The climb up the Grand Chrono-Anchor was a journey through a mechanical hell. Noon Scort Reveil ascended not as a man, but as a living storm—a crackling, white-blue streak of pure Raiju energy that followed the colossal, spiraling grooves of the screw. The metal, dark and ancient, stood a dark monument in the gray light of Kamaten. The air grew thick with the scent of hot iron, ozone from his own power, and the sour, exhausted sweat of the labor above.
Guards, stationed on rusted platforms bolted to the screw's flank, turned at the approaching hum. They saw only a blur of light before the world dissolved into a cage of arcing lightning. Noon passed them by, a tempest in motion. Their shouts died in their throats, their bodies seizing as the current danced through their armor. They fell, not with cries, but with the heavy, metallic thuds of discarded tools, smoke curling from the joints in their plates.
He burst over the final ledge and onto the summit of the world's misery.
The top of the Anchor was a vast, flat disc of black iron, worn smooth by generations of bare feet. In the very center rose the final, house-sized capstan—the primary gear. And around it, a sight that cracked Noon's revolutionary heart wide open.
Dozens of Ogres, men and women with skin leached of color and horns grown dull, strained against immense spokes of the wheel. Their muscles corded, veins standing out like rope. A low, collective groan rose from them, a song of pure agony, synchronized with the deep, grinding CRUNCH of the screw turning another infinitesimal degree into the Hitotsume's gorge below. Their eyes were vacant, fixed on nothing, seeing only the next push.
The hope in Noon's chest swelled into a painful, bright thing. He reformed, his boots slapping the warm metal. He spread his arms, the static in his hair settling.
"STOP!" His voice, powered by his fruit, rolled across the platform like thunder after a long drought. "You can stop! My brothers! My sisters! You don't have to do this anymore!"
The grinding did not cease. A few heads turned. Dull, weary eyes focused on him with immense difficulty, like creatures waking from a century of sleep. Confusion etched their exhausted faces.
"You are free!" Noon pressed, taking a step forward, his voice cracking with earnest passion. "The chains are in your mind! Walk away from this wheel! You do not have to—"
A massive Ogre near the front, his beard matted with grime, shook his head. His voice was a dry rasp, worn thin by the constant, grinding song. "What are you talking about? Are you crazy? We can't stop."
The simple, absolute certainty in the statement hit Noon like a physical blow. His triumphant smile faltered.
"The Hitotsume," another Ogre woman grunted, shoving her weight back into the spoke. "It will… the whole island…"
"The Hitotsume is a myth!" Noon's frustration erupted, cutting her off. He gestured wildly at the grey sky. "A fairy tale told by the ones in crowns to trap you here! To trick you into believing you have no choice but to—"
His words were drowned out. The Ogres, their moment of distraction over, saw only a raving stranger. With a collective heave that came from a place deeper than thought, deeper than reason, they pushed. The great capstan groaned, the screw below ground against the bedrock of the world, and the relentless, soul-crushing rhythm re-established itself. CRUNCH… GRIND… CRUNCH.
Noon stood amidst the sea of laboring bodies, his arms still slightly outstretched. The electric charge around him sputtered and died. Bewilderment, cold and absolute, washed over him. He had faced armed guards, fought tyrants, endured imprisonment. He knew how to fight an enemy. He had no weapon for this… this willing slavery. This faith in their own cage.
The revolutionary fire in his gut, banked by confusion, roared back to life as a darker, hotter flame. Defiance. If they would not accept freedom, he would force it upon them. It was a terrible, ugly thought, and it filled him with a desperate shame even as he embraced it.
"LEAVE NOW!" he commanded, his voice no longer one of fellowship, but of a furious general.
The Ogres did not respond. The wheel turned.
"LEAVE," he roared, the air crackling once more, "OR SUFFER THE CONSEQUENCES!"
The Ogre with the matted beard looked over, his face a mask of pitying annoyance. "What are you on about, you sparky little—"
His words became a scream.
Noon Scort Reveil vanished. In his place, the full, magnificent fury of the Raiju materialized. Not a streak, but a coalesced storm of canine muscle, crackling mane, and blazing eyes. With a sound like the sky tearing, he leapt. He did not land on the platform. He landed on the central hub of the great capstan itself, his claws digging into the iron.
He did not bite. He did not slash. He grounded himself.
A torrent of raw, white lightning exploded from his form. It did not arc through the air—it flooded into the conductive metal of the capstan, the spokes, the entire platform. The world turned a blinding, silent white. The collective groan of the Ogres transformed into a unified, sharp shriek of shock as fifty thousand volts coursed through their hands, up their arms, and into their hearts.
The CRUNCH-GRIND stopped.
Silence.
The lightning dissipated. The Raiju form melted away, leaving Noon kneeling on the hub, gasping, the scent of scorched metal and ozone heavy in the air. All around him, the Ogres slumped where they stood, collapsing against the wheel or sliding to the iron deck, unconscious. The only movement was the faint, rising steam from their bodies and the slow, reluctant backward creak of the screw, no longer held in its relentless forward drive.
Noon stared at the bodies. His gift. His crime. His breath hitched. There was no time for guilt.
He moved. Becoming the lightning once more, he became a blizzard of motion. A streak would zip to a fallen Ogre, reform just long enough for Noon to heave the massive body over his shoulder with a grunt, then streak to the platform's edge. He did not lower them gently down the screw's side—there was no time for gentleness. He placed them at the top of the spiraling ramp, giving them a push to start their unconscious, sliding descent down the mile-long groove, away from the summit.
Over and over he flashed—grab, haul, deposit. A one-man evacuation in a blur of light and effort. Each Ogre he moved was a weight lifted from the screw, and a heavier weight settled in his soul. He was saving them. And he had never felt more like the monster Pier claimed him to be. The platform cleared, his breath came in ragged pulls, and the Grand Chrono-Anchor, for the first time in eight centuries, stood still.
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