#kiigoku

—o, no, no, this can’t be happening…!

That’s Shuuichi’s first, utterly paralyzing thought when his spiraling brain catches up with reality, and he sees the spear in Kokichi’s hands. That this can’t be happening. This can’t be real. At the very least, that’s what he wants to think — and that’s what his mind seizes on in the suspended, endless moment where he grasps at straws and desperately tries to comprehend what is playing out right before his eyes. 

But this is real. He’s staring right at Kokichi, and the Spear of Gungnir is winking back at him from within his hands. It feels as though time has ground to a complete and utter halt — the nausea clawing up his throat is familiar enough in that respect — but this is happening, and no amount of time meddling will stop it; and through the blindsiding disbelief glazing over his brain, Shuuichi is left rooted in place regardless.

“Save us the soliloquy, drama queen. You are not the titular character of today’s tragedy.” Now she bangs her gavel down in front of her, and she’s quick to abandon it once she’s fully commanded the room again, now tapping a finger against her chin as she blinks owlishly down at the group of errant demigods still left without an assigned seat for…whatever she’s gearing up to. “Nah, that’s so last week. But the real shining star of today’s main event…let’s see, that would be…eenie, meenie, miney…”

Junko takes considerable time sustaining the tension of the moment as she switches her attention between each of the eight of them, as if there are any doubts as to who’s about to be called up to bat. When she finally deigns to speak again, she’s decided to drop the impish lilt in her voice, affect flat as she quits her attempted, bluffed suspense and levels her finger squarely at Shuuichi.

“…You, New Kid. You’re up.”

Obviously. But she still manages to beckon him forward in what is feasibly the most skin-crawling way possible.

Gundham’s throne room is smaller than Shuuichi would have assumed it to be, should he have spared a stray thought to the notion before actually being confronted with it. Somehow reserved, in comparison to the sprawling, ornate cathedral interiors that they bore witness to in Celestia’s Palace.

Much like what Shuuichi had gleaned from their time roaming the corridors, the throne room is funereal and cramped — windows that did once line the perimeter of the room have long been shuttered, or just boarded shut altogether. And alongside those same glowing torches affixed to the walls that have been searing his eyesight a brilliant sapphire blue, the room is artificially illuminated to a greater degree than the hallways had been by another, much more peculiar source:

That would be the hexagram sigil carved into and alight within the floor, the circumference of the complex, etched-in circle bleeding light the same color as the torches across most of the available floor space separating the entrance of the throne room from what awaits at the very heart of it.