The Unmaker

Final Journal Entry #8888

… Year 98 since the Swarm descended and our ancestors retreated into the undertowns.

Tonight, I killed Eria and stopped her before she could fully metamorphosize.

Right now, Dahlia is still locked in the closet. I won’t let her out before dawn. If I notice myself metamorphosing, I’ll shoot a firefly flare into the sky and kill myself promptly. I’m sure the townsfolk will free her afterwards and ask her a lot of questions, but she won’t be able to tell them a thing. Maybe they’ll get a few clues if they search around the house, but most likely they’d just burn it down seeing the bloody mess in the bedroom, and then Dahlia will spend the entire rest of her life trying to figure out what happened.

I won’t let that happen.

If you’re reading this, that means I’m either dead or non-responsive. I don’t think I’ll be able to maintain enough of my humanity to talk come tomorrow morning. At most I’ll manage a grunt here and there, or retain some of my habits as a human, but… there’s this voice in my blood, and it itches. I can’t stop listening to it. This really will be the end of ‘Doctor Sanyon’, so before dawn arrives and the last thing I do as a human is let you out of the closet…

… If you’re reading this, that means you’ve found the secret journal I’ve been keeping since I was a child.

This might be the very first and final entry you’ll bother to read—I have eight thousand entries spread across hundreds of journals, after all—so I’ll save you the trouble of going back and reading everything I’ve written just to figure out what happened.

The main takeaway is this: don’t you ever eat an insect.

Got that?

- Excerpt from ‘Secret Sina Household Journal’, Written by Sanyon Sina

… But a word of warning isn’t how I’d like to end this final entry of mine.

Because before I am Alshifa’s most talented doctor, I am your papa.

There are a few things I want to say before I go.

Three hundred and seventeen humans of Alshifa picked up arms as the midnight bell rang, sharply on time—and it was all six of them fifth-years who charged ahead first, a gust of wind speeding their steps.

The firefly in the centre of the Bazaar whirled on them, its eyes twitching in irritation.

When you were an infant, you were abnormally light. You didn’t have much meat on your bones no matter what we fed you, and Eria was always so worried you wouldn’t grow properly as a result. I told her you’d be fine, that it’d take time for you to grow, but she didn’t believe me—that was, until we started feeding you sweets and you developed a craving for them. You started eating tons, and then Eria started worrying you’d grow up all fat and plump.

I was never all too worried about whether you’ll grow up strong as an ox, or frail and feeble like me. I always had a feeling you’ll grow up just right. Maybe it’d be more convenient for me if you were a little bit taller—so you can help me reach the cabinets I can’t reach around the house—but if there’s something I can’t reach, I’ll pull out the retractable ladder I made when I was fifteen and climb up there myself.

Now, I’ve only shown you everything I was able to make, but if you pry out the floorboards in the back corners of the living room, you’ll find a giant pit in the earth where I’d buried all of my failed projects. Just the retractable ladder alone took me… a week? Maybe two weeks? I put two weeks of pure attention and focus into it, and it still barely works sometimes. You know the ladder I’m talking about. The one that rattles and sways the moment you climb higher than ten rungs. The prototypes I buried in that pit won’t even be able handle five rungs; that’s how badly made they are.

But.

I brute-forced my way through and managed to make something that works after two weeks.

Sometimes, it’s not all about creativity or ingenuity. You won’t find yourself able to enter the flow state all the time—sometimes, you just need to be a little hard-headed and struggle through a very, very, very difficult task.

With an underhanded throw, the firefly sent a lightning bolt flying. They split before the scent order was given; Issam and Dahlia and Jerie jumped left while the others dashed right, the bolt splitting a ravine in the ground as it fizzled out against the building behind them. It wasn’t as strong an attack as the bolts that came before it. Then a second, third, and fourth bolt whipped out from each of its arms—faster, wilder, and more desperate than any that’d come before.

All of them stood their ground this time.

Amula kicked her bolt away, a flash of blue zipping through her leg, up her hips, then down into the ground through her other leg. The twins left behind shadows made of withered leaves that their bolts struck and disintegrated. Issam covered for Jerie and Dahlia as the boys swung their blade and flute at the same time, splitting their bolt in half, Jerie wincing as his nails caught aflame. The firefly’s outstretched claws remained crackling with lightning. They hardened their muscles, charged straight on, and continued closing the distance.

… That’s right.

Even I mess up at making Swarmsteel sometimes.

Every human can put in effort for sure, but when push comes to shove and effort utterly fails you, when you have nothing you can believe in—you must believe the destiny you have made with your own hands is worth something.

You must believe your destiny won’t fail you.

Collision. Impact. Bombardier beetle boots, twin bullet ant shortswords, the scream of a cicada flute, a mantis scythe-sharpened blade, and ten black chitin claws arced at the firefly all at once from every conceivable direction—the firefly screeched so loud it created a shockwave that sent a billowing wind through the Bazaar. The monster stood its ground; it didn’t move an inch, contesting all of their weapons with four arms. A backhand sent Jerie flying back into a stall. Its claws ripped into Ayla’s left arm and jerked her into Aylee, sending them both tumbling into violent rolls. Issam swung for its neck, Amula aimed a low kick at its thighs, Dahlia shot her claws for its face. Their weapons were stopped short by its impenetrable chitin, and the firefly screeched again. This time, all of them were sent flying in various directions.

Shit!

Dahlia got the better end of the stick. She crashed into the wall of sandbags, shoulder first, and the stake in her waist dislodged itself. Fresh wounds opened. Her right arm ached where she’d slammed into the sandbags, but when she sucked in a gasping breath Eria forced her adrenaline to flare—her bicep may throb a little, but she was otherwise unhurt. She could still stand. She could still fight.

She charged again, and so did her friends—leaping and running through the electrified smog as the firefly heaved for breath.

You may think I don’t pay much attention to what’s going on while you’re in the Bug-Hunting School, but I hear things, you know? That you’re not that good of a student, that you don’t have a lot of friends, that you’re in your third year and you still don’t have a preferred Swarmsteel you want to specialise in—I’ll have you know that those aren’t things you should care too much about, because I was the same as you when I was your age.

I put all my effort into one thing, and one thing only.

What’s so wrong about not wanting to branch out?

What’s so wrong about not wanting to walk the path everyone walks?

I walked my path, met Eria, and it was only because I did exactly what I did that you are here today—even this sorry, pitiful end was something I’d made with my own hands.

Do I regret it?

The twins dashed in with zigzags, keeping themselves light on their toes as they drew bolt after bolt of lightning away from the rest of them. Issam’s mantis scythes screeched against his blade before every swing, and nobody could tell it was a ‘sword’ in his hands; it was a sabre of pure fire with how fast it slashed, not at all unlike Amula’s beetle boots as she aimed for the firefly’s thigh with every twirling kick. Chasing the firefly around the Bazaar, they moved in at any opening they could get. Matching guttural scream for guttural scream, Jerie roared into his flute to stop the firefly from escaping the arena, and Dahlia… most certainly tried to keep up with the distraction tactics.

She was the weak link of the group. The firefly seemed to notice, laughing, mocking her, casting more lightning bolts her way. Issam stepped in every time to chop the projectiles. His blade grew brighter. Amula hopped from side to side, her heels bursting with flame geysers, and the twins fanned her flames to surround the firefly in a dome of heat again. It didn’t even pretend to feel any pain this time. Its claws went up and down, chucking more lightning bolts wherever it could catch a glimpse of the twins’ shadows, and steel shattered in mighty droves. Tarps went flying, clotheslines whipped into the sky, even the wall of sandbags was finally felled by a stray bolt that was supposed to pierce Jerie’s chest.

But while Dahlia’s legs gave out and she fell on one knee, hands pressing over the bleeding wound in her waist, a flood of pebbles soared from the ruined buildings, whacking the firefly on the side of its head. Bigger objects started flying. Broken chair legs, firefly cages, hammers and chisels and butcher knives and dust-beating sticks—the three hundred and eleven townsfolk of Alshifa rose in a giant circle all around the Bazaar, throwing whatever they could find at the firefly while the six of them fought to catch their breath.

Instead of cowering in fear, they, too, had chosen to shout, to scream, to bellow their rage at the firefly.

Nobody could live with the regret of not doing anything to help.

… I don’t regret anything, Dahlia.

So people will keep expecting things from you, and you will keep failing to deliver on their expectations—and still you must never fail to make a ‘destiny’ for yourself.

Because, and I swear this is some magical force in the world I can’t explain… some people can ‘see’ destiny.

They will love you for it.

They will appreciate you for it.

And they, who can see the potential—the ‘destiny’ even in the smallest of bugs—are what you and I and everyone in Alshifa call a ‘Maker’.

Desperation. Malicious onslaught. The firefly whirled in place, annoyed by the dozens of heavy objects flying at it every second, and every lightning bolt it sent streaking in a random direction was accompanied by the screams of many—the children on the left were crushed by rubble shot down from the ceiling, the textile store owners on the right were split in half by metal plates flying along the bolts’ trajectory, even the elders in the back weren’t spared from having lightning dust ignite their crusty beards and hairs—but nobody backed down from the Bazaar. Those who’d lost only a single leg kept on crawling, reaching for more debris to throw. Those who saw their old friends lose their heads by their side kept on screaming curses, tossing knives with greater ferocity, with more wrathful lights in their eyes. Those who’d already lost everything had nothing to fear; death was but a moment before the firefly’s fearsome lightning.

Dozens of people were falling by the second, yet they rushed on, buying time, uncaring for their own safety.

They knew the only ones who could slay the firefly were the six of them with their Swarmsteel.

The other kids in school are already calling you the ‘Make-Whatever’, are they not?

Dahlia blinked, tasting blood spraying into her face, feeling bone and lightning dust splattering against her skin. She willed her legs to stand, to stop allowing people to throw themselves in front of her, but as she tried she tripped forward, crashing to the ground. A heavy chunk of stone falling from the ceiling would’ve crushed her skull right there and then had the twins not jumped in at the last moment, kicking her out of the way—and the last she saw of them were the brilliant, dazzling smiles, mouthing at her words that didn’t need to be said out loud.

“Keep on going,” Aylee said.

“I’ll massage your shoulders again,” Ayla said.

Then they took her place and died, crushed by the boulder that would’ve taken her head.

It’s funny they gave you that nickname.

It’s what my classmates used to call me back when I was in General School, too.

She reached her hands out at the twins, but there were too many targets. Too many people throwing things at it all at once. The firefly flung itself through the air, slashing and clawing and kicking at everyone bold enough to try to engage it in a melee. Lightning danced around it, but the trails were no longer blindingly blue, as though it were losing steam with every human body it had to cleave through. Jerie was the final straw. Before Dahlia could even pry her lips open to scream, the firefly had blurred over and run one of its arms through his chest, crushing his heart with a violent snarl—but ever the stoic, the boy belted out a final laugh before jamming his flute into the firefly’s mouth, screeching a final, ear-shattering tune from inside its head.

“How’s that for volume?” he seemed to say, as the firefly clutched its head and stumbled back, blood swirling and sloshing behind its eyes.

Jerie dealt real damage to its senses and died, falling with a cackling laugh.

You know, Eria also told me she had a nickname.

Of course, she said she remembered being called ‘Eria’ by most everyone before she arrived in Alshifa, so that’s what I called her and that’s what everyone in Alshifa knew her as… but she said she also had another name that was quite endearing to her.

She said she was nicknamed Khulash’ah.

… No idea what that meant, though. And she definitely couldn’t explain it to me either.

Her arms thrummed with nervous energy, strain building up in her head and turning into a constant, throbbing pulse. The firefly snapped its head sideways, aiming a palm her way. Somehow she managed to crawl onto her feet, choking for breath, gasping for a cry, but not a second later everyone was knocked onto their backs by Amula clashing with the firefly, shin against shin, armoured boots against chitin feet. Every last muscle in Amula’s body strained and struggled, pushing and shoving against its leg, until her boot could take the pressure no more—a flash of lightning coursed through the Swarmsteel and her entire leg burst into flames, the firefly grinning with spiteful glee.

But it most certainly didn’t expect Amula to keep her whirring boot pressed against its leg, her kick having been thrown with such force half her foot was lodged in its shin.

She merely glanced back at Dahlia with a quiet nod, before mouthing something with her boots glowing bright red.

“You’re not spineless,” she said.

Then her boots exploded and took one of the firefly’s legs along with them, toppling the monster with a savage scream of pain.

… I’m rambling.

My point is: it’s okay if you still don’t have any friends.

I didn’t have any until I was well in my twenties, once people started seeing me as an actual doctor.

So when you do find people you can call ‘friends’, make sure to never let them down.

Screw everyone else.

Friends are the only ones who can see the destiny you make, after all.

She didn’t have the time to blink. She didn’t have the time to get up from lying on her stomach. She didn’t even have the time to comprehend the deaths happening right before her eyes. Third time’s the final charm—a high-pitched series of whirs came from inside the fallen firefly’s chest as it clenched its fists, preparing to strike the ground.

They’d done it.

They’d made it desperate enough to use its strongest attack one last time, and everyone still alive dropped to the ground, bracing for the explosion. There weren't a lot of them remaining; there wouldn’t be a lot of them remaining afterwards.

And this was the firefly’s strongest explosion yet.

A hundred lightning bolts shot out in every direction, aiming for total annihilation. No building was adequate cover. No Swarmsteel was tough enough to withstand the attack. She practically didn’t hear the explosion go off for how dazed and exhausted she already was, but even then she knew nobody made it through. If the lightning didn’t get them, the metal shrapnel flying everywhere did. If the shrapnel didn’t get them, then the stones from the collapsing ceiling did. If someone were still alive after enduring all that, they’d have to be the most fortunate person in the world or the strongest person in the world.

… Dahlia was fortunate.

Because when the smoke cleared and she blinked the dust in her eyes away, the second strongest person in her world was standing over her—shirt torn, hair dishevelled, broken mantis scythes hanging limp off his shoulders, a dozen holes bore through his torso by sharp rocks and metal debris.

And for some reason, he still had a small, wistful smile on his face.

… This is the end for me.

“... This is the end for me,” Issam whispered, pushing the words forward even if it killed him to do so. Dahlia choked, crawling onto her knees before reaching her hands towards his; he grinned for a second when her claws curled around his fingers.

Then he pushed her away and reached behind his waistband, slowly, clumsily, his shoulders still holding up the dark slab of stone.

I don’t have much time left.

“I don't have much time left,” he mumbled, as her face became ugly, wracked with tears, trying to stop him from moving and opening his wounds even further. She didn't have the strength to do so. Even in living death, Issam's arms were indubitably strong—even trying to scratch his veins out wouldn't stop him from doing what he wanted.

Eventually his left hand found what he wanted on his waistband and he pulled it forward, letting it dangle on a crude silver chain in front of her face.

This is all I can leave you with.

“This is all I can leave you with.”

It was a pocket watch made entirely out of silver, eight-sided with three needle hands shaped like pointing fingers. Glowing white crystals decorated the rims of the watch, quite sparingly so as not to be gaudy, but the back was carved with web-like lines and inset with amber shaped in the form of a little black bug—and the whole thing was a crude, unrefined piece of work. The edges weren't smoothened, the lines weren't perfectly straight, the bug was barely recognizable for how crooked its legs were… but no doubt Issam had spent days and weeks pouring over every last detail, making sure it was something she could wear with pride and joy.

For her part, she was still refusing to let go of his hands.

I’d like to spend the rest of my life around you, but, well…

“I’d like to spend the rest of my life around you, but, well…”

Her eyes widened as his shoulders slumped. Then her lips began to tremble, and so did her cheeks, her shoulders, then her whole body. In her arms, she watched as his amber eyes dulled into the familiar white void she knew death better with. This was the very first time she’d seen him so tired, and the whirlwind in her chest refused to settle, refused to give up. Her claws dug into his arms, wishing him pain. Wishing him agony. Anything to keep him awake, anything to keep his head held high like the hero he was to her—then he shook his head and patted hers in return, an oddly calming sensation that froze every bone in her body.

He’d run out of air to speak with, so he settled for mouthing his parting words instead.

… This is for all your future birthdays.

I love you, Dahlia.

Now go out there and make your own destiny.

“...”

Her ears started to ring as Issam fell forward into her, and something red and ugly flared inside her. Her vision blurred. Her lips parted as though she wanted to say something, as though to respond to his profession with one of her own, as though to pull his face into hers so she could show him what she really felt about him—but instead she only managed a vague, incoherent noise, bubbling out of her throat.

That noise turned into a strident cry.

That cry turned into a scream, and she dragged her claws behind his shoulders to cut the slab of stone in half.

Moonlight fell around them, basking the broken Alshifa in a cold, gentle glow. The cavern was collapsing. Nothing could stop the ceiling from caving in completely now. Half the undertown was already buried, the Bazaar littered with the bodies of brave men and women who’d given their lives for her; the firefly was struggling to regenerate its missing leg and damaged eyes a good fifteen metres away. Its torso was no longer glowing, not a single streak of lightning dribbling out its claws. It’d used up everything it had with that final explosion, and now that it saw her still kneeling, still breathing, it clicked its mandibles at her so fast she couldn’t help but think it was afraid of her.

The bug was afraid of her.

[... DAHLIA SINA.]

[GET.]

[UP.]

Sniffling, gritting her teeth, she took Issam’s pocket watch and slipped it behind her waistband, turning the little dial.

The one minute countdown began.

Tick, tock.

She let Issam rest gently onto the ground, rose onto her feet, and immediately stumbled—falling on her face with her very first step. Burning pains raced through her waist and torso and she cried in agony, scratching the ground as she pushed herself up on shaky elbows. More heat blossomed along her arms, but she bit down harder on her teeth, straining to get back up. Shards of chitin from her broken Swarmsteel dug into her skin and she smelled something putrid in the air—remnants of all the lightning that’d been flying around—so she focused on how horrible it all smelled. She focused on how much she wanted to erase it from the cavern, the hideous smell of ash and the ails of courageous souls who’d taken her this far; was she going to lay there on her stomach and bleed out like the bug she was, or was she going to fight even if it meant a more painful demise for her?

[GO.]

Without question.

Without doubt.

And when she crawled to her feet, barrelling straight ahead, and the firefly regenerated just in time to slash two of its left claws at her–

The steel thread guided her to sidestep past its shoulders, her own claws darting in zigzags to dismantle the chitin on its outstretched arms.

[IN THE EYES OF A MAKER, THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS A ‘LIVING’ BEING.]

She felt pain in her ankles and pivoted, ducking under its third arm and stabbing it three, four, five times along its forearm; the moment the firefly realised what she was doing and jerked itself back, she’d already dashed in again, doing as Raya did, refusing to give it any breathing room. Its wings trembled, trying to flap and send it shooting off into the sky. She whipped around it and severed them off its shoulders, catching drops of blood with her tongue. It lunged for her throat with a sudden burst of speed, but she’d seen the attack before and sidestepped, darting in herself, slashing at its unarmored arms and cutting them into ten identical sections. Now two of its arms were gone, its movements were unbalanced—on its second backstep, she pounced in and reared her claws back, ready to strike again.

[EVERYTHING IS MADE TO BE DISMANTLED.]

Sharpened antennae flew at her. She stabbed them with two index fingers and ripped them off its head. Its claws sank into her waist as it raised her in the air. She screamed and jabbed her claws into its eyes, pressing them into its skull. As her feet made contact with the ground she immediately pushed forward, hands swirling around its right arms to dismantle their chitin plates while it reeled in pain; by the time it noticed it had no more protection on its striking limbs she’d already severed its right arms too, headbutting it straight into the ground.

[EVERYTHING IS MADE TO BE UNMADE.]

Boulders crashed and shattered around them. The hole in the ceiling widened, now it was a whole ravine, misty white blobs of fog hanging far, far overhead. She remembered they were called ‘clouds’ on the surface, droplets of water in misty form. Tonight, it was ‘raining’, ‘thunder’ cracking in the distance—and between the flashes of natural lightning, she sank her claws into the firefly’s chest and tore its chitin apart, plate by plate, layer by layer. Like peeling an onion. Like dismantling a faulty watch. The firefly kicked its feet into her back, mutilating her flesh as best it could, but her eyes were following the brilliant steel thread without an ounce of regret. Without a trace of hesitation.

The firefly had to die.

[UNMAKE IT, DAHLIA SINA.]

… And when she finally crushed what felt like the firefly’s heart in her hands, she lost all strength in her body and fell next to its unmade carcass.

She’d cut, torn, ripped, and dismantled every individual piece of chitin from its flesh, so now she was sure that if a boulder were to fall onto them—and that would happen, within the next minute or two—they’d both be flattened and killed for good.

No more regenerating limbs.

No more lightning explosions.

Alshifa had triumphed over the Swarm at long last, and now, as the cavern continued collapsing around her, she felt she could close her eyes to take a good, long nap.

…

She didn’t need to survive this.

There was no point in surviving this.

She envisioned herself standing at the top of the stairs to her house, a golden field of flowers swaying in front of her. Her dad and mom stood in wait before the door, and everyone else was there, too. Instructor Biem and his children and the rest of the students sparring behind the house. The twins playing ball on the roof. Jerie playing his flute by the edge of the cliff. Amula was kicking Raya and vice versa off to the side, fighting up a storm. Issam was shaking his head at them, telling them not to make a ruckus at someone else’s house, but then he turned and walked forward and offered her a hand—his was a human hand, not at all dark and jagged and disproportionately long like hers already were, having long since began melding with her Swarmsteel claws.

She took his hand, a relieved smile on her face, but he was mouthing something at her. His lips were blurry. She couldn’t hear a thing. She took a step forward, intending to get closer, but then his face changed.

Issam became Amula, who started mouthing something at her again.

What… are you saying?

Amula became Jerie, who played a tune she couldn’t hear.

What are you playing?

Jerie split into the twins, who each patted her shoulders and shook their heads ‘no’.

No what?

The twins became Instructor Biem.

Instructor Biem became her dad.

Her dad became her mom.

Ten faces, a hundred faces, a thousand faces—she didn’t recognize even half of them, some so faded and swirly she could barely tell they were human faces, but all of them, without a doubt, mouthed something at her.

Their jaws distended, their teeth moved in chewing motions.

And when she finally blinked, clearing her vision, returning to reality–

She felt warm drops down her cheeks as she chomped on the firefly’s neck, one hand holding the carcass in place and the other already cutting out more chunks of insect flesh to devour.

She couldn’t stop herself.

There was no ‘effort’ that could stop her from wanting to live.

If she were to die, nobody would remember Alshifa, and every last person who died for her would’ve died for nothing.

[... Even if you devour insect flesh and I am to assign you your insect class now, the chances of your surviving the collapse of Alshifa is less than one percent,] Eria whispered, as it crawled over the firefly’s neck and stared firmly at her, black eyes going pale and colourless. [Your injuries are too severe. There is nobody around who can offer you assistance. Perhaps you might consider allowing me to soothe your nerves so as to make the passage… more comfortable?]

…

In response, she snapped her jaw over to where Eria’s projection was standing and bit down there, too—swallowing every bite she could get, not wasting a single strand of muscle that could mean the difference between life or death.

Because if she had to choose—and she had to choose now—she didn’t want to make a decision she’d regret.

[... I apologise.]

[I was underestimating your resolve.]

[In that case, would you like me to assign you your insect class so you can unlock the full capabilities of the Altered Swarmsteel System?]

…

She was too busy eating to answer properly.

So it was, a hundred years after their great ancestors retreated below the earth, that the final undertown in the world collapsed with a quiet whimper.

Surely, nobody knew anything about them.

Surely, nobody would care to remember them into the future.

… But she would remember.

She would live.

And she’d make her own path bearing the weight of all of Alshifa.

[Class: Determining]

[...]

[...]

[... Class: Assassin Bug]

Arc Four, “The Unmaker”, End