Itzcamazotz wondered when—exactly—things had gone wrong.

  There had been no indication the villagers would discover the corpse nests. The cycle would have continued uninterrupted, if not for that idiotic child crying for its mother. Could the villagers not have gripped it tighter in their flimsy little hands? How had it swum so far into the lake, reaching the corpse before being fully subdued?

  Such inadequacy was precisely why Itzcamazotz had to lead these stubborn little sheep.

  Only the glory of his divinity could scour weakness from their minds and bodies. A single miracle from him would grant blessings lasting generations. With the mere rise of his clawed hand, many could be reaped. Those wise enough to bow would be spared the blow, permitted to live beneath his wing—to receive his shelter and succor.

  It was also why he, as the dominant consciousness, had to discipline the failure within his second soul.

  When Camazotz transmitted his conclusion through their link, Itzcamazotz immediately demanded recompense. Such an incident could only have occurred through negligence. How could a child reach the lake’s depths unnoticed? Camazotz must have allowed the worms to grow greedy, letting them stretch toward fresher prey near the shore.

  The reprimand had been slight—measured.

  How could Itzcamazotz have known what treacherous thoughts his second had nurtured in silence? Had the endless calculations and constant monitoring fractured its mind? The stream of ill news left Itzcamazotz increasingly agitated.

  The spiritual tug-of-war between them had wounded him, leaving him faintly delirious. Yet even that did not deter him. It only sharpened his need for retribution.

  The ritual—spread through days of bloody labor—could not be halted by mere complications. Itzcamazotz would continue fostering infection. The seeds could still be harvested. In fact, circumstances demanded it be done sooner, before matters deteriorated further and before his second mind that had turned rogue decided to do something foolish.

  Eventually, he would have to deal with his fractured soul. Only by reabsorbing it could he reclaim his full strength and secure a path toward ascension.

  His claws dug into the empty spaces between the glowing red lines of animal blood that formed the ritual circle beneath him. Restrained anger, redirected toward the earth.

  Mort’s continued defiance would also not go unanswered. While those villagers who escaped his wrath and fled to another nearby god—one Itzcamazotz still regarded with caution. Required probing, which would not be seen as outright aggression. He could always claim ignorance. He had not known the god was present.

  His eyes rolled lazily as he inhaled the thick scent of blood saturating the cavern. The foul stench of the Tliltic had faded a day or two ago, leaving him alone with his thoughts. And at last, he had decided.

  He would harvest the seeds still bound to his souls.

  His primary spirit retained a strong tether to the third Itzcamazotz—a body originally meant as an afterthought in this situation. Perhaps that had been a mistake.

  If he began harvesting, how would Camazotz respond? Would he lash out and attack the third body? The clone was little more than a vessel of raw, unrefined corruption. The only true shrine belonged to Itzcamazotz himself. He carried the full memory of their existence; the third retained only the most recent and essential fragments. It lacked the depth required to defend or cultivate itself properly.

  Perhaps, there was a lesson for him to learn from there.

  Casually, Itzcamazotz raked divinity-infused claws across the ethereal threads linking him—and the third body—to the hundreds of infected throughout the villages. He activated them.

  The seeds stirred.

  Corruption awakened within flesh, beginning its ravenous growth and fostering of new brood.

  Camazotz may have stolen control of the toad, but it did not matter. They required one another for continued existence and future growth.

  Until that balance shifted, Itzcamazotz could only hope his own clone would not choose foolish confrontation—thereby forfeiting its chance to feast on what was to come.

  -

  Mort and the villagers watched in horror as hundreds of grotesque worms squirmed out of the lake’s aquatic creatures. Fish burst apart mid-swim, their bodies splitting as pale, writhing parasites forced their way free. Turtles convulsed. Eels twisted unnaturally before rupturing.

  Some of the more lucid villagers turned pale as realization dawned. They had eaten from this lake. Several staggered away, retching violently at the thought of what might have once wriggled unseen within their meals.

  The ritual hymn did not falter.

  As the worms thrashed against the rose-colored flames coating the lake, many exploded outright—fetid corruption splattering into the purifying fire. None were spared the boiling embrace. Each body swelled, blistered, and burst with sickening pops that echoed across the water.

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  Then the next wave rose.

  From the muck at the bottom of the lake emerged larger forms. Their bodies were plated in pale chitin, overlapping armor glistening wetly. Tiny heads jutted forward, each armed with grotesquely oversized serrated pincers. Most could only fling themselves forward in violent spasms, lacking proper limbs. They swam with desperate, strenuous effort toward the shore—an outcome none of the villagers wished to see realized.

  Yet with every foul detonation beneath the purifying flames, hope surged.

  Some villagers even found themselves cheering—quietly, shakily—with each pop of corruption cleansed. Tangible proof of protection unfolded before their eyes. The toad had failed them. Worse, if Mort spoke true, it had been ensnared by the same rot.

  Faith stabilized.

  The annihilation of the worms fed the ritual further. With every putrid burst, the villagers’ souls emitted fresh streams of belief. That faith flowed into the cuauhxicalli, into the lake, into Mort himself.

  The rose-tinted atmosphere slowly steadied. People sat or knelt, exhausted yet transfixed, watching the purge continue.

  Then the lake churned violently.

  The next wave was different.

  Long, centipede-like horrors erupted from the depths. Their elongated bodies rippled with hundreds of oar-shaped legs, propelling them swiftly through the flaming water. Unlike the previous waves, these creatures swam with horrifying coordination.

  They reached the shore in moments.

  As rose-colored flames lunged to consume them, the creatures sprang high into the air, vaulting over the purifying blaze in arcs of slick chitin.

  Mort moved.

  He descended from the sky in a streak of violet and rose. In his hand materialized a whip woven from countless thin, flexible thorn-vines. Divinity flooded the weapon, filling it with savage intent.

  One of the creatures lunged toward a frozen child near the water’s edge—too terrified to flee.

  The crack of Mort’s whip split the air.

  A sonic boom followed.

  The creature disintegrated mid-leap, shredded into fragments by a vicious surge of bloody divinity. Its corruption hung suspended for a heartbeat before dissolving into the flowing river of faith saturating the area.

  More followed.

  Worm after armored worm hurled itself from the lake. Mort’s whip lashed relentlessly. Each crack shattered chitin, pulverized serrated maws, and erased corruption in savage bursts of radiant force.

  He did not fight alone.

  His mind worked in seamless tandem with Xochiquetzal and Renata, leaning upon them for guidance and refinement. Faith poured into him without pause, fueling blow after devastating blow. Every fragment of corruption purified fed the flower-mark etched upon his forehead.

  Even the world within his gem shifted.

  The roots of the flower shrine extended deeper into the void, intertwining and thickening until they formed stable ground where emptiness once reigned. Massive roots coiled together with smaller tendrils, weaving foundation from nothing. The petals of the great flower expanded, their pictograms growing sharper—more coherent, more defined.

  Violence settled into rhythm.

  The worms achieved nothing of consequence. They died faster than they could advance.

  And that success drew attention.

  A sudden, suffocating pressure descended upon them.

  It felt like cold hands pressing against skull and soul alike. A gaze followed—vast and invasive, as though something peered through flesh and bone to weigh their very essence.

  The eerie force crashed against the towering phantasm of Xochiquetzal, attempting to crush her projection through sheer will alone.

  She faltered—but did not fall.

  Presence alone would not silence her song.

  The hymn rose an octave.

  Its tone shifted—no longer gentle fertility, but a symphony of war.

  The villagers collapsed to their knees, bowing instinctively beneath the titanic clash of unseen wills above them. Their souls trembled under the manifested pressure. The foreign power pressed harder, flexing its might in naked intimidation.

  It failed.

  Mort roared.

  The flower pictogram on his forehead bloomed with blinding brilliance. His armor responded instantly, channels igniting as a staggering deluge of divinity surged outward. The unleashed force did not merely resist—it counterattacked.

  It trounced the invading will, driving the foreign divinity backward along the very path it had used to project itself.

  The pressure snapped.

  Silence fell for a single, breathless heartbeat as the hostile gaze was hurled back to its source.

  -

  Camazotz clacked his mandibles in simmering fury.

  Itzcamazotz’s premature harvesting of the planted seeds had forced his hand. He had been compelled to reap early as well, though the discrepancy in brood production was unacceptable. The imbalance gnawed at him.

  Still, Camazotz had assumed that would be the end of it.

  He would wait. The remaining parasites would mature within their hosts in due time.

  But Mort had chosen this moment to enact a purge.

  Camazotz felt it—the wails of his children within the small lake. Hundreds of connections severed in mere heartbeats. Their deaths echoed through the web of his awareness like tearing silk. Whether through overwhelming force or some insidious concealment that had masked the slaughter from his notice, the result was the same.

  They were gone.

  He had investigated at once, fury primed to descend upon the perpetrators.

  What he discovered did not dissuade him.

  It only deepened his hunger for Mort’s flesh.

  The first village he had infected bordered several others already seeded with activated parasites. With but a thought, Camazotz could shorten those villagers’ lives—forcing the parasites to halt their growth and seize the brain. Souls would be devoured entirely, leaving behind obedient husks.

  An army.

  He could send it crashing down upon the foolish “chosen” Itzcamazotz had elevated. Mort was nothing more than a wicked thorn that refused to be plucked free.

  Even with the mistake that led to the discovery of the corpse nests and their subsequent destruction, the majority of infected hosts remained untouched. If necessary, they would become new nests in time. All he had to do was guide one parasite to evolve—to transform into a brood queen capable of restoring his numbers many times over.

  The loss was irritating.

  Not crippling.

  And after the spiritual struggle with Itzcamazotz, he had secured control of the toad. He now held its leash. That alone ensured a steady, primary source of brood.

  There was no immediate need for desperate measures.

  Itzcamazotz was arrogant—bloated with self-importance. Camazotz believed his own calculations far superior. With patience and precision, he would reach heights the cowardly corrupt god had never dared pursue.

  His current form simplified matters.

  No longer did he need to lurk endlessly in darkness, fearing exposure. Even submerged beneath the water as he was now, concealed within its murky depths, posed no inconvenience to his hardened insectoid body.

  The lake pressed coldly against his chitin.

  He remained still.

  Watching.

  Calculating.

  And waiting for the precise moment to strike.