The mining complex shakes again as if it has been gripped by an irresistible fever. Morton must be in the process of cleaning up the group of snake people he had been pursuing. And that means I'm running out of time. Without snake people to distract him, Morton would inevitably run into me again. And I did not have much confidence in the mark of Hackal keeping Morton permanently at bay. Hackal's own Avatar is scared shitless of that armored abomination, whatever trick the mark played on Morton might not be able to work twice.

I begin to jog after the group of snake people that had ran off in the opposite direction. With no idea about the layout of the mining complex, following the snake people was the safest option available to me. If I was lucky, it was just a matter of following them toward the exit of this charnel house. At the very least, following the snake people would prevent me from blundering about blindly while Morton stalks through the corridors.

Making my way through the winding corridors, my thoughts are interrupted by a distant scream coming from somewhere behind me. Morton has gotten busy again from the sounds of things. Who is Morton anyway? Where did he come from? If the odd inscription on his armor is to be believed, Morton was somehow associated with the creator god Ea himself. From their yelling, the snake people clearly believe that Ea is responsible for Morton's presence. My first instinct is to dismiss that conjecture as outright rubbish. Ea hasn't intervened in our world since forever. There's no reason for the greatest of the creator gods to start now.

But I've experience Hackal's presence for myself. Plus the Avatar's a giant viper. Is it just a coincidence that there are snake people running around Southmarsh? Probably not.

All that means I can't just take Ea's usual inaction for granted. If Ea was the one who sent Morton, the creator god certainly had good taste in agents. Morton is truly powerful. None of the snake people could even scratch his armor and by my estimation, each snake person equaled the strength of a magic knight. Morton was taking all of them on at once as if it was nothing. I had no illusions of how long I would be able to last if Morton came after me in earnest.

The snake people ahead of me scurry through a wide archway and as the last of them disappear out of sight, an iron portcullis is dropped, sealing the corridor off. The bars of the portcullis are thick and solid, more than enough to resist several hearty whacks from a battering ram. The contraption should be more than enough to hold Morton off once he catches up, at least for a few minutes. Thankfully for me, I can flash step, making getting past the barrier an easy matter.

Peering through the bars of the portcullis, I can make out a room crudely carved out of the rock, with several mining picks left piled up in a corner. A cart groaning under the weight of the ore piled on top of it is also left unattended, dust gathering all over its frame. The miners had been digging this room out when they were following the ore vein. The snake people had no interest in ore though and turned the place into a storeroom and armory. Several open crates are placed carelessly about revealing their contents, mainly foodstuffs and clothes. A set of racks have been hammered into the walls, housing the crystal bladed swords the snake people wield.

The snake people show no interest in the weapons however. They instead gather around one of the crates and begin pulling out cans of paint. I focus my attention to the empty spot behind the ore cart and with an exhalation of breath, send myself flash stepping through the portcullis. With everyone too busy running about like headless chickens, no one notices my sudden presence and I settle into my hiding spot without interruption.

The snake people tear open the cans of paint and just start smearing the stuff on the wall without bothering with brushes. Multiple hands slap against the wall, spreading the paint about and a rough caricature of a woman begins to emerge. Though caricature is a bit too generous here. Its more like a stick woman with a smiley face. And the only reason why I knew the snake people were painting a woman was because of the pair of circles they drew on the stick woman's chest to represent her tits.

Apparently satisfied with this half assed job, the snake people drop the cans of paint, with many of them dropping to their knees hands clasped together and in fervent prayer. A pair of them however remain on their feet, flipping over one of the crates and prying its false bottom open. Hands extend into the crate and pull out something familiar yet unexpected.

"The Logos! Hurry and set it up!" a voice urges with naked fear.

"Patience." the one holding on to the Logos mutters, getting on his knees as well and lifting the divine artifact high above his head.

"No time. No time at all!" his partner curses, grabbing one of the crystal swords and slashing open a scaly palm.

Dark blood is generously squeezed from the wound and drips onto the Logos. The word of god sips the offering and a small light ignites within its depths, sputtering to life. Like a candle flickering in the wind, the Logos weakly casts its light outward, vulnerable to being snuffed out at the slightest notice.

I groan in pain as a headache invades my consciousness. Its the same mind bending experience I suffered at Springvale. My entire being is reacting to the Logos in front of me as it awakens. Except there's a crucial difference. The knots inside my body remain heavy and inert. My consciousness may be expanding, but its the equivalent of staring at a brick wall. The Logos before me is the real deal. But it also refuses to yield any of its secrets to me.

Not for you.

That's the sensation I get from the snake people's Logos. And my gut seems to share the same opinion. An overwhelming sense of indifference fills me as I bathe in the Logos's unsteady light. As if my body is telling me that the reason why I can't understand this Logos is because it has nothing of value to teach me.

More blood is fed to the Logos and the artifact greedily laps it all up. Its hunger satiated by the offering, the innards of the Logos flare, releasing a burning ray of light that shines against the stick woman figure painted on the wall. An acrid burning scent rises from the wall and the fresh paint begins to crackle like hot oil.

"Damn." I murmur as the stick woman leans out of the wall, her smiley face immediately shifting into an angry frown. Small bubbles resembling beads form across her hastily painted body, popping under the heat of the Logos.

"Impudence!" the stick woman booms, her voice echoing throughout the room, "How dare you summon me in this way."

"Lady Sylvia, we apologize but the situation is dire." the snake person who fed the Logos with his blood pleads.

Lady Sylvia? The one the Sage claimed was missing? Richard's wife? That Sylvia?

The one and the same.

"Who?" I quickly look behind me as a voice whispers in my ear. Thankfully no one's there, but I heard someone speak to me, as clear as day.

Lady Sylvia is powerful, but now that Ea has sent a champion ... and the whispering voice trails off in thought.

"What's going on?" I murmur back, keeping an eye out for the snake people and Stick Woman Sylvia.

Not our concern.

"Thanks for being so helpful." I snort dismissively. Come to think of it, the whispering voice sounds like myself. Am I going crazy?

Help, yes. That's why I need you. I need your help, your strength.

"Asking someone you just met for help straight away?" I scoff, "That's some cheek."

No response comes back. Weird, but I can't say that I'm not relieved that this interruption is at an end. There's more pressing stuff to deal with right now. The Stick Woman is getting pretty mad about her undignified summoning.

"What's there to report then?" the Stick Woman's mouth morphs into a rough approximation of a sneer, "Has Enn finally deigned to respond to us?"

"No, not yet. But -" the Snake People begin talking all at once in their panic.

Enn, the first man? How does he tie into all of this?

"Each of you bear the nascent strength of Hackal!" the Stick Woman roars in frustration, "And all of you failed to impress Enn?"

"That -" someone in the crowd protests.

"Hasn't Enn already shared the power to create sanctuaries as a favor to me?" Sylvia sneers, "How much more do I need to do myself?"

So petty. Thinking of her own pleasures while others suffer. The whisper is back, dripping with disapproval.

"Wait." the Stick Woman narrows her beady eyes, "I sense something. There's a stranger inside the sanctuary right now!"

Oh shit. My hand tightens on the hilt of the dueling sword. The mark of Hackal begins to burn again, a clear sign that something bad is about to go down.

"His name is Morton!" one of the snake people yells, "He's been killing all of us Lady Sylvia! We beg you, please let us enter the Stack! Morton can't pursue us there."

"How could anyone enter the sanctuary anyway?" Sylvia huffs, "The barrier was designed to let only someone with your powers pass."

"We don't know!" comes the distressed reply, "Morton just appeared and he's been picking us off! We've been fighting for days!"

"Morton ..." Sylvia's voice trails off uncertainly.

"SUSPICIOUS APPLICATION DETECTED." the man of the hour's voice booms as he approaches the portcullis, metal boots clanking away. I shrink back into the shadow of the cart, nearly pissing myself.

"You fools!" Sylvia shrieks, "All of you brought this on yourselves!"

"But we did what you asked!" the snake people protest helplessly as the stick woman retreats back into the wall and reverts back to mundane graffiti.

"MORTON, KEEPING YOU SAFE." the armored man announces as he walks straight into the portcullis, the metal bars groaning in protest as they tear apart under his pressing bulk. The snake people begin running about in panic, some grabbing weapons while others pray desperately before the graffiti for salvation.

The portcullis twists free from its mount and crashes to the ground. Morton leisurely strides through the arch, leveling the nozzle attached to his arm at the crowd. As the liquid fire sprays forth, Morton has the last word in the conversation.

"ALWAYS."