Forty minutes before Solon completed his brutal cleansing, a profound, otherworldly silence descended upon Area E-56 of the mountain. Arike had walked into the deep, rugged gorge alone, fully aware of the mass of Vongers surging toward her.
As the first wave of crazed, muscle-bound addicts crested the ridge, Arike stopped. The light of the dreary afternoon seemed to dim around her, drawing all attention inward.
She did not draw a weapon. She did not raise a guard. Instead, she began to change.
A soft, internal purple and lime-green light, the color of turbulent wind and nascent life began to pulse beneath her dark skin. The black Acolyte uniform seemed to melt away, revealing her true form. Her skin deepened to the color of polished ebony, absorbing the light. Her thick, magnificent dreadlocks, adorned with cowrie shells and bits of bone, seemed to writhe and flow as if suspended in a low-gravity current.
She was cloaked in a flowing robe of royal purple and midnight blue, woven from what looked like layered leaves and mist . Her feet were bare upon the shattered earth, yet she looked utterly grounded, immovable.
Hanging upon a chain that rested against the sternum of the Soul Eater was a single, ancient brass key. This was the Key to the Gate of the Dead Ọna Ìsálú Òkú[1], a profound symbol of her lineage as the Incarnate of Òyá, the Yorùbá Orisha of winds, storms, and the passage between life and death. Her aura was not one of violence, but of absolute finality and peace, the terrifying calm that precedes a hurricane.
The Vongers, driven only by the primal urge for VETRA and slaughter, hesitated. Their VETRA-fueled mania was being overridden by a deep, atavistic fear. They could not conceptualize the woman before them, but their altered instincts screamed predator.
Arike simply walked forward, her movement silent and slow. The air around her began to swirl, not violently, but in a controlled, invisible current, carrying the scent of damp earth and ozone.
As she moved, she began to sing—a low, melodic dirge that was not heard through the ears, but felt in the hollow space beneath the ribs.
This was the call of the Orisha of the Wind, the gathering of those destined for the eternal current.
The Vongers, who moments ago were fearless maniacs, stopped dead. Their wide, drug glazed eyes became desperate, recognizing an invisible danger. They tried to retreat, to run sideways, to scramble back up the slope away from her unnerving peace.
But Arike controlled the wind, and the wind controlled the path of souls.
With a subtle mental command, Arike funneled the air itself. The Vongers were not physically blocked; instead, an invisible, overwhelming current pressed against them from all sides except the direction leading directly to Arike. They found themselves compelled—not by magic, but by a subtle, relentless force of nature—to walk straight toward the source of their terror.
As the first, most terrified Vonger stumbled within ten feet of her, Arike extended her hands. The glow around her intensified, radiating the chilling purple-green light.
In that instant, the Vonger's struggle ceased. A shimmering, smoky white essence—its very soul, the ÈMÍ[2] was pulled violently from its body. The process was silent, instantaneous, and terrifyingly efficient.
The soul was absorbed into Arike's glowing hands. Her expression remained serene, yet her power swelled with each harvest.
The resultant soulless body was horrific. It did not bleed, nor did it fall dramatically. The body went instantly limp and grey, like ash in the rain. The strong, bulging muscles instantly deflated, leaving the Vonger as a desiccated, withered husk of skin and bone. Its eyes remained wide, vacant black pits, and its open mouth was locked in a silent, eternal scream .
A terrifying, profound peace settled over the killing ground. There were no battle cries, no gunfire, only the soft rustle of Arike's robes and the chilling whoosh as soul after soul was stripped away. She did not engage in combat; she engaged in reaping. The Vongers, now in a state of paralyzing terror, continued to walk toward their silent executioner, driven by the inescapable wind, watching their comrades become dust.
Within minutes, Area E-56 was littered with hundreds of grey, shriveled husks, their powerful bodies instantly rendered inert. Arike, glowing faintly, walked calmly among the dead.
It was at this moment that Masaru Hano, flanked by his detail, including the Supervisory Evangelist, Seamus O'Connell, arrived. They stopped abruptly at the mouth of the gorge.
Hano expected a fierce battle, perhaps a spectacular death. He found only Arike standing amidst a sea of perfectly preserved, grey corpses. The air was unnervingly still. The sheer, impossible cleanliness of the slaughter defied all logic and known warfare.
Seamus O'Connell, a hard-bitten man known for his unflappable Irish stoicism, visibly trembled. His face was a mask of stark disbelief, his jaw slack.
Hano, for the first time since ascending to power, felt the prickle of genuine fear. He had seen massacres, but never this unholy peace. He looked at Arike's key, her cowrie shells, and the horrifying, desiccated bodies. He knew, instinctively, that this was not Syndicate or Arcanatech power; this was something ancient and cosmic.
Arike turned her head slowly, her luminous green eyes fixing on Hano. She gave no greeting.
"You should not have come here, Masaru Hano," her voice resonated in his mind, clear as a bell, carrying the cold authority of a thousand winds.
Hano dropped to one knee, not in subservience to the Syndicate, but to the power before him. "I... I apologize for intruding. We did not know..."
Arike smiled, a beautiful expression. Her eyes drifted to Seamus O'Connell, who was fumbling for his plasma rifle, his mind snapping under the terror.
With a flick of her wrist, a brilliant white aura ripped from O'Connell's mouth. The Evangelist staggered, his body going instantly limp, but remaining upright. Hano watched in horror as the shimmering, screaming soul of Seamus hung suspended in the air between them, wailing silently.
"The price of witnessing the passage of souls is silence," Arike stated, her voice resonating with warning. "You will speak of this to no one, not to Dante, not to your most trusted Evangelist. This place is sacred. My mission is hidden. Swear upon your own pathetic soul that you will bury this truth, or your name will be carried on my next current."
Hano was paralyzed, watching the suffering soul of his subordinate. "I swear! By the grace of the Syndicate, I will never speak of this, Soul Eater!"
Arike nodded, the glowing purple light dimming slightly. With another flick of her hand, the tormented soul of Seamus was violently slammed back into his body.
The Evangelist gasped, collapsing to the ground. When he looked up, his memory of the last minute was gone. He only remembered walking up the ridge and collapsing from exhaustion.
Arike looked back at Hano, who was shaking uncontrollably. "Area E-56 is cleansed. Now leave, before you anger the wind."
Hano scrambled backward, dragging the confused O'Connell with him, his terror absolute. Arike returned to her slow, measured walk, disappearing into the depths of the mountain as the wind creates a shield behind her. The only evidence of her presence was the unnatural calm and the grey dust of the dead.....
[1] The gates of the dead
[2] The Yoruba word for Soul