Sure Effect Schrödinger's Dome Weaker,
Time back to normal now. There are 15 minutes before Schrödinger's Dome Active Again.
Year 12123, Era Elyndris
36:00/00:00 (Present)
Atonement Room, Atlantis Magic School
"There is no more time to linger. Your reckoning arrives now," the Pastor said, his voice echoing through the oppressive gloom of the desolate chamber. He held the gleaming spear tightly, his knuckles turning white—an unyielding promise of death. "Only then will you understand the true meaning of 'mercy' when your very soul is poised upon this sharpened tip."
Fitran smirked, despite the tremors coursing through his battered form. Blood slowly trickled down his cheek, catching the fleeting light like crimson jewels, yet his eyes—fierce and unwavering, burning with a fire far beyond mere bravado—remained fixed on the Pastor. "Do you truly believe you can intimidate me?" he challenged, his voice steady. "Blood is merely a reminder of the lives I have taken and those I have chosen to spare. Fear has no home in me." The palpable heat of old wounds ignited between them, a recognition of shared shadows cloaked in bitter rivalry.
"You possess a bravery I did not expect," the Pastor said, stepping forward with a sneer that dripped with disdain. "Yet know this: your courage is of no consequence." His voice, heavy with scorn, sliced through the air as he searched Fitran's face for any hint of faltering resolve. "Surely, you do not think this is a game? You walk a treacherous path."
"A game, you say?" Fitran's laughter rang out, sharp and scornful, shattering the tense atmosphere between them. "You completely misjudge my resolve. This is a strategic contest, one with stakes far beyond the ebb and flow of mere existence. Your pieces are poorly positioned, Pastor." Leaning closer, a fierce glint sparked in his eyes. "You wield that spear like a talisman, yet it symbolizes my impending victory. You should know by now what truly terrifies you—a reality in which I am no longer your pawn."
"Do you really think you can sway me?" The Pastor's voice quivered, a faint tremor beneath the confidence he struggled to maintain. "Your choices are diminishing."
"Choices?" Fitran echoed, savoring the discord blooming in the air. "I've yet to reveal my true intentions. What lies ahead will turn your certainty to ashes." With a flourish, he drew forth a small, intricately carved amulet from the tattered folds of his cloak, its surface pulsing with an ominous energy. "You fail to grasp the enormity of what you face. This is more than mere existence; it is a battle for dominion—the kind that can entwine itself in the very threads of destiny."
The air thickened, heavy and suffocating, as the spear in the Pastor's grip began to thrum with a dark resonance, responding to the surge of magic unleashed by Fitran. "Do you truly believe that trinket can shield you from what's to come? This is a clash of souls," he declared, his voice dripping with disdain and foreboding. The Pastor's jaw tightened, fierce determination etched on his features as he battled the urge to show any sign of weakness, striving to keep his fury firmly under control, as if he wielded the very essence of power itself.
Fitran's breath caught, a wave of anxiety flaring in his chest with each word spoken. "This is no jest," he managed to say, his voice low and fierce. "The formula is prepared. You remain blind to the true peril you face." His hand quivered slightly, but he concealed it beneath a facade of composure, his words laced with a desperate bravery that masked his inner turmoil.
Once more, Fitran's breath hitched; each word ignited a fire within him. "This isn't mere sport," he proclaimed, his voice steady, though a tremor lingered in his grip. "The formula is complete. You stand at the edge of a chasm that your mind cannot begin to comprehend." Though his mask of tranquility faltered slightly, it carried an undercurrent of urgency and courage that resonated deeply in the charged atmosphere.
As the atmosphere thickened with tension, an electric energy crackled between them; the spear held by the Pastor quivered, filled with a barely contained force, as if it had a will of its own and was responding to an unseen power. "You will witness true power," the Pastor declared ominously, a glint of malice shining in his eyes. "This world is shrouded in darkness, and only those of strong will shall survive the coming storm."
"So, this is what you call 'true power'?" Fitran scoffed, a wry smirk creeping across his lips like a shadow overcoming the final light of day. "Perhaps you believe that to be true. But mark my words: I will not be your prey, nor will I let you destroy me without a fierce fight." With his chin tilted defiantly, a spark of rebellion ignited in his gaze. In an act of bold mockery, he stuck out his tongue at the threat lingering at the spear's tip. "If you want to claim victory, come and show me your strength!"
Whosh—!
The spear shot forward, a streak of insatiable steel cutting through the air. It grazed Fitran's ear, leaving a painful trail that ignited a furious blaze in his veins. "Do you think such a minor wound could intimidate me? You deeply underestimate the resolve of one who has faced far worse," Fitran growled, his breath coming in sharp gasps, yet his spirit remained unbroken as he met the spear's intent gaze. He saw the wielder's eyes widen, a dawning understanding of the darkness they were awakening.
Then, from the depths of shadow, a velata—one of the grotesque undead—leapt into view, its presence a mere whisper of death, threatening to unravel his sanity. The Pastor's earlier warning, delivered with a sense of grim urgency, faded amid the chaos swirling around him. "Did you truly think that such a threat could silence me?" Fitran sneered, calling upon his battered spirit, as if he were piecing together shards of broken glass. His voice rose, filled with unsettling strength as he began to weave his incantation. "Listen closely, for I summon true power!"
"Arise, true power!" he proclaimed, each word laced with fierce resolve. A wave of ancient energy surged beneath the earth, drawing from the very essence of existence around him. Sweat trickled down his brow, each droplet mingling with his unwavering determination as he tapped into the lifeblood of the ground below. "Hear my call! This is more than mere words; it is a summons for renewal! Come forth and grant me your strength!"
The chamber shook as distant echoes resonated, a response from a long-hidden essence, like a forsaken deity finally awakened. The atmosphere thickened, charged with an ominous energy, a force lurking just beyond sight yet undeniably palpable. It pressed against everything, an oppressive weight of ancient dread and power.
"You are infuriating," the Pastor hissed, his voice quaking with barely contained rage. "Do you truly believe I would allow you to destroy all that I hold dear?"
Fitran's lips curled into a sly smirk, his eyes glimmering with dark amusement. "Oh, my dear Pastor, I do not seek ruin—what I desire is transformation. In destruction, we discover new beginnings." He stepped closer, shadows weaving around him like a familiar cloak. "You must understand this: to survive is to change. Weakness only invites catastrophe."
"If you wish to survive, you must cultivate greater strength," Fitran asserted, his tone merciless, leaving no room for refusal. He steadied himself, a radiant aura enveloping his battered form, flickering with an unsettling light. "You cling to past glories, but they only drag you down."
The Pastor's gaze wavered for a brief moment, but he quickly composed himself, gripping tightly the hilt of his sword. Drawing on the intensity of his deepest fears, he raised the blade high overhead, declaring fiercely, "Sword of Lightning Light!" The weapon ignited with a fury reminiscent of a dying star, its brilliance lighting up the chamber in a radiant glow. "Shine forth… Holy Exorcism!" His voice reverberated through the room, a roar of faith intertwined with a thread of desperation.
The command surged forth, crashing into the core of the chamber like a storm—an unyielding wave of pure, holy energy that swept the veils aside. Their harrowing cries were suddenly swallowed by silence, rendered powerless in the wake of this immense force. For a brief moment, the world around him faded into an all-consuming white, a fleeting flash of hope amidst the encroaching despair.
As the light gradually receded, Fitran had seemingly vanished—leaving only a palpable, electric tension hanging in the air, as if the very fabric of reality had been pulled tight and stretched. The Pastor remained firmly where he stood, breath stuttering in his chest, his eyes darting through the lurking shadows in search of any sign of his elusive foe.
"Why must it always lead to such torment?" the Pastor whispered, sheathing his sword, a bitter edge to his words. "By the heavens, this blade shall become my instrument of salvation. It is my final chance to break this relentless cycle of suffering." His grip on the hilt tightened, a storm of desperation and resolve flowing through him. "These misguided souls believe they are untouched by the consequences of their pride. I shall tear that illusion apart."
With grim determination, he raised the Lightning Light high, its fierce glow cutting through the shadows that clung to the chamber's walls. "This blade carries the legacy of those who stood firm against the encroaching darkness," he murmured, a flicker of hope igniting within his heart. "It holds the power to cleanse the wicked and grant peace to restless souls."
"FITRAN!" he shouted, his voice echoing ominously against the ancient stone, each word a clarion call, a challenge. "DO NOT HIDE IN THE SHADOWS! DO YOU THINK YOUR DECEIT CAN SAVE YOU? COWARD!" The resonance of his voice lingered in the air, thick with anticipation, as he waited for a response that could either fortify his courage or pull him deeper into the abyss of despair.
Tap… tap… tap…
From the inky depths, Fitran emerged, blood marring his face like a grotesque mark of honor, yet the fire in his eyes shimmered with unsettling clarity. "You truly underestimate my involvement in this chaos," he replied, his voice steady but laced with a chilling undertone. "This power goes beyond mere weapon or tool—it is a pact, a binding covenant, if you will. One that entwines our fates."
The Pastor narrowed his gaze, his heart pounding fiercely in his chest. "What covenant? You speak in riddles, as if your mind games are beyond my understanding."
Fitran's lips twisted into a sly smile, a predatory light flickering in his eyes. "Ah, but isn't it all quite clear? We are intertwined, you and I, caught in this complex dance of shadows and light. Your desperate need for order stands in stark contrast to my unending craving for chaos." He moved closer, his voice dripping with mockery. "Do you truly believe that wielding that sword will lead you to victory? Or might it instead devour you, body and soul?"
His words wound through the air like a serpent, each syllable tightening the noose around the Pastor's unraveling resolve. "Admit it—you cannot hope to outsmart that which lies beyond your complete comprehension."
The Pastor clenched his teeth, every instinct urging caution against the treacherous game unfolding between them. "Your lies are as fragile as the thin air that divides us. I will not yield to your trickery."
"Lies?" Fitran replied, his tone cold and filled with disdain. "What if I told you that this very moment is merely the beginning? A crucible for the trials yet to come? I can offer you power, dear Pastor—if you have the courage to grasp it." His eyes gleamed with a wicked intelligence, the surrounding darkness seeming to pulse in eager response. "Alternatively, you may continue this futile quest, a hero in a world that has long since forsaken the desire for salvation."
The tension grew thicker, each heartbeat intensifying the weight of their confrontation; every word deepened into a battle of minds, where only one could claim victory unscathed.
Tap… tap… tap…
A heavy silence wrapped around the room like a dense fog as Fitran emerged from the shadows, his bloodied face a haunting reminder of battles long gone. A fierce light sparked in his eyes, a signal of the storm brewing inside him. "You have no idea how tightly fate has bound me," he declared, his voice a tumultuous mix of fear and relentless resolve. "This weapon you covet, Pastor, is much more than a simple tool—it carries a curse that entwines itself around my very soul."
The Pastor's brow knitted in confusion and fury, a mix of disbelief and anger surging through him. "Do you truly want to unleash chaos with that cursed power? There's no honor in this treacherous path!" he shouted, the tension crackling between them like a live wire.
A bitter smile twisted on Fitran's lips, his demeanor laced with mocking challenge. "Courage and foolishness often waltz together in this dark dance we call life, do you not agree? I am not the architect of this fate, Pastor; it was thrust upon me, the bitter fruit born from your own hand."
His voice dropped, a cold edge sharpening his tone. "Do you even realize who stands before you, Pastor? I am no mere specter or echo of your choices. I am the embodiment of all your failures and triumphs, the very result of your aspirations." His gaze bore into the Pastor, fierce and unwavering, challenging him to deny this truth.
The Pastor lifted his chin, determination hardening the lines of his jaw. "Oh? Do you truly think you can bend my will to change my path? You are nothing but a harbinger of doom!"
Fitran's lips twisted into a sly grin, dark amusement flickering in his eyes. "A curse, you say? Yet here I am, the living embodiment of your choices. Every step you took has brought me to this fateful crossroads." His voice flowed like a placid stream, steady and deceptively soothing, though beneath it lay the tension of a tightly coiled spring, ready to unleash its wrath. "Do you think you can cast me off as a mere shadow? I am so much more than that."
The air thickened between them, charged with the weight of unspoken truths. The Pastor's brow furrowed, and tremors of doubt crept into his voice as he struggled to hold his ground. "What is your true intent? Do you really wish to destroy everything I have painstakingly built? Are you truly ready to plunge it all into chaos?"
"Chaos?" Fitran chuckled, a low and threatening sound. "No, Pastor, I seek something far more valuable than mere disorder. What I want is to dismantle the very essence of your purpose." He tightened his grip on Excalibur, his knuckles turning white. "I have returned to face the past you have so carefully buried. But look, I am no longer the boy you once mocked; I have become an instrument of vengeance, a manifestation of your deepest fears."
"Open your eyes, Fitran!" the Pastor shouted, his voice cutting through the tense air like a clap of thunder. "Your actions will only lead to destruction!" Desperation colored his words, like a flickering candle battling against the storm of fate.
"Destruction may very well seek me out," Fitran declared, his eyes unwavering. "But know this, I am ready to pay whatever price it demands." His voice rang strong, each word heavy with iron-clad determination.
The Pastor, trembling under the weight of looming chaos, clenched his jaw to keep his fears in check. "You must stop this madness at once, or I shall be forced to bring it to a swift end myself," he warned, his gaze flickering with the turmoil brewing within his soul.
"That is precisely my purpose, Pastor," Fitran replied, a sly grin curling at the corners of his mouth. "I have buried this torment, the very scars you carved into my spirit, for far too long. Now, it is time to retaliate with everything I possess." His words dripped with defiance, each phrase a calculated thrust aimed at undermining the Pastor's certainty.
Visions of a frightened boy invaded the Pastor's thoughts, the memories sharp and insistent as daggers. "You should not be here, Fitran!" he shouted, his voice a mix of disbelief and desperation, as if he were pleading with a ghost from his past.
"And you should not underestimate me!" Fitran countered, his voice surging like a coming storm. "Do you truly wish to extinguish me—your once-weak adversary, Pastor? Or shall we once again confront the shadows of our tangled past?" The tension thickened, settling around them like a choking mist, as if the very room craved the impending clash.
For a brief moment, the Pastor fell into silence, his mind racing as he studied Fitran's intense gaze. The memories clawed at him, dragging him into the abyss of guilt that threatened to consume him whole.
With a graceful yet lethal precision, the Pastor revealed his supreme weapon from the shadows. "Behold, the Atlantis Bow of Athena," he declared with a solemn tone, as magical energies crackled throughout the chamber, the air itself thrumming with recognition of its storied power.
"This bow is not just any weapon; it represents total annihilation—crafted from the fabled histories of the Zircon nation. A single arrow can slice through continents, leaving only an unsettling silence in its wake, even in the lofty realms of Gamma. Empires have crumbled under its overwhelming force; countless lives extinguished, their cries fading into the abyss." His voice intensified, each word a testament to the power he wielded.
He carefully selected four arrows, their fletchings bright against the encroaching dark: crimson for wisdom, azure for swiftness, golden for fortune, and obsidian—the herald of relentless destruction. Each arrow pulsed with arcane energy, powerfully aligned with its intended purpose.
"You fail to comprehend the gravity of this moment, Fitran," she said, her voice low and laced with apprehension. "You seem indifferent, as though the darkening shadows hold no weight for you."
Fitran's lips twisted into a narrow smirk, a flicker of something darker glinting behind his obsidian gaze. "Ah, my dear Julie, I am but a wretched rat scurrying through the twisted streets of this city. Yes, ensnared in chaos—yet chaos is merely a canvas. I am the artist, uncertain where my next stroke might land."
The Pastor nodded slowly, his brow creasing in deep thought. "What you see as darkness, my friend, is, in truth, a searing light that tears through the very fabric of the void," he declared, as if revealing a hidden truth.
With measured grace, almost reverent, he drew the bowstring tight, the tension vibrating with the weight of destiny. "Once this arrow is released, I must prepare myself for the storm it may unleash. It could bring forth life or claim death. First release, Accuracy."
Whosh!
The arrow sliced through the oppressive shadows with a speed that defied belief.
Fitran murmured a counter-incantation, his voice barely a whisper, "Wind up." The very atmosphere throbbed with energy. He felt it—a surge binding their fates together. Each decision that led to this moment crackled with an electric tension.
As the Pastor unleashed his arrow, the air trembled with a cataclysmic shift. Crimson clouds erupted from Fitran, coalescing into a thick, glimmering barrier—Liquidation—a shield that halted the arrow, stopping it mere inches from his face.
"Liquidation," the Pastor breathed, a note of awe threading through his words. "No arrow can pierce its veil."
"And therein lies the folly of those who oppose," Fitran replied quietly, his gaze unwavering and fierce. "Their lost souls will find no return. Each drop of blood serves as a sacrificial fragment within a grander puzzle. This power I wield—the reserve that pulses through me—grants me the ability to twist both time and space."
He met the Pastor's stormy eyes, a spark of defiance igniting within his own. "I do not simply endure; I unleash my wrath," he said, his voice calm yet heavy with a dark promise that lingered just beneath the surface.
The Pastor felt a wave of unexpected admiration surge within him. "You are truly extraordinary, Fitran. Your will—it borders on terrifying," he said, an undercurrent of unease weaving through his words. The two men found themselves locked in a silent battle, rivals forged in chaos, a reluctant bond of brotherhood forming amidst the ruins of their choices.
Fitran carefully notched a black arrow, its sleek surface glinting with ominous intent. "You see, all of this will culminate in a decisive moment with a single strike. The kind that echoes through the time's corridors," he declared, his voice lowering to a whisper, filled with a sense of looming reckoning.
"Release it now, Macht!" the Pastor shouted, his determination hardening as he sent the arrow flying through the air, striking straight into Fitran's chest—an act of desperation.
Thud!
Fitran's body jolted from the impact, blood seeping from the wound, staining the ground below him—a grim testament to every battle fought and every agony endured.
Julie, hidden in the shadows, burst into tears as she ran forward, cradling the injured Pastor in her arms. "No… please, it cannot end like this!" she cried out, her heart racing with terror.
"At long last," Julie whispered as she grasped the Pastor's trembling hand, her voice shaking. "We have what we desired…" Yet that fleeting glimmer of hope was quickly snuffed out, as darkness crept ever closer.
Emerging from the shadows, Fitran, now a haunting specter, rose, his face marred by death's cruel hand. "Did you really believe you could cast me aside so easily?" he sneered, his voice cold and hollow as the grave itself.
"Stop!" Julie called out, her voice trembling with desperation, woven with urgency. "Return—this isn't who you are!" Her pleas resonated in the dim light, a heart-wrenching call to a soul lost in shadows.
Thud...!
Excalibur plunged into the Pastor's heart, the blade embedding deep within. With a shuddering gasp, the old man collapsed to the ground, his final words barely escaping: "World…fract…ion…" A haunting echo that lingered in the air, reflecting the weight of unexpressed sorrow.
Julie grasped his lifeless body, waves of despair crashing down upon her as hope drained away into the cold stone, pooling like forgotten memories in the darkness.
In that moment, a child's mournful cry shattered the stillness, thickening the air with despair. "Stop!" Julie's voice shook with intensity, a raw plea against the encroaching night. "This isn't you, Fitran! You don't have to do this!"
The scene twisted around them—a haunting mirror of a distant past, where two innocent children exchanged small acts of kindness beneath a bruised sky, their laughter weaving fragile threads of hope and fleeting dreams now turned to ash. Yet that innocence vanished, consumed by the relentless tides of bloodshed and resentment that now defined their lives.
Julie's heart tightened painfully as tears streamed down her cheeks, each sob echoing the depth of her shame and the hollow ache of her unfulfilled desires. "I have given my body to one whom I do not cherish," she murmured, each word cutting into her soul like a sharply thrust dagger. "Why must I endure this agony? Allow me to remain here, trapped in my own disgrace."
Fitran's expression, usually sharp and cunning, now bore the weight of a calculated calm. His gaze reflected the ashen clouds swirling ominously above, yet a flicker of something sinister lurked beneath the surface of his eyes. "This is the end, Julie," he intoned softly, lifting Excalibur; its blade shone ominously in the dim light. "Your love has become a burden, and I can no longer bear it."
As the blade descended, time stretched agonizingly, each heartbeat resonating with dread. The vivid spray of crimson splattered across Fitran's face, transforming him into a grotesque masterpiece. He wiped the blood away with a dismissive hand, a twisted smile playing at the corners of his lips. "See? The end can be... beautiful, in its own morbid way."
Out of the shadows, a figure emerged—Mammon, stepping through a swirling, radiant portal. His cold, scrutinizing eyes fixed on Fitran with unsettling calm. "Though you think you have severed his memories, his love remains tied to that man. Love, like magic, has the power to endure even the most devastating losses."
Fitran's brow furrowed in quiet defiance. "What do you truly know of love?" he shot back, his voice laced with bitterness that hung heavy in the air between them. "In a world ruled by power, it serves only as a weakness." With a heavy heart, he averted his gaze, succumbing to the chaotic tide swirling around him. "Very well," he murmured, almost to himself. "As per our agreement, I shall cast aside my memories and bind this shadowy power..."
With each name that left his lips, he felt the weight of his choices pressing down on him. "Beelzebub. Mammon." The atmosphere thickened, heavy with a sense of irreversible finality, and he understood that this moment marked not just an end—but a haunting beginning shrouded in darkness, with the culmination of one chapter unfolding into an endless web of others.
As the last echoes of magic faded into a disquieting silence, the burden of the past closed in on them like a vice, steadfast and cold, extinguishing the remaining flickers of hope that dared to remain.