The beauty that can transpire behind the veil—revealing the cataclysm is only speculative. This void—this obscure design had been created to obstruct passage, thus forgetting the principle of modernity, and too did it forget. Karthuras and the faceless woman stand as an audience—attending the web of construction: Bridges that intertwine but are unreliable for traversing its carved stoned paths, angled in the ways of inconvenience. The minds often wonder where the path begins and ends. He thought:
Why does it have to end this way… The path I and my people need to cross taunts our perception.
The gaps of soil from above—pave his sight in that crimson shade. It slowly faded over time, releasing the weak patches from its encumbrance—thus creating dirt trails, further blinding their surroundings.
He turns to his people with spread arms and tries to hold his stoic expression, only speaking words of optimism:
“Our paralus path ends here as it seems... Constructed in plight, its foundation of purpose! I am not—and will never be stopped from finding a way to escape from this dilemma. I am responsible to you, your friends, and your families…”
“Words of truth!” Gatlis assures like a yapping hound. “The Phader guides—protects us, never falters.”
The people lowered themselves while waiting for their leader to give the following order. That demand is not spoken promptly. Patience is required; malnourishment is the factor that binds the mind ravenous to the means of survival! They look at one another, not from an empathetic gesture—instead, allowing themselves to decide who they will feed upon next. Gatlis took his prideful stance, assuring the Phader would save them from making that choice.
The faceless woman spoke softly to Karthuras’s ear: “There is no hope to be found among your flock.”
He replied: “You speak as if—"
She interrupted: “You were willing to give in to the embrace of a demon woman. You linger on, wishing for your thirst to be quenched by the single drop of liquor… You are lacking in faith.”
“What would you have me do then? Allow these people to surrender their lives?”
“You decided their fates before. Your influence is all they have left… It is time to decide. They cannot sit and starve forever. You know what needs to be done.”
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He thought: I hold the fate of the old and new generations—born inside the desolate fog, devouring the flesh of brother and sister alike! My ignorance has served as an ordeal of strife—and now—I have to cast away the forsaken… Such cruelty, is this why I am still alive? I’m growing evermore desperate!
That specific thought had always been prevalent—to succumb—followed by its whims to consider finally. For what else could he do? But to embrace the darkness and thus—he spoke his final words to them:
“Your path to freedom will be given as promised… To allow entrance, you must offer your bodies into my service.”
His followers question the implications. For the present circumstance does not blind them. One of them asks: “This promise to land, how do we arrive? Our trail is not clear.”
His answer: “Your ignorance blinds you… the path forward only needs your participation to comply with my order, guided by the ring lord himself.”
“What would you have us do, great one?” Gatlis asked without a second thought.
“Allow me to speak the words of freedom… Only by acceptance will you be truly free.”
“I accept!” One answered.
“Ring lord demands! I will follow.” Another one said.
“To paradise!” finally, all had given in.
And now, Karthuras spoke the words of conjuration without hesitation for their mutilation: “Of these many souls—shall depart, refined into a being of length and abundance. As one, shifting upon the cobblestone bridge to the next will be your purpose henceforth.”
His manifestation constructs the people into a melded being, perfectly built to be nothing more than an extension. Its many limbs dive every finger into the gaps of stone, lifting itself from the ground like an insect ready to leap. He walks upon its back, held tightly by the abundance of appendages. Such uncanny display of movement is presented, performing properly to his directions. The Web of Bridges is no contender for this monstrosity.
Upon the final bridge that departs from this place, reeking of sewage. Karthuras turns to the monster after stepping from its back, then speaks his final word to his now-deceased flock:
“Depart…”
It could no longer move—no longer could it breathe—gone evermore. The cold heart is not well established in the empty chasm that is now his heart, similarly leaching as if it were a parasite—perhaps a tool for the path forward. On that dreaded path, no sense of morality is left—only engulfed by the fetid smell of dung, burning a metallic stench, and complimented by the crimson stream. How fitting it is—to have left those souls behind, forgotten in the wake of death. Forgotten as the souls above who drip their supply of essence willing. Drip and drip from those cracked pipes.
The artificial orb of jade light flickers from the Phader’s presence, an ominous shade that weighs the senses from its non-physical pressure. His innards boil with anticipation. His hands pressed against the steel door, thus climbing the steps to his long-awaited return to the surface. What an unfortunate realization he made upon witnessing the sight of the capital.
The greatest tragedy of flesh and hydraulics meld together, the soul corrupted, given to the decadence of this new modernity. There is no end to this chaos…
