The blade of solidified despair was not just a weapon; it was a concept given form. It didn't just cut through air—it cut through hope, through memory, through the very possibility of a future. A trail of sickly green light bled from its edge, and the space around it seemed to wither and die.
Hunger-Damien took another step, the ground cracking under his shadowy footfall. The beautiful, twinkling lights of the Archive dimmed further in his presence, as if afraid.
Luna stood frozen, not by fear, but by calculation. Her mind was a frantic hub of activity. The seventeen other Lunas were screaming warnings, offering suggestions, pouring their combined strength into her, but they were powerless against a physical strike in this reality. The emotional redistribution was still flowing, a torrent of healing tearing through his factory, but it was a background process now. The immediate, visceral threat was this blade, and the god of despair wielding it.
