Chapter 248
Ash (2)
A strange, deafening hum began to pulse through the vast chamber, breaking the long silence with a sound that felt alive—vibrating not just in the air but in the bones. It wasn't merely noise; it was a distortion, a low and all-consuming resonance that clawed its way into the skull, pulling at the brain as if trying to rip it straight out through sheer vibration.
It was a disorienting and maddening sound that refused to stay still.
The very ground trembled beneath his feet, and the unseen walls seemed to shudder with each pulse. It was the kind of noise that carried intent, like something ancient and sentient was trying to speak in a frequency that mortals were never meant to hear.
If a normal person had stood here, their body would've broken down in seconds. Their ears would've burst first, then their skulls would've vibrated until cracking apart. Their bodies would melt into a shapeless, fleshy mess, their minds dissolving into static before death could even find them.
The sound wasn't just loud—it was invasive, predatory, designed to unmake anything unworthy of standing in its presence.
Yet through it all, Mr. Graveyard stood motionless.
The unnatural resonance rippled through his cloak, but he didn't so much as blink. His expression remained perfectly calm—unreadable, distant, untouched by the chaos that tore through the chamber. His oceanic eyes reflected nothing.
His expression was unreadable and detached—neither impressed nor disturbed.
The darkness around him seemed to respond to his composure, the violent hum bending, folding inward, as if the sound itself began to descend back into silence.
In that silence, Mr. Graveyard spoke for the first time in more than sixteen hours.
"It is good to hear that you are doing okay…"
His voice carried softly into the void, yet it sounded almost fragile against the immense emptiness around him—like tossing a handful of words into an endless abyss and watching them disappear without echo or answer. Nothing replied. Only the cold, heavy quiet pressing in from all sides.
Then, without warning, the darkness shuddered.
Far ahead—so distant it should have been impossible to see—two colossal sparks ignited. They flared into being like twin suns, red and furious, burning through the black with such intensity that they illuminated everything around them. The sheer scale of them was staggering; even from that unimaginable distance, they loomed enormous, overwhelming, as if the space itself bent beneath their presence.
The flames pulsed once, alive with a violent rhythm, before fixing upon him. They weren't just lights—they were eyes. Eyes that burned with thought, awareness, and power that could crush mountains. Their gaze locked on Mr. Graveyard, and though he did not flinch, the air around him seemed to recoil, rippling under the force of that silent stare.
They burned and stared, unblinking.
A slight smile played on Mr. Graveyard's lips.
"After all this time, you still look at us with such vigor. Could it be that you are still resentful after all these years?"
His tone was soft, almost amused.
The burning eyes flared in response, the flames swelling with a heat that distorted the air. Their glow expanded until the darkness could no longer hide what lay beyond them.
Slowly, the shadows peeled back.
The first thing to emerge was not what the eyes belonged to, but what bound it—a labyrinth of chains, so vast and intricate they seemed to weave through the very fabric of the chamber itself. Each link was the size of a house, forged from a dark metal that shimmered faintly under the red light. The chains crossed and coiled around each other in an impossible pattern, their weight enough to make the ground tremble whenever they moved, even slightly.
Thick pillars rose from the unseen floor, anchoring the chains deep into the earth, while others extended up into the unseen ceiling, disappearing into the void. Some were taut, humming faintly with strain, while others hung slack like sleeping serpents.
They weren't clean metal either—each length was etched with patterns, faintly glowing with the same crimson hue as the eyes above. They pulsed across the surface, each line twitching as though alive, feeding the chains with a kind of grim vitality.
Steam and dirt clung to them, coiling from the points where the metal had grown hot—scalded by whatever force it was holding back. When the flames flared, the patterns flared with them, a thousand tiny veins of red light bursting to life and fading in slow waves.
If one was to take a closer look, they would recognise the patterns as a form of path formations.
Some sections of the chains appeared fused together, welded by sheer pressure and heat, while others groaned as if they had been stretched to their limit for centuries.
Every chain groaned softly, a sound like the earth itself shifting, whispering secrets of millennia. They were not mere restraints—they were monuments and were impossibly old and impossibly alive.
Mr. Graveyard's gaze drifted past the impossibly vast chains, settling on the being they restrained.
It was a deadland creature—yet unlike any, if IAM were here, have ever seen.
Its form was a grotesque monument of pure white bones, massive and unnerving. It had no arms, no legs—only a ribcage that spanned like a cathedral hall, dozens of elongated ribs arching outward, each one moving independently like spider legs, bound tightly by chains that traced their every twitch and tremor. The sound of metal scraping against bone echoed faintly in the cavernous chamber.
Across its shoulders, the collarbones jutted outward like jagged cliffs, each one pierced by enormous spears of dark metal, their tips sunk deep into the back of the creature. The chains tied to them stretched taut, anchoring the being in place, bending its spine into impossible angles. The spears were themselves massive, thick as tree trunks, and gleamed dully in the light of the distant flames.
Closer to the source of the fiery gaze, the skull dominated its head, an ancient visage that looked as if it had been peeled from a mighty dragon. Hollow eye sockets burned with faint embers, the only remnants of life in a skeletal face that was both terrifying and regal. Its teeth were jagged and misshapen, twisted and bent unnaturally, giving the impression that the canines themselves were still alive, writhing subtly as though tasting the air.
From its back coiled a massive tail, also entirely composed of bones, each vertebrae thick and sharp, twisting like a whip. It was tethered and bound by chains as well, the links straining against the weight, anchored to pillars that disappeared into the surrounding darkness. The tail thrashed slightly now and then, a slow motion, restrained yet hinting at the power that lay coiled within.
The sight of it was overwhelming—an impossible fusion of architecture and anatomy, of torture and majesty, a being that seemed both dead and alive, bound yet waiting, a testament to the chains that held it and the power that demanded its restraint.
It did not reply.
Mr. Graveyard shook his head slowly, as if he had not truly expected an answer. His hands were clasped behind his back, and he spoke, each word heavy with observation and melancholy. "Truly, an unfortunate creature," he said. "Bound and forgotten, chained in the depths, far from the light that dances above. Your body has been desecrated, mangled by hands that knew not mercy, and yet you endure. Still you burn. Your eyes blaze with a fire no darkness can swallow."
He paused, letting the silence of the chamber press in around his words. "You are a monument of suffering, a sculpture wrought in pain, and yet… a terrible beauty clings to you. A cruel poetry written in bone and iron, speaking of resilience even when hope is stolen. I see all that has been done to you, the weight you bear, and yet… I do not pity you. Pity is too weak a thing for what you are. There is power in your gaze, a fire that refuses to be extinguished, a truth no chain can ever contain."
Even as he spoke, the words seemed to linger in the cavern like smoke, drifting through the labyrinthine chains and heavy shadows. The creature remained unmoving, yet its presence seemed amplified by the cadence of his voice, as if Mr. Graveyard's speech itself had become part of the ritual that held it there.
His voice softened. "You have endured more than most could fathom," he murmured. "Every chain that binds you, every spike that pierces your flesh, has been laid upon you as though the world sought to write its cruelty upon your bones. Yet still you rise within yourself, still you flare like a defiance carved into the dark. There is a language in your suffering, an artistry in your torment, and I… I am compelled to witness it."
"The sway of your ribs, the tension in your spine, the coiling of your tail… all of it is a dirge and a dance, a testament to endurance and wrath entwined. You are the echo of a thing no mortal hand can weather."
Mr. Graveyard's voice grew firmer. "I do not pity you. Pity is too weak a thing for what you are. But now, look upon and tell me—"
He paused, letting the silence amplify the gravity of his words. "What do you see?"