Listen to the song "Stop Crying Your Heart Out - Oasis"
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It was a cold morning in June.
The air cut through the busy streets with a sharpness odd for summer. Grey, soot-stained clouds drifted above the Outer Wall, their heavy smog slowly yielding to the massive purification filters scattered throughout the city. The wind moved with a strange sense of purpose, weaving through glass skyscrapers and crowded avenues until it reached a towering grey monolith.
The public hospital.
Inside, framed by clinical white walls and the hum of artificial climate control, a woman lay in a hospital bed. She looked the picture of health—thick brown hair, rosy cheeks, and a casual, easy smile. The only thing that betrayed her presence in the ward was the slight, gentle protrusion of her belly beneath her hospital robes.
She was pregnant.
The door slid open with a soft hiss. "Sorry for the wait, ma'am," a young man in a white coat said, offering a practiced, professional smile while tapping at a sleek blue tablet.
"Cold day we're having, isn't it?" the doctor added. He crossed the room, fetching a transparent interface from the corner.
"It certainly is," a stern voice answered from behind the woman.
A man with dark hair stood there awkwardly. He looked as though he wanted to offer his strength to her, but was paralyzed by the fragile, miraculous reality of her condition. He was a man out of his element, anchored only by the woman's presence.
The doctor hummed a noncommittal tune, opening a cabinet to retrieve a small kit. "Did you arrive by PTV?"
"No, we took public transport," the woman answered lightly. She reached back, catching the man's hand and pulling it onto her shoulder, grounding him.
"Oh? Any complications?" the doctor asked, snapping on a pair of latex gloves. He moved with practiced efficiency, opening the kit to reveal a set of sensors that resembled small, silver suction cups.
The man watched the doctor's hands with the intensity of a hawk. "None. If there is one thing the city prides itself on, it's that the infrastructure is efficient."
"That, it is," the doctor agreed.
He applied a dollop of conductive blue gel to each sensor before pressing them against the woman's bared skin. She shivered at the sudden chill, her fingers tightening momentarily around the man's hand.
"Well, let's begin, shall we?" The doctor discarded his gloves and pressed a sequence on the side of the interface.
The transparent glass buzzed with a low-frequency hum. A heartbeat later, it flickered into a deep, oceanic blue. A high-resolution, real-time scan manifested on the screen, illuminating the dim room with a ghostly glow.
The couple leaned forward, held in a breathless, sacred silence as they watched the flickering movements on the display. Two small shapes twitched in the digital womb, their tiny heartbeats echoing in the quiet room.
Twins.
The man's hand trembled, a slight tremor he couldn't quite suppress, until the woman caressed his knuckles with her thumb. She offered him a nervous, flickering smile, her own anxiety masked by a mother's budding warmth. The doctor watched them for a heartbeat, an unreadable expression on his face, before returning to his tablet.
"Your last visit was at the beginning of May, correct? That puts you at sixteen weeks… four months along." He tapped the sleek glass, and in the corner of the primary display, two distinct waves began to pulse in a quiet, rhythmic counterpoint. "Alright, let's take a look."
The couple leaned in, their gazes anchored to the screen.
"Both babies show stable vital signs," the doctor noted, his tone shifting into the reassuring drone of a professional. "Heart rates are strong, fetal movement is normal, and overall development aligns with the gestational age." He turned, his expression softening slightly. "Now… if you look here—"
He swiped at the tablet, and the image on the large screen zoomed, centering on one of the twins.
"You'll notice a slight size discrepancy. This twin is measuring a few centimeters behind his brother. In practical terms, it simply means one is growing a bit more slowly."
The woman's breath hitched, her gaze wavering. "Is it... is it serious?"
"Not necessarily. In twin pregnancies, it's fairly common for there to be a bit of competition for space and nutrients, especially if they share a placenta." He continued to study the data, his fingers dancing across the interface. "The important thing is that both are still well within the normal parameters. There's about a ten to fifteen percent difference in estimated weight. For now, it isn't alarming, but it's something we'll monitor closely in your upcoming appointments."
He turned fully to the mother then. "We'll reinforce your nutrition. More protein, adequate iron, and strict hydration. That should balance the scales."
As he spoke, the doctor caught himself studying the couple. The woman looked like any other first-time mother—nervous, yes, but with a spark in her brown eyes that spoke of a deep, burgeoning excitement. It was the man who gave him pause.
According to their files, both were Awakened. Yet, the man didn't carry the typical, iron-clad composure of those who had survived the First Nightmare. His stance was awkward, his tension abnormally high. His brown eyes were intensely present, yet the permanent frown tugging at his lips betrayed a maelstrom of conflicting emotions.
The doctor shrugged inwardly. First-time father, he concluded. The terror of a nursery was often more daunting than a gate for some men, regardless of whether they were Mundane or Awakened.
"Hahaha, I empathize with you, sir," the doctor chuckled, moving across the sterile room. "Sometimes a kid can be more troublesome than a Nightmare Creature."
The man's frown deepened at the comparison, a shadow passing over his features, but the doctor moved on with a lighthearted thought. If he thinks one is a handful, he's in for a shock with two.
The woman interjected, her hand finding the man's again, grounding him. "So... if everything proceeds without issue, we can expect the delivery in November?"
"Pretty much," the doctor replied, returning to the bedside. "But you know how it is. Even with all our technological advances, there are things in life we simply cannot predict."
The couple nodded in solemn agreement. Sensing an opening, the doctor asked, "So, have you thought of any names yet?"
"Not yet," the man answered immediately.
He flinched as the woman gave his hand a sharp, meaningful pinch. The doctor caught the exchange and grinned.
"Oh? A disagreement already? I had a couple in here a few months ago—the father wanted to name the girl after some pop idol. The mother agreed, only to find out later it was the father's ex-girlfriend. Can you believe the nerve?"
The couple shared a look of mild distaste at the breach of confidentiality, the man sighing softly.
"It's nothing like that," the woman said sheepishly. "We have thought of a name. It's just…"
"We haven't thought of the second one yet," the man added, his voice low as he reached up to gently caress the back of the woman's neck. "I feel it's unfair to name one while leaving the other in anonymity."
The doctor nodded, his expression turning respectful. "I understand. In this day and age, names hold power, don't they? That's why I think it's appropriate to recognize them from the very beginning... And it's not like someone is listening to us, right?"
The couple turned back to the screen. On the blue-tinted display, life continued its slow, silent dance, blissfully unaware of the turmoil of the world waiting outside their haven. Finally, a calm smile spread across the woman's face, mirrored by the softening of the man's stern features.
In unison, their voices barely more than a whisper, they spoke the name they had chosen.
"Zachary."
A sharp, broken gasp escaped her lips as she woke with a start. She was met with oppressive, absolute darkness.
Cassie reached out, her fingers brushing against the air as if trying to find a tether, but everything felt heavy and out of place. Her breath hitched, stuttering in her throat as her heart rate spiked. In the void of her blindness, the shadows suddenly felt like they housed a myriad of monsters, and she was entirely at their mercy.
Finally, after a few agonizing seconds, her breathing began to level out. She pressed a trembling hand over her heart, forcing a final, ragged exhale until she regained her composure.
"That dream again..." she whispered, her voice pained and thin.
She passed a hand over her sightless eyes, her fingertips finding only dampness. She clenched her lids shut as if she could seal away what she had just seen, but the truth remained. It was no dream. It was a vision.
Cassie tried to turn her mind away from the images, but the memory was too vivid, too grounded. It had been months since her First Nightmare, and while she had grown used to the "darkness" of her Flaw, there were still moments when the void felt foreign—an intrusive, suffocating weight.
She remembered the immediate aftermath of her Awakening. After reading the final runes of the Spell, she had been thrown from one nightmare into another—a world of nothingness. She remembered how her mother had rushed to her side, how she had bawled her eyes out in that familiar embrace, and how her mother had cried with her.
Those laments still echoed in the quiet corners of her mind.
Cassie recoiled from the memory, but the retreat only sent her spiraling back into the vision she had just experienced. With shaky fingers, she reached for the blue fabric on her nightstand and tied the blindfold around her face.
"Why... why do I continue seeing that day?" she asked, her lip trembling.
Her voice was flat, yet the torture behind it was palpable. Her visions were becoming more frequent, more unbearable.
They shared a thing in common, most of the time they were vague at most. The future was cryptic, escaping her understanding like mist, except for—
The past meanwhile was already grounded, experienced, and heavy. It came to her in brief but detailed flashes. Like the injury of the Demon or the nature of the Soul Devourer. But this one... this one was different.
She could still smell the sterile, filtered air of that hospital. She could still see the vestiges of hope and anxiety on the faces of that couple.
Knowledge of him.
"Why? Why did I have to be cursed with this?"
Her blindfold grew damp as she clenched her small fists, her body shaking under the weight of her own impotence. Beneath the sadness was a simmering, helpless rage.
Suddenly, a sharp knock on the wooden door snapped her back to the present.
"Cass?" Nephis's voice drifted in from the hallway.
It carried the neutral, detached tone she was known for, but Cassie knew her better than anyone. There was a faint ripple of worry behind the words—a hint of the girl behind the legend.
'Maybe he also—' Cassie cut the thought off immediately, summoning her robe with a practiced flick of will.
"Are you awake?" Nephis asked, pushing the door open carefully. "I was passing by and heard your voice."
As Nephis entered, she took in the frown on her friend's lips and the dampness of the silk across her eyes. Her posture relaxed instantly as she moved closer. Cassie breathed slowly; she couldn't see, but she could perfectly imagine the expression Nephis was wearing. Despite the grief, she felt a tiny spark of warmth.
She was likely the only one in the entire Outer Settlement who ever saw this side of Nephis. With the increasing number of followers swelling their ranks, Nephis had to maintain the mask of Changing Star—the cold, untouchable Saint.
Nephis placed an awkward, grounding hand on her shoulder. "Are you—"
"I'm fine," Cassie interrupted, covering Nephis's hand with her own. "It was just a dream."
She felt the shift in Nephis's posture. The hand beneath hers twitched.
"About—"
"No," Cassie lied. She knew exactly what Nephis was going to ask. "Something else."
Cassie bit the inside of her cheek, a wave of self-contempt rising within her. She hated lying to her, but it was a necessary cruelty. They were preparing for the expedition to the Slayer statue; Nephis couldn't afford a distraction.
She focused her senses on the girl standing before her. Aside from the radiant heat of her Soul Flame, there was a foreign tension coiling around Nephis. Cassie knew where it came from. Since his departure, Nephis reacted strangely to the mention of his name—whether it was blurted out by Effie's lack of a filter or whispered by the Host members who were still searching for him.
'...And she already knows about this vision,' Cassie thought bitterly.
Nephis nodded stiffly, pulling her hand away and turning toward the door. She spoke with a studied detachment. "Is he... okay?"
Cassie bit her lip, the taste of iron and lies on her tongue. Burying her grief beneath a practiced, calm smile, she spoke into the darkness.
"I bet he's doing fine."
***
In a broken set of blackened stairs, hidden beneath layers of grime, rubble, and the relentless, salt-heavy rain, lay something shattered.
It looked like a gruesome display of rejection against humanity—a discarded piece of flesh that happened to wear a human face. Zachary lay sprawled across the jagged stone, his body a map of agony, every shallow breath a heavy price he paid for the stubborn crime of clinging to life. Above him, the weeping sky of the Forgotten Shore looked down with indifferent cruelty, the dark clouds swirling like the ink of a cosmic pen, writing his epitaph in the mud.
His broken lips parted, but no words came out. A wet gurgle escaped instead, followed by a hellish cough that painted his chin in a mask of crimson foam.
His right hand was empty; Ender's Solace was gone, standing somewhere above as a lonely headstone for the dead. But his left hand remained locked in a purple-knuckled death grip around the hilt of the Midnight Shard. The blade was the only thing keeping him anchored to the world of the living, its enchantment hummed with a hot, rhythmic pulse that felt less like a blessing and more like a sentence.
His injuries were a testament to the sheer violence of the plaza battle. His ribs were no longer a cage for his heart, but a collection of jagged shards, several of which had pierced his lungs—every inhale was a wet, whistling struggle against a slow internal drowning. One of his shoulders was unnaturally flat, the bone shattered into a mosaic of white splinters beneath the skin.
Across his torso, the deep, ragged furrows left by the Stone Saints' weapons had stopped bleeding freely, not because they were healing, but because his blood pressure was in disarray. His skin was the color of curdled milk, turning a bruised, necrotic purple where the internal hemorrhaging was most severe.
Blood Weave didn't know what to do with him.
His left face was completely destroyed, it was a miracle his skull wasn't caved in. His eye was gone, a dark and hollow ruin; the other was bloodshot and clouded, staring vacantly at the sky as his pupils dilated and shrunk in a frantic, losing battle with shock.
He was a broken marionette, held together by nothing but blasphemous spite and a soul that refused to acknowledge its own expiration.
In the dark silence of the ruins, the Usurper began to twitch. The adrenaline had long since evaporated, the high of the slaughter fading into a hollow ache. That brief, bloody ecstasy had been a mirage, and like all mirages, it had stolen something from him as it vanished.
The spark of the tachi's enchantment kept his body tethered to the world, but his mind began to drift, lost in the throbbing, pressurized mess of his shattered skull.
The empty socket of his left eye twitched painfully. The world around him started to dissolve. The jagged silhouettes of the ruins lost their shape, replaced by a scenery that shouldn't have been there.
Flashes. Images tore through his drifting consciousness. His remaining eye fluttered, clouded and distant, as if it were peering into a past that had no name. Perhaps his lost eye had finally found its way home, witnessing a world that once was...
Probably not.
The rain vanished. In its place, he was surrounded by the sharp clink of glasses, the rough music of laughter, and a chorus of curses. The heavy, sweet-bitter smell of cigarette smoke overpowered the stench of gore and petrichor. A pub? No. A billiard hall? Not quite.
A karaoke bar. Yes.
Hot beer and cold lights. No... that wasn't right. Cold beer and hot lights. Better. He saw an awkward smile. Was he happy? Yes... he was happy.
His mind trembled, and suddenly he was on a bus. It was empty, the middle of the night, humming with the vibration of the road. A weight on his shoulder. Was it cold? No. It was a laughing shoulder. A girl covering her mouth, her eyes crinkling as she looked at him... what was their color? He couldn't remember.
Back to the karaoke. Tipsy, shy, and reckless. Her eyes were on him again, wearing that same smile. His heart beat fast—a different kind of fast. He saw his own rogue smile reflected in a dark window. A song? Yes... there was a song.
In his delusion, Zachary began to sing along with his drifting memories.
The sound gurgled up from his throat, a nauseating cacophony of air and fluid that was pure agony for his punctured lungs.
"May your smile..." May your smile.
"Shine on..." Shine on.
"Don't be scared..." Don't be scared.
His body grew cold under the relentless rain, but his mind stayed huddled in the solace of the dream. How had he missed these moments? How had he forgotten the weight of a person who cared?
"Your destiny may keep you warm," he rasped, his broken lips pulling upward into a grotesque, beautiful smile. "Cause all of the stars are fading away..."
As he sang, the rain seemed to falter. Little by little, the downpour slowed until the only sound in the ruins was his own shattered voice. It was as if the sky itself had paused to listen to the broken chants of a foreign soul.
"Just try not to worry, you'll see them some day... Take what you need, and be on your way... and stop crying your heart out..."
His voice began to fade into a wheeze.
"Get up."
Get up.
"Come on."
Get up.
The smile began to dim. A cold breeze fluttered by, carrying the last vestiges of the storm, but his skin was too numb to feel it.
Get up.
Get up.
His actual voice refused to come out now, but he could hear it echoing in the memory—a broken record skipping on the same lyric.
Get u—
Get—
The laughter began to disappear, along with the smell of tobacco. It was a good memory; he embraced it with everything he had left. If only he could remember the nam—
"GET UP!"
A voice screamed from within the depths of his soul. His heart slammed against his ribs, a sonorous, painful thud that sent a jolt of artificial heat spreading through his limbs.
His mind snapped back into focus.
His heart rate was cratering, his Body was at the end of its rope, and the darkness was closing in. But his Mind refused to go down. Sensing the impending collapse, the enchantment of the Midnight Shard surged once more, acting as a lightning rod for his consciousness, clearing the fog of death with a surge of agonizing clarity.
His crimson eye regained focus by inches, and with it, Zachary became painfully aware of the present. He remained in a heavy, humid silence for a few seconds before a dry chuckle escaped him—one that quickly dissolved into a fit of wet, bloody coughs.
"No one survives in the Dream Realm alone... What a load of bullshit," he spat, the words coming out thick with bile. "The truth is that when you die... when you die, you die alone."
The statement hung in the freezing air, a cold testament to his isolation. It was a simple, brutal fact: no one was coming to save him. He was a broken thing in the heart of the Dark City, left to the mercy of a Fate that had never shown him any. Any stray creature that caught the blasphemous aroma of his blood could finish the sentence he had so stubbornly resisted.
If he wanted to live, Zachary would have to save himself.
"I need to move..." he muttered, his voice a ghost of itself. He shifted the grip on the Midnight Shard, letting his mangled hand finally rest. With a quiet, internal command, he dismissed Ender's Solace back to his Soul Sea.
'My body is failing,' he noted with clinical detachment. 'If I'm going to collapse, I'll do it in the Cathedral.'
With agonizing slowness, he twisted his weight to his less-mangled side. The pain in his chest and abdomen flared white-hot as he clawed at a nearby wall, his fingernails scraping against the grime-slicked stone. He remained kneeling there, a wounded animal gathering its strength, before forcing himself to stand.
He regretted it instantly.
His broken ribs ground into his lung the moment he straightened. A thin, strangled sound escaped his throat along with a trail of bloody saliva. His breath stuttered, shallow and frantic. It took a full, agonizing minute of focused willpower to steady his breathing before he began the descent down the steps.
Blood Weave continued its frantic, invisible work, but there was a strange, sluggish quality to the flow. With a permanent wince etched into his features, Zachary began his pilgrimage through the Dark City. Each step was a fresh layer of torture; his bones creaked like old wood, his muscles trembled on the verge of tearing, and his nerves burned with a silent, electric agony. The Midnight Shard vibrated in his right hand—a constant, humming reminder of his mortality.
His sight was a clouded mess, the surroundings shifting between the jagged darkness of the ruins and the feverish ghosts of his memory. A sharp, high-pitched ring was the only thing his ears would register. His head felt bloated, his thoughts muddled by the pressure in his skull.
He was about to step into a narrow alleyway when a voice stopped him.
"Not there, man. Don't you remember? That classroom is already booked."
Zachary frowned at the empty air, then nodded slowly. 'That's right... let's go this way then.'
The only reason he could move at all was Balance Control. The ability forced his body to maintain its faculties even as it stood a single step away from total collapse. His mind, meanwhile, continued to retreat into the safety of its delusions.
A quick tap on his shoulder made him pause before entering a ruined house. "What's with you today? Don't you remember? We're eating with the rest of them at the cafeteria."
'Did we? 'he asked himself, shrugging. He turned away, entering a dark tunnel that eventually spat him out into an empty plaza.
Unbeknownst to his deluded mind, Cinder Eyes and Danger Sense were working overtime. They were paving a safe route through the labyrinth, using the familiar voices of his distant past to steer him clear of the abyss.
"Watch out, man!" the voice alerted him from his right.
Without even turning to look, Zachary brandished the Midnight Shard. In a single, pristine dark line, he cleaved a prowling beast in two. The movement possessed a terrifying, robotic finesse that looked entirely unnatural on such a broken frame.
"Good job, man. I think that was an Awakened one."
He nodded at the phantom praise, continuing his trek.
He was about to take another step when a different voice cut through the fog. "Zach?"
He stopped. This voice was different—clearer, more grounded. He turned to his right, his vision momentarily snapping into focus. The lecture halls and cafeteria vanished, replaced by the skeletal remains of houses. Beneath him lay the bisected corpse of a wolf-like creature, and standing a few yards away was a man who looked hauntingly familiar.
Zachary's head throbbed as he filtered through his memories, finally recognizing the face of a nameless hunter from the Outer Settlement.
"Good evening," Zachary said, nodding with a stiff, formal respect. He didn't want to interrupt another man's work.
With a clouded, drifting smile, he turned away from the stunned hunter, following the voices back toward the Ruined Cathedral.
His Mind shifted in and out of focus, caught in the liminal space between the jagged reality of the Dark City and the nameless memories of a forgotten world. The voices clung to him, weaving through the agonizing stutter of his heart and the frantic, shallow whistle of his lungs.
He took a step, only for the world to lurch and reset, placing him in a different place entirely, listening to a phantom voice warning him about something long lost. Without knowing how he had arrived, he found himself falling—plunging through the jagged hole at the apex of the Cathedral.
The impact was a shock of cold, hard reality that shattered his stupor.
"Arghhh!"
A strangled scream tore from his throat as every shattered piece of his frame revolted against the crash. The shock was overwhelming; his heart began to beat in a frantic dissonance, and his lungs stuttered with agonizing irregularity. With a bloody hand, and without releasing his lifeline, Zachary crawled through the dust and shadow. He dragged his ruined form all the way to the familiar corner of the Priestess's quarters.
He was alone, broken, and surrounded by a darkness that felt more like a shroud than a sanctuary.
It took a minute for his body to find a semblance of balance, and a few seconds more for the enchantment to stitch his consciousness back into his flesh, refusing to let him slip into the mercy of a coma. With a muddy, sluggish thought, he unsummoned the Witness' Testament, letting the mantle finally rest and recover in the broken expanse of his Soul Sea. It was a miracle the armor still existed in such a condition.
Now, his body and soul lay naked before him, and Zachary did not like the sight.
His left arm was a ruin, twisted at an impossible angle; the broken bone had punched through the flesh, a sharp, white splinter glinting in the gloom. His shoulder and hand were a nauseating shade of deep purple, bordering on black. The blood still flowed through them—he could feel the hot, frantic pulse—but the bones were a mosaic of shards.
A jagged gash had chipped at his clavicle, stopping just millimeters from his neck. His chest was a manifesto of brutality. A massive furrow ran from his hip to his right shoulder; the abdomen and sternum were a map of deep, weeping wounds.
But it was his left side that carried the worst of the devastation.
A dark, bruised swelling adorned his ribs, pulsing with wet, disgusting whistles that signaled his punctured lungs. A gaping tear in the lateral wall of his abdomen allowed him a glimpse inside his own frame; by some sick, providential chance, none of his organs had spilled out to greet him.
His right side was no better—a deep gash climbed from hip to armpit, exposing the clean-cut edges of bisected ribs. His right arm was a tapestry of lighter cuts, save for a deep wound through the bicep where the muscle hung precariously by skin and tendon. His right leg bore the jagged entry and exit wounds from where he had been impaled to the earth.
Zachary didn't want to imagine what his face looked like.
A sudden fit of coughing erupted, forcing his consciousness to recoil into the deepest recesses of his mind. The gurgle and the sick, airy whistle that came from his mouth and side made his heart skip in shock. Zachary shivered. He was so cold.
His Mind began to retreat, pulling away from the pain, until the sharp, artificial beat of his heart under the enchantment prohibited the escape. He was being forced to witness his own end.
Something was painfully clear.
His body was failing him, and Blood Weave was impotent to manage damage of this magnitude on its own. Zachary could feel the purpose of the tenacious blood; it was trying, beginning to mend the frayed edges of his life. But the damage was too brutal, too varied, and too widespread for the attribute to focus. The enhanced vitality of his blood was spread thin, reaching for every corner of his being just to keep him functional.
The Lineage was specially focused in his head wound, mantaining his skull and brain mass in place. With the enchantment, Zachary could remain in this tortuous limbo. In a few weeks, perhaps a month, he might escape the clutches of death.
But two facts stood in his way. First, he was not strong enough to endure such prolonged penitence. Second, he lacked the time.
Zachary had finally grasped the spark of evolution; his growth had exploded in a single, horrific fight. He would regret it for the rest of his life if he let that potential bleed out into the stone. The answer was a cold, hard necessity.
He had to help Blood Weave heal him.
The thought sent a painful shiver down his spine, and a single, bloody tear escaped from his missing eye. Without waiting for the thought to breed consequences, Zachary began to move.
With a miserable groan and slow, exhausted motions, he shifted toward the fireplace and lit it. He waited a few heartbeats for the flames to gain strength before resting the edge of the Midnight Shard against the coals. The rising heat felt like a weak caress that his numb skin failed to truly appreciate.
Stretching himself with agonizing difficulty, he reached for one of the makeshift knives he had fashioned from the steel spider's remains. Then, he waited. The silence stretched nightmarishly, thick and tense—a clear omen of what awaited him at the end of it. He watched as the dark edge of the tachi began to glow, turning a dull, angry red.
"What I'm going to do is quite simple, you see," Zachary said, his voice a dry rasp. He rested his naked back against the cold stone of the wall. The contact made him flinch, a sudden movement that triggered a chain reaction of suffering through his shattered frame.
His mind sought respite in the delusions again, reaching for the karaoke bar and the laughter, but he gripped the hilt of the tachi by the fire and forced himself to anchor his thoughts in the present.
"Blood Weave enhances my healing factor and maintains my vitality... that hasn't changed." He gulped loudly, the sound echoing in the hollow room as he surveyed the ruin of his body once more. "It's just that, at the moment, it's overworked. It doesn't know where to begin."
He looked at the Midnight Shard. The red had spread through the steel, turning into a bright, searing orange. His throat began to tremble.
"...I'll seal the external wounds myself. That way, Blood Weave can focus on the internal damage," he announced. His tone was flat, his red eye focused, yet a resigned glow shone within it. "Unfortunately, my job doesn't end there."
"You see, the attribute isn't self-aware. It only prioritizes keeping me alive. It doesn't know how to heal..." His voice betrayed him for a second, a soft tremor breaking the cadence. "I'm at risk of my bones knitting together incorrectly. They probably will. And that... that would be the worst possible scenario."
He looked straight into the darkness. Closing his eye, he rested his head against the stone and allowed a silent prayer to escape his lips. The consequences of what he was about to do were taking form in his mind, and he began to shake. With each shiver, each involuntary tension of his muscles, the pain erupted anew, forcing him into a state of hyper-focus that only made the coming task more real.
"You know you're alone, right? So why are you narrating this aloud?" Zachary asked himself, a desperate, bloody smile tugging at his lips. "Of course I know I'm alone, fool. I'm not some madman talking to shadows."
The smile grew strained as he opened his eye and looked down. The Midnight Shard was shining brilliantly in the firelight; the handle was now painfully hot to the touch. His lower lip began to tremble uncontrollably.
"It's... it's just that I'm scared of going through this alone," he confessed, his weakness bleeding out into the darkness of the Cathedral.
Silence was the only answer he received, a cold vacuum that reinforced his isolation. The smile vanished like a ghost.
"The truth is... I've always been alone."
Clenching his teeth until they threatened to shatter, he gripped the blazing tachi and drove the white-hot steel into his own flesh.