It had been a few days since the battle. The physical scars were healing, but the mental weight lingered heavily on my chest. Ryker and Vero had spent over ten hours inspecting my mind and body for any traces of the monster's corruption. In the end, they concluded there was nothing unusual about me—no foreign presence, no signs of madness setting in.
But I knew the truth. The boy hadn't left. His presence was an unshakable shadow in the back of my mind, watching me silently with those haunting, sorrowful eyes. I couldn't even bring myself to speak about it, knowing what might happen if I did. I wasn't ready to die, but carrying this secret was beginning to feel like a different kind of death.
I had tried speaking to him, hoping for some kind of response, but he didn't answer. Not with words, not with movement. Just those eyes, fixed on me as if waiting for something I couldn't understand.
That day, as I walked past the alleyway where I had first seen him in the memory, I found my thoughts circling back to the moment he had died. I should've done something. Anything. Guilt clawed at my insides, and without realizing it, I whispered, "I'm sorry."
"What did you say?" Lucianna's voice pulled me out of my thoughts. She had been assigned to watch over me, her presence a silent warning of what could happen if I began to show signs of corruption.
"Nothing," I replied quickly, brushing off the moment. She gave me a skeptical glance but didn't press further.
Lucianna was an expert in PCC equipment, and Ryker had chosen her specifically to monitor me. Her expertise wasn't meant to comfort me—it was meant to neutralize me if I showed any signs of losing control. The implications weren't lost on me, and though her demeanor was calm and professional, I could feel the tension in the air every time she glanced my way.
Ryker had explained earlier that the potion Vero had given me during the battle was likely the only reason I hadn't succumbed to madness. "Fragmenters like us are at a constant risk of corruption," he had said. "During battles, when our minds and bodies are stretched to their limits, madness and corruption wait for their moment to strike. You're lucky to have made it through."
Lucky. That word felt like a bitter joke.
Later that evening, back at the temporary housing provided by Ryker's group, I sat across from Vero. She was her usual self, joking and teasing, trying to lighten the mood.
"You owe me big for that save, you know," she said, smirking as she fiddled with one of her syringes. "I don't just go around injecting people with my best potions for free."
I smiled weakly, appreciating her attempt to cheer me up. "Thank you, really. I don't know what would've happened if you hadn't acted so quickly."
"Eh, don't mention it," she replied, leaning back in her chair. "Just try not to get into any more near-death situations, yeah? Makes my job harder."
If only it were that simple.
That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Lucianna was stationed just outside my door, her presence a constant reminder of how fragile my situation was. The boy's face hovered in my mind again, unrelenting in its quiet sadness.
"What do you want from me?" I whispered into the darkness, my voice barely audible. There was no answer, but for a brief moment, I thought I saw his expression change—a flicker of something deeper, like an emotion just out of reach.
I closed my eyes, trying to block him out, but sleep didn't come easily. When it finally did, it was restless, filled with fragmented dreams of the boy, his mother, and the monstrous transformation that had consumed him.
The next morning, Ryker stopped by to check on me. His presence was as commanding as ever, but there was a subtle concern in his expression. "How are you holding up?" he asked, his voice steady.
"I'm fine," I lied, knowing full well he didn't believe me.
He studied me for a moment before nodding. "Good. We'll be conducting some routine inspections again later today. Just to be safe."
I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.
As he turned to leave, he paused. "Roseiral," he said, his tone softer now. "You've been through more than most could handle. Don't let it consume you. We're here to help."
I wanted to believe him, but the weight of the boy's presence in my mind made it hard to feel reassured.
By midday, Lucianna had set up a small training exercise for me, insisting it would help keep my mind sharp. The focus on physical tasks was a welcome distraction, but every now and then, I caught her watching me closely, as if waiting for something to happen.
"You're doing fine," she said after I completed one of the drills. "Better than most, honestly. Don't let them get in your head about this corruption thing."
I nodded, grateful for her words, even if they didn't entirely ease my mind.
As the day went on, I tried to push thoughts of the boy to the back of my mind, focusing instead on the tasks at hand. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't shake the feeling that his presence was more than just a memory. It was a piece of him, lodged deep within me, waiting for the right moment to surface.
Day after day, it had become harder to keep my composure. The worst moments came whenever I saw Godless.
Whenever the boy's gaze landed on him, his rage would swell, gripping my neck with an invisible force, his fury palpable. I could feel his emotions, raw and jagged, burning into my skin. He thought we lived a "good life." But what good life is this? One where I can't even speak freely? Where monsters hunt me, and secrets tear at my sanity?
What good life, when even my own mind isn't safe?
Sometimes, I thought about erasing my memories. Wiping the slate clean. But even that seemed like a hollow escape.
As if realizing what he was doing, the boy would stop, releasing my throat with trembling hands. His anger would dissolve into regret, and he would flee, disappearing into the depths of my mind. The first time it happened, I thought I would die. Now, all I felt was emptiness, an aching void where clarity should've been.
Did I even do anything wrong? What did I do to deserve this?
The silence in the house was suffocating. Not even Godless could cheer me up anymore.
Maybe I should just...
The sharp ring of the doorbell startled me, yanking me from my spiraling thoughts. I wiped my face, forcing myself to move.
It was raining outside, the heavy downpour muffling the world. Through the peephole, there was no one there. Warily, I opened the door to find Liliac standing on the stoop, his cloak soaked through.
"Well, look at who we have here," he said with his usual sly grin.
"Yeah, I live here," I replied flatly.
The grin faded into a frown. "Is it okay if I come in?"
"Sure."
Liliac stepped inside, carefully removing his shoes. He sniffed the air as he glanced around. "Hmm, it smells just as good as it did before. Rosie, what scent do you use? Lavender?"
"What's that?" I asked, confused.
"Oh, nothing. I guess you wouldn't know." He smiled.
"Where's Lucianna?" I asked, trying to sound casual.
"She saw me on her way out and nodded. That's all," he replied.
As he settled into the room, his sharp eyes scanned. "Have you been sleeping well? Your eyebags are darker than usual."
I sighed. "I've been managing."
His gaze lingered on me, a little too long to be comfortable. "Managing, huh?" he said softly. "I got the report about what happened in the battle. A lot of people think you handled yourself well, all things considered."
"Handled myself well?" I scoffed. "It didn't feel like it. It felt like I barely survived."
"Well, survival's no small thing in this world," he replied, his tone unusually gentle.
There was a long pause before he spoke again, this time more casually, almost offhandedly. "Is that creature still present in your mind? Watching me right now?"
The question sent a chill through me. My heart raced as he was right. The boy was there, trembling in fear but unmistakably watching Liliac with wide, wary eyes.
I wanted to deny it, to brush off his question, but I knew the consequences if I lied. And yet, I feared the truth even more. My pulse quickened as I forced myself to speak. "Yes," I whispered, bracing for the pain, the time freeze, the suffocating agony.
Nothing happened. No heart attack, no frozen moment of terror. Just silence.
"Oh, really?" Liliac said, a spark of surprise flashing across his face.
I swallowed hard, still reeling. "Yes."
"Where?"
I raised a trembling hand and pointed toward the corner of the room. "There."
Liliac turned his head, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied the empty space. "Interesting," he murmured.
For a moment, the tension in the air was suffocating. Then, as if compelled by some unseen force, the boy's presence grew stronger. I could feel his hesitation, his anger, but also his fear towards Liliac.
Liliac took a step toward the corner, his voice calm but commanding. "Show me."
The boy's form materialized, faint and ghostly, his eyes darting between Liliac and me. He looked like the same frightened child I had seen in the alleyway, but there was something different now—perhaps he had grown up a little?
"Why are you still here?" Liliac asked softly, his tone devoid of malice.
The boy didn't answer, but his gaze shifted, and I felt an overwhelming urge to follow his eyes. Together, we left the house, the rain soaking through our clothes as we walked toward an abandoned structure at the edge of the district.
It was the boy who led us, though he didn't speak or gesture. He didn't need to. I could feel the pull of his memories, guiding us to a crumbling house that reeked of pain and despair.
"This is where it happened, isn't it?" Liliac said, his voice low.
The boy nodded, his form flickering with emotion.
Inside the house, the air was heavy with an oppressive energy. The echoes of suffering were almost tangible. And there, in the corner of a dimly lit room, we found her—the boy's mother.
She was alive, but barely. Her body was broken, twisted by the injuries she had sustained. Her eyes widened as she saw the boy, tears streaming down her face.
The boy's ghostly form flickered, his emotions overwhelming. For a moment, he looked at me, and I understood.
Liliac stepped forward, his eyes glowing faintly as he glanced at the men responsible for their suffering, cowering in the shadows. With a single look, they crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
The boy approached his mother, his form becoming more solid, more real. He touched her hand gently, and she smiled through her tears.
Liliac was silent, focused on the boy's mother still lying on the cold, blood-stained floor behind us.
He knelt beside her, his expression softer than I'd ever seen it. He gently placed his hand on her forehead, murmuring words I couldn't understand. A faint glow emanated from his fingertips, and the woman's labored breathing eased. The bruises on her face faded slightly, and her limbs straightened as if relieved of some invisible weight.
"What are you doing?" I asked, my voice hoarse from the weight of what we'd seen.
"Healing her," Liliac replied without looking up. His voice was steady, but there was an edge of sorrow to it. "She's endured enough pain. I won't let her carry it alone anymore."
The boy's ghostly form hovered nearby, watching Liliac intently. His translucent shoulders trembled, and for the first time since I'd seen him, tears streamed down his cheeks. His small hands trembled as he pressed them together in a gesture of gratitude.
"Thank you," the boy whispered, his voice a soft breeze that brushed against my ears. I looked at Liliac, but he didn't seem to hear it—or maybe he was simply choosing not to acknowledge it.
When Liliac finished, he closed the woman's eyes with a tenderness that felt almost out of place in this desolate scene. He turned back toward the boy, who stood in the corner of the room, his figure growing faint, like a candle about to be snuffed out.
"I promise to take care of her," Liliac said, his tone uncharacteristically gentle. He inclined his head slightly toward the boy, almost like a bow. "You have my word. She'll never be in danger again."
The boy's tears slowed, and a peaceful smile spread across his face. He stepped forward, his form flickering with faint light, and reached out as if to touch Liliac's arm. His hand passed through, but the intent was clear. Then he turned to me. For a moment, his gaze held mine, filled with gratitude and relief.
"Thank you," he said again. His voice was stronger now, and it resonated in my chest.
Then he turned to me. His expression was no longer one of anger or sadness—it was peaceful. He reached out and placed something in my hands.
A fragment.
Before I could say anything, his form began to fade, his presence leaving my mind. He was free now.
I crumpled to the floor, tears streaming down my face. The boy's mother whispered something I couldn't hear, her voice too faint, but her gratitude was clear.
As the boy's presence disappeared completely, I clutched the fragment tightly, feeling its warmth seep into my skin. The rain outside softened to a drizzle, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the air felt lighter.
The scene shifted abruptly. Darkness enveloped the room where the boy's mother had been tortured. The men who had been responsible for her suffering were beginning to stir. One of them, a wiry man with a scar running down his cheek, groaned as he pushed himself to his feet, his head pounding.
"What the hell happened?" he muttered, glancing around the dimly lit space. His companions were sprawled across the floor, groaning and rubbing their heads. Only the leader, a burly man with a cruel sneer, seemed unfazed. He stood in the corner, arms crossed, watching them with narrowed eyes.
"Get up," the leader barked. "We've got work to do."
Before anyone could respond, a faint sound echoed through the room—a soft whisper, like the rustling of fabric in the wind. The wiry man froze, his eyes darting toward the shadows near the doorway.
"Did you hear that?" he whispered.
"Hear what?" another man growled, his voice laced with irritation. "Stop messing around."
But the sound came again, closer this time. A soft, almost imperceptible swish, like the sweep of a cloak against the ground. The wiry man's breathing quickened, and he took a step back.
"Who's there?" he demanded, his voice cracking.
No answer came. The shadows in the room seemed to deepen, swallowing the faint light that filtered through the broken windows. One by one, the other men began to notice the oppressive atmosphere. The air felt heavier, colder.
Then, without warning, the wiry man let out a strangled cry. His body jerked violently before he was yanked backward into the shadows. The others turned toward the sound, but there was nothing there—only darkness.
"What the hell is going on?" one of them shouted, his voice trembling with panic.
Another sound—a low, menacing hum—filled the room. One of the men near the center of the group vanished, his scream cut off abruptly as he disappeared into the shadows. The remaining men scrambled, their panic escalating.
"Stay together!" the leader commanded, drawing a knife from his belt. His voice was strong, but there was a hint of fear in his eyes. "It's just a trick. Whoever's doing this, show yourself!"
The room was silent for a heartbeat. Then another man disappeared, his terrified cry echoing briefly before it was swallowed by the void.
"Who are you?" the leader shouted, his voice cracking. He spun around, brandishing his knife. "Show yourself, you coward!"
The shadows in the room shifted, coalescing into something tangible. A faint light glinted off a figure standing at the far end of the room. Liliac. His expression was cold, devoid of the kindness he had shown earlier. His cloak billowed around him, and for a moment, it seemed to blend into the darkness itself, forming a swirling mass of shadow that filled the room.
The leader's eyes widened in terror. "You… You're—"
Liliac didn't let him finish. He moved with inhuman speed, his cloak twisting and writhing like a living thing. One by one, the remaining men disappeared, their screams echoing briefly before being swallowed by the darkness.
The leader was the last to remain. He backed into a corner, his knife trembling in his hand. "Who are you?" he shouted again, his voice rising in desperation. "What do you want?"
Liliac didn't answer. He stepped forward, his expression unchanging, his movements deliberate. The reflections of his figure in the broken glass scattered across the floor seemed to multiply, surrounding the leader on all sides.
"No! Stay back!" the leader screamed, slashing wildly at the air. But it was no use. The shadows closed in around him, and the last thing he saw was Liliac's piercing gaze, cold and unrelenting.
The room fell silent. As the last echoes of the leader's screams faded into the void, the oppressive silence in the room seemed almost deafening. Liliac stood still, his cloak settling around him like a shroud. The faint drizzle of rain outside seeped through the broken windows, pooling on the ground and glinting against the shards of glass scattered across the floor.
For a moment, he didn't move. His eyes swept across the room, as if assessing the scene. Then, without warning, his gaze fell on one of the larger shards of glass lying near his feet. He crouched down slowly, his gloved fingers hovering above it before picking it up.
The shard caught the dim light, its jagged edges gleaming like a blade. Liliac turned it in his hand, examining it with a strange intensity. The reflection of his eyes flickered on the glass, and for a moment, his expression shifted—curiosity, or perhaps something darker.
"Interesting," he murmured to himself, his tone barely above a whisper.
Then, with a sudden, he clenched his fist, shattering the shard into smaller pieces. The fragments fell to the ground with a soft clink, joining the others in their scattered disarray.
Liliac rose to his feet, brushing his hands against his cloak. His face was unreadable, his thoughts concealed behind an impenetrable mask. Without another glance at the broken shard or the carnage he had left behind, he turned and strode toward the door.
The rain greeted him as he stepped out, cool droplets soaking his cloak as he disappeared into the storm. Behind him, the house stood silent and empty, a tomb for the men who had once reveled in torment.
And the world moved on.