Chapter Text
“Something’s wrong,” Ryunosuke mutters, head leaning back against stone walling. It’s unexpectedly warm—heat from the fires in the area clinging to the porous rock and chasing away the cool surface it normally provides. His chest heaves, lungs burning as they both catch their breaths from running away from yet another cluster of turret Guardians. Even Darumy seems tired somehow.
“Such a gross understatement isn’t helping things, partner,” Kazuma volleys back, not missing a beat even through the heavy pants. He pulls the portcullis closed with a grunt, shuttering them inside the fortified space. Sweat and grime drips off his chin as he yanks the makeshift bandana down to his neck. The tips of his tunic are soot-stained and tattered; he’s had to clear out Guardians on their way across the moat’s bridge and up the ramp.
“Wha—no—” Ryunosuke shakes his head and groans. He points up, out of the small window arches carved into the First Gatehouse’s tower. “Champion Wilson should’ve long been to Vah Ruta by now, even if he was delayed.” His mouth grows dry; it scratches as he swallows down ash-saturated air. He holds up his mouse communicator. “And he hasn’t answered a single time… Kazuma, I—I can’t help but fear the worst…”
Ryunosuke watches as Kazuma’s eyes trace the sky and the realization sets in: the surprise, then the despair, then the rage. Kazuma falls to a sit, then slams a fist down onto the ground with a “Fuck! He was sick, too!” Fingers bunched into his hair, pulling at his bangs as he curls his knees up to his chest. “Why did we ever—?!”
“He insisted that his illness wasn’t severe enough to impede him…” Ryunosuke murmurs. Fingers threading together in his lap.
“And we never should’ve believed him!” Kazuma’s hands swing back down, palms up, in incredulity. His headband’s drenched across his forehead, unruly strands of hair stuck against slick skin and cloth. “We all could see just how unwell he was!”
And it’s the truth, but— “…There’s little we can do about that now, isn’t there?” Ryunosuke echoes Kazuma’s own words from before, and Kazuma sighs, gritting his teeth.
Ryunosuke scoots over, runs his hand along Kazuma’s arched back. Taut ropes, the both of them—fit to snap in two. Feeling Kazuma’s heat under his palm is the only thing that keeps Ryunosuke from spiraling completely. “We, we haven’t yet reached the Sanctum… There’s still time, isn’t there?” Ryunosuke asks.
The only answer from Kazuma is another weary sigh and the press of his cheek into the groove of Ryunosuke’s shoulder. Wind whistles down the enclosed halls.
It’s eerie, seeing one of the gatehouses as empty as this—a ghost town left abandoned after receiving the order to evacuate the castle residents, Ryunosuke figures. Besides, there’d be very little use for protection against outside foes when they were appearing from inside, after all. Or if the threat of Guardian-laser chased them off, instead. A card game is left abandoned: spilled cups and half-eaten plates of fruits and nuts next to scattered playing cards. Some poor soul left without their boots.
Better found vacant than the alternative.
Ryunosuke pulls at the ear of the mouse doll. “Champion Sholmes, are you there? Can you provide an update?” He holds his breath.
It’s only a few moments later when the receiver crackles with life: “Ah, perfect timing, Your Highness! I have just arrived at Vah Medoh! I offer my sincere apologies for the delay in communication; it turns out, flight is much more of a complicated ordeal when a violent storm is doing all it can to ground you!” Sholmes rattles out a bright laugh.
And it’s the first time Ryunosuke’s ever been so happy to hear Sholmes’s rambling monologues and his stupid, annoying laugh. He could cry. He nearly does.
“Tell me, what has happened during my flight?”
Ryunosuke swallows thickly. Hurried: “There were more Guardians. Far more than we’d already uncovered—stored in these giant columns somewhere underground surrounding the castle. Calamity Stronghart took control of them all. Castle Town’s being decimated.”
“What?!” The change in Sholmes’s demeanor is as sharp as any blade. He can hear the tornado-strong winds in the background over the speaker.
“Iris made it out safely,” Kazuma says before Sholmes can despair. “We saw her off along with Royal Advisor Susato, Professor Mikotoba, and Elder Impa. They’re heading to Kakariko Village.”
Relief from Sholmes, perfectly audible despite the distance. “Mikotoba… They’re in good hands, then. That man’s a trustworthy sort.”
They quickly catch up, relay the details of the situation.
“Huh,” Sholmes says then, pensive. “Well, that’s quite curious…” He doesn’t elaborate further.
A beat, until Ryunosuke asks, “What is?”
There’s silence for a drawn-out moment on the other line. “I’ll make my way to the control room, now, my dear fellows! One beam of light is coming your way shortly. I wish you both the best of luck!” And the connection shuts off.
Ryunosuke and Kazuma share a confused look, but they both feel it: that relief, as soothing as fresh spring water. Sholmes is alive, at his Divine Beast. Help is incoming.
Ryunosuke stares at the mouse, now trembling slightly in his hand, before he can gain the courage to contact the last person he still desperately needs to hear from.
Kazuma’s hand lifts to cradle the back of his own, imbuing him with additional strength. “Call her,” he urges. His breath is ever warm on Ryunosuke’s neck.
With a final inhale, Ryunosuke tugs its ears. Static fills in the empty air after a few moments. Finally, the crackle of life: “Hello, little mouse.”
“Ursavra,” Ryunosuke breathes out. He feels his whole body shudder with the release of it. “Are you okay? Where are you now?”
Ursavra laughs out something sparky. “I believe that’s my line, isn’t it? I take your message to be confirmation enough that you are at least not harmed… I’ve just regrouped at Kara Kara Bazaar. I’ll be heading towards Vah Naboris shortly.”
“I’m glad,” Ryunosuke says, and he hopes his voice doesn’t sound as shaky over the line as it comes out. “Champion Jigoku’s laser is active. Champion Sholmes has just reached Vah Medoh minutes ago… Champion Wilson has been radio silent since we separated. I don’t know if it’s possible, but if there’s any way you can signal Zora’s Domain for help—” The words catch in his throat. “I, I worry for him.”
Ursavra makes a sound of acknowledgment. “I’ll see what I can do. Now, I must get going. Stay safe, little mouse.”
“Y-Yes. You too, Ursavra.” Click. Ryunosuke releases another shuddering exhale after, muttering out thanks and a flood of slick-spilling words of gratitude.
Kazuma shifts on his shoulder, lifting a waterskin up to Ryunosuke’s face. “Take it,” he says with a swish of the wrist, water sloshing loudly inside the container. “We’re close to the Sanctum now… I don’t know if we’ll get another chance to rest.”
Ryunosuke takes it reluctantly at first, but the second the water passes his lips, he finds it becomes difficult to stop drinking. He finds relief in the persistent, deep scratch in the back of his throat and he has to make the strenuous effort to pry the waterskin from his mouth, to allow Kazuma to have enough as well. He didn’t drink from it first, despite being the one who’s had to put his body on the line.
They exchange items: the waterskin for a chunk of dried beef. The seasonings are heavy, the smell of rocks salts and savory sauce marinades strong in the air just from the act of passing the meat. Ryunosuke’s stomach has churned all night—the thought of food never crossing his mind through it all once—but the water acted like the opening of a floodgate of sorts, stripping bare the exigencies of basic physiological needs left ignored: his stomach rumbles as the flavor hits his tongue. He scarfs it down quickly and watches Kazuma do the same, gulping the remaining water behind it. The both of them: depleted and exhausted, yet they have to push past their limits; somehow, inconceivably, this is merely the beginning of their fight.
The short rest will have to be enough. They descend the steps to the Guards’ Chamber, stripped of all weapons and shields except for those used for training. Storage crates have their tops pried off, tossed aside in a haphazard heap in the corner. Much like the Gatehouse above, signs of interrupted activity linger here like ghosts: a book thrown here, food spilled there. It’s a far cry from the usual orderliness the Guard maintains, the pristine navy and gold pendants bearing the royal coat of arms hanging from the rafters a representation of that high-held esteem.
Kazuma moves fast, winding them down the stairs from the wooden mezzanine and across the archery training area, confident in stride; he’s well-acquainted with this section of the castle and it shows. A small fire still smolders within the fire pit after being unsuccessfully doused—the chamber holds a chill, especially from the draft of the hidden passageways that wind far below the castle. Ryunosuke eyes the hallway as they pass: the false wall peeled back, the metal grate in the floor lifted open. How many people had to flee this way? Did they have time to uncover the other entrance in the Observation Room too?
The deeper into the castle they go, the heavier the magenta motes fluttering in the air get, the more abundant the pools of blackened sludge that coat the floor and stretch across walls become. More and more spires protrude from these tar mires—like jagged teeth, consuming the castle from within. Ryunosuke has to hold Darumy at times, when the hallway is too heavily coated and only wide enough for human feet to cross.
The air grows fetid with the smell of decay as they progress deeper. Two creatures are waiting for them at the top of the staircase: things that resemble Lizalfos, but are enveloped in the tar, oozing out that stuff in a sticky trail behind them, clinging to the steps and making an audible snap when the viscous connections break. Glowing red eyes stare down at them until they both cock their heads in unison, the movements jerky—like a second hand on a clock clicking to the next interval. Karuma vibrates in Kazuma’s hand, utterly resplendent.
With Ryunosuke’s Stasis and Darumy’s electric sword to help, Kazuma makes quick work of the monsters. Karuma seems to glide through the muck like a hot knife through butter, devoid of any resistance that would normally come from cutting through steel and muscle. Ryunosuke’s not even sure if those creatures were made of flesh at all; they burst into dark mist, dissipating like rancid steam without any trace of a carcass left over.
They climb and climb. Guardians outside, magenta-infested monsters inside. Royal Guards somewhere in the distance—they can hear the muffled sounds of shouts between laser fire. Burnt corpses of Royal Guardspeople scarred beyond recognition left on the ground, navy and ruby and gold now blackened. More pools of black and magenta soil the once-fortified walls of the castle. Damaged now—spectacularly exposed. Ryunosuke swears he can see the ichor move within itself, pulsating like blood rushing through veins.
He hangs a left, instinctually. He’s walked this path a hundred times over. At the outdoor staircase he’s always cursed at for having to climb after a long day when all he wanted was to collapse into his bed, a turret Guardian sits at the middle landing, as if marooned. It doesn’t see them until it’s too late. Without legs, its only real advantage is the threat of pressure from an untouchable distance; remove that, and it’s little more than a sitting duck. Just a tap of Stasis and Kazuma can easily stab it through its vulnerable eye. It erupts into magenta smoke and screws and a sense of guilt that burns so hot in the back of Ryunosuke’s throat, he almost mistakes it for rage. Darumy protests—he wanted to reset the Guardian himself—but after hours of sifting through the destruction, the both of them just want to cull the area, cut the disease out like a tumor.
The passageway is blocked off, tar and rubble felled where one of the guards may have once stood during the daytime. From this angle, he can barely see enough of the other walkway above the courtyard to tell it’s been collapsed in. They’ll have to turn around.
Something sinks itself into Ryunosuke so suddenly, it’s like a knife collapsing his lung. He stares at the outside of his chambers, at his study. The structure is there—the outside seemingly intact, except for a chunk bit out of the ceiling—but what of inside? Smoke billows out from the roof. It’s things, he tries to tell himself, items that can be replaced, but dread scoops an empty void out of him at the thought—the violation of it all, the idea that one second everything could be normal and at the very next, it’s all up in flames.
His whole life, walking these halls. The memories held in this wing, so much more significant than anything he ever experienced in the so-called hallowed halls of the Sanctum. Hyrule Castle itself never felt like home—not truly, as long as the cold cage of duty held him here more like a prison than any refuge—but it was a constant sense of familiarity all the same. In spite of it all, he’d carved something resembling comfort for himself on this western wing, far from all the politics within its center.
Memories of being lifted by a pair of strong arms, voice sing-song as constellations were identified. Small hands pointing there, there, there. The Wind Fish to the south, the Minish Cap northeast. A shroud of stars, so soothing that his large eyes grew ever more fuzzy and the next thing he knew, he was under soft blankets piled high, his red Daruma doll placed snugly on the pillow beside him. A soft lullaby filling the bedroom. He only saw her smile before he drifted off to sleep.
Of a wrinkled hand loosely wrapped around his own, walking beside him across the ramparts as sweet-spring blossoms blew around them. Laughter spilling as they both recited words in haste, syllables slippery and twisted on their tongues. Giddiness there, despite the way his eyes were red-ringed after a meeting with the king—another lecture of If you would just try to apply yourself at the springs, you’ll honor your mother’s legacy much better than spilling tears over her. Elder Impa had urged the king that they were late for their next lesson, but she lingered here above the West Courtyard as if they had all the time in the world. Brilliant light will chase away any darkness, my child, she said. And the way she tipped back her head with a peaceful smile, he couldn’t help but believe her.
Of research sessions in his study that stretched hours longer than he’d realized, waking bleary-eyed to the smell of fresh green tea sat next to a sugar bowl and a blanket laid over his shoulders. A small, handmade cake sitting next to it, fluffy and moist—Susato and him always shared their affinity for sweets, after all. He’d have to thank her again. For this, for that, for everything—always. There’s never enough words to describe the enormity of his gratitude.
Of the minutiae of daily life shared in comfortable normalcy, Kazuma by his side at every hour. Thighs pressed together in front of the fireplace, his settled chair next to his, his ever-dependable warmth curled up beside him in bed. It felt so natural, the way Kazuma’s possessions mixed with Ryunosuke’s own, as if it was the only thing he had ever known. The ease of sharing clothes and books and writing utensils—no longer mine and exceedingly ours, no distinction needed. It’s Kazuma’s room just as much as it’s his own—does he feel the same, unspeakable despair, too?
And what of his aquarium? The sea anemones and the Pertinacious Prawns from the Faron Sea? Have they been spared? Should he try to find an opening somehow to save them? And what about the wisteria tree in the Gardens? Goddess, he hopes if anything survives there, it’s that.
It’s at this—at this—that whatever thread barely holding him together snaps. A hand pressed over his mouth as tears drip down his cheeks, weight precariously held up by stone railing. It’s a selfish thing, he scolds himself, to grieve over a place, over things and nostalgia for the past when so many have perished, but it’s another piece of kindling thrown into a raging funeral pyre. He grieves and he grieves.
Kazuma’s hand on his waist, the other cradling his palm. Ryunosuke surges into him, reckless and uncoordinated, and buries his sobbing face into his shoulder. He hates it as well, taking this much from Kazuma, especially when he feels him tremble against him, feels the way his own breath shudders. He knows his fear, unspoken as it may be. Kazuma always said how much of an open book Ryunosuke is, but he has his own tells, too.
Ryunosuke allows himself to be selfish. For a few seconds, for a minute. They’re both silent—maybe they both need it. With tear-muddled vision, he peers over Kazuma’s shoulder: that specter of smoke in the form of a demented unicorn, still arcing around the spire amongst a roiling sky. How do you possibly fight something that has no physical form?
The people of history did it once before. Bright light flickers from high in the western sky and the steaming beast lets out a deep roar that shakes the ground beneath them. Two lasers trained on it; one more incoming soon.
“I’m, I’m sorry,” Ryunosuke gasps out, sniveling. Kazuma’s wide eyes fall from Calamity Stronghart back down to Ryunosuke. Ryunosuke draws himself back, though Kazuma’s grasp lingers across his forearms, resting there under them. “I shouldn’t delay us any longer. We, we must keep going.”
Warm hands up to cradle his face, thumbs swiping at his cheeks. So delicate is Kazuma’s hold of him, like he’s afraid Ryunosuke will break right in two in front of him.
“…Look at me?” Kazuma asks, then, voice low and halting. Ryunosuke does—of course, he does: weariness carves into Kazuma face, fractures that confident speech of his. “…Our battle’s barely begun. Hold your head up, partner.” A beat, then: “I need you to.”
Ryunosuke nods against his hold.
Two lasers. One more shortly. If Sholmes’s estimation holds true, the fight will be more difficult—but not impossible. Realizable, in their favor, even. They just have to get there and face what’s to come.
They find another route towards the Sanctum, away from the numerous caved-in pathways and stalking Guardians. They try to hurry past the bodies they find strewn about against charred ground; if it’s nothing but a blur in their periphery, it’s easier to disassociate the horror of its reality.
“Hold!” they hear booming from above once they pass the twin defensive towers abutting the center walkway. “His Royal Highness Prince Ryunosuke and the Champion of Hyrule Kazuma have arrived!” It’s a decisive voice, loud and clearly enunciated—someone who must have been a herald at some point, Ryunosuke figures. A Hylian woman, wearing the customary Royal Guard’s beret on her head, steps out from behind the merlon and bows.
There’s shuffling against stone, and Ryunosuke watches as arrowheads withdraw from their slits in the parapets. A chorus of exhalations and murmurs follow—relief, at the suggestion of an end to the suffering with their arrival. Ryunosuke only hopes they can deliver. One of them blows a signaling clarion.
“The path is clear,” the woman says. “There are no Guardians past this point. We’ve made sure of it.”
Ryunosuke notices how her face tightens when she looks at Darumy. “Oh,” he says quickly, “he’s safe, trust me.” It’s not as though he can blame her for the suspicion at all, after everything. For how doggedly they’ve been protecting this area, any Guardian presence must raise anxiety.
She bows again. “Of course. May the Goddess Hylia’s light shine upon you, Your Highness.”
With a sinking feeling in his stomach and a nod, they leave down the winding path. Sure enough, the area is quiet—so still, it’s almost stifling. A twisted calmness, air electric like right before a tempest surges.
“S-Something isn’t right,” Ryunosuke mutters, eyes darting about. No, not when the beast still swirls above and the blackened magenta saturates the ground—yet, there are no signs of any Guardians having been here at all. Not a single broken machine or scorched earth. The royal pendants still fly, unmarred. Were the knights really able to cease the Guardians’ assault up to this point?
“Agreed,” Kazuma says with knitted brows and his hand wrapped tightly around Karuma’s hilt. “Keep your wits about you.”
Ryunosuke has to scrunch his nose as they walk the length of the main path; the sludge grows more ubiquitous, permeating the area with its fetid stench. The air feels stagnant. While the walkway stays silent, he hears commotion up ahead.
Something moves in his periphery once they reach the stone columns that run adjacent to the path. Ryunosuke presses a hand to his mouth, stifles the fearful yelp that rips itself out of his throat. Slithering around the ichor that covers one of the bird statues: a black void of an eyeball, with a jaundiced iris and a flaming-red pupil slitting the center. And it’s not just the one, he realizes: a cluster of smaller eyes all slide open amongst the tar.
“Bow,” Kazuma says, making a grabbing motion with his hand. But by the time Ryunosuke is able to navigate the Slate to the weapons, Darumy’s charging laser speeds up and he fires a bright beam straight through the eyeball. It explodes with an ear-ringing pop before its expelled droplets evaporate into dark mist, the rest of the sludge following close behind.
“Do, do you think that was Calamity Stronghart watching?” Ryunosuke asks after giving an encouraging pat to the top of Darumy’s head. His eyes lift to the monster above. The way it continues to circle with little aim other than to periodically open its massive maw and roar, he almost wants to describe it as being mindless. But if the thing is shrewd enough to be doing reconnaissance, then…
“Hard to tell,” Kazuma says, securing the bow and quiver to his belts. “Whether it’s connected to it or another monster on its own, nothing good can come from a scout.”
Ryunosuke agrees, and when they push forward past the other mires, he can’t help the distinct feeling of being watched.
There’s a large group of Royal Guardspeople gathered atop the raised plinth outside the Sanctum’s entrance when they arrive. “Attention!” one of the knights yells as they drop to their knee. “We are in the presence of His Royal Highness and the Champion!”
It’s a ripple of genuflections: the Royal Guard part like the layers of the Earth being peeled back, until all that remains is the rancid core in front of them. Viscous streams of the magenta ichor cover the façades and seep down from the rooftops of the giant castle spire, blocking any and all entryways. They can’t see in; whoever—or whatever—that’s trapped inside can’t see out, either.
A shroud of vague familiarity drapes over the group—faces he remembers passing by around the castle. So many names he doesn’t know, either, he realizes. He’ll have to rectify this, once this is all over, especially since the reconstruction efforts will undoubtedly bring them all to work closely with one another.
It’s a relief to see familiar faces around him, but he continues to search, combing through the crowd for certain individuals. He’s surveyed them all, only to come up short. His father’s retinue: absent.
“Ah, you’ve arrived, Your Highness,” comes from the person standing at the front of the crowd—an older man with ginger hair that frames his face. He wears the navy cape tabard and cap of the Royal Guard, but his physical stature betrays someone who has long since delighted in the pleasure of retirement from active duty; his half-completed uniform is stretched and ill-fitting, incongruent with everyday wear. Ryunosuke can recognize this man, too—it’s hard not to, for the bushy mustache and muttonchops are instantly striking—but his name escapes him. He’s worked closely with his father, he knows this for certain.
He must read Ryunosuke’s confused face because he says, “My name is Pop Windibank, Your Highness. At your service.” He dips his head again. “I would say it’s a pleasure, but…” Windibank looks back at the Sanctum for a moment, before yanking a handkerchief from his pocket and fiercely dabbing at his forehead. By the way the cloth is stained through already, Ryunosuke can’t imagine it’s doing much to soak up the sweat at this point.
That’s right: Pop Windibank, the Lord High Treasurer. Ryunosuke sees his normal court robes peeking out from under the uniform instead of the usual ruby shirt. He leans on a long bow as if using a cane for support, and Ryunosuke remembers a story passed around about how in his youth, Windibank made a name for himself when he single-handedly struck down a flock of wily Keese that descended on one of the garrisons—a single arrow through each frantically flying eye, earning him the moniker “One Arrow Windibank”. With how long it’s been, Ryunosuke wonders if those skills still hold.
Windibank frowns, shifting uncomfortably. “Y-Yes, while I’m not getting any younger, I assure you I can still shoot with the best of them. These skills aren’t easily forgotten—they don’t call me ‘Pop’ for nothing!” He shifts his spectacles.
“Lord Windibank,” Ryunosuke says, staring at the thick sludge that blocks the entrance to the Throne Room. Something calls out to him from beyond, voiceless yet magnetic all the same: to come closer, closer. He has to tear his eyes away from it—any further, and he fears he’ll be sucked into its gravitational pull utterly. With desperation: “Please tell me. My father—is he in there?”
The way Windibank shrinks into himself, averting his gaze as he swipes that rag across his forehead once more, is enough of an answer in itself to make Ryunosuke’s stomach knot. “…I am quite afraid so, Your Highness,” he says, voice taut. His chest heaves, body quivering, as he squeezes his eyes shut. Clasped hands up to his chest, he shakes them with a fervency. “It’s all my fault, too! I lost track of time; our meeting ran long and delayed His Majesty’s supper. He insisted on personally fetching files from within the Sanctum…”
With a particularly surprising deftness, Windibank pulls out an arrow from his quiver then tosses the bow that was leaning against his leg into his hands in one fluid motion. He holds it aloft, wood and arrowhead facing his own body. Ryunosuke flinches back. Frantic, Windibank says, “If anything were to happen to His Majesty due to my incompetence, I’ll waste no time turning the bow on myself!”
Ryunosuke feels his heart pound in his ears. His eyes dart between Windibank’s morbid show and Kazuma, who looks near ready to pounce and catch his hand were he to fire. “L-Lord Windibank!” Ryunosuke sputters. “That, that’s beyond unnecessary! There’s been far too many casualties tonight as it is!”
“Indeed…” Windibank sighs out, relaxing his draw and lowering the bow completely.
Ryunosuke feels himself slump over in a relief that doesn’t feel all that stress-alleviating. He looks back towards the Sanctum. That compulsion, so strong. “His retinue is inside there, as well?” he asks, but his attention is divided, pulled at the seams.
Windibank hums a confirmation, albeit still dejected. “That’s correct… The one relief that I can offer is they’re there to protect him. Him, and all the others that were unfortunate enough to have been in the Sanctum and were taken hostage…”
That point is almost too much to wrap his head around: the others that might be trapped inside, just as taken by surprise—the workers, the nobles, the guards. People who’ve passed him in the halls for years. Who knows how many more could still be inside? Calamity Stronghart smothered the Sanctum immediately, most likely crystallized it with the dark ichor shortly after, as if preserving its quarry in amber. Nowhere to run, just like those in Castle Town who woke up besieged by flame and lasers—the realization already much too late.
But, they’re in there. Calling for him—he feels it. If only he can just reach out and—
There’s a pair of hands pulling his arm back when he jolts awake, as if startled out from a deep dream. Kazuma and Windibank linger with their holds until Windibank flinches back. Kazuma’s looking at him with that same expression of incensed concern he always does whenever Ryunosuke displays a particular lack of judgement. Ryunosuke’s head throbs; pressure pushes at his temple, wanting to crack open.
“A-Apologies, Your Highness,” Windibank says, reaching for his handkerchief again. “However, it would be in your best interests to not touch the malice. It’s highly caustic. A young man had some fall on him earlier and well…” He worries his lip, swiping the handkerchief across his glistening forehead, down his reddened cheeks. “…Suffice to say, the lad will be living a much different life now.”
Ryunosuke shivers at the thought, down to his very bones. “Sorry, you called it malice?” The stuff bubbles and ripples, slick like an oil spill. He can’t deny that it’s a fitting name; it both looks and smells malicious, sure enough. “Do you know what it is?”
Windibank shakes his head. “All we know is it spewed out from Calamity Stronghart—plenty of the knights can attest to that. We took to calling it malice due to its corrosive nature, as if it’s the physical manifestation of the beast’s wrath. Other than it being dangerous, we don’t know much beyond that.”
It came directly from Calamity Stronghart… Ryunosuke thinks of the monsters sculpted with malice—how Karuma sliced through them with incredible ease. He turns to Kazuma, urging, “Use Karuma to try to cut through the wall!”
Kazuma recoils, gaping at Ryunosuke like he’s gone even more mad. “Wh-What are you—” But the resolute look on Ryunosuke’s face makes any objection die on his tongue. He lifts Karuma: imbued with holy light. She buzzes in his grasp. He can hear a low humming from deep within her blade—quiet, but still frantic in tempo. He meets Ryunosuke’s gaze and nods.
Kazuma’s tentative when he positions the blade tip up to the malice. At a mere touch, the malice begins to roil and steam, screeching out at a shrill frequency. He applies more pressure, and the blade slips through the mire like it’s water. He pulls down—a slim incision pierced fully through.
The group waits, watches with baited breath. The cut holds for a moment, then a moment more. Slowly, then, threads of malice begin to grow within the open space, suturing itself up, until the slit closes itself once more.
“Do, do you suppose we can continue to cut through it somehow?” Ryunosuke asks.
Kazuma makes a noncommittal noise. “I don’t know. Perhaps Karuma can cut through it enough before it can mend itself—it took some time to regenerate, so it’s clearly susceptible.”
Ryunosuke nods. “It’d be worth it to at least try. Even if we can only get a look inside, we’d get a better idea of what the situation is.”
Kazuma says, “Agreed. Stay behind me.” The way his tense expression carves into his face betrays the unspoken words: In case there’s something waiting for them. In case there’s something else waiting that he shouldn’t see.
With a tentative nod, Ryunosuke does, and Kazuma lifts his head high, raising his voice when he says, “We’ll need everyone to be ready once there’s an opening. It may take several attempts to let someone go in, but we must be prepared for anything beyond this wall.”
Ryunosuke can hear Windibank swallow. He takes his bow into his hands, then faces the group of Royal Guards. “You heard the Champion! Take defensive position!”
Worried chatter breaks out amongst the knights, but they still fan out, weapons raised and ready. Ryunosuke draws in a shaky breath. Dread sits like lead in his stomach. He swears he hears a clock ticking inside.
Their surroundings grow darker—a shadowed pall draped over the castle. Ryunosuke’s eyes lift instantly and sitting there, bridging across a churning red sky, is a single white beam from the west.
“Wh-What—” The word rips out of Ryunosuke’s throat. “Champion Jigoku’s laser, it’s, it’s—”
Kazuma curses loud enough that the sound echoes off the walls; there’s sounds of confusion from the knights around them. Sholmes’s estimations from two evenings before ring in Ryunosuke’s thoughts: one missing laser may still be enough to suppress Calamity Stronghart, but two begs an infinitely more troubling question. And if three are missing—
Three missing. Where is Ursavra?
“Kazuma, I, I don’t think—”
With a yell, Kazuma thrusts Karuma into the wall of malice. Then, another. Long strokes carving through boiling sludge, again and again and again. An ear-piercing treble off the malice, giving way defenselessly to the Blade of Evil’s Bane.
Ryunosuke reaches for the mouse communicator with shaky hands. Words spilling out rapidly: “Champion Jigoku, are you there?! What happened?! Champion Jigoku!”
The response is nothing. Just silence and static and—
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The Slate rings on Ryunosuke’s hip. Red flashes from its screen: a distress signal from Vah Medoh. It repeats and it repeats and—
Distraught and confused commotion erupts from the Royal Guard. Kazuma’s still cleaving through malice, growing desperation and anger in every motion. There’s enough of an opening for Ryunosuke to see into the elevated parts of the Throne Room: the giant bird statue with its massive wings held aloft, the king’s empty throne and his own seat knocked over by its plinth.
There’s a tug from the doll. Sholmes wastes no time on extraneous preamble when the static clears, voice as dire and panicked as Ryunosuke’s ever heard him speak: “It seems as though we’ve been led straight into an ambush.” The signal clicks off before he gets the chance to respond.
Mind spinning, Ryunosuke can’t even begin to feel the full depth of that declaration because a portion of the malice wall sloughs off and noxious fumes flood out of the Throne Room, like an infected cyst rupturing. Decaying, rancid. Concentrated, it penetrates through his makeshift bandana and he has to clasp a hand over his mouth to try not to vomit. By the sounds behind him, some of the Royal Guard weren’t as successful.
“St—Stay vigilant, everyone!” Windibank yells, despite the way his voice careens. He holds his bow with shaky hands.
Kazuma continues to carve off more malice, seemingly immune from the stench as whatever force driving him overpowers all else. It plops to the ground in steaming globs.
And then he stops.
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Darumy chitters, scampering behind Ryunosuke. His claws grip at the leg of his pants, metal shaking against metal. An icy chill seems to sweep out of the castle. With the taste of iron on his tongue, Ryunosuke peers over Kazuma’s shoulder.
Blood stains the ornate flooring. Roiling masses lay atop the deep crimson—decomposing sinew and melting bone protruding out of a smother of malice. Vaguely human. Vaguely resembling something once living at all.
At the center of it all: a broken heap on the ground. Peculiarly free from malice, a jagged gash of a wound rends the deformed corpse. A ringed hand limp against the tile, a golden crown laid askew.
Ryunosuke feels himself scream, but nothing comes out. The constriction of his throat kills whatever sound that attempts to escape. The King of Hyrule—his father—is dead. All of them trapped within this room—they’re all dead.
Shrieks and cries peal out from behind him. They feel distant, drowned out. Some run, weapons clanging against stone. Others order their fellow knights to stay. Most are silent, frozen in place, just like Ryunosuke is.
Ryunosuke nearly misses the pulsing column of malice looming over the body through all the chaos. He notices too late that it’s taken to the shape of a Hylian—but only just so. The thing writhes, pushing and pressing against its form, as if trying to escape the humanoid suit it wears. Each movement is sharp and abrupt. Unnatural. One interval to the next.
It resembles an older boy—late teens, most likely. Hair pulled back into a half-up, half-down ponytail. A svelte, athletic body. A sword held in its hand, cross guard made of two wing-like structures that resemble the bird statue sitting above. The face squashes and stretches. Unstable.
Is that Calamity Stronghart? This boy? Legends speculated that it was once a man, long ago. Before it was corrupted by a lust for power, unrecognizably warped by maliciousness until it resembled nothing mortal at all. Ryunosuke can’t help but feel something’s off with the deduction.
It jerks its head to a lift. Two glowing red eyes blazing within the undulating malice stare back at them. It cocks its head, position changing like a second hand ticks over.
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“H-Hold your f-fire!” Windibank ekes out. “S-Stay ready!”
Karuma gleams even brighter. Ryunosuke can see Kazuma’s arm shake with the force of it. He tenses in front of him, digging in his heels.
The wall of malice begins to slowly stitch itself back together, from the top first. The form inside the Throne Room distorts—physique bulking, growing taller, wider. The hair morphs into a spiked crest at the back, blunt bangs framing its monstrous face. It holds a blade that lengthens—long and thin and slightly curved.
The clouds churn, darkening the sky further. The dark-smoked unicorn above roars something bone-liquifying; Ryunosuke feels his knees almost buckle under him. Low rumbles of thunder shake the scarlet firmament, growing louder and more frequent. The cold, large drops that land on Ryunosuke’s forehead barely register when he feels like he can barely breathe.
The sick simulacrum of Kazuma squares its shoulders towards the shrinking exit. Its form strains against itself. A thunderclap peals in the distance.
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Malice spews out from the figure. Kazuma braces Karuma out in front of him, the divine blade slicing through the ichor and providing a shield as the shining blade repels its wrath. Heat ripples off the surging malice, as blistering as standing within a raging kiln. Ryunosuke clings to the back of Kazuma’s tunic, but they’re both shoved back with the force of it, sliding against the stone.
It’s instant: one moment, Windibank was standing to their side and the next, he’s gone completely. Screams from Royal Guardspeople get cut off abruptly around them, leaving only a tiny fraction remaining when the malice wall sutures itself shut and ceases the onslaught.
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To the left, to the right: utterly covered in steaming, seething malice. Only a conoidal area behind Kazuma remains untouched—a small island of sanctuary between ruin and death. The only things left to identify where soldiers stood before are some longer polearms that remain visible sticking out from the muck, quickly descending as wood and iron get eaten away.
Ryunosuke watches as the malice to their side begins to sink. “K-Kazuma,” he forces out, white-knuckling the fabric of Kazuma’s tunic.
Windibank was there—he was just right there. How could this have happened?!
“Karuma?! Wh-What—” Kazuma’s voice: stripped raw. Shoulders trembling.
Ryunosuke’s blood runs cold at the sound. He sees the blade: marred with sickly black, steel corroded and edges chipped. He’s never seen Kazuma this fearful.
The sides of the walkway begin to collapse; rocks tumble off the bridge, plunging into the moat below. Darumy beeps, rapid. “K-Kazuma!” He yanks Kazuma’s arm, but Kazuma doesn’t move—doesn’t even seem to register it at all, just gaping at the blighted blade. The stone below them buckles. He yells, “We have to go, now!”
That snaps Kazuma out of his reverie. With wide eyes, he looks as the structure grows thinner, then spins around, grabs Ryunosuke’s wrist with his free hand, and runs.
The stone gives way like a tsunami crashing behind them. Unstable ground crumples underfoot as they sprint. One second they’re watching the remaining Royal Guard running ahead of them and then, the world turns upside down as they fall.
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Everything spins when Ryunosuke cracks open his eyes. They’ve landed on caved-in rock, narrowly missing the depths of the freezing water surrounding the castle. Ringing in his ears and the taste of blood in his mouth. The rain hurts as it falls.
He pushes himself up to sit, though his ribs cry out with the movement. From what he can see: ripped clothing, skin torn and red and stinging underneath, but nothing severe. He’s fine; he’ll have to be, but—
He searches for Kazuma, but thick dust not yet settled from the collapse shrouds the space. He hacks out a cough. He feels a tug within him—not far away. Crawling around on his hands and knees and, oh, he winces as he puts pressure on his ankle. He’s fine, he tells himself, he’ll push through it, because Kazuma—
Rubble shifts and falls over. Black crested hair jolts forward as Kazuma curls into himself on the ground. Karuma’s left abandoned a foot away, a dimmed light. Ryunosuke’s hands find their way to Kazuma, urging him to say he’s okay, for him to get up, through all the pained groans. There’s a gash on his waist—tunic split open—but from what Ryunosuke can tell, it doesn’t look deep.
Kazuma coughs out an “I’m alright,” waving a hand in dismissal. Similar abrasions are scattered under his ripped clothing, raw and angry, and Ryunosuke offers to drag out a healing elixir from the Sheikah Slate, but Kazuma refuses. His touch lingers even after he helps Kazuma sit up, afraid to let go.
A warble of a beep reverberates against the warped sounds of rain pattering around them—a syncopated lament under a pile of rubble and ruin. And for what has to be the thousandth time this night, Ryunosuke’s heart sinks. He scrambles over, desperately pawing at broken stone and scree, and scraping away dirt from scratched metal. Darumy’s exposed below: a dent in his head casing; one of his small limbs sliced off at the wrist, exposed wires sparking; a large crack on its back.
But still operational. Still intact. Still functioning enough to give off a discordant chime when his sapphire eye registers Ryunosuke’s teary-eyed face, no matter how broken the sound. Ryunosuke scoops the small Guardian into his arms, presses his cheek against the cool metal. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” he murmurs into his hull.
Darumy’s fixable; Iris can work miracles with a wrench and a tenacity that only a nine-year-old genius can contain. Looks are only surface deep.
Besides, Darumy’s spunk still burns just as bright as it would if he was wearing a polished, new coat. The stubborn thing has the audacity to protest when Ryunosuke gets out the Slate, despite the condition he’s in—still furiously beeps at him even as he gets stored safely inside of it. But even as Ryunosuke wipes his eyes with the palm of his hand, he doesn’t regret it. There’ve been enough unnecessary casualties tonight. No more.
There’s a pull from the mouse doll. The way his stomach sinks like a body weighed down to drown already feels enough of a confirmation of his fears for who’s behind the line. Ursavra’s labored voice fights against the static: “—hart’s sent an ambush—’s fast—be able to manage agai—”
His hand tremors. He almost drops the doll. “Ur-Ursavra?!” he yells, but there’s no response other than the screams of exertion and battle and, he hopes—prays—victory. The line cuts out.
The chill that cuts through his body sharper than any knife makes him feel faint. He feels Kazuma take ahold of his hand, but his fingertips are foreign—buzzing, frozen stiff. Maybe Kazuma says something to him, or maybe he doesn’t—he can’t hear it over the way his ears ring.
They’re being attacked within the Divine Beasts. No one else can access the interior unless the pilots manually provide entry. A trap to the castle, a trap to weapons that were their clear path to success—ones they relied on utterly. And they all can fight, surely—being skilled in combat was one of the requirements of becoming a Champion—so maybe they can rally—maybe they can—
There’s bile on the ground and a burning sensation down his throat and Kazuma’s grip on his arm and another hand stroking his back in a way much too aggressive to be soothing, but it’s a comfort still, somehow. He pieces together the patchwork of words escaping through barred teeth that he can comprehend: can’t wait, vulnerable, have to move. Kazuma’s yanking him to his feet. Something explodes above; the earth shakes.
Ryunosuke slaps his cheeks. Kazuma’s right. They can’t stay here. They can’t remain at the castle anymore, not without the Divine Beasts. Not without the sealing powers—certainly, not without both. And Karuma—no, they have to retreat now, because the only other option is to—
His eyes land on a dead member of the Royal Guard laying across the way, the ground under their head a mess of red.
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They run. Scrambling over exposed sediment and goddess knows what else mingled within. Castle Town nothing more than a raging inferno in front of them, barely deterred by the falling rain—Guardians snaking through the flame and trampling over a graveyard left abandoned by the deity the living had once pledged their fealty to.
Somehow, the eastern hidden passageway’s entrance is only mostly collapsed in—a close fit, but they can just barely squeeze through the tightly-packed rubble if they try hard enough. It’s a gamble, this path: avoid the Guardian-infested wasteland above to escape, yet risk a blocked off exit at the end. But, Castle Town is a razed conflagration, with nothing to offer as salvation or protection. Better a small chance than one forgone.
Ryunosuke only dares to take a final look back right before he descends into the tunneled darkness. Calamity Stronghart blazes above, unfettered and all-powerful, as it ascends the Sanctum’s lofty spire once more—a blackened watchtower of malice and ruin.
Castle Town decimated. Hyrule Castle usurped. The capital, the bastion of enterprise and social convergence, the place Ryunosuke grew up in and called home—all gone in a single night.
Ryunosuke ducks into the tunnel. The clock tower chimes. Time’s up.