Time reverted back. Voidwright Magic Active.
Year 12123, Era Elyndris
36:00/00:00
Atonement Room, Atlantis Magic School
"Do you truly think you can intimidate me?" Fitran's voice boomed like distant thunder, each word carrying a disturbing rhythm that sent icy tendrils creeping along the Pastor's spine. He leaned slightly forward, a smirk stretching across his face as if sharing a dark jest with the void itself. "Blood holds no fear for me. Not when it merely serves as a vessel to fulfill a greater ambition."
A flicker of doubt crossed the Pastor's face, born of deep unease. "You are only pretending. Reality cannot be so easily twisted." He tightened his grip on the polished spear, its gleam catching the dim light, a spark of fierce conviction clashing against the encroaching shadows. "I will be the one to end you."
Julie's heart thundered within her chest, each beat amplifying the palpable tension in the room. What does he desire? Am I his prey, or is his pursuit aimed at something else? An icy grip tightened in her gut, the influence of Fitran's magic penetrating deeper, twisting her thoughts and feeding her fears. Shadows whispered enticingly, each murmur more captivating than the last.
For a moment, the Pastor appeared uncertain, doubt flickering across his stern face. Have I truly lost control? That dark space, once a fortress of belief for him, now felt like a snare, tightening with each drawn breath. Julie observed, tension coiling in her chest, yearning for clarity amid the fog of confusion that Fitran had spun around them.
"You are bolder than I expected. Yet that courage is in vain," the Pastor continued, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, discomfort washing over him. His gaze darted sideways, scrutinizing the shadows that danced in the room's corners, as if seeking validation from unseen ears. "Do you truly believe that mere courage will save you?"
"Is that what you genuinely believe?" Fitran's voice sliced through the thickening tension, smooth yet tinged with mockery. He stepped closer, the air surrounding him stirring like a dense fog charged with unseen energy, causing the Pastor to stagger slightly. "Courage alone shall take you only so far, dear friend." His eyes sparkled with a dangerous gleam. "What you truly need is power—a deep understanding of the depths of your own potential."
Fitran's hand twitched, revealing a barely visible glyph—the sigil of Voidwright Manipulation, Aporia's Veil—pulsing momentarily over his knuckles before disappearing like wisps of smoke in a strong wind. Julie felt it too, a disquieting weight settling deep within her chest. A haunting memory flitted through her mind, vivid yet ghostlike: the face of a lost sibling, their eyes wide with a pleading darkness. "No… not now," she murmured, shaking her head as if to dispel the spectral image. "It cannot be real."
As the air thickened, the Pastor's spear trembled in his grip, not only from the surge of magic that filled the chamber, but also from the sinister touch of Fitran's mind games. What am I truly fighting for? Julie's thoughts raced wildly. Is Fitran my enemy—or am I, in truth, my own adversary? The heavy cloak of doubt tightened around her heart, constricting her fingers around her warding charm. "What if this is just a game for him?" she whispered, her gaze darting toward the shadows where Fitran hid.
"You will witness true power," the Pastor declared, but beneath his bravado, a fragile layer of uncertainty lurked. "Yet something gnaws at me," he continued, his voice trembling defiantly, "that the truth is slipping from your grasp. You are waiting for me to falter."
Fitran's laughter echoed, dark and disturbing, his gaze cutting like a blade. "Ah, but what is truth, really?" he replied smoothly, gliding closer, his breath chilling the air between them. "What if this entire confrontation is nothing but an illusion? A clever trap set for you, dear Pastor. What if I have already won, and you dance upon a stage crafted by my hand?" He tilted his head, a twisted smile playing on his lips as he reveled in the inner turmoil stirring within the Pastor.
"You wouldn't dare," the Pastor countered, though a quiver in his voice hinted at a flicker of fear. "You underestimate my resolve."
"Do I?" Fitran's eyes glinted with a predatory hunger as he took a step back, momentarily lifting the oppressive weight of tension; still, the air remained thick with unspoken threats. "Perhaps it is your pride that blinds you to the depth of my power. Every choice you've made, every brave act, has drawn you nearer to this brink. What if I decided to give you that final push?"
Without warning, shadows began to swirl at the edges of the Pastor's vision, haunting shapes that twisted and dissipated like smoke. This was not a mere illusion; it embodied the very essence of the magic that Fitran wielded. Even the most casual gestures from Fitran appeared to carry an undercurrent of danger, each flick of his wrist a subtle warning of the peril that loomed in the air like a storm cloud.
Fitran's gaze burned with an intensity that seemed capable of incinerating souls. "Do you recognize what surrounds you?" he taunted, his voice a smooth thread of menace that lingered cruelly in the stillness. His magic seeped into the atmosphere, conjuring subtle phantoms—illusions dancing tantalizingly at the border of perception. "Look closer, Pastor. Is that not Julie standing just behind you? Or is it merely your own troubled conscience manifesting?"
The Pastor's heart raced, his grip on the sword tightening instinctively. "You cannot trick me, Fitran. I see through your deceptions." Yet as he asserted this, the shining glimmer of Excalibur dimmed and faltered, swallowed by an encroaching tide of uncertainty. The noose of dread tightened around him, coiling like a serpent ready to strike. He felt the heavy weight of fear pressing against his mind, whispering chilling questions—"What if this is not simply a confrontation? What if I am the one drawn into this intricate game?"
Without warning, the charged air ignited as the initial clash of their conflict erupted—a spear hurled from the shadows sliced past Fitran's ear, its shrill whistle sharp and threatening. In that moment, reality itself seemed to quiver, as if the very fabric of existence had been momentarily unraveled. "Is that truly me?" the Pastor mused, bewilderment clawing at the edges of his awareness. "No, it cannot be…" Nearby, he could see Julie, her complexion paling to an ashen hue as she witnessed a grotesque sight: blood appeared to flow backward along Fitran's cheek, creating a nightmarish scene as though time itself had stuttered. Both figures blinked, their instincts urging them to sever the connection that tethered them in that surreal instant.
Manipulation magic: Aporia's Veil—shrouding its unsuspecting targets in a fog of confusion; blurring the lines between what was and what might be, intertwining clarity with deceptive shadows.
Amid the chaos, the Pastor gritted his teeth, summoning the Sword of Lightning Light. "You do not trust yourself," it murmured, its voice crackling with the tempestuous energy of a thousand storms. "And why should I place my trust in you, when your past failures cast a shadow over us all?" The potent blade nearly slipped from his grip, the weight of uncertainty pressing down upon him like an iron shroud. Yet, at that moment, reality snapped back into focus with jarring clarity; the piercing shrieks of velata spirits erupted around him as they were forcefully banished by his burgeoning magic.
Fitran's form dissolved into the shadows as swiftly as it had appeared; however, the remnants of his dark sorcery lingered in the air, heavy and oppressive. Shadows stretched across the dimly lit chamber, twisting and contorting as though alive, each one echoing Fitran's sinister laugh, a cruel taunt aimed at the Pastor's steadfast resolve. "Do you truly believe yourself safe?" Fitran's voice slithered through the Pastor's thoughts, its tone both cold and composed. "In truth, you are merely a pawn in this grand tableau."
"Where is he? Has he already crept up behind me?" Julie's mind raced, panic tightening its grip on her heart as she spun around, pressing her back against the chill of the stone wall. Desperation enveloped her like a heavy shroud. "Pastor!" she cried out, her voice trembling. "Stay vigilant! He could strike at any moment!"
The Pastor's knuckles turned bone-white around the hilt of his bow, his muscles coiling as if ready to spring forth. Doubt gnawed at him amid the chaos swirling in his mind. Was it Fitran who cast that dreadful spell, or did I? He clenched his jaw, forcing his thoughts away from the flickering shadows that danced along the chamber's stone walls. "You shall not bring me down so easily, Fitran!" he declared, his voice rising defiantly as he tightened his grip on the bow.
As the next phase of the battle unfolded—bow meeting blood magic—it turned into a contest not just of strength, but of warped perception. Each arrow he released felt like a spectral memory crashing down upon him, a relentless tide. "Remember your prayers, Pastor!" he whispered fervently to himself, shaking his head to cast away the haunting visions that clung to him. There it was again—the resonance of childhood prayers echoing in the depths of his mind, yet from the shadows emerged a piercing shaft of shame; memories of failure surged within him, twisting like a cruel dagger. He sensed Julie's accusatory gaze upon his back like a brand of iron. "I'm not weak!" he roared defiantly, but yet another arrow found its path; the first soared true, while the second faltered, ensnared in a web of darkness and dread.
Fitran's voice slithered through the air like a serpent, distorted and mocking, weaving his insidious manipulation into every word:
"Do you even remember why you fight, Pastor? Or has it become nothing more than a habit for you? You could cast aside that bow, and nothing would change…"
His words coiled around the Pastor's mind like tendrils of smoke, pressing against the delicate edges of his resolve. Julie sensed the atmosphere thicken with tension, the weight of uncertainty gnawing at her courage. "Pastor, do not listen to him!" she implored, urgency tinged with desperation in her voice. Is this Fitran's doing? Or has the Pastor become the very monster he fears? Every sound within the chamber felt poised to engulf them, the darkness deepening under the heavy burden of doubt and potent magic.
"Do you truly remember the purpose of your struggle, Pastor?" Fitran mocked, his voice dripping with a venomous delight that seemed to distort the very air around them. He moved closer, his violet gaze shimmering with a predatory gleam. "Or has it all degraded into mere habit? Imagine letting go of that bow... what would truly change?"
Julie felt her resolve falter, her heart racing as uncertainty infiltrated her thoughts. Is this Fitran's fault? Or has the Pastor transformed into the monster? The haunting echoes of Fitran's taunts reverberated in her mind. Each creak of the shadowy chamber sounded like an accusation, amplifying her unease. The moment the arrow, steeped in Fitran's blood magic, found its target, it morphed in her vision—not merely a defense, but a gaping chasm of anguish, reminiscent of a haunting dream she thought she had almost forgotten in the depths of memory.
"Focus, Julie!" she hissed under her breath, desperately trying to shut out the chaos surrounding her. Yet, despite her attempts to collect her thoughts, a storm of unease swirled within. Fitran's magic lingered in the air, dark and unyielding.
"You see, in the midst of conflict, magic is not just an instrument—it transforms into a weapon," Fitran said, his smirk widening as he observed the haze of confusion settling over the Pastor. "Oh, how delightful it is to manipulate memories, to reshape regrets…"
As the past drifted between them like grains of sand slipping through fingers, Julie's heart raced uncontrollably. Identity slips: the Pastor's memories intertwined with her own, weaving tales that had never been theirs to tell. All the choices they had faced blurred into a single, tormenting question.
"Is it truly me? Was I always meant to fail?" the Pastor gasped, his voice trembling, barely contained fury churning just below the surface.
Fitran stepped back, keeping his gaze fixed on him, glee dancing in his eyes as malice flickered behind his enigmatic smile. "Ah, but aren't we all merely shadows of our past selves, steeped in regret? You've always danced to the tune of a master puppeteer, dear Pastor."
"Silence!" the Pastor snapped, adrenaline coursing through his veins. "This isn't your game!"
Fitran raised an elegant brow, his very presence exuding a calm that sharply contrasted with the chaos swirling around them. "I beg to differ. This is precisely my game. And you, dear friend, have played your part rather splendidly."
Physical reality "glitches": In the blink of an eye, a spear he had thrown ricocheted, its wicked edge slicing into his own shoulder. The moment unfolded in a jagged wave of confusion, leaving him gasping for breath. As the landscape of agony shifted beneath him, he fought to regain his composure, but the unease clung to him like a persistent shadow, permeating every fiber of his being.
"Stay ever watchful, Pastor," Fitran intoned with a dispassionate air, his fingers delicately tracing the space before him as if caressing an invisible wound. "You must not waver when the shadows awaken."
"I refuse to let you triumph!" Julie's voice rang out, a note of desperation threading through her fierce determination. She reached for her charm, a small token of hope, though its weight now felt like a shackle in her grasp as a frigid tendril slithered up her arm. Perceptual attacks: the haunting sensation of another hand merging with her own threatened to shatter her defenses.
"Your fervor... it's quite endearing," Fitran said, observing her struggles with a hint of fondness, though his tone unmistakably bore an edge of menace. "But heed this, my dear: doubt is a formidable magic in its own right—a spell both powerful and treacherous."
Voidwright manipulation constructed in layers:
Aporia's Veil (Confusion & Doubt)
World Fracture (Perceived timeline glitches, déjà vu, fate reversion)
False Accord (the sense of betrayal or secret alliance, causing the Pastor to momentarily doubt Julie, and she him)
As the dark arrow struck Fitran, he staggered, and a fleeting wave of relief washed over the Pastor. Could it truly be over? he pondered, his heart fluttering with hope, only to have that flicker extinguished as dread coursed through him. Have I slain the wrong foe? Was this my path, or did Fitran plant these wicked thoughts in my heart? "No! I refuse to lose everything!" Julie cried out, her sobs reverberating in the heavy, stifling air. "Fitran, why can't you just stay down?!" In the turmoil of her anguish, she struggled to discern whom her tears were truly for—the Pastor, Fitran, or perhaps some long-forgotten piece of her soul that now felt like a mere specter haunting her. When Fitran rose yet again, a grotesque caricature draped in shadow and madness, the Pastor's heart quickened.
"Do you truly believe a simple arrow can fell me?" Fitran's voice dripped with derision, as if he reveled in their every fear. A tremor rippled through Julie, and the world around them began to unravel—echoes of twisted voices drifted through the thickening air. "I feel it, too," she murmured, "the very air—it bears the weight of something ominous." The taste of regret hung like metal on their tongues, sharp and unsettling. "Stay close!" the Pastor barked, his fists clenched in resolve as he steeled himself to confront the monster that toyed with their fates.
Before them, the whole battle trembled with the magic of the Voidwright, a tangible force that warped even the essence of reality. "Hold your ground!" the Pastor shouted, yet his own voice wavered amid the storm of paranoia and shattered memories. "You are not merely fighting Fitran," Fitran taunted, a glint of madness dancing in his eyes, "but battling the very fabric of reality itself. Can't you see? In this chaos, I hold all the reins. You are lost, just like the fragments of your precious memories." Each word struck like a dagger, piercing deeper into their minds, as they realized their struggle was not only against Fitran but against themselves—and the dread that guided them, recognizing that this battlefield was woven from the threads of reality that only Fitran could shape.