The room was already wrong—a grotesque nightmare of tangled shadows, timelines twisting and snagging like brittle film. Pastor's breath came in ragged gasps, beads of sweat shimmering on his brow as he lifted the Atlantis Bow, the motion almost a desperate prayer. Julie was weeping, her thoughts a fractured mosaic of every life she had just lived and every death she had endured.
Fitran stood at the center, his face marred with blood, his eyes dull and lifeless—neither here nor in any realm. The Veil still shimmered around him, a haunting specter distorting the very air. Time flickered like a candle's flame.
"There is no longer time to linger," the Pastor rasped, the words tearing from his throat as though each syllable exacted a toll on his very essence. His voice reverberated against the warped walls, trembling with a profound urgency, laden with despair.
Fitran smirked—a thin, cold smile that never reached his hollow gaze. "Is that your final decree, Pastor? You are so steadfast in your certainty, yet tragically misguided." He unfurled his fingers, energy pulsing around him, tugging at the very essence of reality as if it were a mere puppet. "Do you believe this struggle revolves around your resurrection? Your so-called power? You are nothing but a pawn in a game that stretches far beyond your feeble comprehension."
Fitran's response was less a voice and more a judgment woven into the very threads of existence. His right hand shot into the air, two fingers creating an impossible sigil—each stroke traced by afterimages, reality itself straining to keep up. "Do you sense that? The tautness? The very air bends and contorts in response to my command."
Aporia's Veil still clung to Julie, warping her senses like a suffocating mist. She struggled to comprehend her surroundings, but shadows flickered before her eyes, and she saw not one but a dozen figures resembling Fitran, all closing in with sinister intent. "This isn't possible," she whimpered, clutching her head as her memories spiraled into chaos. "You can't be real."
"I'm as real as the fears that haunt you, dear Julie," he replied, his voice smooth yet edged with malice. "Every one of them is a truth you refuse to face."
With a swift, deliberate motion, he moved.
It was not a hurried attack; it was unstoppable. Excalibur appeared in his grip, not drawn but manifesting as if summoned by the very essence of the room's twisted despair. "Do you grasp the gravity of your situation now, Pastor? This blade hungers for your anguish."
Julie tried to scream—her mouth opened wide, but the sound that escaped was merely a fractured echo of someone else's terror. "Stop! You needn't do this!"
"Oh, but I must," Fitran sneered, his eyes gleaming with dark delight. "It is the only way to shatter your cage of ignorance." He lunged forward, the very air around them splitting as he struck. "Prepare for oblivion."
As he raised the blade, the world shimmered; chaos and inevitability entwined in a delicate web. "You brought this upon yourself," he declared, energy swirling at his fingertips like a tempest. "And now, you shall face the reckoning."
In that moment, Julie felt herself both beside the Pastor and utterly alone, caught in the surreal state of being simultaneously dead and on the brink of death.
The first strike was precise and merciless.
Excalibur plunged into the Pastor's raised arm, slicing through flesh and bone with a sickening crunch, sending a spray of arterial blood splattering out like a grotesque crimson mist. The Pastor's shriek echoed in the air, twisted and desperate, morphing into a horrifying gurgle. "No! Please, stop!" he begged, his voice quaking as Fitran drove the blade horizontally, cracking his skull just above the jawline.
"You should have known better than to defy me," Fitran hissed, a cruel smile creeping across his face. The sword's tip emerged through the back of the Pastor's neck, and for a fleeting moment, both halves of the Pastor's face bore a chillingly identical expression of disbelief and torment.
Blood flowed in thick, pulsing arcs, splattering the gleaming marble floor with every heartbeat. Fragments of brain matter rained down, a horrific testament to the brutality unleashed. The body collapsed, limbs convulsing like a marionette cut from its strings, nerves firing wildly in chaotic disarray.
"This isn't what I wanted…" Julie whispered, her eyes wide with terror as she sank to her knees. Her hands, slick with the warmth of someone else's blood, trembled—the timeline had failed to reveal whose life had been taken. She crawled backward, panic igniting in her mind. "Fitran, please. I—"
But he was already upon her, his form looming like a dark shadow. "Spare me your pleas, Julie. It changes nothing," he replied, his voice cold and dripping with disdain, slicing through the chaos that surrounded them. "You were always too weak to stop me."
"I can aid you! There is still time to undo our steps!" she pleaded, her voice quivering with desperation as she clutched her throat.
"Aid? The only assistance I desire is the finality that this moment offers," he replied, a sneer creeping across his face, his lips twisted in contempt. Excalibur was already plunging downward, its weight unimaginable, its blade unyieldingly sharp. It sliced through her trembling hands, severing fingers and spraying blood in a horrific flurry. Another brutal impact followed, her skull collapsing under the relentless force, her features pressing against the unforgiving, cold tiles. A short, stifled scream escaped her lips, ringing in her ears—a haunting sound laced with despair.
For a fleeting heartbeat, she remained aware—her eyes askew, rolling in their shattered sockets, mouth agape in a mask of terror. "Fitran… why?" she gasped, the words barely slipping from her as the shadows crept closer, engulfing her entirely.
"There is no value in mercy; to wield it would only prolong the inevitable," he answered coolly, yanking the sword free with brutal ease. Julie's jaw dangled by a thin strand of sinew, the remnants of her life slipping away like grains of sand through an hourglass. Blood surged forth, pooling upon the fractured floor, mingling with the Pastor's spilled entrails.
World Fracture:
For a brief moment, Fitran's mind fractured—he became a mere observer of the grim scene unfolding before him. "Do you see the destruction you've caused?" he rasped, his voice a haunting whisper that wove through the cries of despair. A wave of exhilaration surged through him as he witnessed a thousand grotesque versions of himself wielding the sword against Julie and the Pastor: some strikes precise, others erratic, some unintentional, and others calculatedly cruel. "You were always so weak," he sneered, casting a scornful glance at their broken bodies sprawled across the floor. The room throbbed with a grim, frenetic energy, the metallic scent of blood heavy in the air. Each version of himself acted as a killer, with every timeline unfurling in a tide of crimson.
Aporia's Veil snapped back, consolidating into a singular, harrowing reality:
Pastor, cleaved in two.
Julie, her face shattered, hands destroyed, blood still oozing from her trembling corpse. Fitran's lips twisted into a sardonic smile. "How beautifully tragic," he murmured, stepping closer, savoring the chaos that surrounded him. "There's a certain elegance to destruction."
Fitran towered over the wasteland of corpses, his breath unsteady, the sword held tightly in his grip, its blade gleaming with the lifeblood of those he had once vanquished—each drop a fading memory, every wound a reminder that nothing could ever be restored. He cast a long, lingering gaze at the fallen, their final pleas now mere echoes in the depths of his mind. "Did you truly think that mercy could save you?" he asked the lifeless forms. "Such foolishness; it was never an option."
He looked down at his hands, each finger trembling as if they no longer recognized their own past. In that fleeting moment, he felt the weight of every life he had lived—the monster, the victim, the savior, and the forsaken child. Each identity resonated within him, a haunting chorus amid the carnage. "Embrace it," he whispered to himself, his voice steady yet unsettling, a sly grin creeping across his face. "This is who you are—who you were always meant to become."
"Mercy is nothing but a fanciful tale," he murmured, the words escaping his lips barely above a whisper, knowing full well that in the shadowy corners of his past, it had always eluded him. No soul left standing could hear his lament, nor would they care; the truth weighed heavily on him, a dark shroud of reality.
The room fell into a grim hush, the oppressive silence broken only by the slow, rhythmic drip of blood on the marble floor. All magic had abandoned this place, all hope snuffed out, all illusions scattered—nothing was left. The air was heavy with despair, a tangible veil that lingered over the remnants of his vanquished foes. Fitran drew a deep breath, savoring the metallic taste of chaos swirling around him as he plotted his next move. For even in the face of destruction, opportunities festered, hiding within the shadows he had come to claim as his own.