Sakolomi crashed into a place without form or orientation.
Beneath the black ocean that embraces the inverted tower opened a forbidden abyss: the Pit of Whispers.
Entrance was not through doors, but by accepting the fall as an offering.
And from the moment he touched the ground, he heard — not voices — but broken thoughts, fragments of strangled memory, suspended between two silences.
The ground he walked on was not mineral earth.
It was gray flesh, veined, pulsating, animated by a breath coming from no mouth.
With every step, the surface contracted as if in pain, and Sakolomi's footprint left behind a muffled cry, like that of a crushed memory.
— It looks like… Saiko's domain of chaos, he murmured cautiously.
He looked up.
Above him, no sky.
Only a thick, heavy fog like congealed blood.
At times, red lightning flashed, never illuminating anything, as if light itself refused to remember its function.
The air vibrated with abnormal density.
Breathing here was like swallowing millennia of fossilized fear.
Each breath flooded his mind with images he had never lived — countless deaths, torments, erasures.
Time no longer flowed: it fragmented, repeated, twisted over itself like a ribbon of endless pain.
A moment could last a thousand years… or never have happened at all.
Then they appeared:
the Devoured Reflections.
Faceless silhouettes, humanoid in shape but not in logic.
Where eyes should have been, gaping mouths vomited endless screams.
Others were skeletal, their flesh nailed with inverted crosses, each step tolling like a cathedral's collapse.
They didn't walk: they crawled toward him, slow, twisted, drawn by the warmth of his existence.
Because in this hell, any living thing is an intruder to be assimilated.
Sakolomi took a defensive stance, his gaze sharp in the darkness.
— Come… I'm waiting for you.
The creatures rushed him.
His blows split the air, exploding shadow into dark spirals.
They were not fearsome, no — just countless.
And when their remains fell onto the living ground, it reabsorbed them, digesting their cries in a shiver of flesh.
Sakolomi, panting, swept his gaze across this conscious nightmare.
Everything here seemed designed to make him doubt himself.
And Oniyurei's words echoed again in his mind:
— Remember what you were before you were born…
He frowned.
Before being born?
Was it a hint at a past existence? A reincarnation?
But he perceived nothing, no echo, no trace.
It was as if his past had been wiped away, or worse — as if it had never existed at all.
Silence fell again.
The ground beat slowly, like a giant heart.
And in the red mist, a silhouette began to form again…
something or someone, waiting for him to remember.
Sakolomi spun around abruptly.
In the shifting darkness, creatures crawled, slow, countless,
as if the Pit itself birthed its own nightmares.
But among them, something approached — larger, older, more inexplicable.
A heavy breath rose, soaked with the scent of dry blood and rotten memory.
Then it appeared.
The Mother Without Name.
She emerged from the void like a cosmic spider, formed from thousands of interlaced human arms,
their clenched fingers grasping at something — or praying.
Her central body was only a cracked face, eyeless, from which black soot oozed,
and every tear seemed to burn the void itself.
She did not devour flesh.
She fed on pure emotion — fear, shame, despair — amplifying them until
the victim's mind dissolved into silence.
Her prey did not die: they ceased to have existed.
Sakolomi stared at her.
A chill ran up his spine, a fear not only his own.
Yet his lips drew a nervous smile.
— So you're… the true mistress of this abyss?
The Mother Without Name screamed.
The cry was not a sound — it was a wave of negation, a refusal of all existence.
Around her, the other creatures convulsed, twisted, merged into a grotesque mass.
From this fusion were born three abominations,
formless colossi made of faces, limbs, and shadows,
their silhouettes undulating like a liquid nightmare.
One of them stepped forward. The ground vibrated.
Then it struck.
The shock pulverized the terrain over several meters, and Sakolomi barely dodged,
performing a backward somersault through a rain of shadow shards.
The air vibrated again: a second attack followed, faster, heavier.
Each impact could have annihilated an entire plane.
Sakolomi winced, sharp-eyed.
— Damn… these things are almost on par with a full Deviant.
A bead of sweat slid down his temple.
He plunged his hand into the ground.
— Very well. Then I'm playing the big card.
His aura twisted, and a fissure of impossible color opened beneath him.
The whole world seemed to un-tune.
Gravity bent, hues inverted, and a symphony of unreal shapes
began pulsating around him.
Saiko's Chaos.
A fragment of his creator's domain —
a fractured matrix where all law, all sense, all logical link
had been torn out, then sewn back in an inhuman order.
The colors were alive, conscious, devouring.
To look at this world too long was to let your thoughts be eaten.
The ground breathed.
The air had nerves.
Every atom shouted its existence.
But as this nightmarish reality tried to merge with the Pit,
something prevented it.
A silent shock.
Absolute resistance.
Chaos was… refused.
The impossible hues froze, then evaporated as if they had never existed.
Sakolomi, incredulous, opened wide eyes.
— What…?!
Even Saiko's Chaos… is rejected?!
Before him, the Mother Without Name advanced slowly,
and for the first time, Sakolomi felt not fear —
but a fundamental disconnection.
His being, his powers, even his definition…
rejected by the presence of this nameless thing.
A repulsive gurgle tore the silence: the Mother Without Name spat a viscous black mass, like living ink.
The ink of shadow sliced the air with an animal hiss.
Sakolomi pivoted sharply — the escape was just enough.
But a second later, heat sank into his eyes, burning, acidic. The pain was so sharp he thought his pupils would melt.
This entity… it did not merely wound.
It devoured fear.
And if no one produced it, it created it — even in the most powerful Deviants.
Sakolomi: This thing… it will kill me. It's not an ordinary Deviant… No. It's a Deviantess. A real one.
He raised his hand, ready to summon his magic — but nothing.
The flow was extinguished.
The world around him felt suffocated, compressed in an invisible cage.
The Mother Without Name had deprived him of all power.
He was trapped, naked, delivered to his own psyche.
If he let himself be swallowed by fear, she would take possession of him.
The slightest tremor of his mind would be enough to let her in.
Around him, the colossi continued their assault.
Oversized figures, half-flesh half-night, pounded the ground.
Sakolomi parried each blow, striking back — but his hits produced only dull, useless noise.
The monsters seemed indestructible, as if fear itself fed them.
Sakolomi (panting): This is… a nameless mess!!!
He fell to the ground, knee down, breathing heavily.
His eyes burned, his head screamed, but he closed his eyelids.
He had to extract himself from the turmoil.
Become silence again.
Because one heartbeat too many,
one contradiction in his mind,
and the Mother Without Name would seize everything he is.
So Sakolomi chose calm amid chaos —
the forgetting of fear in order not to become fear itself.