"To harvest innocent lives—and then enslave and drive their lingering spirits as well?"
"Silent King, you truly deserve death!"
As the wave of Soul Absolution struck, Roya finally discerned its source.
It was fueled by the remnants of souls—fragments left behind over tens of millennia, as the Silent King's harvester legions ceaselessly culled countless innocents. In the instant of their death, their desperate will to live had twisted and lingered, congealing into these vile residues.
These forces were utterly corrupt, steeped in filth, capable of subtly warping and poisoning a person's will.
No wonder the Silent King had forged this necrodragon. Its very purpose was to house and channel this vast sea of soul remnants.
Even the Silent King himself dared refine only the remnants of his own people, the Fearless Ones, shielded by the authority of his crown. He would never touch these alien fragments, all brimming with raw hatred for him.
Thus, his so-called Soul Absolution was in truth nothing more than Soul Enslavement.
The slaughtered dead, their final remnants now nothing but warped survival instinct, perceived Roya's spirit—and erupted.
Countless spectral arms sprouted from the swarm, each belonging to a different dead, clawing wildly at him, desperate to tear open his flesh and burrow into his soul.
As if, by doing so, they could be reborn through him.
But in reality, they were nothing more than tools—scraps the Silent King had scavenged, wielded cruelly against his foes.
Roya sighed in sorrow. Then, the domain of his spirit—dormant until now—ignited in full.
At once, the frenzied mass of soul remnants was crushed beneath its weight, unable to advance another step.
From across the stars, he drew upon his soul's source projection, summoning a current of energy—pure, crystalline, threaded with mysterious strands of golden light.
That energy enveloped the remnants. The golden strands wove through them, soft and warm.
The light awakened flickers of memory. The slain remembered the truth of their deaths at the hands of the Necron harvesters.
Their twisted will to survive shifted—first into rage against the Necrons, then into blessing for Roya.
At last, the remnants dissolved, transfigured into pure energy, merging with Roya's current. A new golden strand was born.
"This," Roya's voice thundered across the starfield, "is true soul absolution. Do you understand now, Silent King?"
The echo of his words struck deep. Even the necrodragon—its body brimming with these harvested remnants—quivered in will.
For the first time, a fracture appeared between its consciousness and the Silent King's own.
Suppressing his inner shock, the Silent King quietly channeled the will of the Fearless Ones into the dragon, straining to crush its stirrings of rebellion.
Yet he did not forget to mock, his words sharp as ever:
"You actually dare touch the forbidden force of faith?"
"Heh… I almost pity you."
"Even if, today, I were merciful and spared your life, you have already drawn the gaze of powers far greater than I."
"Faith belongs to Them. Without the strength to shield yourself, to trespass in Their dimension is to seek your own death."
"No, They will not kill you outright. They will toy with you in countless ways, until you revere Them even as you curse Them—until your will utterly collapses."
"And then? Do you think They will release you? No! They will claim this rare, resilient vessel of flesh, to use as They please. Through your body They will commit sins unspeakable.
"And the cruelest part—your mind will be awakened at intervals, forced to experience everything They experience firsthand!"
Roya's voice cut back, ice-cold:
"No matter what kind of beings They are—if They dare enslave, exploit, or harvest us—we will resist!"
"Even if it means our destruction, we will never sell out our people, never feast upon other races just to cling to life, as you have done!"
"Be prepared, Silent King. Reap what you have sown!"
With that, he unleashed his strike—no longer holding back.
A psychic arrow, woven from more than a dozen strands of spirit, shot forth. It looked plain, unremarkable—as if it were nothing more than a simple arrow of common metal.
No dazzling light, no radiant particles.
And yet, as it flew closer, the Silent King's composure shattered.
"What—what in the void is this?!"
He kicked hard, trying to command the necrodragon. But its will diverged further from his own, creating a grievous lag in response.
By the time the necrodragon spread its wings and raised a dense shield of living metal overhead, the arrow had already breached its defenses, streaking toward the Silent King's chest.
This time, he could not evade.
For he could feel it—the arrow had locked onto his soul, in both the material realm and the warp.
No escape. No transfer. No refuge.
Only to meet it head-on.
Yet terror—an emotion long absent—gripped him. The arrow carried a force tuned precisely to his soul. Even the faintest brush would corrupt him with some unknown, yet utterly unacceptable, consequence.
What to do?!
At the very last instant, his mind seized upon a desperate ploy.
He hurled himself backward, yanking hard with his right hand—dragging the three Star-Gods' bodies into his path.
The arrow, fixed on his soul, did not bother to alter its course. It pierced clean through the Star-Gods' living-metal forms—and then, under the Silent King's helpless gaze, buried itself in his chest.
Inside his awareness, there was only the faintest pop.
Panicked, he scoured his soul for damage. Nothing. No wound, no tear, no weakness.
Was it nothing but a bluff?
Uneasy, he opened his mouth to taunt Roya.
But then—the three Star-Gods before him convulsed. Their forms twisted in sudden, violent upheaval.
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