Iron-Scale’s physical body lay on a stone slab near the fountain. He wasn’t breathing. His eyes were rolled back in his head, showing only the whites. His scales were cold.

Surrounding him was a chaotic scene of mourning.

Dozens of Dust-Paw Kobolds were wailing, throwing dirt on their heads. “The Scaled One is gone!” “Who will yell at us now?”

The Mud-Skippers were hopping around nervously, checking his pulse with wet fingers. Swift-Tail and the Grey-Fins stood in a circle, their spears pointed down in a traditional lizard funeral stance.

Krug stood at the head of the slab. He held a torch of Violet Fire.

“He has returned to the Spiral,” Krug chanted solemnly. “His soul was too heavy for the earth. We shall burn the husk so no one eats him.”

Krug lowered the torch toward Iron-Scale’s nose.

SNAP.

Iron-Scale’s eyes rolled forward. His vertical pupils contracted. He inhaled. A massive, deep breath that sounded like a vacuum seal breaking.

HAAAAA!

He sat bolt upright.

“GAH!” Krug jumped back, dropping the torch.

The Kobolds shrieked and scrambled over each other. The Grey-Fins raised their spears.

Iron-Scale looked around, blinking. The spectral suit was gone and now he was back in his leather armor.

“Why…” Iron-Scale croaked, his voice dry. “Why are you trying to cook my face, Priest?”

Krug picked up his torch, looking confused. “You… you were dead! You stopped breathing for two hours! Your heart was stone!”

“I was… in heaven,” Iron-Scale hissed, rubbing his temples. “I was at a party with the Gods. We drank starlight.”

He looked at the circle of terrified faces.

“And you idiots started a funeral?”

“I sent a runner to the Onyx Hall!” Krug admitted, looking guilty. “I told the Warlord you had perished!”

CRASH.

The gates of the city flew open.

A massive Shell-Kin skidded into the plaza, its claws digging sparks into the stone. It was moving faster than a turtle should ever move.

Warlord Gorak leaped off the shell before it even stopped. He hit the ground running. He was panting, his chest heaving, sweat dripping from his brow even though he wasn’t on the shell kin.

His eyes were wide, scanning the plaza frantically.

He spotted the stone slab. He spotted Iron-Scale sitting on it, looking annoyed.

Gorak froze. He stood there, bent over, hands on his knees, catching his breath. Huff. Huff.

Iron-Scale raised an eyebrow.

“Warlord,” Iron-Scale smirked. “You weren’t even running.”

Gorak straightened up. He wiped the sweat from his face with a dirty hand. He looked at the living, breathing Inquisitor.

“I…” Gorak wheezed. “I heard the news.”

“You look flushed,” Iron-Scale teased, leaning back on his hands. “Did you sprint all the way from the mines? Were you… worried about me, Gorak?”

The plaza went silent. Everyone watched the two rivals.

Gorak’s face twisted into a scowl. He spat on the ground.

“Worried?” Gorak barked. “I was hungry!”

He marched up to the slab, pointing a thick finger at Iron-Scale’s chest.

“I heard you finally kicked the bucket! I came to claim the carcass!”

Gorak gestured wildly at the plaza.

“I was going to mount your head on my wall! I was going to turn your tail into soup! I haven’t had a good lizard-steak in months!”

He crossed his massive arms, looking genuinely offended.

“And here you are. Alive. Spoiling my dinner.”

Iron-Scale chuckled. I

“My apologies, Warlord. The meat is still using the bones.”

“Bah!” Gorak turned around, waving his hand dismissively. “Useless lizard. Can’t even die right.”

He began to stomp away back toward the mines.

“Next time!” Gorak shouted over his shoulder. “Check his pulse before you call me! I wasted good stamina!”

As Gorak walked away, Iron-Scale watched him. He saw the slight tremble in Gorak’s hands. He saw the relief in the Warlord’s shoulders that he was trying desperately to hide.

“He ran,” Iron-Scale whispered to himself, a small smile touching his lips.

Red, watching from the Void, chuckled.

“Tsundere Orc,” Red noted. “Classic trope.”

A while later, Iron Scale had called a meeting at the Temple of the Spiral.

The Council of the elders gathered in a circle.

Gorak stomped into the temple, his heavy boots cracking the stone floor. He looked furious.

“I was halfway to the Onyx hall!” Gorak roared, throwing his pickaxe into the corner. “Why am I back here? Did the Lizard die again?”

“Sit down, eater of rocks,” Iron-Scale said calmly.

The Inquisitor stood by the Violet Flame. He looked different. Even though he was back in his leather armor, he stood straighter. His eyes held a strange, distant reflection, as if he were still looking at the galaxy.

“I called you,” Iron-Scale said, his voice echoing with a strange, new resonance, “because I have walked in the Sky-Beyond-Sky.”

The room went dead silent. Even Gorak stopped tapping.

“The Ka-Lam-Tee took me,” Iron-Scale lied—or rather, embellished. “He pulled my soul from the mud and brought me to the Hall of Gods.”

He began to tell the tale. He spoke of the Nexus, where the floor was made of glass and the ceiling was a swirling nebula. He spoke of Gods made of magma, of wind, of pure light.

“And amidst them all,” Iron-Scale raised his arms, “sat the Ka-Lam-Tee.”

“How… how did He look?” Old-Shell made a low, rumbling sound like grinding stones. “Is He a dragon? A storm?”

“He wore the Night as a skin,” Iron-Scale exaggerated, his tail swishing with excitement. “He did not wear armor, for he needs none. He wore the fabric of the Void itself, cut sharp like a blade. His eyes were twin violet suns that burned without heat.”

“I saw Him,” Iron-Scale nodded slowly, making eye contact with every Elder. “And I saw the others. The False Gods.”

He began to weave the narrative. He didn’t speak of a diplomatic meeting or a trading floor. He spoke of a Dominion.

“And the others?” Gorak grunted, leaning forward despite himself. “Did He fight them?”

“Fight?” Iron-Scale scoffed. “Warlord, you fight with hands. The Ka-Lam-Tee fights with Presence.”

Iron-Scale paced around the fire.

“There was a Golden King,” Iron-Scale hissed, pacing around the fire. “A God of the Sun. Arrogant. Blinding. He sat on a throne of light and laughed at us. He mocked the mud. He mocked the shell.”

Gorak’s grip on his pickaxe tightened. “Did the Spiral break him?”

“The Spiral did not need to break him,” Iron-Scale scoffed. “Our God… He just Sat. He flipped a coin. And then, he summoned a statue of Himself. A mountain of obsidian that crushed the Golden King’s pride into dust. He took the High Throne, and he made the Sun sit in the dirt with the pebbles.”

Iron-Scale raised his hands.

“He is… that strong?” Razar-Fin squeaked, his eyes wide as saucers.

“He is Inevitable,” Iron-Scale declared.

Then, his face darkened. The storyteller vanished, replaced by the Inquisitor.

“But the Sun is petty. The Golden King has armies. He has knights in blue steel. He has horses that eat fire.”

Iron-Scale looked at Gorak.

“He will come for us, Warlord. Because we humiliated him. He comes to erase his shame.”

Gorak stood up. The annoyance was gone. A savage grin split his face.

“Good,” Gorak rumbled. “I was getting tired of spiders. Let the Sun come. We will see if his skull is harder than Star-Iron.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep