The memory fractured.
The warm hue of Lyra's imagined smile stuttered, breaking apart like a glass pane under pressure. Sereth's breath hitched. His hands trembled. The trembling turned into shaking. His knees hit the ground with a dull thud.
"Stop it…" he whispered, eyes wide, unfocused.
The illusion didn't stop. The replica of his sister knelt beside him again, the same expression of perfect kindness plastered across her stolen face.
"Don't," Sereth muttered, voice cracking. "Don't use her."
His vision blurred with tears. His fingers clawed against the stone of the arena floor. His chest heaved.
"You weren't there!" he screamed suddenly. The crowd fell deathly silent.
The false Lyra reached for him again.
Sereth slapped the hand away, snarling. "You don't get to pretend! You don't get to be her!"
His aura began to pulse—erratic, vicious. Gone was the silky confidence, the practiced elegance. What poured out now was raw, volatile. Each beat of his heart echoed outward like a war drum. The air rippled. Dust swirled violently around him. The sky itself seemed to flicker.
Sereth stood slowly, head bowed, fingers twitching. His coat flared up from the rising wind of his energy.
When he looked up again, his expression was feral.
"You want to see inside my head?" he growled. "Let's see if you like what's there."
He moved—not like a duelist, but like a cornered animal. Fast, brutal, unreadable. His first strike was a blur, shattering the illusion entirely. The opponent reeled, caught off guard by the sheer fury.
Sereth didn't stop.
He charged, landing blow after blow, driving the other fighter back with reckless precision. There was no flourish. No rhythm. The usual speed and control was gone. Just fists, elbows, knees, a kick to the ribs, a slam into the ground—anything to make the pain go away.
The opponent tried to summon another illusion, but Sereth screamed through it, tearing reality apart with sheer force of will.
His voice roared, like a beast about to go for the kill.
He pinned his opponent down, hand raised for one final strike—trembling with wrath, his eyes wild and full of grief.
And then—silence.
The entire world seemed to stop. Everything was black. The only things that even existed were Sereth, and Vilo, who was being held by the throat.
Sereth stopped his onslaught and looked around. There was no arena, no crowd, nothing. Nothing in all its glory. It was the purest void that could be fathomed by any mind.
And just as soon as it was present, it was gone.
Vilo was dead, being held by the throat which Sereth crushed, and the crowd was dead silent.
Sereth stood over him, chest heaving, blood on his knuckles. The silence from the crowd didn't break—it stretched, tense and fragile, like the whole world was holding its breath.
His gaze drifted down to the body, then to his hands. Slowly, his fingers uncurled. They trembled.
What had he done?
The rage drained from his face, leaving only exhaustion and something worse—shame. He took one step back. Then another. The arena, the crowd, even the air felt far away, like they were behind a wall of glass.
He hadn't fought like a warrior. He'd torn through that illusion like a beast. He didn't even remember how it ended. Just flashes. His sister's voice. His own screaming. And now—this.
A soft hum stirred beside him. One of the Creatures had appeared—silent, floating, observing. Its proboscis twitched once. No applause. No announcement. Just a subtle gesture, and a new tear in the air opened behind him.
A way out.
Sereth didn't look at the crowd. He turned, slowly, and stepped through the gate.
The portal closed. The arena remained still.
Only then did the whispers begin.
...
Sereth had left the arena and was passing through the halls in order to get outside to the city. He was still breathing heavily as he failed to process what he had done.
Now Sereth had killed people before, but never like that. Everything he had trained and worked toward went completely out the window.
Everything hurt. Not the kind of hurt you could stretch out or patch up. The kind that clung. Bone-deep. He passed into the breeze, as it gently blew through his hair.
Masaru was waiting for him. Leaning against a wall, arms resting, He looked like he hadn't moved in hours.
"Didn't know you could scream like that," Masaru said.
Sereth didn't answer. He couldn't. His voice was still somewhere back in the void.
"You scared people."
"Good," Sereth muttered, voice like cracked glass.
Masaru stood. "It was pathetic."
That stopped Sereth. He turned.
Masaru looked him in the eye. No heat. No superiority. Just… level. Measured. A little tired.
"You think pain makes you strong? That's completely false. Strength will come from your control. I've only see you fight twice, but I can tell that you are immature emotionally and physically."
Sereth's breath caught.
Masaru walked up to him, slow, until they were nearly chest to chest. "You want power? Then carry your pain. Don't throw it like a tantrum."
Silence.
Sereth's eyes flicked down, then back up. "He used her face."
"So?"
"You think I overreacted?"
Masaru shook his head. "I think you reacted exactly like someone who can't seem to accept what's already done."
That was a wound. Sereth didn't reply.
Masaru stepped back. "Next time you want to break someone, make sure it's not just yourself."
Then he left. No theatrics. No last words.
...
Sereth was walking about, and thinking about what Masaru had said to him. Now Sereth was a prideful person and did not like to take orders or suggestions from anybody, but even he knew that was an atrocious showing on his part. He felt like part of him was empty, and he couldn't fulfill it.
"I'm gonna get tons of weird looks..." He chuckled quietly to himself.
"Y'know... Maybe this is the right idea..."
Sereth began to search for where Masaru may have gone. He checked in and out of various buildings before coming to an old, dilapidated dojo where he could sense his presence from the inside.
"Hey! Samurai dude!" Sereth called out, before entering the building to find Masaru performing one of his sword forms.
"Are you here to continue complaining?" Masaru replied.
Sereth leaned against the wall of the dojo, arms loosely folded. "I don't usually ask for this kind of thing," he said, eyes tracing the faded lines on the floor. "But… that last fight—I lost control."
Masaru finished the last step of his kata, then let the breath leave his chest in a slow, deliberate sigh. He turned toward Sereth, expression unreadable.
"You say that like it wasn't obvious."
Sereth smirked, but it didn't have its usual sharpness. "I'm serious."
"That's the problem," Masaru replied, picking up a towel and wiping his brow. "You're serious now. Furious five minutes ago. Cocky the day before. You switch moods like masks."
Sereth looked down at his hands. "Maybe I'm still trying to find the right one."
Masaru raised an eyebrow. "And you came here to ask for help with that?"
"I came here because…" Sereth hesitated. "Because out of everyone here, you're the only one who said something worth listening to."
Masaru paused, then set the towel down. "That's dangerously close to a compliment."
Sereth gave a tired chuckle. "Don't let it go to your head."
Masaru walked over, standing a few feet away. "And now what? You want me to teach you discipline? Balance? Meditation?"
"No," Sereth said. "I don't want to be you. I want to understand how you keep it together. And maybe…" He scratched the back of his neck. "Maybe I can help you loosen up. Just a little."
Masaru gave him a long look. "You want to train together."
"Yeah. Work through our crap. Get stronger. Cool stuff."
Masaru crossed his arms. "You're trusting me awfully fast. You don't even like me."
"Well fortunately we don't like each other, so if this works really well, then we don't have to interact ever, right?"
"That's a major leap of logic."
"I have a tendency to leap around."
Masaru smiled slightly at this comment, though he tried not to show it.
"Alright, fine. But I may warn you, I think there is something wrong with this place."
Sereth, confused by the sudden change in tone responded.
"Whaddya mean?"
"When I first came here, I met a man who named his kitchen appliances and tried to convince me that they had dreams. I have no idea if he is real or not."
"Do you have a fever?"
"Do you want to die right now?"
And with that, Masaru launched into an impromptu lecture on emotional control—while Sereth, against all odds and basic personality traits, paid attention.