The abyss was no place of silence. It was a place of whispers — voices so faint they seemed to crawl beneath the skin, gnawing at the mind, pulling at the edges of thought.
Aric walked steadily through the spiraling descent, his Judgment Armor pulsing with violet runes that glowed faintly against the all-consuming dark. Each step resonated with defiance, though his every breath carried the weight of a world pressing down. He did not know how long he had been moving — time unraveled here, indistinguishable between moments and eternities.
The abyss was alive. Shadows slithered and reshaped themselves into faces of the fallen, hands reaching, mouths screaming silently, eyes glowing with memories of despair. They pressed close to him, brushing against his armor, testing for weakness.
He ignored them. He had already declared himself the vessel of sorrow, and if the abyss wanted to break him, it would have to do more than whisper his failures.
But then the voices changed.
"Aric…"
The name hissed through the dark, not in a multitude of voices, but in one. A voice he knew. A voice he dreaded.
He froze. The air grew colder, heavier. His heartbeat thundered inside his chest.
"Aric…" the whisper came again. It was Lyra's voice.
He turned sharply, his blade half-raised. "This is a trick."
The abyss chuckled — a thousand echoes layered into one. And then she appeared.
Lyra.
Or at least, something wearing her face. She emerged from the shadows, pale and trembling, her violet eyes shimmering faintly as though filled with sorrow itself. Her body bore the same wound she had suffered when the glaive struck her, blood staining her tunic, her hand reaching toward him.
"Why… why didn't you protect me?" she whispered, voice cracking with pain.
Aric's chest tightened. His grip on the blade faltered for a heartbeat. He had seen her wounded, nearly dead, had blamed himself a thousand times in silence. Now the abyss turned his guilt into flesh.
"You are not Lyra," he said finally, voice steady, though his heart screamed otherwise.
The figure stepped closer. "You let me bleed, Aric. You let me fall. Every life you claim to protect, every sorrow you gather, leads only to this — more suffering, more death. How long before you fail again?"
The whispers around them grew louder, countless voices chanting his failures: "You failed them. You failed her. You failed yourself."
Aric's teeth clenched. "Enough."
The Judgment Armor flared, violet runes igniting as chains lashed outward, striking through the phantom Lyra. She screamed, her form dissolving into mist. But the echoes did not fade. Instead, the abyss reshaped, and dozens more figures emerged — Lyra, the villagers he had lost, soldiers under his command, even enemies who had begged for mercy in their final breath. All of them crying out, all of them reaching for him.
They swarmed.
Aric spun, chains lashing, blade flashing, sorrow itself bending to his will. Each phantom he cut dissolved into violet embers, absorbed into the armor. But more came, endless, suffocating. Their touch was cold, their whispers invasive.
"You think judgment makes you righteous?" one hissed."You are nothing but sorrow given shape," another growled."You will never save her. You will never save anyone."
Aric's breathing quickened, his strikes wild for a moment as the words burrowed deep. The abyss was no battlefield of flesh and steel — it was war upon the soul.
And for a moment… he faltered.
One phantom slipped through, gripping his wrist. It was Lyra again, but this time not wounded. She looked at him with sorrowful eyes, tears streaming. "If you love me, let go. Let the sorrow take you. Stop fighting, Aric… stop hurting yourself."
The weight of her gaze struck him harder than any blade. His knees buckled slightly, his heart caught between despair and denial. The abyss pressed harder, sensing weakness.
But then — he remembered.
Her real voice. Her real eyes. Not pleading for him to surrender, but trusting him to endure. The memory of her hand gripping his as she whispered, "Come back to me." That was Lyra. That was truth.
Aric roared, surging upward. The Judgment Armor exploded with light, runes blazing so brightly the phantoms screamed and dissolved into smoke. Chains erupted in every direction, lashing like serpents of sorrow, tearing the illusions apart until only silence remained.
His chest heaved. His eyes burned violet, fury and sorrow entwined into unbreakable will.
"You cannot use her against me," he growled into the abyss. "You cannot use them against me. Their sorrow is mine to bear — and mine to command."
The abyss trembled. The shadows rippled, drawing back slightly, as if recoiling.
And then, laughter. Deep, booming, ancient laughter that shook the very fabric of the void.
From the depths ahead, a form began to coalesce. Taller, broader, darker than the Guardian he had faced before. This one was sharper, its body formed of serrated shadows, its face split into a grin of fangs. A crown of jagged obsidian floated above its head, glowing faintly with runes of anguish.
The Watcher's voice thundered. "So… you endure. Good. But do not mistake endurance for mastery. You wield sorrow, but you do not yet rule it. The abyss is endless, and you have only stepped onto its edge."
Aric leveled his blade, the violet glow of his armor unwavering. "Then I will walk deeper. I will not stop until sorrow itself kneels."
The crowned figure leaned forward, its eyes burning with malevolence. "Very well. Then face the next trial. The sorrow you carry is nothing compared to what lies ahead. If you falter, if you waver, even for a heartbeat… she dies. They all die."
And with that, the abyss opened wide. A chasm split before him, violet fire rising from its depths, and within that fire, countless phantoms writhed, screaming. It was not illusion — it was memory, sorrow collected from eons past, endless in its torment.
Aric stared down at it. His armor thrummed, alive, as though eager for what was to come. He tightened his grip on the blade and stepped forward, unflinching.
The whispers rose again, this time not of doubt, but of anticipation. The abyss itself was watching. The Watcher was watching. And Aric would carve his path through it all.
Because he was no longer the hunted.
He was judgment.
And judgment never wavered.