Xirath'Voll--the City of Screaming Soil

Region: Munsrufin Hacked Dynasty's Borderlands

World: ØZ-ZAV Archives.

Xirath'Voll, once a glistening outpost of sapphire towers and sun-drenched pathways, was supposed to be a ray of cyber-mystical unity--a synthesis of the trans-machina engineers of the Munsrufin Dynasty and the spiritual doctrines of Virellian monks.

However, peace would never be granted to Virath'Voll.

The initial devastation originated from above. One of the long-forgotten Stars of the Broken Choir, a celestial shard, pierced the sky and lodged itself beneath the city. The ground shouted for three nights. The liquefaction followed. Houses sank. Curling like paper were the roads. Though its statues wept rust rather than rain, the central cathedral was the only structure to survive.

The now-holy shard served as the foundation for the reconstruction of the city. Around it, a temple was forged. The second iteration of Xirath'Voll, which is part city and half oracle, arrived. However, not every vision was positive. And not everyone who looked returned. The shard was taken out and taken to the dynasty's inner sanctuary. Only a hollowed-out pit and a whisper remained.

They started over. The most sophisticated quantum stability fields ever applied to tainted territory--cybersteel, reinforced towers, this time. The longest iteration was the third one.

However, they went too far.

They mistook the vacuum of the shard for something else.

It wasn't deserted.

It was ravenous.

The Flesh-Pit then started to spread.

Initially, it crept in via the gaps. Like moss, biofilm formed along the foundations. Next, bones. Then, faces. Overnight, the lower district disappeared, replaced with blinking, non-closing eyes and glistening tissue.

Even after entire wards were swallowed, they continued to operate--people living in throbbing hallways because they were too scared to go. Although this version of Xirath'Voll "should not exist," according to government data, maps self-correct to depict it.

It is repeatedly rebuilt. Not in despair. But necessity.

Because the city adjusts regardless of how many times it falls.

Even if what adapts isn't human anymore.

The Flesh-Pit now has a unique architecture.

Its own framework.

Its own will.

However, the fact that Xirath'Voll moves makes it almost impossible to map or escape.

Not by car.

Not by magic.

But by pure luck that the flesh pit builds to an escape.

Not only does the Flesh-Pit grow, but it also moves, carrying with it the screaming dirt, the sinew-wrapped skeletons of old buildings, and whatever is still alive inside. One night, entire structures vanish beneath its hide, and the next night, they reappear in a different location, re-skinned in latticework of wet flesh and bone, twisted copies of their former selves. Entire communities shift--reconstructed as hideous, incorrect incarnations of themselves, brimming with inhabitants who were never born and experiences that were never experienced.

The Flesh-Pit has moved beneath their feet, silently absorbing the ground they walked on, and even escapees--those who claim they broke free--frequently find themselves back inside its boundaries weeks later. Maps are not useful. The GPS burns out. Even time, according to some, folds oddly inside.

This is what Eldora referred to as "the recursive womb of failed exit"--a living maze where spires grow teeth, corridors breathe, and exits reincarnate as entrances. Or false hope.

Xirath'Voll is still a settlement because of demand rather than design.

Hunger, not architects, is always rebuilding it.

Not for aesthetics.

However, for containment.

And it moves again every time.

Not in a world apart.

But nearer.

Deadlier.