Lorelei moved quickly through the woods, her stride brisk and purposeful. Freshly regenerated, her body felt reborn—every trace of fatigue scrubbed clean, as though the exhaustion of her previous deaths had never existed at all. Her mind, however, was not so easily renewed.
She kept returning to Manny, the hooded man. His memories replayed in her head from birth to death, vivid as a film seen through his own eyes. Yet they weren't truly hers—not in the way that mattered. She could not recall the smell of rain on his skin, the taste of his food, the ache of his sorrows. Those sensory threads had never connected to her. Something had changed, though. Since her fourth death, she could live his memories rather than merely watch them. It was an odd sensation—intimate and odd all at once—but not unpleasant, for she felt none of the pain or discomfort he had endured.
She had even experimented with the memories of others: Silvia's, Maria's, the small child from before. Once, she had considered such intrusion a violation—exposing someone's innermost self without consent felt wrong. But the hunger for knowledge had grown too strong, a gnawing curiosity that demanded to know everything and anything.
Yet one thing united every memory she touched: none of them ever showed a death. Or even how they saw her before dying. It was as though each person simply dissolved into a flash of particles, leaving only darkness behind. Lorelei found this deeply strange, given how complete everything else had been. So she asked the figure.
"What do you think he saw before he died?"
"An angel," the figure said. "He said it didn't... he—"
"I know." Lorelei's footsteps quickened as the pillar drew closer. "But he couldn't have meant it."
"It depends. There are only two versions of you—only two things they see before dying. An angel, and..."
"And what?"
"You'll figure it out on your own."
Lorelei sighed and stopped at the edge of the forest. Before her lay a plain of barren, deserted land, and in its center stood the pillar, emitting shimmering particles into the air that rose, then spiraled back into it a little higher. Up close, its true scale revealed itself. Looking up, she could not glimpse its end—because its end did not belong to this world at all.
She was about to step into the empty expanse when the figure's voice stopped her.
"Wait."
"What?" Lorelei re-wound her step, turning back.
"Take a seat before you go."
Perplexed but seeing no harm in listening, she cleared the snow beneath a nearby tree, set down her gun and sword, and sat.
"I... I broke one of your seals."
"What do you mean, 'seal'? Since when has anything sealed me?"
"You don't remember. It erased your memory."
"You've kept talking about this 'It' since the beginning, but you've never explained. Who is this 'It' you keep talking about?"
"An Arbiter. That's what It is. You drank from Its core; It granted you Its favor—but in exchange, It took those memories."
"What do I gain from an Arbiter's favor? I haven't felt any change in myself."
"Not now, perhaps. But when I—" The figure sighed, pausing. "When we release the three other seals, you will feel it."
"Feel what?"
"An Arbiter watches over you. You received Its favor far too early. There's nothing I can do against an Arbiter. And it's not just an Arbiter—two of the Higher-Ups are also watching you."
"Listen. Whatever is watching me, I don't care. Just tell me what these seals are."
"They bind your power. Feeling emotions within memories, sensing your surroundings, hearing—all of it is bound by those seals. And much more besides."
"Much more?"
"...I can't tell you. I've already risked too much by forcing that single one open."
"You told me to sit down and be calm, and now you won't explain yourself properly?"
"You don't understand the danger I'm in just by doing this. I've never forced one open before—I fear It."
"Then why did you do it now?"
"Because I need you to grow stronger, and quickly. I can't afford to wait until you break them open on your own."
"Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but that seal did nothing. Thank you for wasting my time."
Lorelei rose, retrieving her sword and gun from the snow.
"Wait!"
"What?!" she shouted.
"Rei. You don't understand how much danger I'm placing myself in by forcing these seals."
"Of course I don't! Perhaps I would, if someone bothered to tell me!"
"I can't explain here. Not while they're watching."
Lorelei understood at once. She turned her sword, blade facing her, and drew a steadying breath. Her hands trembled. No one could ever grow accustomed to death—even after seven deaths, it remained terrifying. What she feared wasn't death itself, but the pain of the dying.
"I'm sorry to make you do this," the figure said, her voice heavy with remorse and compassion. After all, in some way, they were one and the same.
Lorelei raised the blade to her chest and drove it in her body. Warm blood flooded through her, making her legs heavy. Suicide shouldn't become a habit. The figure's words echoed in her mind—but to reach her, this was the only way. She fell to her knees, then slumped forward into the snow.
* * *
A curtain of white hung before Lorelei. She sat facing it in a chair, and beyond it waited the figure, her silhouette outlined by the dim circle of light cast from a single object to one side. That frail light was all that kept the surrounding darkness at bay, and the nauseating gloom only deepened her unease.
Confession.
The word appeared before her, written in bold red.
My confession.
The crimson deepened to a vivid, bleeding scarlet.
My sins.
The words vanished into the dark.
"What is this?" Lorelei's face tensed with wariness. "Where are we?" Her voice echoed, then was swallowed whole by the emptiness.
"Let me see you!" She shot to her feet, reaching for the veil—but her body would not obey. She was flung violently back into her chair, which rocked briefly on impact.
"I don't want you to see me," the figure answered quietly.
"Then explain! What is all this about?"
Through the curtain, the figure's silhouette shifted, her hands weaving through the air before forming three slender threads.
"Please—be ready."
The threads slid through the curtain and spiraled slowly around Lorelei before threading into her body. For a moment, nothing. Then a sharp surge of pain tore through her. She gripped the chair's edges until her knuckles went white, curling her toes against the pale floor. A scream of pain, a scream for help, a scream of anguish—these emotions wrapped around her as black marks began to devour her skin. Inscriptions traced her neck and torso before crawling downward along her body. A chain, stained with those same agonies, coiled around her throat and bound her to the headrest. More links lashed her arms and ankles to the chair.
The weight of memories, the red writing reappeared on the curtain.
"I will explain everything," the figure said, "but an Arbiter will take your anything."
A drowning presence settled over Lorelei. Familiar, yet overwhelmingly imposing—the light of something vast and ancient. Her blood surged as the presence drew closer, her heartbeat hammering as it wrapped around her entire being.
An Arbiter is watching.
"It watches over you," the figure murmured.
You alone are a fragment of The Arbiter.
"A favor It has given you."
And a blessing It has shackled you to.
"These seals—I have released one. Forgive me, I implore you."
Beyond the curtain, the figure rose from her wheelchair and prostrated herself upon the ground. It was clear to Lorelei that these words were not meant for her.
"Oh, Great Arbiter. Forgive me."
I will sacrifice my anything to replace yours.
"Forgive me, soulless, relinquished by The Arbiter."
Trust me, Lorelei. Do not fear an Arbiter—for you are far more powerful.
Lorelei's eyes trembled as the presence pressed deeper into her. She screamed in pain, yet it did not stop.
"I have triggered your wrath. Let me, and only me, pay for it. Forgive me."
The presence passed through her body and came to rest before her—a figure of pure, featureless white. A weight lifted from Lorelei's shoulders, though the chains still held her. This being—this thing—walked slowly toward the curtain, its core a luminous white orb floating at its center while its body shifted constantly, as if unable to decide on a form. This was an Arbiter. This was the tree she had spoken to, its manifestation wavering around a white murk, its core held still and eternal within.
"I implore you," the figure begged, still prostrate, "allow me to stay just a little longer—until the war. Let me guide her to it."
The white mass paused before the curtain. The figure curled even lower beneath it.
"She needs me to guide her through it. Please—allow me."
Her voice shook; she knew full well that before an Arbiter, there was nothing to do but beg. At that moment, Lorelei felt everything the figure felt—the trembling fear, the gnawing regrets, the crushing weight of sins. Her vision flashed with images of people—people she knew, people she would come to know, and the deaths she would witness. Her shackles tightened about her neck and wrists, nearly suffocating her. It was too much.
"Argh! Ahhhh!" She writhed in the chair, body moving beyond her control, while the flashes filled her mind. These were the figure's memories—memories Lorelei was not meant to see, not yet. A field of graves stretched before her. There stood a little girl, a girl who looked just like her, but with a warm, gentle smile upon her face. She was tending the graves, decorating them with three lonely white flowers.
"I implore you—save her. Please."
Then came the hands. Lorelei—no, not one Lorelei, but many, more than she could ever count. Hands stained crimson, adorned with black particles, filled her vision, reaching for a life that had never belonged to them, a life they had failed to protect. And for that failure, they hated her. They hated the current Lorelei. They hated the first Lorelei. Her eyes rolled back as she screamed for help.
"Please! Save her!" the figure pleaded, her voice cracking into sobs.
The Arbiter turned from her, and slowly walked toward Lorelei. From its shifting mass it shaped something like a hand, and reached out to touch her forehead—a slow, deliberate gesture meant to soothe her anguish. The flashes ceased. Lorelei regained control of her body, though she remained shackled to the chair.
"Servant of time..."
Its voice was ethereal, a sound that should not be heard—the bare voice of an Arbiter.
"Bound by memories."
Its core blazed whiter, and particles flooded into Lorelei's body.
"Child of The Arbiter..."
Lorelei's own core reacted, absorbing the streaming light.
"Catalyst of destruction."
The ever-shifting form grazed her body once more, then dissolved into the darkness. The chains loosened but did not release her, still weighing down her neck and limbs. The figure remained trembling upon the ground, her cries spreading out into the darkness rather than being swallowed by it—carrying her regrets and sorrow across the void. The curtains parted gently as she wept louder.
Despite her head still reeling from the torrent of memories, Lorelei rose and dragged herself toward the veil.
Stop! She kept crawling, even as the red warning flashed across the curtain.
Get back!
A feeling she had never been able to shake—not since her second death. The figure's body had only grown weaker, barely able to stand now, confined to her wheelchair. Lorelei was perceptive enough to understand that within this mindscape, the figure could shape reality however she wished; yet she had never once used that power to mend her own failing body. So, Lorelei came with one and one singular conclusion: she couldn't. And for that, Lorelei needed to see what she was really going through.
Stop it! Please!
Through the narrow gap in the curtain, Lorelei saw her—the same face she had glimpsed before, once nearly perfect, now disfigured by vile petals blooming from her skin, flowers of a hundred kinds, far too many to count. At that instant, the chains snapped taut and dragged Lorelei back, kicking, into the darkness.
* * *