15 Minuter later,
As the arrow was released by the Pastor, the entire world seemed to shudder. Fitran's voice glided smoothly through the air, a whisper dancing above the sound of the string's release, each syllable sharp and laden with cold intention:
"Aporia's Veil."
The glyph twisted—a Möbius strip spiraling in the air, the negating runes glowing in a striking purple-blue. A tangible pressure slammed into the space, the walls seemingly casting shadows in shades of a rainbow, each torch trembling as if caught between two realities.
The Pastor blinked, his hand shaking like a leaf caught in a storm. "No, no, this can't be happening…" he murmured to himself, his heart racing. The arrow writhed in midair, splitting, merging, its purpose precariously hanging at the brink of decision.
"Do I intend to kill?" he thought, grappling with the weight of despair that flooded over him. "God, do I regret this?"
Amid his internal struggle, he heard two voices—one booming and firm, pressing for truth; the other soft, almost pleading, seeking understanding. Every command he fought to pull the string felt slippery and uncertain, his intentions dissolving into chaos like mist at dawn.
"Do you not sense it, Pastor?" Fitran's voice unfurled like a dark fog within the chamber, swelling and multiplying, a discordant choir of his own deep-seated uncertainties. "Even the very air itself questions your resolve."
"What do you seek from me?" the Pastor retorted sharply, his voice trembling, reverberating in the tightened stillness. "This is an abomination! You know this!"
Fitran chuckled softly, a sinister sound that twisted the space between them further. "An abomination? Was it an abomination when you sent your flock to slaughter? Each prayer, a mere whisper of demise? You are too late for redemption."
"I… I acted for their sake!" the Pastor snapped, his eyes wide, brimming with tumultuous fury and fear. "You do not comprehend—"
"I understand more than anyone else, Pastor," Fitran interrupted brusquely, his expression a mask of self-satisfied superiority. "You are terrified of the power you wield. You brandish it like a sword—yet you recoil from the blood that must flow. Either act with strength or wither into obscurity."
"Do you truly believe you know me?" the Pastor spat, straining to maintain his grasp on reality. Beyond the palpable tension, he felt the shadows shift once more, intertwining around him like eager hands ready to drag him into the abyss. "I am not like you. I will not yield to this insanity!"
Fitran stepped closer, his eyes gleaming with the thrill of the hunt. "Yield? No, dear Pastor, you have already surrendered the moment hesitation clouded your mind. The instant you allowed doubt to creep in. Look upon what you have become."
In that heavy silence, the Pastor felt the weight of those words thrusting him deeper into despair. Was this truly how it would all end, ensnared in a web spun from his own fears?
"You need not go on with this," he murmured, urgency lacing his voice. "There remains a sliver of time—"
"Time? Ah, time is merely a fleeting indulgence," Fitran mocked, a cruel smile twisting at the corners of his mouth. "The real question is, how will you wield the time left to you? As a blade, or as a chain?"
Julie, hidden behind a fractured column, watched with wide, feverish eyes. Her heart raced as the scene unfolded before her. "Two Pastors…" she breathed in sheer disbelief. One pressed forward with unyielding resolve, while the other faltered, their expressions a tumultuous blend of fear and determination. "How can they be so inconsistent?" she whispered, feeling the weight of their anguish saturate the air. Even the bloodied floor seemed to pulse with life, each drop splitting and swirling—a chaotic dance of red, black, and silver all entwined.
The Pastor struggled against the words that fought to break free from his lips, his voice quaking. "Quantum Ratio—" But before he could finish the incantation, a sense of betrayal twisted the air around him. "No!" he gasped, feeling frustration claw at his throat. His tongue felt heavy and clumsy, like a traitor turning his intended spells into a jarring static. Which ratio? Which spell? Wasn't I ready for this? He clenched his fists, the crushing weight of doubt wrapping around him like a noose.
Fitran stepped forward, his cloak billowing like a mysterious shadow, each movement deliberate and precise. He sneered, his eyes glimmering with malice. "Can you not sense it, Pastor? That gnawing uncertainty? It seeps into the very air, like cracks in your once-mighty shield." With a smooth motion, he traced arcs of brilliant blue light through the air, a dance both powerful and threatening. "You hesitate. Just give in," he murmured, his voice a soothing caress that lured like the song of a siren.
Aporia's Veil thickened around them, enveloping them in an oppressive shroud of confusion and dread. Time twisted; moments stretched grotesquely as the Pastor's hand trembled, caught in a slow-motion dance of indecision. "No, I cannot!" he shouted, lunging forward as if gripped by an unseen force. Had he fired? Had it even happened? He glimpsed Fitran dodging, then standing completely still, his gaze cutting through the air like a blade. "Speak!" he urged, desperation entwined with the madness that consumed him.
The Pastor's voice burst forth, shattering the silence and resonating in a haunting chorus—rage, despair, and an unsettling edge of existential dread. "WHO ARE YOU?" His voice rang out, fierce yet laced with haunting tones, forming a question that sliced deeper than any weapon, echoing the chaos within.
The answer did not manifest in words but arrived as a visceral fracture. Fitran's eyes blazed with an unholy fire, something primal stirring within him. With a crack reminiscent of splintering glass, a new glyph unfurled at his feet. "Do you desire to grasp true power, Pastor?" he rasped, a twisted smile curling his lips. "Then witness my legacy."
"World Fracture," he declared, the words steeped in ominous promise.
The air crackled with a tangible energy, a violent sound shattering the uneasy silence. "What on earth is happening?" Julie gasped, her eyes wide with fear as fractures raced up the obsidian walls, white lightning flashing and illuminating the surrounding shadows. A biting wind swept through the chamber, despite the absence of any open door. Shadows twisted and stretched, moving as if they had a life of their own. "This can't be right..." she stammered, her gaze locked on her own shadow as it appeared to peel away, kneeling beside her, tears pooling in the empty space it left behind. "Pastor!" she cried, glancing over her shoulder. The silhouette of the Pastor extended its hand, an otherworldly plea for forgiveness carved into its haunting features.
For a brief moment, they seemed to multiply, as if the very threads of fate had ensnared them. It felt impossibly heavy, like an invisible force driving them toward a destiny buried in darkness. "Is this really what you've brought us to?" the Pastor roared, his voice slicing through the chaos. He felt his life slipping away—a crushing anguish as Excalibur struck true in his side, the world tilting as he witnessed the disintegration of his future self. "Stay with me!" he implored, the oppressive weight of despair pressing down on him, while another version of himself stood firm, unwavering, bow drawn, heart ignited with defiance.
"I will not submit!" he shouted, his fingers tightening around the grip of the bow. Julie's breath caught in her throat as she witnessed her own image—crushed beneath the weight of falling stone, desperately fleeing, only to vanish, all within the swift beat of a single heartbeat. "This cannot be the end of my story!"
The very air around them quivered under the burden of countless futures, each moment stretching into infinite potential. "What if we dared to change our fate?" she whispered, her voice trembling as she reached toward the shimmering veil of possibilities. "What if this path is not the only one laid before us?"
"Every choice sends ripples through the fabric of existence," Fitran declared, his voice curling like smoke, wrapping around each word. "A blow that goes astray yet strikes true; a spell capable of burning and healing." His dark eyes gleamed with a twisted excitement. "The choice lies with you, Pastor. Which destiny will you choose?"
"I refuse to be your pawn on this cursed board!" the Pastor roared, desperation trailing through each syllable. "No—NO! You cannot impose this upon me!"
With fierce defiance, he nocked the black arrow—Macht—watching as its tip flickered with an otherworldly flame. "I will not let fear dictate my path!" He released the arrow into the rift, dread tightening in his chest as it shattered into a dozen glowing shards, each racing towards a different timeline. "No! Which path will it take?" he shouted, anxiety churning like a storm within him. In one reality, it struck Fitran's heart; in another, it sank harmlessly into shadow; in yet another, Fitran had already dissipated like smoke.
Fitran seized the opportunity, his gaze sharp as he scrutinized the Pastor. "You wield the Bow of Athena—its legend entwined with threads of inevitability. Yet even the mightiest deities falter in a realm stripped of certainty, do they not?" His tone dripped with sardonic delight, enough to unsettle even the most steadfast souls.
In a heartbeat, his hand shot out. The crimson shield he conjured—a thick, radiant barrier—rose like a wraith from the shadows. "Three arrows," he murmured, almost lost in thought as the first struck its target, shattering against it. "Two have vanished into the void, but this one—" He inhaled sharply as a single arrow pierced through, its tip grazing his flesh. "Ah!" He staggered back, a jagged pain breaking through the haze of numbness.
In that fleeting moment, a memory surged forth unbidden: the sound of Julie's laughter rang like a distant bell, the fragrance of spring rain lingered, and the warmth of her hand intertwined with his. Suddenly, it was snatched cruelly away, devoured by the rift that consumed him.
The World Fracture rippled once more, more violently this time, as reality itself seemed to quaver.
"What is this?" The Pastor's voice trembled as the ground beneath him began to splinter. In the shattered reflections, he caught a glimpse of a solitary figure—a child, his lost child, swallowed by despair. "So familiar, yet so estranged," he murmured, his heart tightening. He had never fathered the boy, yet the void left by his absence gnawed deeply at his very being. "Who am I now?" he gasped, anguish seeping into his bones.
"You are nothing but a wraith conjured by your own hand," Fitran countered, stepping forward, a predatory glint flashing in his eye. "A mere shadow woven from regrets, unraveling with each passing moment." The chamber stirred, as if animated by the chaotic roulette of reality.
Fitran, blood pouring down his arm, hesitated but pressed forward. "Yet, in another timeline," he declared, his voice low and edged with menace, "I stand just behind you, sword aimed at your throat." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle heavily in the air. "You speak of 'mercy' now, but mark my words; you will understand the true meaning when your soul has traversed every realm except this one."
The Pastor's resolve shattered under Fitran's chilling gaze. For the briefest moment, he yielded, collapsing to his knees beneath the crushing weight of every regret made flesh, every sin laid bare before the dark figure looming above him.
"Regret can indeed be a formidable teacher," Fitran mused, his tone a blend of mockery and reflection. "Yet, it holds little value when it devolves into despair."
"There is no hope, Julie!" Fitran barked, his voice sharp and cutting enough to slice through the suffocating Veil. "Your cries will not escape from this madness. They echo only among the ruins of the realms we have all but destroyed!"
Julie clutched her throat, panic flowing through her veins like ice. "I cannot simply stand by and let this happen! They need you to fight!"
"Fight?" Fitran laughed, the sound cold and devoid of warmth. "These miserable creatures do not deserve my blade. They are mere shadows of my regret, echoes of past failures."
As he spoke, the air shimmered around them; Aporia's Veil twisted and writhed as if it had a will of its own. From its depths, seven variations of Fitran emerged, each a haunting reflection of his torment and ruin. Their eyes were darkened by a profound understanding and sorrow.
"You think you can just walk away from this?" the foremost Fitran sneered, his tone thick with contempt. "You, who have tainted every path we once dared to walk."
"Enough!" The Pastor bellowed, desperation weighing heavily in his voice. "I refuse to let you—or them—wander aimlessly in this abyss."
The bow slipped from the Pastor's grasp, a harbinger of his surrender, the sound echoing through the suffocating silence like a clap of thunder. "What have I done?" he murmured, the words escaping him as a strangled whisper while he gazed at the encroaching figures.
Trembling, Fitran turned toward the Pastor. "This battle is not yours to fight. You stand at the brink of choices made long ago."
Collapse.
The glyphs pulsed with warning, a chaotic blend of light and shadow, just before nearly every reality crumbled inward. The fragments of timelines faded away, leaving only bitter whispers behind. Fitran felt the absence of the arrow acutely, its wound slowly healing like a distant memory; the blood had stopped flowing, and around them, time awkwardly stitched itself back together, mapping a scar across the fabric of existence.
"Can you see it now?" one of the Fitrans asked, stepping closer, his voice twisting through the air like an unsettling refrain. "The futility of mercy? It brings nothing but devastation in its wake."
Only the final timeline remained, a fragile thread tangled in the chaos.
"Please, rise!" Julie urged, her eyes glistening with unshed tears as she turned to Fitran. "You cannot let it end like this!"
Fitran stood there, sword lowered, his posture a blend of defiance wrapped in weariness. He took a deep breath, allowing the weight of his haunted gaze to meet the Pastor's troubled expression. "I have never sought mercy, nor have I ever been bestowed with it."
Silence hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, paired with an undeniable truth that seemed to linger between them: in this fractured world where mercy and ruin were forever entwined, their fates were sealed, caught in the web of dark choices and the longing for redemption that felt completely out of reach.