CHAPTER 680: THE GOLD BEHIND THE DUST (3)

"Second rank—shoulder!" he snapped.

A second shield slid into the lower slot. The cleaver hit a wall where it wanted air. The sound was a mean, perfect thunk.

Rodion’s lines tightened to a finer beat, quick‑short‑long.

Seven‑stroke cycle on scissor‑chain pattern. Feint on four.

Seven strokes. That’s a brain, or a good imitation, he thought. The mask filaments quivered when arrows passed near, like they tasted trajectories. Creepy.

"Veils," he told the Hypnoveils. "Show a different miss each time. Make it wonder which hand betrayed it."

They pulsed with quiet authority. Edges of air wobbled around the Juggernaut, just enough to slip timing.

It stomped. The mandala answered with a dull boom. Ankles and knees tried to lean wrong.

"Knees soft," Thalatha barked. She knocked a shin, pressed a bracer, fixed postures like a teacher correcting pens.

Slimeweave spread a thin film on suspect spokes. Vibration dulled where gel sat, like giving the floor a blanket and telling it to calm down.

Scurabons went petty on both flanks—tap back of wrist with sickle spine, tap inside knee where plate did not like to flex. One ran up a chain like a clever rat and flicked the collar where hook met link. The next yank stuttered.

Arrows pinned rhythm, not glory. One stuck between ribplates, annoying a blade path. Another bounced, but took heat away. Good enough.

Hooks went for ankles again. Two Tangle lines hugged one hook like a V and returned it into a Silk net. The net sagged, then stiffened under crymber breath and became a shallow amber ramp. The next chain rode up and over instead of under. A spear punished the opening with small‑door joy.

The Hypnoveils dimmed a shade and made the right side look a hair wider. The Juggernaut committed to the lie and arrived a beat late to the truth. Scurabons were already tapping there. The elbow lost faith. The cleaver felt it.

"Door on three," he warned, eyes on a wedge where two plates didn’t overlap. "One... two—"

The Juggernaut slammed all four weapons into the floor.

The shock wasn’t a wave. It was a flip from under the mandala. Lanes buckled and kissed back together. Two skeletons went down and were pulled by ankles before hooks could claim them. Air carried a sudden stink like breath trapped in old cloth.

Rings glowed sick green. Lines that looked like decoration lit as script. Seams opened like mouths. Fingers, wrong and thin, clawed out. Bodies followed. Wight Marauders with parade memories and bad halberds. Bone Hounds laughing without throats. Skullcasters floated up with rune‑lit jaws that made the air itch.

He grinned with too many teeth. "Alright," he said. "Let’s out‑summon a summoner."

Thalatha gave him a look half warning, half respect. "Keep the door small," she said. "Open too wide and the sea comes in."

"Small door," he promised. "Many locks."

"Archers," he pointed, "Skullcasters first. Don’t chase kills. Make them duck."

Bows hissed. Arrows arced. The first volley missed clean and did its job anyway. The skulls dipped, chants hitching. The next volley landed on the hitch, not the beat. A jaw cracked. Another rune went dark and fell like ash.

"Silk, curtains left and right," he said. "Make the Hounds choose lanes they will hate."

Two pale veils dropped at knee height and hardened at the twins’ breath. Hounds lunged and met soft that turned hard around their paws. They twisted, showing thick necks. Spears pricked—not to kill, to herd. Good dogs.

"Liches," he called without looking away from the Juggernaut, "crowns dim. No greed. Tag and sort. Invest when I say."

Worklight, not hunger. Their hands moved like clerks.

"Scurabons," he added, "wrists then knees on Marauders. Take their swing. Then take their walk."

They flowed into the new problem like ink in water. Tap, tap, insult, repeat. Long poles lost grace, then weight, then purpose.

Rodion’s line danced tight around the front ranks, a metronome steady enough to lean on.

Cadence pack: hold two, bite three, slide five. Hypnoveils reflect left‑arc halberd miss. Mothcloak blur rune cluster on Skullcaster D.

A Hypnoveil lifted its mantle and gave a Marauder its last ugly stumble back. The next swing came careful and died halfway. Mothcloak brushed a soft pinion across glowing jaw glyphs; two symbols smeared and the spell coughed itself out.

The Juggernaut pushed through its children, blades drawing frowns in the air. One cleaver came low predictable, one high mean. The high aimed for top edge of second‑rank shields.

"Roof!" Thalatha snapped.

Two tower shields rose a hand. The blade kissed iron and skidded. A chain snagged a rim. A Tangle line wrapped near the hook and braced. Mikhailis felt the pull in his shoulders like he held it himself.

"Anchor," he said. "Fight the last link, not the whole arm."

The beetle settled. The chain jolted and froze enough. A spear pinned it. Slimeweave dabbed gel over the pin. Alive became annoyed.

Skullcasters drifted higher. Archers walked their shots, not changing angle, only rhythm. The third volley arrived a heartbeat after the second, rain remembering storm. Two skulls cracked and fell. One tried to talk in three pieces. Silk curtained it without ceremony.

"Keep the ring," he said as he saw the urge to surge. "Do not chase into the mandala. Make them come to our food."

Metal taste pooled in his mouth. He stopped biting the inside of his cheek.

The Juggernaut leaned on a push, blades wide, trying to twist wedges apart. Hooks snapped for wedge mouths.

"Left wedge—hinge," he said. "Right wedge—brace with second rank. Archers—two loft then walk counterclockwise. Make his head turn."

Arrows fell. A Hypnoveil showed the honest annoyance of the last hook sliding off a rim. The boss corrected for the memory and over‑corrected for the present. The chain missed both mouths. One cleaver hit shield, not gap. The other bit a rim and stuck for a breath. Small. Enough.

"Door," he said, low and bright, and the wedge smiled because it liked this word now.

Spears slid. Not deep. True. First rank stabbed to hold. Second rank stabbed to punish. Scurabons tapped the elbow seam with rude joy.

For a moment the Juggernaut’s arms were not a set but four separate arguments. One wanted to yank, one to slice, one to free, one to punish. Rodion’s line flashed small green.

Advantage. Maintain discipline. Avoid glory.

Never do, he lied to himself, because a part of him wanted to climb the dais and take the mask off with his own two hands. Later. Make the next ten seconds obedient.

The rings glowed brighter. More mouths opened. More hands clawed. The room planned to drown them in quantity if cutting failed. Right plan. Almost enough.

"Adjust," he said. "One archer squad—ankles on Wights, not hearts. Trip the front. Spears—stab and step. Lay corpses where we want walls."

Arrows went low. Wights stumbled and fell where Silk chose. Slimeweave spread gel on the fallen. The next set stepped on slick and learned humility. The ring became a tidy fence of problems they liked.

A Bone Hound found a seam and lunged, spit stringing. Thalatha stepped small inside the arc. Her blade cut the jaw hinge clean and rode weight down to finish. No show. The head kept going a little, then agreed with a toe nudge.

Their eyes met for half a second. She looked like a person doing laundry, and somehow that made him feel safer.

The mask threads quivered. Air pressed down as if a roar had already happened.

"We take the small," he told himself. "We put it in the pocket."

He raised his hand, palm steady. "Keep lanes. Keep manners. By count, not feeling."

This is why I like bugs, he thought, a laugh trying to ruin him. Not because they are simple. Because they are honest. Respect rhythm and the world gives you a path.

Right blade came low. Left came high. Chains swept the outer ring, hungry for archers.

"Outer ring—drop and step! Silk—curtain the sweep!"

Archers dropped to a knee and stepped back on the beat. Chains cut empty air and met a veil. They snagged; Crymber breaths hardened silk; a spear pinned; the Juggernaut tore free in a shower of chips and lost the beat again.

Arrows fell on skulls one more time. A full jaw shattered. Rune smoke tried to be a spell and turned into a cough. The mandala’s outer ring flickered like a candle finding a draft.

"Now," he whispered to the rhythm more than the troops. "Now we might make you stutter."

Blood taste again. Lip this time. He licked and spat without looking away from the mask.

"Small door," Thalatha warned, like a rope thrown over his neck.

"Small door," he promised. "Many locks."

He cut his hand down. The first ranks surged, ants clicking, bones locking, and the air filled with the sound of two armies about to tear the world between them.

The Juggernaut’s antler threads flared like a net cast wide.

"Good," he said, grinning because he was a fool. "Come here then."

The floor lit in circles. Wight Marauders pushed through like bad memories wearing boots. Bone Hounds shook spit that steamed. Skullcasters floated and began to speak a language that made the edges of vision crawl.

"Archers," he said, "make the talkers shut up."

Bows answered. The first volley made ducking. The second volley made silence. The third made pieces. Silk caught the pieces and wrapped them without emotion.

Hooks whistled again. Tangle lines sang back. Crymber breaths tapped a rhythm that turned thin nets into hard rails. Scurabons tapped wrists and knees until anger became clumsiness. Slimeweave spread a fine skin that told the mandala to mind its manners.

And even so, more hands rose.

Surge resources or retreat, Rodion said, almost gentle.

His heart felt too big. Bring Elowen proof, not excuses. The thought stood next to another—if someone is inside that gate, they may hear this.

"Alright," he said. "We will take the small, and we will take it again."

He lifted his hand.

"Door," he told the wedges, sweet as a sin, and they went to meet the sea.