The explosion threw them back into the rusted ribs of a fallen harvester.
When the light cleared, Lyra was gone. Not dead—Pillars didn't die that easily—but her "Order" had retreated. The yellow mist had dissipated, revealing the massive iron door of the Source Core at the end of the corridor.
But the victory felt hollow. Sion was lying on the ground, his eyes rolled back, his skin almost translucent. The "Yearning" he had broadcasted had drained him of his own identity.
"Sion?" Kian knelt beside him, his cold facade finally crumbling. "Stay with me. The Core is right there. We can rewrite it. We can make the Record yours."
Sion's eyes flickered open. They weren't red anymore. They were White.
"The Architect... he wasn't trying to stop us, Kian," Sion whispered, his voice a dry rasp. "He was waiting for the 'Bridge.' The Surgeon didn't want to kill you. She wanted to 'Prepare' the vessel."
"What vessel?" Dante asked, his voice shaking.
Sion looked at Kian with a terrifying, Shakespearean pity.
"Me. He didn't make me a Mourner to feel for the world. He made me a Container for the world. The Pulse... it's not a weapon, Kian. It's the ink."
"And Arial is waiting for me to walk into the Core so he can finish the final chapter."
Kian looked at the massive iron door. It wasn't a goal anymore. It was a Trap.
From the shadows behind them, a low, rhythmic clapping echoed.
"Magnificent," a voice said. It wasn't Arial. It was Jude, the Architect of Walls. The third Pillar.
"You've delivered the Anchor right to the doorstep. Arial was right about you, Kian Ewan. You really are the most efficient 'Error' he ever designed."
Kian stood up, his jagged stone glowing with a dark, violent light. The "Pulse" group was broken, the city was burning, and they were standing at the heart of the machine.
"I'm not his design," Kian hissed, his voice echoing in the rusted halls of the Waste.
"And I'm going to break your door down with his own 'Anchor'."