Corvis Vritra
How long? Hours? Days? Time had dissolved in the crucible of my suffering. I woke because the pain, that relentless, familiar tyrant, had finally clawed its way back to dominance over the leaden weight of utter depletion.
I was shivering violently, teeth chattering against a cold that seemed to emanate from my marrow, even as sweat slicked my skin like a feverish oil. And then came the visions. Not memories, not dreams in the gentle sense. Phantoms. Dad. My Dad. Agrona Vritra.
Not the polished, terrifying god-king enthroned in Taegrin Caelum, manipulating continents like pieces on a board. No. This was Romulos' father. Our father.
The one whose genius while disguised as Denoir Roko—the puppet of flesh he made from the body of his own clan member Denoir Vritra, ancestor of Highblood Denoir—made Romulos fall in love, whose hand felt warm and real on my shoulder as he explained intricate mana theory, whose eyes held pride and ambition untainted.
Just a fever dream. The rationalization was instantaneous, a desperate anchor thrown into the storm. A misfiring brain, poisoned by exhaustion and trauma, conjuring impossible solace.
Yet, knowing its origin didn't grant me escape. The knowledge was a cage within the nightmare. I was trapped, an invisible spectator chained to the periphery of this agonizing tableau. I could see them, hear the ghost of familiar words, feel the phantom warmth of a lost bond, but I couldn't reach them, couldn't speak, couldn't touch.
The chasm between us, widened by death, betrayal, and separation, yawned wider than the distance between Alacrya and Dicathen themselves.
Trapped. Utterly, despairingly trapped within a mindscape forged in the fires of my own consciousness—Corvis Eralith's little talent honed sharp, Corvis Vritra's desperate need for security clinging like armor, Romulos' ancient experience a bedrock beneath the quicksand of my failing body.
My mind, a weapon and a prison, was fighting its own vessel to the death.
Fuck that Mourning Pearl. Windsom's gift, now a ticking bomb implanted years ago. Its counter-effects, the insidious backlash against the body whose mana core clawed into existence through sheer, trauma-fueled willpower after years of corelessness, were finally manifesting as I lost it again.
My lifeline, my anchor in the storm of magic, was fraying. Against the Tragedy wouldn't hold forever. The realization was a cold blade twisting in my gut: I was dying.
Not in glorious battle, not sacrificing myself for Tessia or Grey or Sylvie, or Grandfather or Berna… but fading away unseen, unheard, unable to even force my eyelids open again.
I'd planned for contingencies, for weapons, for battles, for betrayals… but this? The slow, internal collapse of the core I needed to simply live? An Asura's vulnerability without an Asura's indomitable body.
Panic, cold and absolute, threatened to swallow me whole. Tess… her eyes, the unspoken understanding between us. Grey... my best friend, my hope. Sylvie… my best friend's bond that helped me so much, loved me so much.
Grandfather... I am so sorry about everything. Berna… loyalty unwavering, even when the path led into shadow. Their faces flashed behind my closed lids, a montage of everything I was fighting for, everything I was about to abandon.
I am sorry. The apology echoed in the hollow chamber of my dying mind. I have failed you all.
Then, light. Not gentle dawn, but the violent flare of arcane sparks surging through collapsing pathways. Against the Tragedy, pushed beyond its limits, rebooted.
Like a shattered engine forced back to life with a surge of raw power, my body jolted. Air, sharp and cold, rasped into my lungs. My eyes snapped open, stinging, blurry, then clearing.
I was on the cold floor of the Sanctuary Room. Awareness flooded back, sharp and almost painful. And immediately, I noticed it. A shift. Within the deep wellspring of my being, where the damaged core pulsed erratically, something fundamental had changed. The agonizing instability, the grinding friction, the sense of imminent dissolution… gone. Replaced by a profound, resonant hum.
A stability I hadn't known since the Mourning Pearl began its work. Tentatively, instinctively, I reached for the simplest cantrip—a minor water conjuration. Mana flowed... effortless. Natural.
As if the magic was an extension of my own breath, my own heartbeat. It bloomed in my palm, pure, steady, and impossibly bright. Not just brighter. Whiter. A cold, brilliant luminescence that banished shadows.
White core.
The realization slammed into me with the force of a physical blow. My core had been shattered. How could it not only heal but ascend? The question hung, immense and unanswerable, in the stunned silence of my mind.
"Welcome back, boss!" The cheerful, familiar voice shattered the quiet. Leon materialized nearby, his spectral form shimmering faintly as he waved a translucent hand. "Took your sweet time napping. Looks like your lady took good care of you."
My lady? The term sent a jolt through me, cutting through the shock of the white core. My gaze snapped sideways, following Leon's gesture. There she was. Caera Denoir. Standing near the wall, her posture straight, her crimson eyes focused intently… on my open suitcase.
The suitcase containing Ji-Ae's fragment. They were conversing. I caught the low murmur of Caera's voice, calm but laced with underlying tension, and the faint, ethereal chime that was Ji-Ae's response. Ji-Ae would be fascinated by Caera now. By the impossible power residing within her. It worked, my plan worked.
The pieces clicked together with brutal, undeniable clarity. My core, miraculously healed and ascended. Ji-Ae's sudden, intense interest in Caera. The only logical conclusion detonated in my mind: Caera did possess the Legacy.
And somehow, guided perhaps by Ji-Ae's ancient understanding or driven by the raw, untamed power within her, she had reached into the ruin of my core and mended it.
"Thwart," Ji-Ae's voice chimed from the suitcase, pulling my attention fully. "You are awake. It seems your runes integrated perfectly with the restored core. A fascinating synergy."
My eyes met Caera's as she turned towards Ji-Ae's voice, and then towards me. Her horns were now exposed, the elegant, obsidian spirals catching the Sanctuary's ambient light.
Why did my pulse suddenly feel erratic? Why did the air seem thicker? And why, looking into her crimson eyes, did I perceive a mirror of my own awkwardness? A flicker of uncertainty beneath her usual composed facade? For fuck's sake, I berated myself, I'm not some hormone-addled teenager!
Well, technically I am sixteen, but fused with centuries of Romulos Vritra's experience. But still Romulos hadn't overwritten me; he was an integrated presence, a vast library of knowledge, a tempered steel reinforcing my resolve, smoothing the jagged edges of my insecurities.
Yet, facing Caera, that vast well of experience felt suddenly irrelevant. The raw, confusing immediacy of the moment was overwhelming.
"Are you feeling good?" The question burst out, a clumsy attempt to break the palpable tension coiling around us.
My worry for her—the memory of her injured, feverish form—surged forward, momentarily overriding my own disorientation and the monumental implications of my healed core.
"You were injured… the fever. How are you feeling now?" The concern in my voice was genuine, cutting through the awkwardness.
"Fine." Her reply was clipped, but her gaze held mine for a fraction longer than necessary. A slight softening around her eyes betrayed more than her words.
"I—" She paused, a rare hesitation.
"Thank you. Ji-Ae explained… what happened before. What you did. So, thank you… Corvis, right?" There was a deliberate testing of the name, an acknowledgment of the person separate from the titles and the danger.
"Corvis Vritra," I confirmed, the name feeling heavier than usual in this charged space. "And the one who needs to thank you is me. You didn't just save my life, Caera. You repaired my core."
The words felt inadequate. She had given me back my magic, my stability, my fighting chance.
"Then I guess we are even." A ghost of a smile touched her lips—fleeting, almost imperceptible, yet it transformed her face, revealing a vulnerability beneath the apparent armour she was trying to wear to not crumble.
It was an attempt at lightness, a bridge over the chasm of shared trauma and impossible power.
"Isn't this beautiful?" Leon's voice cut in, dripping with theatrical sincerity layered over unmistakable teasing. "Truly, the stuff of ballads! The wounded warrior, the lady with the healing touch…"
"I guess all us Thwarts share the same romantic streak deep down, eh? All you need is love, right?"
The Beatles? Really, Leon? The mental retort was automatic, accompanied by a powerful urge to roll my eyes skyward. I kept my expression carefully neutral, refusing to give him the satisfaction in front of Caera, though I felt a betraying heat creep up my neck.
"Yep," Leon chirped, utterly unrepentant. "Pure poetry, boss."
I deliberately turned my focus back to Caera, shutting out Leon's commentary. The gravity of our situation reasserted itself, mingling with the unresolved tension.
"I…" I began, just as she said, "I…"
We both stopped, the awkward synchronicity hanging in the air. Our eyes locked again, a flicker of shared frustration passing between us. I gestured slightly for her to continue, the motion feeling stiff.
"Before all the questions I have, we should first get out of the Relictombs," she stated, practicality reasserting itself, though her gaze remained steady on mine.
"We're both functional now, unharmed, at least physically." She glanced towards the suitcase. "Ji-Ae says she can act as a Simulet for both of us." A slight frown creased her brow.
"Wait… you know what Simulets are, right? Do I need to explain how the Relictombs function? You are Dicathian, after all." There was no condescension in her question, just genuine uncertainty about the extent of my Alacryan knowledge.
I shook my head, grateful for the shift to tactical discussion, a familiar ground. "No problem. I'm intimately familiar with Relictomb mechanics. And Ji-Ae…" I gestured towards the suitcase, "...consider her the ultimate repository for the knowledge embedded here. She'll be invaluable for navigation and exit strategy."
"Oh." Relief washed over her features, followed by a flash of appreciation. "That's… impressive. And perfect for our situation." Her expression sobered.
"I… I need to see my Blood." She paused, searching for the Dicathian equivalent. "You call them family, right? Highblood Denoir. I need to know if they're safe. I must know if they are safe." The fear underlying her controlled tone was unmistakable.
Fear of Agrona's retribution.
Dad. What would the High Sovereign do? The calculation ran cold and swift through my mind, leveraging Romulos' understanding of his father's intricate, ruthless strategies. Highblood Denoir wasn't a primary target. Not yet. Not until Agrona confirmed the Legacy resided within Caera, and he currently had no inkling of that truth.
"Rest assured," I said, injecting a confidence I felt was justified into my voice. "Dad isn't going to harm Highblood Denoir."
"You mean the High Sovereign?" Caera's voice sharpened, a blade of disbelief and fear. "How can you be so certain?!" The volume rose before she visibly reined it in, crimson eyes flashing with a mix of anger and anxiety.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to yell." She looked away briefly, a flicker of shame crossing her features.
The rawness of her fear for her family resonated deeply. "You're worried," I said, my voice softening. "It's completely understandable. Normal."
"I know my Dad. I know how he thinks, how he plans. In the immediate future, Highblood Denoir isn't on his target list. Not until he understands the Legacy is within you. And right now, he doesn't have the slightest clue."
I hoped the certainty in my tone was comforting, not just logical. I carried the burden of Dicathen; the thought of dragging the Denoirs into Agrona's vengeful path was another weight I desperately didn't want to bear. Alacrya needed to stay out of his crosshairs, if possible.
"It makes sense…" she murmured, though the tension in her shoulders didn't fully ease. "I hope."
The question of her own state pressed forward. "Anyway," I shifted, "how are you feeling? Truly? For the Legacy… Ji-Ae?" I directed the latter part towards the suitcase. "Has anything changed?"
"The Legacy integration proceeds," Ji-Ae chimed, her tone analytical. "No significant alterations detected in the girl. The adaptation phase continues."
"I feel…" Caera began, frowning slightly as she focused inward. "More connected. To the mana around me. Like the air itself is… thicker, more responsive. But nothing else."
Relief washed over me, mixed with grim understanding. "That's… good. Normal, even. The Legacy…" I hesitated, knowing the harsh truth needed to be spoken. "…at full potential, its raw power would likely kill the host instantly. The integration has to be gradual. It's a defense mechanism as much as anything."
Her eyes widened slightly. "That—" she took a sharp breath, "—that's not particularly reassuring, Corvis!"
"Ignore him, milady!" Leon piped up even though Caera couldn't hear him, then he said to me. "That inability of yours to crack a decent smile makes you quite intimidating, you know? Not the most endearing trait for the fairer sex."
I am not seeking romantic advice from a spectral smartass! I projected firmly into the mental space Leon occupied, deliberately tuning out his next likely quip. My focus remained on Caera.
"We need a plan," I stated, steering us firmly back to survival. "Exiting the Relictombs is step one. But then? My priority is contacting Dicathen. From there, I can reach Seris—"
"You know Scythe Seris?" Caera interrupted, surprise lifting her voice. "She's my mentor! But… she's also a Scythe…"
"I don't know her directly," I clarified quickly. "But my best friend does. He's Alacryan. Grew up in Taegrin Caelum and escaped Agrona's… influence." Speaking of Grey, even just referencing him, brought a flicker of warmth, a reminder of purpose cutting through the lingering chill of my near-death.
"He's the reason for… much of this."
"You seem to care very much about this friend," Caera observed softly, her crimson eyes searching mine. There was no judgment, only a quiet recognition of the emotion in my voice.
"I do," I admitted, the truth simple and profound. "He's… essential. The original Legacy—Cecilia—he was one of the anchors Agrona intended to use for her reincarnation."
I saw the subtle flinch ripple through Caera at the word 'reincarnation', a shadow of the violation she'd narrowly escaped passing over her face.
"Ji-Ae explained it," Caera said, nodding, her voice regaining its steadiness. Gratitude towards the Djinn fragment warmed me; she'd spared Caera the horrific details, the psychological minefield. "The basics, at least."
"And after contacting Scythe Seris?" Caera pressed, her gaze sharpening.
"We strike back," I said, the words cold iron. "It's time the Asuras stop playing gods with both Alacrya and Dicathen. It's time they face the consequences of their actions."
I saw Leon nod satisfied out of the corner of my eye.
"Yet you call yourself Vritra," she pointed out, a challenging, almost playful smirk touching her lips. It was a deflection, perhaps, from the enormity of the 'strike back', but it landed.
"Your lady has you dead to rights there, my man," Leon crowed gleefully. "Absolutely nailed it."
"That's because I am... a true Vritra," I retorted, meeting Caera's gaze squarely, the weight of Romulos' legacy and my own claimed identity settling around me like a mantle.
However I knew that was just an excuse I was making to make harmony of my conflicting identities. Romulos was just as bad as Dad, if not even worse. The only difference was that Romulos loved some lessers... he loved the worst lesser to have ever lived. He loved Corvis Eralith.
"We should get moving," Caera said after a beat, breaking the intense gaze and standing up with her characteristic grace. "What about Ji-Ae?" She gestured towards the open suitcase.
"Oh, she already confirmed our loction," I said, moving towards the suitcase. "We'll consult her if needed, but I know the immediate route."
Before I could close it, Ji-Ae's voice chimed, "Thwart, I cannot maintain external communication or sensory access if confined within a dimensional storage ring."
I shook my head, a wry smile touching my lips. "And we can't very well traverse the Relictombs carrying an empty suitcase," I countered, the mundane absurdity of logistics cutting through the high stakes.
Caera let out a soft, genuine chuckle, a warm, unexpected sound that momentarily eased the tension. I closed the lid on Ji-Ae's faint, protesting chime and slid the suitcase into one of the spatial storage rings on my finger.
"You need one?" I asked Caera, already twisting another ring off my finger. "They're custom. About double the capacity of the best you'd find even in Taegrin Caelum. Even Dad… complimented the design."
"I would gladly take one, if it's not a problem," Caera said, accepting the ring. Her fingers brushed mine as she took it, a fleeting contact that sent another inexplicable jolt through me.
"Already exchanging rings!" Leon's spectral form practically vibrated with glee. "Oh, the symbolism! The commitment! I'm so proud! They grow up so fast!" He pretended to wipe a nonexistent tear away.
Shut. Up. Leon. The mental command was delivered with maximum force.
Caera seemed to sense the internal exchange, a faint, knowing quirk appearing at the corner of her mouth as she slid the ring onto her finger. It looked right there. A nod, firm and resolved, passed between us.
Together, we turned towards the heavy, rune-marked door leading out of the Sanctuary Room, leaving the brief respite behind.
The heavy metal door groaned open under my touch, the sound echoing with grim finality in the silent Sanctuary Room. Stepping through the threshold, the air changed—colder, drier, tasting of ancient dust and something metallic, like old blood.
The sight that greeted me was precisely what my knowledge had predicted: the crucible where Arthur had nearly died more times after his defeat by Cadell and Nico.
Smooth, cold marble stretched beneath my boots, impossibly vast and unblemished, reflecting the diffuse, sourceless light emanating from the high walls.
A grand hallway, wide enough for a dozen men to walk abreast, stretched into shadowed distance, culminating in a colossal, intricately carved door at the far end.
But it was the sentinels lining the path that stole the breath and tightened the gut. Dozens of statues, hewn from obsidian-dark stone, stood frozen in menacing poses along both sides of the corridor.
They were warriors caught mid-snarl, mid-lunge, wielding an arsenal that spanned epochs—jagged swords, recurve bows strung with shadow, and chillingly, sleek, anachronistic firearms.
Their stillness wasn't peaceful; it was the stillness of coiled springs, of poised triggers.
"These statues look… eerie," Caera murmured beside me, her voice low and taut. Her crimson eyes scanned the silent ranks, her posture instinctively shifting into a wary readiness honed by many Ascents.
The contrast was stark: her hard-won, practical experience navigating the Relictombs clashing with my foreknowledge, a ghostly map laid over reality.
"They are." I confirmed, my own voice flat, the clinical detachment Romulos often employed surfacing to mask the pulse of adrenaline. "Chimera Statues. Hollow shells imprisoning nightmares. If we break the stone we unleash the beast within."
"Is there something you don't know?" The question came, laced with a blend of exasperation and reluctant amusement.
"How to behave around ladies," Leon chirped instantly, his spectral form shimmering with self-satisfaction near my shoulder.
Romulos' jabs, even his insults, had carried a sharp, almost affectionate wit, born of millennia of observation. Leon's felt… juvenile. An irritating buzz.
"Too many things," I replied, the words escaping before I could bite them back. My gaze lingered on the nearest statue, a hulking figure wielding a stone axe that seemed to pulse faintly.
If I truly knew enough… the thought was a shard of ice in my chest... everything would be different. The marble floor felt like the cold slab of my own failures. Naivety was the ultimate weapon I'd handed my enemies.
"So, what do we have to expect from this Zone?" Caera asked, pulling me back. Then she paused, a flicker of realization widening her eyes. "Wait… with the Legacy… how strong are these things going to be?"
The question struck like a physical blow, shattering my false calm. Cecilia never Ascended. The realization was terrifying. The Relictombs were adaptive, reactive. Would they sense Caera's current power level—potent, but nascent? Or would they react to the Legacy's terrifying potential, the infinite well of mana mastery slumbering within her?
My own Meta-awareness presented the same terrifying unknown. Arthur's aether core had been infinite potential, and the Relictombs had reacted accordingly. Could I bank on that precedent?
The Djinn knew the Legacy concept… but Meta-awareness? Agrona might not be its sole theorist in history. We were walking blindfolded into an experiment with lethal parameters.
"The activation is progressive," I explained, forcing my voice steady, focusing on the known mechanics to anchor myself. "The deeper we go, the faster the statues awaken. Triggering one hastens the awakening of others nearby."
Caera nodded, her expression grim. We lingered just beyond the Sanctuary door's threshold, the heavy metal at our backs feeling flimsy against the silent threat ahead.
Was our combined strength—my newly forged white core humming with unfamiliar stability, Caera's silver-core equivalent bolstered by Soulfire and the sleeping Legacy within her—judged stronger or weaker than Arthur and Regis had been by the Relictombs inscrutable metrics?
"Corvis," Leon's voice cut through the tense silence, softer now, almost hesitant. "I can't hear your thoughts because I respect them, but I don't need telepathy to see the gears grinding. You're over-planning."
There is no such thing as over-planning or over-preparing, I shot back instantly, the retort sharp in my mind, fueled by Romulos' ingrained meticulousness and the visceral memory of my core's collapse.
Especially not in places built to house forbidden knowledge and test the limits of existence. Especially not with the Legacy walking beside me.
"I was just trying to lighten the atmosphere," Leon mumbled, his spectral glow dimming slightly. The pang of guilt was immediate and unwelcome. He wasn't Romulos. He wasn't trying to be Romulos.
My harshness felt like a betrayal of this new, strange entity bound to me, a punishment for his mere existence. Attaching to him felt like erasing Romulos… yet pushing him away felt cruel.
"Corvis, do you hear it?" Caera's whisper was razor-sharp.
I strained. Beyond the faint buzz of Leon's presence… there. A low, grating sound. Stone grinding against stone. Not the violent crack I remembered from Arthur's ordeal, but a sinister, spreading whisper. Like ice fracturing under immense pressure, spreading from statue to statue down the long hall.
"It's… weaker than expected," I murmured, a flicker of cautious hope warring with dread. In the nov, the awakening had been explosive, immediate. Did the Relictombs perceive us as less of a threat initially? Or was it lulling us?
"But they're coming. Be ready." My hand flexed instinctively, yearning for the familiar weight and focus of Accaron. Without my cane, the delicate, wide-area disruption the spell required was impossible.
My white core offered power, but not the finesse or range needed to shatter stone shells before the beasts emerged.
Then, the spark. An idea born of desperation. The Legacy. Total mana control. It was the ultimate magic wand.
"Caera," I called, my voice tight with urgency. She was already assessing the nearest statues, the cracks spiderwebbing across dark stone.
Without her sword, she looked adrift, a close-quarters fighter stripped of her anchor, her inherent magical talent not yet honed for raw, unassisted spell-slinging like a Dicathian mage or like when she obtained the rune from Gideon's own version of the bestowment ritual.
Gideon. His face flashed in my mind—the brilliant, irascible artificer. Another ghost of a life interrupted. Another regret to bury.
She turned, crimson eyes wide with focused alertness. "Yes?"
"I need to borrow your arm."
"What?" Confusion warred with instinctive wariness on her face.
No time for debate. I stepped close. My hand closed gently but firmly around her wrist, guiding her arm up and forward, pointing her open palm down the deadly corridor. Her skin was warm, the muscle beneath tense but yielding. A jolt, inexplicable and electric, passed through the contact.
"Open your palm. Trust me. I need to test a theory."
The Legacy wasn't just power; it was potential. And Caera, unlike Cecilia, possessed genuine, hard-earned talent. Not the borrowed proficiency of a reincarnated soul, but her own.
"Sound magic," I breathed, focusing past the distracting warmth of her skin, past the low groan of awakening stone. "Can you feel it? The vibration inherent in the air? In the stone itself?"
Through the enhanced lens of Beyond the Meta—no longer the crude 'Ineptrune', but an integrated sense, refined by Romulos' understanding of Realmheart and stabilized by the white core Caera had gifted me—the world dissolved into intricate greyscale patterns.
Mana particles shimmered like dust motes in sunlight, but their inherent frequencies became visible, audible to my inner senses. Foresight pulsed, clearer and extending further than ever before, painting probable trajectories of shattering stone and lunging beasts.
"I… I can!" Caera's voice was a gasp of pure astonishment. Her fingers trembled slightly in my grasp, not with fear, but with the shock of raw perception. "Without a rune… without any affinity… it's just… there! Like a current I can touch!"
Her trust, implicit in that moment, was staggering. She didn't pull away. Instead, she yielded, allowing me to guide her arm, aligning her innate Legacy sensitivity with my intent. It was a fragile, profound synergy—her raw conduit, my precise design.
I cast Accaron. Just as I had channeled complex harmonics through my cane as Romulos had lent his vast control to my spells. But this... this was different. Deeper. More intimate. I poured the intricate vibration pattern into the connection, the familiar, beloved frequencies of Accaron.
My white core ignited, a nova of pure mana feeding the spell, but it flowed through Caera. The Legacy acted instantly perfecting the flow, smoothing chaotic edges, aligning frequencies with impossible precision. It seized the ambient mana, the latent vibrations humming in the stone and air, and wove them seamlessly into my spell.
The effect was cataclysmic, yet eerily controlled. The air shivered with a deep, resonant hum that vibrated in the teeth, in the bones. It was Accaron, but purer, more potent than I'd ever achieved.
My beloved vibration magic sang a dirge of perfect destruction. Along the entire length of the hallway, the obsidian statues shimmered. Hairline fractures exploded into jagged fissures, spiderwebbing across their forms with terrifying speed.
Stone powdered, dissolving like sand under a sonic tide. The creatures within didn't claw their way free; they were birthed in an instant of violent disintegration.
Nightmares made flesh and stone erupted from the crumbling shells. Hulking, multi-limbed abominations with obsidian scales and burning eyes, wielding their weapons with savage, untrained ferocity. A guttural chorus of snarls and clicks filled the hall, a wave of primal hunger fixing dozens of predatory gazes on us.
"Corvis, are you sure about this?!" Caera shouted over the rising din, her arm still held steady by my grip. "It looks like we just freed them all!"
"Trust the process, Caera!" I shouted back, exhilaration warring with focused intensity. This was it. The culmination. "Now! Anti-Matter!"
Romulos' greatest gift. His signature. The power gifted by Fate itself—the ability to induce decay at a fundamental level, to unravel the bonds holding matter and energy together.
With the Legacy as our conduit, with Caera's inherent Vritra Blood providing a buffer against the inherent backlash, with Meta-awareness painting the needed movements, and my white core supplying the staggering energy…
Now was the time. Look at me, brother! I wield your power!
I didn't cast it separately. I fused it. The intricate vibrations of Accaron, singing their song of disruption, were suddenly imbued with the chilling, entropic signature of Anti-Matter.
The Legacy, under Caera's instinctive guidance, wove the two impossibly complex forces together seamlessly. The resonant hum deepened, acquiring a terrifying, hollow quality. It wasn't sound anymore; it was the absence of stability, the song of entropy.
The effect was horrifyingly beautiful. The vibrations unmade the chimeras. From the inside out and the outside in, their monstrous forms simply… decayed. Stone flesh crumbled like ancient sandstone in a hurricane. Flesh liquefied and sublimated into greasy smoke.
Weapons dissolved into metallic dust mid-swing. There was no resistance, no glorious battle. It was an erasure. A silent, rapid dissolution as if they were sculptures of wet clay struck by an invisible, cosmic hammer.
The wave of decay swept down the hall in the wake of the sonic pulse, leaving only piles of inert, grey ash where nightmares had stood seconds before.
I released Caera's arm. The connection severed, leaving a strange, hollow feeling in its wake. The humming power subsided, the greyscale world of Beyond the Meta fading back to normal color, though the white core's steady thrum remained a comforting constant.
My breath came in ragged gasps, the exertion not just physical, but mental and spiritual.
Caera lowered her arm slowly, massaging her wrist where my grip had been tight. Her crimson eyes were wide, reflecting the lingering motes of ash drifting in the still air.
"That… that was…" Words failed her. She shook her head slightly, a tremor running through her. "Impressive. Terrifying. What was that you just did? The… unraveling?"
"I fused my vibration magic," I explained, my voice rough but laced with undeniable exhilaration, a genuine, unguarded smile spreading across my face—a rare, foreign sensation, "with a spell that would normally liquefy my own organs if I attempted it. Anti-Matter. But the Legacy… your Vritra Blood… it acted as a perfect buffer, a flawless conductor."
"You channeled it through me," she stated, realization dawning. "I felt the flow, the… immensity. But I didn't use any of my own mana. Are you sure you're fine? You could have asked me to help fuel it!"
"I was… excited to test my new core," I admitted with a breathless chuckle, the adrenaline still buzzing. "And the possibility. It worked."
A faint, incredulous smile touched Caera's lips as she shook her head again, looking at me with an expression I couldn't quite decipher—part disbelief, part reluctant admiration.
"I have never met someone as mad as you. Perhaps my brother approaches it… but even Sevren is… less recklessly brilliant."
"Your brother?" The name struck a chord. Sevren Denoir. Missing. Presumed dead in the Relictombs. In this timeline, was he still alive? Trapped? The weight of potential knowledge settled heavily.
"Yes," she said, a flicker of warmth and worry crossing her features. "Adoptive brother. Sevren Denoir. He… loved the Relictombs. Obsessively. He brought me on my first Ascent. Taught me more than even Seris ever did about survival down here."
I nodded, understanding warring with the burden of foresight. Following the fractured timeline compared to Arthur's story, we were early. Months early. If Sevren was still missing… could he be saved? Could we find him before the Relictombs consumed him?
"Let's get going," I said, turning towards the distant door, pushing down the urge to blurt out what I knew. Explaining how I knew was a labyrinth I couldn't navigate now. And Caera… she needed focus. The fear for Highblood Denoir was already a specter haunting her crimson eyes.
To dangle the possibility of Sevren, only to potentially find ash and bones… that was a cruelty I couldn't inflict. Not yet. Not until we were safe, and I had more than ghostly memories to go on.
False hope was a poison worse than despair.