Jaime absorbed the lingering faith of the dead that filled the several-meter-wide bowl.

  His descent felt suspended in slow motion, divine sight calculating every shift in motion—every undulation of corrupted flesh, every skeletal hand tightening around pale, writhing viscera.

  He hefted the energy-dense macuahuitl. His steps upon the air were effortless, the world itself stabilizing beneath him as if acknowledging his authority. Reality eased his path toward the insect abomination.

  The currents of wind parted before the ocean of faith surrounding him. His vision adjusted, shifting from calculated futures back to the tangible present.

  Time resumed its natural tempo as Jaime closed in.

  Mictlantecuhtli wrestled the dead faith within the macuahuitl into something resembling fragile control—a balance Jaime strained to maintain. At the same time, Cimikora guided his divine radiance, preventing it from being completely devoured by the consuming murk of death.

  Jaime struck.

  The horizontal slash cleaved cleanly through the grotesque creature.

  Its foul ichor was obliterated before it could spill free, erased by the devouring faith embedded in the blade. Trees within a ten-meter radius suffered the consequence of Jaime’s imperfect mastery. Black, putrid energy lashed outward, rapidly decaying bark and leaves as vitality was stripped away.

  Even the thick, oppressive fog that had gathered in the forest dispersed. The dead faith devoured corruption indiscriminately—a detail Mictlantecuhtli ensured with malicious delight.

  The god cackled inside Jaime’s mind, preening over the destruction wrought by his power.

  “Excellent. You have not disappointed me completely, chosen.”

  Mictlantecuhtli’s voice reverberated through Jaime’s skull, heavy with force even in approval. The god’s obnoxious reliance on dominance was present even in whispers. Jaime had been unable to show displeasure before.

  He would not ignore it forever.

  Still, this display proved something. It demonstrated his potential—his ferocity. Jaime did not intend to remain merely a vessel. He would carve his own path forward, and this was a step in that direction.

  Even Cimikora, who guided him so relentlessly, would need to grant him space to grow.

  This would prove he was ready to stand on his own.

  His sister did not need to carry every burden alone.

  It was strange to be twins, yet feel so distant.

  Believing the battle concluded as the severed halves of the insect were slowly engulfed by residual dead faith, Jaime lifted his gaze to search for Sol.

  He found him quickly.

  Sol was being harried by strange bipedal insects within a dense cloud of swirling mist. His movements were clumsy. He coughed violently, hacking within his armor.

  Concern flickered through Jaime.

  He inhaled, preparing to dash toward him—

  Then he heard it.

  A sickening, wet sound behind him.

  At first, he assumed it to be a lingering skeleton shifting in the dying pool of faith.

  It was not.

  Much to his renewed embarrassment, the monstrous insect was still alive.

  The dead faith that had filled the bowl—faith he had just absorbed into his decisive strike—was gone. Spent completely. He had even felt fortunate the macuahuitl survived the attack.

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  Now, the abhorrent corruption gathering behind him swept away any satisfaction he had felt.

  A glare would not be enough to evaporate this obscenity.

  The worm-like lower half of the creature had been mostly consumed by the dead faith. The skeletons that had done the grisly work remained as scattered remnants—limbs and skulls still tearing reflexively at soft inner hemolymph.

  But the upper, heavily armored segment had severed itself from the afflicted portion.

  It had survived annihilation by sacrificing a part of itself—avoiding being returned to zero.

  The wound writhed like living shadow. Corruption exploded outward in both quantity and density, a suffocating torrent of power that pressed even against Jaime’s reinforced form.

  The torn section did not simply regenerate.

  It transformed.

  Bone fused with exoskeleton in a grotesque synthesis—vertebrae interlocking with chitin in unnatural symmetry.

  The abrupt surge of corruption staggered Jaime mid-step.

  If not for Cimikora’s shriek in his mind and Mictlantecuhtli’s furious roar, the bipedal shape forming before him would have already claimed his head.

  A scythe-like limb lashed toward him.

  Jaime raised his unstable macuahuitl just in time. The collision sent violent tremors through his arms. The hatred radiating from the creature’s compound eyes made his skin crawl.

  Its gaze was invasive.

  Measuring.

  Analyzing.

  It was doing exactly what he had done—searching for weakness.

  Through his divine sight, Jaime saw the moment it committed to its next strike.

  The massive scythe forelimbs, grotesquely oversized compared to its newly compact form, blurred with terrifying speed. Afterimages trailed in their wake as it attacked again.

  There was no easy path to evade at this range.

  So Jaime abandoned the ground entirely.

  His wings reformed from the scattered feathers buried in the earth, assembling seamlessly across his back. With a powerful beat, he launched skyward, gaining speed and maneuverability as he ascended.

  Below him, the newly regenerated abomination adjusted its stance.

  And prepared to follow.

  -

  Sol dragged in a desperate breath just as his lungs threatened to collapse.

  The suffocating miasma that had clung to him so persistently dispersed without warning. The swirling, multicolored fog thinned and evaporated as though some greater force had torn it apart. Even the strange bipedal insects harassing him seemed momentarily stunned.

  The opening was all he needed.

  Sol dashed away, widening the distance before dropping to one knee to steady himself.

  Tezcalotl moved swiftly within him, blue flames coursing through his veins as the spirit purged the lingering toxins once more. Huehueteotl gathered faith in silence, preparing his timeless divinity should Sol require the perception to react again.

  The rapid succession of events had overwhelmed him. He had been utterly unable to respond to the miasma that nearly choked the life from his body.

  The realization settled heavily.

  He could have died—multiple times already.

  The thought rooted him in place.

  A cold sensation spread through his chest, tightening his breath more effectively than the poison had. The replay of recent moments looped mercilessly in his mind: the hallucinations, the frozen world, the sickle inches from his eye.

  Even his spirit guide and patron god faded into background noise against the echoing doubt.

  Sol had never believed himself a coward.

  But he had been thrust into something far larger than reason could justify. He had not chosen this world of gods and corruption.

  He had chosen to protect the people around him.

  Was that enough?

  He had watched Bahía Oscura grow. He knew the labor the three lesser gods had poured into forging stability and comfort for their people. And yet, he had treated his own role with competition—as though it were a test of pride rather than a crushing responsibility.

  Why was his mind still locked, even after Tezcalotl’s cleansing?

  Sol did not fight the stillness.

  Instead, he breathed.

  Slowly.

  He steadied his heart and reinforced his conviction.

  This world was merciless. Only through the divine could fear and insecurity truly be burned away. If that path demanded hardship, then he would endure it.

  He would strive higher.

  For his people.

  For his grandfather—the old blind man who had raised him and would undoubtedly scold him for faltering.

  For his apprentice, who chattered endlessly.

  For the hunters. The smiths. His village.

  What would they do if he surrendered now, without sacrifice?

  He reminded himself why he stood here at all.

  His gaze lifted to Jaime.

  The younger chosen had turned in his direction. Sol almost raised a hand in gratitude—

  Then the severed abomination moved.

  A scythe-like limb carved through the air with terrifying speed, narrowly missing Jaime. The strike was far faster than before.

  Sol’s hesitation evaporated.

  He had to help.

  At the very least, he could support Jaime.

  But as he stepped forward, movement cut him off.

  The smaller, grotesque siblings of the abomination shifted to block his path. Their narrow chitin covered torsos hunched as sickle-shaped appendages scraped together in anticipation.

  Their earlier stupor was gone, replaced by ravenous instinct.

  It was unfortunate they lacked the capacity to recognize danger.

  Otherwise, they might have noticed the phantom jaguar rising behind Sol.

  Tezcalotl manifested fully.

  A towering, spectral jaguar of blue flame emerged at Sol’s back, its presence vast and domineering. Fire roared upward toward the sky, bending the air with divine heat.

  The insects faltered.

  They had treated Sol as prey.

  Tezcalotl’s meow reverberated across the forest—no longer playful, but regal and furious. The sound carried immense dissatisfaction.

  Blue flames coiled around Sol’s form as the jaguar spirit prepared to demonstrate why they had erred in that assumption.