He sat quietly, the weight of the sanity mask pressing gently against his skin, concealing more than just his face. Behind the surface, his eyes were open but vacant, staring into nothing. Not even the faint hum of the world could soothe the whirlwind inside him. His hands trembled slightly. Blood was no longer fresh on them, but he could still see it.
He had left the boy alive.
That was supposed to count for something, wasn't it?
But it didn't.
The moment played again and again in his mind, like a shard of corrupted memory clawing against the edge of his thoughts. He had regained control regained it just in time but too late for the three injured men who now laid somewhere in the Ashlands, cold and lifeless. Their blood had been real. Their heads... detached. Their deaths... on his hands.
It hadn't been like this before. Damn this flaw
Hope had always been cautious. Careful. Calculated. In the outskirts where chaos was a daily companion, he fought only when there was no other option—and when he did, it was never to kill,he ran from a fight he couldn't win Survival didn't demand cruelty, just cunning. He had run more times than he could count, ducking behind ruined buildings, slipping through alleyways, scaling rusted walls with bloodied hands just to escape the violence.
He had watched people die. Sure. Everyone had, out there. The outskirt gangs didn't bother with mercy. But he had never done it. Never crossed the line from watching to doing.
Until today.
A low tremor passed through his body as he wrapped his arms around himself. It wasn't from cold. It was fear the horror of realizing what he was capable of. Even if it wasn't truly him, even if it was the flaw whispering, pushing, dragging him toward that act, he still remembered the feeling. The weight of the odachi as it rose. The sound of steel slicing through flesh. The dull thud of a severed head hitting stone.
He'd never forget it.
The sanity mask now sat firmly on his face, not because he was in danger, but because he couldn't trust himself without it.
"It's not your fault, Hopeless," came a familiar voice. parrot fluttered down from the cracked beams above and landed beside him. Its tone was unusually gentle, lacking its usual dry sarcasm.
"At least you didn't kill the boy. And you were controlled. You know that."
Hope smiled faintly beneath the mask. It was a hollow expression emptied by guilt but it was all he could manage.
"I know," he replied quietly. His voice was muffled behind the mask, raspy from exhaustion.
He stood slowly, muscles sore from tension and weariness. Making his way to the storage corner of the sanctuary, he tore a hunk of preserved meat from a wrapped bundle. The meat was dry and fibrous, its taste likely bland, but he didn't care. He tore off a chunk with his teeth and chewed slowly. After a moment, he ripped another portion free and tossed it to Parrot, who caught it mid-air with practiced ease.
"Thanks," the bird said, mouth half-full as it pecked away.
After eating, Hope exhaled and extended his hand. With a flicker of light and void shimmer, the corrupted devil's soul core emerged from his soul sea. Soul cores could be stored in the soul for some time. It floated above his palm for a moment, pulsing faintly with sickly crimson veins. He turned it over in his palm, admiring it for it's power.
He didn't feel pride.
Only... weight.
Hope stored the core inside the soul core chest nestled in the corner of the sanctuary, locking it with a mental command. Then he muttered under his breath, almost mockingly, "Bad thing I can't even use soul cores..."
He summoned his runes with another thought. Glowing symbols materialized in the air before him in neat, clean lines.
[Darkness Fragments: 3000 / 5000]
[Soul Essence: 3000 / 5000]
He dismissed them almost immediately. The numbers were rising faster. and the effort of maintaining the sanity mask still sapped him his essence although it was of an awakened tier. Fighting and killing that corrupted devil had drained him physically and mentally. He was too tired to inspect the rest of his attributes and memories. too tired to plan or reflect.
He dismissed his cloak it weight barely noticed, then followed by unsummoning his armor. His body was clad in a sleek, black-leathered combat suit underneath—tight-fitting, flexible, and surprisingly durable. A memory from another corrupted devil he had slain, the suit molded to his form like a second skin.
It felt comforting.