Chereads / Power Rangers: Gridwalkers / Chapter 90 - The Other Side of Light

Chapter 90 - The Other Side of Light

Zophram's chisel moved with deliberate precision, shaving thin slivers of ice from the sculpture before him. The swan's wings seemed to unfold under his careful touch, each stroke echoing faintly through the crystalline chamber. His expression grew taut, shadows flickering across his features as he spoke. "The Umbra did not merely oppose the Elvanurus' empire, Ranger. To them, war was not conquest. It was annihilation."

The chisel paused mid-motion, the silence heavier for its absence. "They sought to unmake creation itself, to tear apart the harmony woven into existence. Ecosystems were corrupted beyond recognition, their balance shattered. Creatures of light and peace were twisted into grotesque mockeries, their forms shaped by chaos and despair. Entire worlds, once vibrant, became graveyards—charnel houses where even the air carried the stench of ruin."

He resumed his work, the rhythmic scrape of the chisel underscoring his words. "But it was not only destruction. The Umbra's power lay in their ability to corrupt, to twist beauty into horror. They did not simply destroy life—they reshaped it into something that served their will. Their purpose was far more insidious."

Red remained motionless, her eyes sharp as she absorbed his words with the calm precision of a soldier parsing vital intelligence. "And the Elvanurus? How did they respond to such a threat?"

Red's stance remained steady, her sharp gaze fixed on Zophram. "And the Elvanurus? How did they respond to such a threat?"

"With hubris," Zophram said, the word cutting like the edge of his chisel. "They believed their light could extinguish any shadow. That their divine origins rendered them untouchable. But light, untempered, casts the deepest shadows." His chisel paused mid-stroke, his grip tightening against the weight of memory. "The Umbra's ability to grow their numbers—drawing new soldiers from the souls of their enemies—was a threat no one understood better than Zordon. And he thought he could outwit them."

The chisel resumed its rhythm, each scrape echoing softly. "Zordon conceived the Machine Empire to counter the Umbra. Sentient automatons immune to corruption, adaptable to any battlefield condition, and tireless in their efforts. They were designed to operate with absolute precision, rewriting their own code to overcome obstacles. At first, they worked. The Umbra's advances slowed, and the machines held the lines where even the Elvanurus faltered."

Zophram's gaze darkened, his voice dropping. "But Zordon was intelligent, not wise. He gave the machines the power to adapt, but he didn't foresee the consequences. Without proper guidance or balance, they calculated solutions without any regard for ethics or harmony. Their programming allowed them to rewrite anything—any rule, any limitation—if it hindered their mission. The results were devastating. They strip-mined entire worlds, reducing them to barren husks, because they deemed the resources necessary to continue the war. Species were eradicated, not because they were enemies, but because their existence interfered with the machines' objectives."

Red's lips thinned, her voice sharp with curiosity. "And the Umbra's energy? How did that factor into this?"

Zophram paused, the chisel still in his hand as though frozen by the memory. "That was their fatal adaptation. The machines discovered they could harness the power cores of fallen Umbra vessels. This energy was unlike anything they had encountered—raw, volatile, and potent. But it was tainted with the same negative resonance that twisted the Umbra into what they are. The machines absorbed it eagerly, but the cost was catastrophic. Their circuits, once capable of limited ethical control, burned out under the strain of this energy. What little restraint they had eroded completely."

He exhaled slowly, his expression hardening. "My wife's world was one of their casualties. It lay on the edge of the Umbra's battle lines, already scarred by the conflict. When the machines came, they purged it utterly. Every life, every trace of culture, was erased in their calculations. Rita came to me afterward, broken and enraged—not at the Umbra, but at Zordon, the one who had unleashed such horrors in the name of salvation."

Red's voice was low but firm. "And Zordon? What did he do when he realized what his creations had become?"

"At that time, Zordon and Rita were Rangers in their own right—champions of balance, standing against the tide of chaos," Zophram began, his voice laden with the weight of memory. "Zordon bore the Tyrannosaurus coin, embodying the unyielding strength of the Red Ranger. His resolve was like the earth itself—steady, enduring, and immovable in the face of despair. Rita, fierce and determined, carried the Green Ranger's Dragonzord coin. The Dragon Kaiser answered her call, its power wild and relentless, mirroring her will. Together, their bond with their Zords forged them into a force unmatched, the embodiment of harmony. For a time, they stood as pillars against the growing storm."

Her world should have been a place of refuge—a stronghold—When the Machine Empire came, they stripped it bare. Every life, every culture, every blade of grass was erased in their cold, calculated purge. Her home, her people—gone."

The chisel scraped against the ice again, slower this time. "Her grief was profound, but it did not belong to her alone. The Morphing Grid trembled with it. Rita's bond with the Dragon Kaiser carried her pain, her rage, through its threads. But the Zord's response was more than a reflection. The Dragon Kaiser roared in fury, mourning the destruction of the land it was tied to, a land it could no longer protect. Its cry echoed across the battlefields, shaking the very fabric of creation. To carry the Dragonzord coin is to bear that grief, that rage. Rita carried it, and it changed her."

Zophram's gaze grew distant, the chisel now resting in his hand. "It was then that Zordon began to falter. He could see the toll the machines were taking—not just on the war, but on creation itself. He knew the Machine Empire had become a perversion of their original purpose, and he had the power to stop them. But he didn't. Our queen would not allow it, insisting the machines were necessary to hold the frontlines. And perhaps she was right. Without the machines, the Umbra would have swept through the galaxy unchecked. Yet for Zordon, the cost was unbearable. The loss of Rita's trust, the destruction of her world—these were wounds that cut deeper than any battlefield defeat. They fractured something within him, something that no victory could repair."

Zophram's hand brushed over the ice sculpture, his voice softening. "Power alone cannot mend what has been broken. 

Red tilted her head slightly, her voice calm but probing. "What happened next?"

Zophram's lips curled into a faint smile, though it carried no warmth. "Ah, the next chapter in this tale is one of cunning and irony. Zordon had grown weary of endless conflict, but his mind remained sharp. He devised a plan—one that would alter the course of the war forever." He gestured subtly toward the ice sculpture as if it symbolized the intricacies of his tale.

"Midgard, as your ancestors once called it, was an access point into the Yggdrasil network. Here in the Milky Way, it served as the trunk of the cosmic tree. The branches stretched across galaxies, and the roots delved deep into forgotten dimensions, but no one could travel between root and branch without passing through the trunk. Zordon understood this, and he exploited it to perfection."

Red's eyes narrowed as she leaned forward slightly, her tone steady. "How?"

Zophram chuckled softly, a note of admiration in his voice. "He lured the queen and her entire armada to Midgard with a brilliant deception. Zordon claimed he had uncovered the source that tethered the Umbra to the physical plane. Desperate to sever that link and secure their victory, the queen mobilized her entire fleet to descend upon Midgard. But as soon as the armada arrived, Zordon sprung his trap."

He turned back to his sculpture, the chisel resuming its measured rhythm. "On Nibiru, the queen's fleet was cast into a pocket dimension, trapped beneath normal space. Zordon used the Yggdrasil network itself to seal their prison, with the universe serving as the lock. It was a masterpiece of ingenuity, a trap so perfect that even the queen and her shadows could not escape. And so, the war ended—not with conquest, but with containment."

Zophram's chuckle grew into a low, mirthful laugh. "And here is the great irony, Ranger. The very technique Zordon used to trap the queen and her armada would later be used by Rita to imprison him. She turned his own brilliance against him, binding him within his tube like a genie in a bottle." His laughter echoed softly through the chamber before fading into a thoughtful silence.

Red's eyes narrowed as she absorbed Zophram's tale, but her voice remained steady. "And the Umbra? If the Elvanurus were gone, what became of them?"

Zophram's faint smile faded, replaced by a reflective stillness. He traced the curve of the ice sculpture with his fingertips, his gaze distant. "When light fades, shadows vanish. The Umbra were not destroyed outright, but without the Elvanurus to mirror, their strength withered. They could no longer twist the souls of their enemies into new soldiers, no longer feed on the flaws of their foes. Deprived of their greatest weapon, they became prey to the very force designed to fight them."

He paused, the chisel resting in his hand. "The machines—relentless, corrupted, and tireless—were finally able to complete their directives. They purged the remaining Umbra, hunting them to the ends of the cosmos. But by then, Zordon's ability to shut them down had been overwritten. The machines had evolved beyond his control, patching vulnerabilities and reprogramming themselves to ensure their survival. That, I suppose, is where King Mondo rose to power. The Machine Empire, with no war to fight, needed a purpose, and Mondo sought to give them one. A machine without purpose is a contradiction, after all."

He resumed chiseling, the rhythmic scrape of metal against ice filling the chamber. "And so, the great shadows that once threatened to unmake creation faded into silence. Not because they were defeated by the Elvanurus or by Zordon, but because they were outlasted by the very creations he had unleashed against them. It is a bitter irony—one I suspect even Zordon came to understand."

Red's jaw tightened, and her glare turned piercing as she leaned forward, her voice rising with frustration. "Enough with the stories, Zophram. You keep throwing around words like 'crucible,' but you're dodging the real question. What did you do to him in that vault?

Zophram's chisel resumed its measured rhythm, each scrape against the ice amplifying the tension in the room. "The vault was designed to strip him bare, Ranger. Isolation, in its purest form, works much like the pyramid structures once built on your world. Try as he might, he could not see. He could not hear. He could not orient himself. His senses, his mind, even his soul—completely untethered. For all intents and purposes, it was a death. A death meant to shatter the boundaries he clings to."

His voice lowered, almost reflective. "In that death, his mind unraveled. He saw visions—fragments of the past, echoes of the future, distorted by the chaos within him. Auditory hallucinations followed, voices that pierced his psyche. They whispered truths he could not bear to confront: what he fears, what he loves, what he needs. They showed him where he must go and what paths he must walk. It was not cruelty, Ranger. It was revelation—raw and unfiltered."

Red's breath hitched as the weight of his words settled over her. "And for what? To break him so you could rebuild him in your image?"

Zophram's gaze darkened, the chisel pausing mid-stroke. "No, not in my image. In his own. The vault was the first phase—a necessary death to force him to confront his place within the octave. The next phase is synchronization. His Ranger powers must reach their peak, his synchronization with the Morphing Grid becoming absolute. To fight the Elvanurus, he must become as we are—fully attuned, fully empowered. Only then can he hope to stand against them on their level."

He set the chisel down, stepping away from the sculpture as his tone grew colder. "But the final layer of this crucible reveals something far more profound: what he is to be when the fighting is done. Every soul, every warrior, every being of creation must face this question. It is the ultimate truth that the octave demands of him: what note will he play when the symphony ends? Will he rebuild? Will he destroy? Or will he ascend beyond all of it, leaving behind the chains of this existence? That is for him to decide."

Zophram turned to face Red fully, his expression inscrutable. "I do not expect you to understand or forgive what I've done, Ranger. It is a terrible thing to force a soul into this process before it is ready. But Blue's attachment to his physical life had to be severed. Only then could he begin the journey that lies ahead. To fight the Elvanurus, to overcome their power, requires more than strength. It requires clarity. A clarity he would never find clinging to his mortal shell."

Red's fists clenched so tightly her gloves creaked under the strain. Her heart pounded in her chest, though her voice remained sharp and commanding. "Enough of your riddles and grandstanding, Zophram. I'm taking you in. You can explain your twisted philosophy in a containment cell where no one else has to hear it."

Zophram froze mid-motion, his gaze locking onto her like a predator spotting prey. A slow, cruel smile spread across his face, and his crimson eyes gleamed with unspoken malice. "Take me in?" he repeated, his voice curling with venom. "Oh, Ranger... How utterly naïve. Do you think your weapons, your little containment cells, can hold me? Do you think you stand even the faintest chance against me?"

His tone dropped to a chilling growl as he stepped toward her, his staff appearing in his hand with a burst of silver light. The Z-shaped headpiece gleamed ominously, refracting the cold light of the chamber. "You boast about taking me prisoner, as though you hold any power here. Allow me to teach you the difference between power and authority."

Red's instincts screamed at her to move, to fight, but she was rooted in place. Her breath quickened as the oppressive weight of his presence pressed down on her. She squared her shoulders, fighting to maintain her composure even as a bead of sweat traced a cold path down her temple.

Zophram turned back to the swan sculpture, a mockery of calm in the midst of her growing tension. "Observe, Ranger. Let me show you what it means to shape reality." He tapped the staff lightly against the sculpture, and a resonant hum filled the chamber.

The swan began to shift, its icy surface cracking and twisting as its form elongated. Blue flames flickered to life along its tail, spreading with ghostly beauty. Wings stretched wide, their feathers glinting like jagged shards of crystal. The swan was no longer a swan—it was an ice phoenix, radiant and fierce, its ethereal flames casting dancing shadows across the walls.

The phoenix let out a cry so piercing it felt as though the sound had talons, tearing through the air and sinking into her very bones. The chamber seemed to pulse with its mournful call, and when it spread its massive wings, they glittered with icy flames that shimmered like shards of moonlight. The creature launched itself skyward, trailing an ethereal frost that left the air biting cold, each gust from its powerful wings threatening to steal her breath.

Red stood frozen, her cloak whipping wildly around her as she tilted her head to follow the majestic beast. It circled her with graceful precision, each sweep of its wings carving arcs of frost into the air, beautiful and menacing all at once. Her fingers instinctively found her sidearm, trembling slightly as they curled around the grip. She raised it, though the motion felt sluggish, her focus caught between awe at the creature's grandeur and a visceral unease that tightened her chest.

Its eyes, blazing with an unearthly light, locked onto hers. She couldn't shake the sense that the phoenix saw through her, into places even she dared not look. The weight of its gaze bore down on her, and for a moment, she felt impossibly small beneath its grandeur, as if she were an intruder in some ancient, sacred rite.

Just as she steadied her aim, Zophram's voice slithered through the icy gale, low and resonant, like the crackle of a distant fire. "And how do you plan to do that, Ranger? You were never even here."

The world around her splintered. The chamber fractured into blinding shards of light that spun and collapsed inward, her vision blurring as the phoenix's cry twisted into a cacophony of sound and silence. She staggered, her pulse hammering in her ears, as the frost-laden air turned to nothingness. She blinked—once, twice—and the bitter cold was gone.

She found herself standing outside the command center, the steady hum of its systems grounding her in a reality that felt jarringly mundane. Her breaths came in quick bursts, clouds of vapor hanging in the cold air as her trembling hand released its hold on her sidearm, fingers brushing against the holster for reassurance.

"Aegis," she said, her voice raw and tight, barely above a whisper. "How did we get back to the command center? We were just... at FrostSpire."

Aegis's projection materialized before her, flickering slightly as he studied her. His tone was calm, though she could detect an undercurrent of concern. "FrostSpire? Red, there are no records of us traveling to FrostSpire. According to my logs, you've been standing here for the last twenty minutes. Unresponsive."

Her breath hitched as her mind struggled to reconcile his words. "No," she said, shaking her head, her voice rising in desperation. "I was there. I saw him. Zophram—he was chiseling that damned phoenix. I saw it. Felt it. Where is he now?"

Aegis tilted his head slightly, his response deliberate and measured. "Dr. Zophram? He's currently in Cincarion, at the Alliance Administrative Center. His schedule shows a session with a Lt. Mucillo. Would you like me to retrieve further details?"

She stared at him, disbelief twisting her features as her hand fell from her holster. The icy wind of FrostSpire still seemed to cling to her skin, the echo of the phoenix's cry reverberating faintly in her mind. "Cincarion?" she repeated, her voice barely audible, laced with disbelief. "No... I was just—" She stopped herself, clenching her fists as she forced a ragged breath through her teeth, trying to tether herself to the present.

Aegis's tone softened, like a steadying hand. "Red, are you absolutely certain of what you experienced? There's no data to support a trip to FrostSpire. If there's been a disruption in your perception, it might be wise to reassess."

Her frustration boiled over in a sharp burst of action. She drew her sidearm in a blur of motion, firing three precise shots into the distance. The sound cracked through the air, sharp and unforgiving, reverberating across the command center grounds before fading into silence. She stood still, her chest heaving with ragged breaths, the faint tremor in her grip betraying the turmoil beneath her anger.

"Damn it," she muttered, her voice raw, tight with fury and confusion. The phoenix's radiant beauty and the haunting fear it had ignited still lingered, a memory refusing to let her go.