The void gnawed at silence.
I pressed my bloody palm to the floor, summoning another phantom. It shivered up from my ribs, gasping, flesh dripping with acid burns. One of my older deaths.
The phantom staggered, screeching, before clawing at my chains. Sparks flew.
The Saint winced, knuckles white around his restraints.
"…You make it look effortless," he whispered.
I laughed, sharp and dry. "Effortless? Every time I drag one out, I taste the poison all over again. My throat burns. My skin sloughs. My own deaths don't let me forget."
His eyes trembled. "And you… you want me to do the same?"
I leaned close. "No, Saint. I want you to suffer worse. Because your deaths won't just be pain. They'll be faith. Broken. Shattered. Do you have the courage to call your god a liar?"
His breath hitched.
I grinned. "Good. Let's begin."
He trembled. "I—I cannot. Necromancy is blasphemy."
"Blasphemy?" My chains rattled as I leaned forward, teeth bared. "You already blasphemed. You touched my phantom. You chose me. That flood back there wasn't holy light—it was a leash. And you broke it."
"I… I only…" His voice cracked. "I pitied you."
"Pity is the first betrayal." My voice dripped venom. "You pitied what the Tower calls cursed. You pitied me. Admit it, Saint. You're no longer pure."
He shook, clinging to prayer under his breath. "…Father above, guide me. Father above—"
I cut him off with a laugh. "Father above isn't listening. Only I am. And if you want freedom, you'll listen back."
He sat trembling for hours. Maybe days.
Finally, with trembling lips, he whispered, "…How do I begin?"
I leaned back, satisfied. "You close your eyes. You reach into the dark where your deaths wait. Not your triumphs, not your prayers. Your failures. Your pain. Call one out. Make it stand before you."
He swallowed hard. "My… deaths?"
"Of course. Every soul rots in its own graveyard. Mine just answers quicker."
He exhaled, slow and ragged. His chains rattled as he closed his eyes.
The void pulsed.
For a moment, nothing.
Then—cracking.
The Saint convulsed, choking, as something clawed its way up from his chest.
It wasn't like my phantoms—simple fragments of gore and agony. His was… different.
A figure emerged, draped in tattered white.
It was him.
A Saint, nailed to invisible crosses, arms outstretched, ribs broken, mouth filled with blood.
The phantom bled light and shadow at once, whispering prayers that curdled into curses.
"…Father above… judge me… kill me… kill me… kill me…"
The Saint screamed, jerking against his chains. "No! That— that's not me—!"
But it was. His death wasn't body. It was faith itself, rotting on a cross of lies.
The phantom turned, its hollow eyes locking on him.
It shrieked, not with voice, but with the echo of every prayer he had ever whispered. "Mercy. Mercy. Mercy."
The Saint convulsed as light tore from his body, feeding the phantom.
I cursed. "Idiot!"
He was too weak. Too pure. His phantom wasn't just echo—it was consuming him.
If I let it go, it would devour his soul.
And part of me wanted that. To watch the Tower's holy lamb shred itself.
But…
My grin widened. "Not yet. You're not mine enough yet."
I slammed my palms to the void, chains grinding sparks, and ripped one of my phantoms free—Cycle 49, spine broken, twitching.
It staggered forward and hurled itself at the Saint's phantom, gnawing at the bleeding light.
The two collided, shrieking, devouring each other. Sparks flew as the Saint gasped, eyes rolling.
"Focus!" I roared. "Command it! It's yours—your failure, your death! Own it, or it owns you!"
He choked, trembling. "I—I can't—"
"Yes, you can! You already betrayed your god once. Do it again. Break yourself properly!"
His chains rattled. His lips twisted in agony. And finally—
He screamed, voice raw.
"OBEY ME!"
The phantom froze.
Its bleeding mouth twitched. Then, slowly, it bent its head.
Chains cracked louder than before. The Overseers stirred above, voices hissing in outrage.
<
<
<
But it was too late.
The phantom knelt at his feet.
And for the first time, the Saint controlled a death.
The void went still.
The Saint's phantom twitched, nailed to its invisible cross, whispering broken prayers. Its face was his, contorted, mutilated.
He stared at it with wide eyes. Tears streaked down his face.
"…That… that's me?"
I chuckled low. "That's one of you. And there are more."
His lips trembled. "It's… hideous."
"Of course. Death is hideous. That's why it works."
He shuddered. "…I thought necromancy was about corpses. I never imagined it was about this."
I grinned. "Wrong. It's always about this. Corpses are easy. Souls are worse. You've just learned the first lesson."
The Enforcer's shadow writhed above, gears screaming.
<
But another Overseer's voice cut through.
<
The argument split the void, but none dared descend yet.
We remained alone.
The Saint collapsed, panting, his phantom flickering. It tried to rise again, whispering mercy, but he shoved it down with shaking hands.
"…I can't…" His voice cracked. "I can't endure that again."
I laughed. "You will. Because every time you summon one, the chains fracture. Every time, you crawl closer to freedom."
He glared weakly. "You call this freedom? To rip open my soul, to see… that?"
"Yes." My grin split wider. "Freedom isn't pretty. It's ugly. Bloody. Terrifying. You wanted heaven. I'm offering escape. Choose."
His chains rattled. His lips quivered. But he didn't answer.
Hours passed. Maybe days.
The Saint sat trembling, staring at the void where his phantom had dissolved.
His aura was different now—shaken, unstable, but heavier. His chain bore a long fracture, pulsing faintly.
I tugged mine. Sparks flew.
He flinched. "You… you'll tear us apart."
I laughed softly. "That's the idea."
He said nothing. But his trembling hands brushed his chain, just once.
And the Overseers stirred uneasily above.
The Saint slept at last, slumped against his spire, sweat and blood streaking his face.
I watched him, grin curling.
The Tower thought it had a Saint.
Now it had something else.
A newborn heretic.
And I was going to raise him well.