Chương 379: Death II
'You lied to them,' Luna's voice murmured in my mind, quiet and sharp as a needle.
I didn't respond. What could I say? She was right.
No one used this method for a reason. It wasn't just dangerous—it was cruel. And the cruelest part wasn't the simulated death or the anguish of breaking one's own mind. No, the real reason this path was forsaken was because it required an anchor.
An anchor: someone willing to inscribe literal death into the soul of another. Someone whose love and devotion ran so deep that they were ready to die in the process.
Art had been my anchor. Even in his fragmented, soul-bound state, his presence had steadied me when I walked through the fires of despair. Without him, I would've shattered under the weight of it. But the problem with being an anchor was simple: it wasn't one-sided. The anchor bore the same pain, the same torment, as the one undergoing the metamorphosis.
Three souls. Three simultaneous deaths. Three simultaneous rebirths.
For a moment, the weight of it settled over me like a suffocating cloak. It wasn't just daunting—it was terrifying.
But I was willing to do it.
I would take their pain because I knew they'd do the same for me. I loved them, and love isn't just a feeling. It's a choice. A promise. And this was mine.
I gathered the dark mana at my fingertips, the dark energy crackling faintly like embers of a fire that refused to die. Luna stood beside me, her small form flickering with violet light, guiding me as she helped reconstruct what Art had done for me in that isolation chamber.
"Are you sure about this?" Luna whispered aloud, her galaxy-like eyes shimmering with unease.
"Yes," I replied. My voice didn't waver, though my heart thundered in my chest. "This is what they want. What they need."
Rachel's bare back was tense in front of me, her body still as a statue. She didn't flinch as I moved closer, though I could sense the storm of emotions surging within her—fear, resolve, and something else. Hope.
I placed my hand just above her skin, the dark mana pooling at my fingertips, ready to carve a reality into her that no one should ever endure. But to help her ascend, she would have to break—and so would I.
"Rachel," I murmured, my voice soft, "this is going to hurt."
Her voice came back, steady but low. "I'm ready."
'Don't look at her as a princess,' I reminded myself. 'Don't look at her as the refined noble who stands beside you. Right now, she's just Rachel. A woman who's suffered more than most, who carries scars she doesn't show. And you're about to open them all.'
And so I dove into her memories.
Her mind opened to me, not all at once but in fragments. Pieces of a puzzle scattered across the vast, aching void of her psyche. At first, I glimpsed innocuous moments: sunlight filtering through grand curtains, the laughter of her younger sister, the quiet hum of a piano.
But then it shifted.
The light twisted, dimmed. Shadows lengthened and deepened, pressing against the edges of her mind. I felt the memory before I saw it—the cold, sharp pang of fear that clawed at her five-year-old self, her small hands trembling as she hid behind a pillar. Her mother's voice rang out, clipped and venomous, followed by the sound of something breaking—a vase, a chair, it didn't matter. The memory wasn't about what shattered.
It was about who shattered.
I felt the words her mother hurled, barbed and brutal, tearing into Rachel's young heart with precision only born of cruelty. "You're a disgrace." "Not even worth being a Creighton." "Why couldn't you be like—"
I pulled back for a moment, gasping for air as the pain I shared with her sliced through me like a thousand knives. My hand trembled above her back as the dark mana swirled dangerously close to chaos.
"Arthur," Luna warned, her voice a tether. "Steady yourself."
I nodded, though the motion felt distant, disconnected from the raw agony flooding my senses. I forced myself back into Rachel's memories, diving deeper into the well of her torment.
This time, I saw her standing before her mother, a hollow expression on her young face as the woman berated her again. But something had changed. Rachel's gaze wasn't entirely hollow. It burned, somewhere deep within. A tiny ember of defiance.
That ember was her strength, her will to survive.
"That's it," I whispered, my voice trembling. "That's what I need."
I channeled the dark mana, using her memory as the framework, inscribing the pattern of mortality into her back. The mana carved through her, a searing, invisible pain that mimicked the tearing of flesh and soul alike. She gasped, her body jerking forward slightly, but she didn't cry out.
I felt the pain too, every agonizing stroke of the mana like a brand against my own psyche. But I gritted my teeth and kept going. I wouldn't stop. Not for anything.
When the final stroke was done, the mana surged, and Rachel's body slumped forward as if drained of all energy. Her breathing was shallow but steady.
"It's done," I said hoarsely, the words barely escaping my lips. I turned to Luna, who was already tending to Rachel, her hands glowing softly as she stabilized the fragile metamorphosis within Rachel's mind.
Cecilia and Seraphina stared at me, wide-eyed and pale, but their resolve didn't falter.
"You're next," I said quietly, though my body felt as if it would collapse under the strain.
And so I began again.
And so it began again.
Seraphina's and Cecilia's journeys were different, easier perhaps in comparison to Rachel's. Not because their pain was lesser, but because it was of a different nature. Their wounds were fewer, more focused, and I had already walked with Seraphina through much of hers before. Yet, even with that familiarity, the process was grueling. Death was never a simple thing to endure, even in its imitation.
Their minds fought against the intrusion, against the unraveling of what they were, and the rebuilding of something stronger. I bore their struggles alongside them, their torment lacing through my thoughts, my body, until I was unsure where their pain ended and mine began. Every moment stretched out endlessly, a trial of endurance for all of us.
Finally, I exhaled, my breath ragged, the death mana dissipating as Luna's light washed over their still forms.
"It's done," I murmured, barely louder than a whisper. My voice felt like a stranger's, worn thin and brittle.
Seraphina lay limp, her silver hair spilling across the ground, her normally composed face slack with exhaustion. Cecilia's crimson eyes fluttered weakly as she struggled to focus, her body trembling with the aftershocks of what she'd endured. Rachel, already resting, had sunk into a deeper quiet, her breathing steady now, but fragile.
Luna's form shimmered beside me, her galaxy-like eyes scanning each of them with the precision of a surgeon. "They're stable," she said softly. "Exhausted, but stable."
Relief coursed through me, though it was tempered by the knowledge of what we'd all just endured. I reached out, my hands shaking slightly as I pulled their shirts back over them, covering the inscriptions on their backs. The marks, invisible to the eye but etched deep into their souls, radiated a quiet power, raw and untamed for now.
"It's over," I said, not to anyone in particular. My body screamed for rest, but there was still work to do. I called upon the last dregs of my mana, weaving space around us to transport us into my room.
The four of us landed on the bed, a heap of weary bodies. The mattress seemed to welcome us, its softness an embrace I hadn't realized I needed. I let myself sink into it, the tension in my muscles finally releasing as my head hit the pillow.
The silence in the room was heavy, but not oppressive. It was the kind of quiet that followed a storm, where the air still buzzed faintly with the memory of chaos, but the worst had passed.
I glanced at the three of them, my gaze lingering on each face in turn. They were my responsibility now in a way few would ever understand. Anchoring their souls had been a one-way transaction. They didn't need me anymore, not for this. The bond was forged, the foundation laid. My part in their metamorphosis was over.
But for me? It would never truly be over.
My mind ached, my body burned, and my soul carried the weight of three anchors. This was the burden I had chosen to bear, and I would bear it gladly. Not because it was easy, but because it was necessary. For them. For me. For what was to come.
I closed my eyes, letting the exhaustion pull me under. Tomorrow, the journey would continue. For now, we rested.
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