Far behind the highlands of the Kingdom of Yurelda, the earth opened into a wound that no map dared mark.The cavern stretched wider than the horizon, swallowing sound and light alike. And there, suspended in its hollow throat, hung a city turned on its head.
Towers jutted downward like spears, bridges dangled into the void, and entire streets clung to the cavern roof as if the world above had been ripped free and nailed here in defiance of reason. Water flowed in reverse, streams climbing toward the ceiling before dissolving into drifting silver mist. Shards of stone floated sideways, trapped in a gravity that had forgotten the laws of the earth.
At the heart of it all, an inverted temple hung above the abyss — vast, black, and whole, its gates yawning downward like the open jaws of an ancient beast. Its walls pulsed faintly with a light that was neither fire nor sun, as if the structure itself breathed in the dark.
Beneath it, silence ruled. Only the faint rhythm of dripping water echoed, falling upward into the unseen sky.
Then came the sound — the soft flutter of wings, the scrape of boots against stone. Someone was returning.
A faint shimmer rippled across the cavern's inverted expanse as the figure descended from the upper bridges, boots touching the stone with a sharp echo. Her cloak trailed behind her, black fabric rippling against the windless dark.
"Ugh," she muttered, tugging the collar forward. "These robes again. Who designed them? Certainly not anyone with wings."
The faintest glint of silver light caught on her chest — the Inverted Lotus, stitched in thread so bright it seemed alive. As she straitended her wings unfurled with a rustle of glass — translucent and rainbowed, like oil over water. The glow shifted with every breath she took, scattering color against the black stone before she folded them back with visible annoyance.
Her hair, ash-blonde and wavy, fell in strands over her shoulders, dulled by dust. Her eyes shimmered faintly in the half-light — iridescent, impossible to define, the full spectrum of color condensed into a single stare that burned with boredom.
"Always empty," she sighed, looking down the crooked hall. "Always quiet. No wonder Akame prefers to stay in the capital."
A sound answered — click... click... click.
From the far end of the corridor, someone sat in his crooked posture, pale hands busy with his art. He turned a small bone between his fingers, the motion slow, tender, deliberate.
He didn't look up at first. Only when she passed into the light did his lips curl faintly.
"You're back," he said softly, the words nearly melodic. "Weren't you assigned to observe the boy with Akame?"
She clicked her tongue. "We're done. If something happens, Akame can handle it. I needed air… or whatever this counts as."
She started to walk past him, then stopped, her voice sharper now — half irritation, half challenge. "Besides… why are you never doing anything?"
Her eyes caught the faint lantern glow as she turned to him. "Azrael."
The name fell into the silence like a blade dropped in water — soft, but heavy enough to ripple through the air.
He finally looked up. Beneath the uneven strands of black hair, his pale face tilted just slightly. The light caught on his horns, tracing their jagged curve, and then reached his eyes — wrong, unnatural eyes, where black sclera and white iris reversed the order of creation itself.
Azrael's fingers never stopped moving. The bone rolled over his knuckles with slow, graceful precision — a motion too practiced to be idle. When he finally spoke, his voice came low, smooth, and unsettlingly calm.
"Oh, but I'm doing plenty," he murmured, the faintest smile ghosting across his lips. "You just can't see it. Silence says more than noise ever could."
The bones clicked gently between his fingers, almost rhythmic. "I simply prefer what's left when everything else has rotted away."
The faint lantern glow catching on the curve of his horns, sliding across his pale cheek. His strange eyes glimmered briefly. "There's beauty in that. Don't you see it?"
She folded her arms, wings twitching slightly as if recoiling from his words."I never understood why our leader let you join us."
A quiet laugh escaped him. "Oh, honey," he murmured, "I was here before you."
Her brows arched. "Of course you were." She brushed past one of the hanging lanterns, its light scattering across the folds of her cloak. "Where is everyone, then?"
"The leader's in the temple," Azrael said. "As usual. The rest are away. You know how it is — everyone has something to do."
She exhaled sharply, frustration threading through her tone.
"You sound disappointed." He said.
"I am disappointed," she replied. "Everyone has something far more exciting to do! Even Ryuma is off scouting the West, and I was stuck for far too long babysitting that boy with Akame."
Azrael's grin deepened, faint and serene, like a priest smiling over an open grave. "You should relax, little fairy. Envy makes the heart ugly."
He tilted his head and was blushing a bit.
"But if the boredom hurts that much… I could always preserve you. A single Fairy would make my collection truly exquisite."
Her wings twitched with disgust. "You're vile."
"How sweet of you." he murmured.
She brushed past him without another glance, boots striking the stone in clipped rhythm as she headed toward the temple's inner sanctum.
The echo of her steps stretched into the cavern's throat as she moved deeper.Columns jutted downward like fangs, their roots twisting through the stone, alive with faint veins of light. The air grew colder, heavier — touched by something sacred and wrong.
Ahead, the inverted temple loomed in full: its spires tangled with ancient roots, its walls etched in sigils that pulsed like veins. Water drifted upward in slow streams from a vast black pool beneath it, returning endlessly to its surface as if time itself looped here.
She stopped at the pool's edge. The air here felt different — thick, alive, watching.For the first time since she entered the cavern, her wings fell still. The restless flick of annoyance that usually marked her every movement was gone.
When she stepped forward, it was with care. Her voice — once sharp and impatient — softened into something disciplined. Almost reverent.
She went to one knee. Her head bowed low, strands of hair slipping forward to touch the stone.
"My lord," she said quietly. "I am here to deliver my report."
The words carried through the chamber, swallowed by the pool's reflection and the ancient pulse of the sigils around them.
The figure beyond the water did not move. Cloaked, faceless, the light bent around them instead of upon them. From the walls, the sigils brightened once — a slow, rhythmic pulse that seemed to answer her voice.
"Speak," came the command, deep and low, distorted by the hollow around them.
"Observation complete," she reported. "Akame remains there — and she is still with him. The boy is… developing."
A pause. The faint drip of upward-falling water marked the silence.
"The surface grows unstable," she continued. "There's talk of rebellion from the lower crecents."
The cloaked figure's reply came like a ripple through glass. "Do not intervene. The cracks serve us. The rebellion's goal is selfish — born of greed, not truth. It does not collide with ours, but it pushes the world where it must go. Every fracture is progress. Let them widen."
She inclined her head. "Understood. So Akame was correct."
The faint hum in the chamber deepened, light running along the etched sigils like veins beneath skin — dim, alive, aware.
"Your obedience is noted," the voice said. "You wonder why the word of the Lotus was spread now, do you not?"
She hesitated. "If I may ask, my lord… why was it so important now? Why not before, when the balance still held?"
The reflection in the water stirred — a ripple without cause. "The balance is a lie," the voice said. "The world above begins to doubt its reflection. And when the sky questions what lies beneath, the Lotus must remind it. It must bloom again before we rise — and the time is correct."
The pool shivered once more, water spiraling upward like breath drawn from the deep.
She bowed her head deeper. "Understood."
But her voice lingered, softer now. "And the boy… is he truly worth observing? Akame deems him a threat. I fear he might—"
The answer came before she could finish. "Let Akame be. He alone knows what he intends."
Her thoughts flickered, uneasy. He already knew? Of course he did.
The figure's tone lowered, almost to a whisper. "As for the boy with the mismatched eyes… he will realize it himself, soon enough."
The sigils dimmed, their pulse fading to a slow, steady rhythm — the heartbeat of the inverted world.
She bowed one final time and turned to leave, her reflection breaking across the black water as the chamber fell silent once more.
When she stood to leave, the sigils dimmed until only the Inverted Lotus carved into the temple floor remained aglow, beating softly in the dark like a living heart.