When silence returned to the wasteland, Cyrus collapsed to his knees. His blade of sorrow flickered, then dissolved back into the shard, leaving his hand burning as if branded. But the battle had not ended — not within him.
The voices remained.
Each Remnant he had struck down had left its memories behind, weaving themselves into his soul. They spoke all at once — soldiers mourning comrades, children crying for mothers, lovers whispering last goodbyes. Their grief was raw, endless, unbearable.
Cyrus clutched his head, gasping. "Stop… stop…" His voice cracked, but the memories would not cease. He saw burning cities with every blink, tasted blood and ash with every breath. His chest tightened until he thought his ribs might splinter.
The figure's words echoed faintly in his mind. "If you wield it, you will become its weapon."
But to wield sorrow was not a triumph. It was torment.
He staggered to his feet, dragging himself across the cracked ground. Each step felt heavier, as though he carried chains forged from grief. He collapsed again beside a jagged stone, his breath shallow.
Why me? The thought screamed inside him. Why must I bear this alone?
The shard pulsed in his palm, its glow soft and relentless. For the first time, Cyrus realized the truth: sorrow was not a weapon given — it was a burden demanded. It would consume him if he faltered, swallow him whole until he too became a Remnant.
Tears burned his eyes, though he had thought himself long emptied of them. He pressed his forehead against the cold earth. "If this is my path, then let me break. Let me die here and now."
But the voices shifted. Amidst the weeping and screams, one memory stood clear: a soldier whispering, "Carry me… just a little further."
Cyrus's tears fell harder. His body trembled, but he forced himself upright. The burden was unbearable — and yet, he bore it. Not because he wished to, but because the fallen had no one else.
He was their vessel. Their sorrow was now his own.
The pilgrim walked on.