlia stood at the end of the stairwell, chewing her thumbnail down to the quick.

This was weird.

Really, really weird.

She glanced back over her shoulder for what must've been the fifth time. The way down was gone. A wall had slid in behind her—white stone, seamless—and she hadn't heard it close whatsoever. She hadn't felt any shift in the air. It was just… there now. Just like the one in front of her. Two smooth alabaster walls sandwiching her in a narrow stairwell.

She huffed and scratched the back of her neck. She was the last one called up. The very last. But none of the others had come back down before her. Not Otto, not Wisnu, not Muyang, not Blaire, and not even Emilia. The Fool had refused to entertain any questions downstairs, and even looking at Alice with pleading eyes didn't get her any answers.

Had they passed?

Had they failed?

Were they waiting for her upstairs?

Her claws twitched nervously. She glanced at the wall in front of her again, only for a sound—soft and distant—to suddenly echo out from it.

Screams.

They were horrendously loud. Muffled. Distorted. Children crying, adults yelling. People wailing in a language half-buried by time and smoke and memory.

She blinked.

They were the screams of Alshifa, panicking, shrieking, breaking down in the streets. She hadn't heard them in a while, but she knew every single one of them, and she could match every voice to a distinct face.

Strangely, though, she wasn't scared of the screams.

Not really.

Her heart jumped a little hearing them come out of the wall, sure, but it wasn't from fear. She only felt... sad. And a little small.

She stepped forward slowly, closed her eyes, and placed one hand on the wall.

The wall vibrated with sound. The screams pulsed through her arm like a living thing, but she didn't shake as she let the sounds sink into her skin and echo through her bones.

They weren't trying to scare her.

They just wanted her to take them along with her.

… Of course I'll do that.

I'm an assassin bug, aren't I?

Then she opened her eyes.

Silver threads crisscrossed the wall now, glowing faintly in the shape of a doorway. Without thinking much further, she raised her claws and dragged them along the threads, tracing the shape of a perfect rectangle. The wall didn't resist. It came apart cleanly, and she pushed the rectangular chunk forward, allowing her to step through into a clean and pretty snow garden.

She breathed in the icy air. Her fingers tingled. Then she heard the rectangular chunk she was standing on crying, as if it didn't want to be separated from the rest of the wall, so she gasped immediately, hopped off the chunk, and picked it up with all four arms.

Sorry about that.

You guys can be together.

She fit the chunk back into the hole in the wall, matching it perfectly to the edges. To her surprise, the chunk clicked perfectly back in place, and the seams sealed themselves shut, making it seem as though she'd never carved a hole through it in the first place.

The cries quieted then, and the screams stopped entirely.

She exhaled. She didn't know what that wall was, and she didn't know if that was supposed to be a great obstacle, but…

Probably not.

Because the killing pressure from behind her in the garden hit her like a punch to the lungs, and her breath snapped in her throat.

She turned around slowly—very, very slowly—and saw the boy sitting cross-legged five meters into the air.

Pale skin. White hair. His spiral-patterned blue eyes were already locked straight on her, and his cloak, made of interwoven four-petal diamond flowers, rippled like waves even though there was no wind blowing through the top of the tower.

She raised her hand awkwardly.

"...Hi?" she said, her voice cracking halfway through. "Um… are you the proctor? I'm Dahlia. Dahlia Si—"

The boy picked up the rifle in his lap, and in one smooth, silent motion, he levelled it straight at her heart.

Her chest clenched. Her legs locked. Her mouth froze. His killing pressure slammed into her chest like a falling boulder, and she physically staggered backwards, boots sliding in the snow.

Her eyes went wide.

[Dodge!] Kari shouted.