The obsidian corridor gave way to a vast chamber bathed in an eerie blue glow. Ancient chains hung from the walls like forgotten sins, and the air was heavy with ash, heat, and something far older—grief carved into stone.
Beyond them—chained to a wall of blackened iron—hung Helios.
Her steps slowed.
He was almost unrecognizable.
His arms were stretched above him, wrists locked in manacles carved with dark glyphs that pulsed faintly with draining magic. Chains wrapped around his chest and waist, digging into torn flesh. He sagged like a broken marionette, suspended only by the cruel geometry of the restraints. His torso was covered in gaping burns—layers of skin had either been flayed or scorched away to reveal muscle cooked in strips, some parts still raw, others blackened and bubbled.
One eye was swollen shut, the other barely open. Blood had dried in dark rivulets across his face, running from a shattered brow, a split lip, a wound in his tongue. His legs trembled occasionally—spasms, involuntary, pathetic remnants of his nervous system trying to function through pain.
Dozens of puncture wounds lined his arms. Nails had been torn from his fingers and toes. Bruises blossomed across his ribs like rotting fruit. One shoulder hung lower than the other, clearly dislocated. His breathing was shallow, faint—a ragged whistle of air clawing its way through shredded lungs. A viscous mix of saliva and blood dripped steadily from his mouth onto the stone floor beneath him.
Kurai stopped before him, expression unreadable.
Helios did not lift his head. He was too far gone.
She said nothing.
Kurai stepped forward, her eyes calm. Her boots echoed with each step, a slow, steady rhythm that defied the oppressive weight of the Underworld. Her war fan was folded, the silver spine resting against her shoulder as she took in the sight of the man she had come to save.
He looked... less than human.
As she approached, her fingers curled around her fan. With a flick, it dissolved into her Keyblade—the black-and-silver blade shimmering faintly in the cold torchlight. Her pace did not falter. She stopped directly before him, her gaze level with his slumped form. One step closer, and she raised her Keyblade, angling it toward the lock binding his right arm.
That's when she heard it.
"Stop," came the voice. Ragged. Cracked. Barely human.
Kurai paused.
Helios' one open eye flickered toward her. His head twitched upward a fraction of an inch. He looked at her not like a man, but like a corpse trying to remember how to live.
Still, her blade hovered. "You're alive?" she said, voice flat. "I'm surprised. I thought for sure I would have to bury you."
Helios let out something between a cough and a choke. Blood spilled down his chin anew. "Chains," he said, pausing to breathe. "They're… what's keeping me… alive."
Kurai's brow twitched.
He continued, voice trembling from effort. "They… use my strength to do it. Enough. Just… enough. Take them off…" His breath hitched. "…I die."
The blade halted in the air. Her fingers remained tight on the hilt.
For several seconds, neither of them moved.
Then Kurai took a single step back, lowering the Keyblade.
She stared at him—at the ruin that was Helios—bound, scorched, broken, yet still stubbornly alive.
"So," she said at last, her tone even, "how do I save you?"
Helios' body sagged even further, as if speaking had drained the last of his reserves. Still, he pushed forward. "You… can't save me… not like this."
Kurai stared at him. Her eyes reflected the ruin before her, but not a flicker of emotion crossed her face. "Then what must I do?"
"Need… a healer," he said, each word like a shard of glass being chewed. "Someone… to stabilize me. Before… you can unlock me."
And with that, the last of his strength gave out.
His head dropped. His body hung limp, supported only by the chains he had just admitted were keeping him alive.
Kurai didn't move. Didn't blink.
She stepped closer again, not to touch, not to console, but simply to observe. She studied his body, his wounds, the ruined state of a warrior who once danced through armies.
The sight wasn't heartbreaking. It wasn't tragic.
But something in her gaze dimmed—like a flickering candle finally consumed by its own wax.
But it was offensive.
Not for what it meant emotionally—but for what it represented. A failure of action. A limitation of power. A puzzle she could not solve.
Slowly, she raised her left hand and stared at her palm.
She had mastered the art of annihilation. Her darkness could tear through mountains, consume armies, and unmake the fabric of spells and hearts. She could mold shadow into elegance and destruction—yet even the most refined blade could not stitch flesh or mend a broken soul.
But she had never once learned to heal.
Her magic drained. Leeched. Restored herself through the agony of others. It could patch her body through death and battle, but only by stealing vitality, not bestowing it.
Never had she felt so useless.
So utterly powerless.
The thought didn't wound her pride—it simply didn't compute.
She turned without a word.
The sound of her footsteps echoed again, this time softer, slower.
There would be no rescue today. No triumphant escape. Not yet.
The air behind her was heavy with smoke and the tang of tortured blood. It clung to her coat, to her hair. She could still hear the faint wheeze of his breathing… or maybe it was the sound of the chains creaking under his weight.
She walked toward the edge of the chamber. The shadows stirred around her, reacting to her presence, opening a corridor of darkness at her silent command.
She looked back once. Not with pity and not with guilt. But with cold clarity. Her gaze lingered—not for him, but for the failure carved into his flesh.
He had told her to wait.
So she would.
Not because she couldn't break the chains.
But because—for once—she could not protect what she desired.
The keyblade was de-summoned in a glimmer of black light.
"I will return," she said softly.
Helios didn't respond.
He couldn't.