Re:Animation

by Tall-Gothic-Guy

Diligent Priest. Persevering Priest. Stranded Priest. Lonely Priest. What can a Master of the Dead do in Lugnica? No more pilgrimages. No more manhunts. No more duties. No more purposes. And when death is not even available to him, what can a Death Mage do in the wake of the Royal Selection? Begin his first convent? Adopt an apprentice? Murder someone? Who's that white-haired girl?

2. Castle of Sinners

A tremor of eyelids opened a world of disorientation. A bizarre softness replaced the familiar grit of frown lines, as if years of hardened service had been erased. Blinking away remnants of sleep, he was assaulted by harsh light.

Light, blindingly bright, flooded his vision, yet he held his gaze fixed, defying the instinct to shield his eyes. Not only did the harsh glare fail to sting, but the heat held no bite, his vision perfectly intact. His cloak, a lifetime companion under moonlit skies, had protected him from the sun's fury for decades. This new vulnerability felt wrong.

But he didn't care.

He sighed, an audible exhale flowing out of his lips. Reaching towards the cerulean sky, his hand caught his own gaze. It was smaller, unnervingly so. He flipped it, marveling at the smooth, callus-free palm, the stark absence of the familiar grooves etched by years of gauntlets and brutal hand-to-hand combat. The other hand joined it, equally small and unblemished, lacking the telltale wear of armor and countless brawls. His fists clenched, but held none of their former menace. These were the fists of a child, not a hardened priest.

Running his fingers over their unbelievable smoothness, he brought them to his face, exploring the unfamiliar contours. The structure felt smaller, softer, almost chubby. His nose, impossibly tiny. A pinch confirmed the shocking elasticity, a sensation a mother might enjoy.

He pushed himself up, hands sinking into the cool grass. A gasp escaped him, not of exertion, but of fascination. He stared down at his new attire: small, black robes devoid of adornment, save for the mesmerizing depth of their color, almost swallowing the light that touched them.

It was the garb he wore as a Wyrmm of the Order, young and eager, his clumsiness endearingly evident. Back then, wielding a knife or conjuring anything more sophisticated than zombies and finger bones remained a distant dream.

But now, a shock of pure joy jolted him. Legs. He had legs, limbs he'd long since lost. The robes billowed generously below, two tent-like shapes hiding what lay beneath. Tentatively, he explored them with his delicate graspers, the sensation of touch on his knees igniting a bolt of excitement. He nearly yelped, surprised by the intensity of his own reaction.

Driven by his insatiable urge to explore, he scrambled to his feet, trying to recall the forgotten language of legs - the bend of knees, the angle of ankles, toes a worry for later. After several clumsy minutes, he finally managed a crouch, resembling, at best, his mother's stealth stance. One hand braced on the ground, the other outstretched for balance, he tensed his lower limbs, willing them to bend.

Too eager and too quicly, he toppled forward, face meeting the earth with a soft thud.

But instead of the expected groan, a laugh erupted from him at his own clumsiness – a booming, joyous sound that sent tears streaming down his face, both bloody and free. It was the first true laughter he could remember, a forgotten melody rediscovered. Had he ever laughed before? Not at a silly joke, not at pure, unadulterated joy, that much he knew.

"Well, aren't you a cheery little kiddo?"

Laughter died on his lips as a voice intruded, shattering the bubble of attempted rediscovery. He snapped up, reflexes honed by years of vigilance replacing the playful exploration. Gone was the childish glee, replaced by a feral glare and a predatory sneer aimed at the intruder. His tiny fingers dug into the grass, a futile attempt to mimic the claws he no longer possessed.

The woman, unfazed by his attempt at intimidation, knelt before him, her blue eyes meeting his with a gentle calmness that contrasted sharply with his own ferocity. "Hey there, little guy. Practicing how to stand up?"

Confusion knitted his brow. He leaned back, settling on his calves, studying this petite woman. Admittedly, she was adorable for someone her age, her golden hair a sunlit halo, messy ponytail bouncing playfully. Her physique spoke of motherhood. And the smell… intoxicating.

An instinct he couldn't explain drew him towards her. He reached out, small arms outstretched, demanding a closer look, a deeper inhale of that comforting aroma.

Her exasperated sigh filled the air as she gathered him up, his face burying into the welcoming softness of her chest. "Geez. Are you like this when you aren't being gloomy? That wasn't what he told me."

He climbed higher, small arms tightening around her neck as he buried his nose in the crook of her neck and shoulder. He inhaled deeply, the scent both familiar and foreign - a comforting enigma he couldn't quite decipher. The warmth radiating from her was overwhelming, almost melting him into a puddle of contentment. Her scent, strangely evocative of white and yellow, defied description. It wasn't of this world, ethereal and impossible to capture in words. Yet, a fuzzy warmth bloomed in his chest, drawing him closer instinctively. He tightened his embrace instinctively, clinging to this newfound comfort.

He clung tightly, a silent plea to never let go echoing in his small frame. He only hoped the feeling was mutual.

|||| « ҉ » ||||

"He said you were going to be rather touchy-feely but I didn't expect it like this." Minerva muttered, bewildered. Her fingers gently stroked the boy's silky white hair, the other hand supporting him by his rear. Astonishingly, seemingly defying his lack of legs for seven years, the boy had somehow wrapped them around her slim waist.

She braced for an inquisitive face inches away, mirroring the stories of how he devoured details of anything new without chomping it off. The "Supreme Sins," as they called themselves, painted a picture of someone taller, older, a figure shrouded in brooding judgment and a volatile temper.

Instead, she held a clingy, seemingly spoiled child. No hint of the sullen teen they had described. And then there was the form itself - no more than 10 or 12 years old, unlike the others. The "Supreme Sins," retained their adult forms, frozen in time at their deaths.

Still, all that aside, she confirmed it. Holding the boy, Minerva felt the thrumming truth in the others' suspicions. Like a dormant tumor, the Sloth compatibility festered within him, stunted but primed for growth.

Minerva pursed her lips, failing to hold back the urge and kissed the boy's temple. An unsettling fondness, inexplicable and unwanted, had taken root since she held him. Pushing it aside, she focused on the potential. Such as: what would happen if he absorbed the Sloth Factor, gaining its Authority? How would Sekhmet, the Witch of Sloth, react upon meeting him? The others, the "Supreme Sins," had encountered their Pandemonium counterparts, each interaction a bizarre tapestry of kinship and chaos. But Sekhmet... would she mother him, this child bearing a twisted echo of her power? The possibilities were intriguing, unsettling.

A flicker of amusement danced in Minerva's eyes. She recalled Echidna's encounter with Lucifer, the hulking giant. Lies, as always, triggered him into assaulting the Witch of Greed. A chaotic, hilarious spectacle.

"Hmph. Serves her right." A smirk played on Minerva's lips. Friendship aside, even Witches had their disagreements, and Minerva harbored a few towards the Witch of Greed. Witnessing Echidna's shock, courtesy of her "Greedy Big Brother," was undeniably satisfying.

The arrival of the Supreme Sins, however, was far more unsettling. Ever since Satella's actions, Echidna's Castle of Dreams had been restless. Prodding fingers, like whispers against a wall, had tested the protective barriers. Initially faint, these intrusions escalated during the second week, growing bolder, relentless, as if someone searched for a hidden door to break through.

Echidna's attempt to reinforce the barrier backfired, leaving a window unguarded while boarding the door. Through this vulnerability, a figure materialized: a towering figure cloaked in darkness. A black beaked mask concealed his face, brown leather gloves his hands, and a wide-brimmed hat hid any remaining flesh. This intruder, William, had breached Echidna's haven, and Minerva knew things just got infinitely more complicated.

He presented himself with polite deference to Minerva, his reverence extending to every Witch he encountered. His demeanor remained unthreatening, even when revealing his origins and intentions with apparent transparency. Yet, despite his apparent candor, his arrival remained anomalous – anyone beyond Satella and the Trial participants entering the Castle of Dreams was cause for concern. Even if he posed no immediate harm, his thoughts and memories remained shielded, a closed book unlike the soul-baring openness within Echidna's domain.

His cooperation faltered when questioned about his associates. Though he maintained his courteous facade, his lips clamped shut. His silver tongue, however, managed to convey his desire for privacy with such sincerity that even the other Witches, including Minerva, sided with his discretion. Only Echidna, true to her title as the Witch of Knowledge, remained adamant, employing both pushiness and tempting offers in her pursuit of information.

And then, just as abruptly as he arrived, he was gone.

Silence hung heavy around Typhon throughout the tense exchange, surprising everyone. After all, the little Witch was usually the most enthusiastic greeter, even to potential threats.

When questioned, her response threw everyone into disarray.

"Was that Papa?" she asked, innocent of the shock radiating from the Witches.

Suddenly, Sekhmet's "Mama" role had a potential "Papa" counterpart.

Minerva smiled ironically, having met her counterpart and now understood Typhon's familial reaction. "Now that I met my counterpart, no wonder Typhon and the rest reacted the way they did. Really felt like she's my sister or something."

Though the Matron arrived alongside the boy, initially a tightly-knit family unit, she struggled to adjust to inhabiting a living body after so long, even after Minerva's well-aimed punch. The others, thankfully, bounced back quickly, a shake and a stretch all it took.

Yet, William remained an enigma. Unlike the others, his initial shock hadn't been sensational. Despite his information, he was a mystery even Echidna couldn't crack.

"Hm?" She noticed that the kid lifted his face from her neck, tiny white hands shifting to grip her shoulders. Wide green eyes stared into hers, expectant, as if waiting for the show to begin. Minerva, lost in thought, raised a delicate yellow eyebrow. "What?" She asked, feigning innocence.

One hand left her shoulder, replaced by a playful jab at her nose.

Minerva chuckled, a huff escaping her lips. "Boop? Hmm?" She teased. With a playful grin, she brought a finger close to his own tiny nose. "This is how it's done. Boop! Hmm!" Her finger tapped his nose playfully, followed by gentle squeezes. "Do it like this, or I might just steal it!"

The boy erupted in silent laughter, his grip on her wrist surprisingly strong as his other hand reached out, attempting a playful retaliation. His arms, dwarfed by the baggy black sleeves, struggled to reach, making his efforts all the more adorable in Minerva's eyes.

Finding his nose-targeting mission impossible, he shifted tactics. Scratching at specific points on her arm, he discovered ticklish weaknesses. "Ah! Stop it!" Minerva cried, her arm losing its rigidity. He seized the opportunity like a viper.

With surprising ferocity for such a small frame, he shoved her hand aside and closed the distance. His tiny fingers latched onto her nose with a smack, squeezing and shaking it playfully, all while his face remained split into an adorable grin. The contrast between his childish joy and the unexpected force behind his attack left Minerva both surprised and amused.

His iron grip threatened to crush her nose, the unexpected smack enough to stun any ordinary person. But Minerva, far from recoiling, roared with laughter, impressed by his mischievous spirit. Her booming voice only fueled his silent mirth, his chuckles echoing in the air.

"Oh you little imp! How dare you take advantage of my weakness! How do you like it? Huh!? Huh!? Ooooh-dugudugudugudugudugudugudugu!" She returned the favor with a playful scratch on his sides, sending him into a fit of giggles. He squirmed, legs tightening around her waist as his muffled laughter turned into huffs and snorts. The moment he loosened his grip on her nose, her lips swooped down, nibbling playfully at the crook of his neck. "Owmnomnomnomnomnomnomnomnomnom!"

His squirms intensified, prompting him to return the favor. Fingertips danced across her sensitive spots, eliciting yelps of surprise, making her fall down to her knees and ending up pinning the kid underneath her. His legs, surprisingly strong for his size, kept her anchored. He continued his tickling assault, his laughter infectious.

Though she could easily overpower him, she relished the playful struggle, enjoying the role of the outmatched aunt to his mischievous nephew, in virtue of him being the son of Minerva's 'sister'.

Laughter subsided, replaced by a comfortable silence as they sat up, clinging to each other for a lingering moment. Finally, they pulled apart, fingers weaving together to maintain the connection. He perched on her lap, their gazes locked.

"I like you, kid." She squeezed his hands, he squeezed back with great strength, trying to match her powerful grip that strangely didn't break his tiny hands to pieces, "I ought to introduce you to the other Witches, I'm sure they'll like you."

Minerva's smile faltered, her mind flashing with potential disasters.

Daphnee, for one, would adore him instantly. But her "adoration" often blurred the line between affection and, well, teeth. Her "wanting to eat you up" wouldn't be metaphorical with him. Tiny toes, then legs, would vanish in a blink. The kid wouldn't last five minutes before she chewed them off. Not an amusing picture.

Carmilla, while harmless, might smother him with petting sessions and shy cooing, while her ever-present Faceless Bride would surely suffocate the boy before he even felt a touch. Not on Minerva's watch.

Typhon was another story. Even if the tiny Witch recognized him as physically close to her age, her first impressions were notorious. And despite his youthful form, the boy still carried the baggage of his past sins and regrets. Watching him crumble under judgement, hearing his screams echo through the castle – those were sights and sounds Minerva couldn't allow.

Minerva shuddered at the thought of Echidna. True, the boy harbored a Sin, but unlike the warped entities of the Supreme Sins, he remained fundamentally human. He was an anomaly, yes, bypassing the Trials and arriving in the Castle of Dreams. Yet, she couldn't shake the feeling that Echidna would see him not as a lost soul, but as a treasure trove of knowledge to be devoured.

Minerva found some consolation in the presence of the Supreme Sins, particularly Lucifer. That boastful giant, despite his volatile temper, would fiercely protect the child.

As for Sekhmet….

Minerva's smiled in anticipation. She envisioned a peaceful encounter between the boy and Sekhmet. Sharing the Sin of sloth, theirs could be a unique harmony despite their differing personalities.

Despite her languid demeanor, Sekhmet possessed both maternal instincts and loyalty. Echidna, and even Sekhmet herself, believed it. Evidence lay in her nurturing relationship with Typhon.

Anticipation thrummed within Minerva. This meeting held the potential for something extraordinary. Perhaps Sekhmet would finally rise above her inertia and engage the boy, their shared sloth leading to a shared slumbering embrace in laziness.

The image of Sekhmet defying expectations, playfully braiding the boy's hair as they lounged, or cradling him like a mother as she stood, sent shivers of excitement down Minerva's spine. The other witches would be stunned.

A chuckle escaped her lips. Yes, introducing Sekhmet to the boy was a must. The meetings between the Witches and their Pandemonium counterparts had been surprisingly civil, even cordial, except for the Greeds.

Minerva craved witnessing Sekhmet's reaction, as did the other witches. Her own interaction with her Pandemonium counterpart had been limited to a single punch, but further interaction could wait. This fated meeting for the boy held a far more captivating intrigue.

A cold sensation pricked the back of her hand. Glancing down, she and the kid saw a splash of water.

"Hm?" Before she could question it, a small, solid object thumped beside them, drawing her head around at whiplash speed. More followed, peppering the grass around them, followed by another behind him, then one on her left. More and more materialized around them, the world dimming with alarming speed.

The previously sunlit grass field dimmed, the sky morphing into a sight she thought gone along with her death: a raincloud.

Her face contorted into a furious scowl, cheeks flushing crimson. Tears welled up, not just from the unexpected downpour, but from frustration. She flung her head towards the unseen culprit, her voice booming supersonically, "ECHIDNA! ARE YOU RESPONSIBLE FOR THIS!? KNOCK IT OFF! YOU'RE GONNA GIVE THE KID A COLD!"

Silence. Her anger mirrored the intensifying rain, soaking her and the boy to the bone. The ponytail she usually wore with pride hung limply around her face. Strangely, the water was warm, but that was the least of her concerns. "I KNOW YOU'RE LISTENING! HURRY UP AND FIXED THIS DAMN THING ALREADY!"

No Echidna. No explanation. Just the unrelenting downpour, their silence punctuated by the drumming rain.

A ferocious growl escaped her lips as she ripped off her vest, revealing the blue minidress beneath. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed it over the boy, creating a makeshift shield against the downpour. "Here you go." She snapped, her face, rain-streaked and furious, mirrored her mood. "That'll keep you dry till I give her an earful about this. Stupid Echidna."

The boy remained silent, clutching the hem of her coat like a lifeline. Hesitantly, he pulled it deeper, hiding his face in the shadows. Then, with an unexpected movement, he shuffled forward awkwardly, clumsy with unpracticed limbs.

Reaching her waist, he paused. Her eyes widened in surprise as he flung the coat over her head too, momentarily blocking the deluge. Before she could react, he wrapped his arms tightly around her, buried in her bountiful chest, seeking warmth and comfort despite her soaked state.

Something shifted within Minerva, a tremor that bloomed into tears. Not the fiery sting of Righteous Wrath, but something deeper, rawer.

The child, clinging to her, was a stark contrast to his powerful Living World form. Now, he was fragile, shivering, a whisper of dust on the wind. It struck a chord within her, a vulnerability she'd spent centuries burying in the Castle of Dreams since having her Soul taken by Echidna. Her heart ached, a hollowness she'd desperately tried to ignore. His selfless act, shielding her first, shattered her carefully constructed walls from 400 years of trying.

The rain masked her tears, thankfully. He couldn't see the storm brewing within her, the emotions she feared would elicit another devastatingly human response.

She tightened her grip, one hand cradling his head with almost possessive affection. Her Wrathful Authority pulsed in her embrace, subtly healing him within the suffocating embrace of her mountain-crushing strength. The thought of him slipping away was unbearable. Inhaling the scent of his rain-soaked hair, she brushed a silent kiss against it, the roaring rain swallowing her choked sobs.

But the boy noticed. He surely did. The small, comforting strokes of his tiny hand on her back – another attempt to breach the wall she'd built. She knew he saw the tears she couldn't hide, the vulnerability she'd fought so hard to suppress. And it terrified her.

|||| « ҉ » ||||

A lilting voice, sweet as syrup, cut through his slumber.

"Such itty-bitty toes…." It cooed.

"Daphne….! I'm warning you!"

He registered the speaker instantly - Minerva's voice, booming down from somewhere above him. He must still be perched on her lap, lulled asleep facing away. Her slender yet surprisingly strong arms still held him firmly around the waist. The rain he conjured was strangely absent. His robes were dry.

"This little piggy went to the bazaar…."

"NO!"

A sudden jolt, a rush of weightlessness, and then a jarring impact that sent his chin snapping to his chest. Pain didn't register, but the shock fully woke him.

Green eyes blinked open, disoriented. Dangling from her arms, he scanned the scene.

"This little piggy stayed at home…."

"DAMN IT! STOP IT ALREADY!" Minerva roared, jolting him. His limbs flailed, but miraculously, no pain. In fact, his body felt stronger, healthier.

"This little piggy had roast beef…." The bubbly voice's words sparked a memory - a massive, mystical beast, its succulent meat roasting on a spit. He'd hunted it down, cooked it with a fire golem, the aroma leaving him drooling. So delicious...

The blonde woman crashed, dust exploding around them. He, now fully awake and oriented, turned to the source of the piggie rhyme. An iron maiden, spider-legged and open at one end, crawled towards him. Inside, a blindfolded girl, chained and drooling, chimed in with the final verse, her voice sweet yet unsettling.

"And this little piggy did—"

Silence. The Coffin Rider screeched to a halt, momentum vanishing like smoke. Her blindfolded gaze locked on the unseen offering. Her tiny nose twitched, sniffing the air with uncanny focus. "Nooo…..don't waste food like that."

The metallic monstrosity lurched backward, two of its six legs scraping the earth in a desperate retreat. Her mouth opened wide, the steaming drumstick, a crimson and brown masterpiece dripping with sauce, arced through the air It landed with a satisfying slap on her hatch, practically being slurped inside as if it was made of liquid.

"Mmmmm…..mmmm….!" Moans of ecstasy filled the air as the Coffin Rider devoured the drumstick. Her tiny frame trembled, drool cascading down her front, soaking the plush lining of her mobile coffin. "So gooooood…. So tasty! So juicy and tender…! Better than Chid-Chid's cookies….!" She gurgled, chains rattling with her enthusiastic pleas. "More…! Please gimme more….! Please….! Just put it in my mouth…please…hurry….hurry…."

The blonde's face burned red. "COULD YOU PHRASE YOUR WORDS BETTER THAN THAT!? ALL OF THAT SOUNDS SO WRONG HERE!"

Ignoring her protests, the boy conjured another culinary delight. A thick, square chop, sizzling with grilled wine sauce, materialized in his hand. He tossed it high, aiming closer this time.

"Ooh…." The Coffin girl squealed with anticipation. The Coffin girl launched herself forward, metal legs scraping the ground. In a blur of movement, the meat vanished faster than he could blink, leaving red sauce smeared across her tiny cheeks. Her red cheeks puffed out, chewing with gusto, savoring each bite. Sauce splattered her clothes, but vanished as if absorbed by the fabric.

The blonde lowered him to the grass, her arms reluctantly detaching from his waist. He tilted his head back, upside down, to meet the blonde woman's awestruck gaze. Her eyes were fixated on his sauce-covered hands, which she gripped tightly, her fingers digging into his wrists to the point of health.

"How are you doing that?" She asked, disbelief coloring her voice. "I thought Echidna's the only one who could conjure food. Daphne, what does it taste like?"

"Like cooked meat….it's super tasty, Ner-Ner. The quality is just indescribable, like he had a gift for grilling. The baby must be a very good chef….It's been sooooo long since I've eaten anything like this. I think I'm falling in love…..It makes me wanna eat him. You should try some…..maybe you'll fall in love with him too….."

"Hmpf."

Ner-Ner scowled, but the boy was already ahead of the Coffin Girl's offer. A steaming piece of red meat materialized between his fingers, practically begging to be consumed.

Despite a grumble, she accepted it and popped it in her mouth, closing her eyes and savoring the taste.

"Wow!" Her eyes snapped open, bright blue orbs sparkling. "This does taste good! Echidna's spit-cookies can't compete!"

"Don't be mean, Ner-Ner…..Chid-Chid's cookies are tasty toooooo. You just gotta appreciate them a little more…."

Ner-Ner scoffed, "Whatever. I prefer his."

If that's the case, he should have her try something a bit simpler, like freshly baked bread, hot and soft. He conjured a warm, fluffy bun, presenting it to her lips.

"Thank you." She murmured, tearing it in half and offering him the other piece.. "You should eat too. I don't want to be spoiled by a kid."

"Really?" Daphne chimed in, "After crying your eyes out hugging him in the rain—"

"I WASN'T CRYING, OKAY!? I TOTALLY WAS NOT! SHUT UP! STUPID DAPHNE! STUPID! STUPID! SO STUPID! YOU'RE VERY STUPID! AND ALSO….! Uh….S….STUPID!"

Ner-Ner's supersonic rant, while healing his eardrums, lacked vocabulary diversity, before escalating into angry bread-devouring. Tears, salty as the meat, mingled with the dough. He watched, silently enjoying his own half, the warmth and fluffiness a stark contrast to her fury.

"Include me toooo….." Daphne whined, her iron sarcophagus teetering dangerously. One wrong move and they'd all be pancake batter. Her drooling mouth, lined with sharp teeth, was too close for comfort. A strong arm yanked him back into Ner-Ner's protective embrace.

But he couldn't ignore Daphne's plea. Taking pity, he conjured a treat – unleavened bread, glazed with apple jam and crowned with apple slices, a personal favorite. He tossed it towards her. It sailed through the air, watching some disappear into her eager mouth while the rest splattered against her, strangely absorbed into her skin.

"Did you once cook these things?" Ner-Ner asked.

He shook his head. Most of the dishes were born from memories, tastes he'd savored in another life. He knew recipes, gleaned from watching others, but had he ever had the chance to try them himself? Pandemonium, that accursed realm, wouldn't allow it.

Minerva clicked her tongue as his memories flooded her mind. "Such a brutal world you come from," she said, her voice laced with immature spite and a sliver of empathy. "Everyone tearing each other apart, lost after the Rapture... It infuriates me, that place."

Daphne chimed in, oblivious to the tension. "At least the beings there could eat, riiiight? Baby's world has the best flavors! Hellspawn, angels, demons, humans, animals, beasties and even dead things. I bet their green is delicious too….."

A smile crossed his lips. An unsettling thought formed. Daphne, unleashed in his world, could be a weapon against the Uncharted Areas' hell spawn, paving the way for human expansion. She could even become a Primary Vessel for the Gluttony Sin, shielding humanity from Corruption for centuries. The Order of the Serpent wouldn't hesitate to control her.

"We haven't told you our names yet, right, Baby….?" Chains clanked and papers tore. He watched as Daphne, emerging from her iron cocoon like a pale, blindfolded caterpillar, flopped onto the grass. Stretching in her white skin suit, she crawled towards him on all fours.

Ner-Ner tightly wrapped her arms around him and started knee-walking away.

"I got fed a little so I can go for a little walk…."

"You're crawling." Ner-Ner deadpanned.

"If I walk, I'll just get even more hungry….." Daphne yawned, stopping to lie on her stomach, chin resting on her arm. "You smell so gooood, baby. I wanna go on and eat you, but Lily, Fer-Fer, Met-Met and Chid-Chid would get maaaad."

"HEY! INCLUDE ME TOO! I WOULD GET MAD IF YOU EAT HIM!"

"You don't care about him ….?" Daphne countered, and he felt the blonde woman stiffen through his hold on him, "You only care about people if they're hurting."

"OF COURSE I'D CARE ABOUT PEOPLE IF THEY'RE HURT! WHAT I WANT IS A WORLD WITH NO WAR AND SUFFERING!" Then her supersonic voice became subdued, her next words firm and without doubt, "If that's how I was in my living life, it ain't changing in this place as well."

Daphne's blindfolded gaze locked onto him, her tongue darting out to lick her lips, "My name's Daphne, the Witch of Gluttony. Thanks for feeding me, baby." She purred, her voice laced with newfound affection. "Love at first bite, maybe? Nothing since Mama and Papa tasted this good."

His cheeks flushed, fists clenching as the world around them seemed to darken in response to his surging emotions. Then, just as quickly, a mental wave doused the rising fire, the grasslands bathed in sunlight as if a bonfire had banished the night.

He turned his neck around to face Ner-Ner, eager for her introduction.

She watched him, eyes wide with alarm, body coiled like a spring ready to launch. She'd felt his surge of emotions – a momentary glimpse into the storm brewing inside him.

"Baby wants to know your name too, Ner-Ner," Daphne chirped."

Ner-Ner yelped, her flustered blush replacing her earlier cautiousness. He couldn't help but snicker.

Ner-Ner yelped in a cute voice, her form switching from cautious to flustered in a millisecond. He smiled, snickering. "I-I know that! Don't tell me what to do, Daphne! Also, stop laughing at me!"

His hand flew to his mouth, failing to hide the tell-tale bulge of his cheeks and the tremors in his chest.

Ner-Ner huffed, turning away and crossing her arms with a dramatic flourish that emphasized her ample chest. "I'm the Witch of Wrath, Minerva. Behave well and I won't have to heal you."

He raised an eyebrow, confused, still covering his mouth.

His hand fell away, realization dawning. He should have known. The way she handled him, the grip that would have shattered bones in any other, instead revitalized him. Was this her power? To heal, not harm, regardless of her actions? He even felt his toes wiggle, control returning. She must have given him his legs back.

And she bore the Sin of Wrath, like Mother.

Perhaps gratitude was in order.

He stood on wobbly knees, then steadied himself as he found his balance. He reached for her shoulders, pulled her close, and planted a tiny kiss on her lips.

Her yelp echoed through the land. She stumbled back, face flushed crimson, erasing her usual paleness. She rubbed her lips furiously, tears welling up. "WH-WH-WHA-WHA-WHAT!? THE HELL ARE YOU DOING, KID!? WHY DID YOU KISS ME!?"

Daphne observed, fascinated. "Oooh. Maybe he loves you too, Ner-Ner…..I do now too, since you did eat with us."

"DON'T BUTT IN, DAPHNE! DO YOU REALIZE WHAT JUST HAPPENED!? I CAN'T HAVE KIDS KISSING MY LIPS LIKE THAT!" Her tearful eyes met his, and despite her words, a strange adorableness shone through.

"YOU LITTLE STUPID LITTLE THING! I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU TO BEHAVE! SO WHY DID YOU JUST….ARGH!" She turned away, arms crossed, mumbling, "I HATE YOU NOW! I DON'T WANNA LOOK AT YOU ANYMORE!"

He couldn't help but grin. This grown woman, reduced to childish outrage, was ridiculously cute.

|||| « ҉ » ||||

So far, it was smoother than anyone could have dared to dream. Of course, who could expect less from him? Unlike other Necromagi who'd have to beckon first, the Souls naturally gravitated towards him like moths to a flame. He'd effortlessly wrapped Wrath in the silken threads of Love, tamed Gluttony with Charity's gentle touch.

Sally, however, yearned to see him conquer Greed. A far more complex beast, even for him. Cunning, twice as dangerous as compared to the other Witches, even with her power rather inferior in scale compared to them. And being a Soul only amplified that danger.

But that was a worry for later. The carefully constructed illusion of his afterlife was nearing its breaking point. Soon, the truth would shatter his fragile reality.

"…..Then after that, when the baby scorpion woke up and made cute li'l noises as it scuttled to mommy me, Flugel cut off its horn and named her Shaula….. I think it's a nice name. I didn't name the three since I died at that time, but I think I still remember the names he had for them. I think he called the whale Moby—"

"Enjoying yourself, Dear Sister….?" Sally inquired rhetorically.

Daphne, once drowsy and obsessed with food, was transformed. Emotion flickered in her blindfolded gaze, replacing her usual vacant hunger. Now, she was fixated on something other than sustenance, something even the Witches couldn't manage. Not even the aroma of the Smoky Bull, usually a potent lure for Gluttony, could break her concentration. Even these hunger-suppressing vapors had no effect on Daphne when she tried.

This, she knew, was the boy's doing. Loved by all Souls, his influence was undeniable.

Or was it just Gluttony, finally sated?

A flicker of doubt crossed Sally's mind. Was she underestimating him?

"Ah, Lily." Daphne's voice broke the silence, her words muffled by pizza. "You came….Come eat with us. Baby's got pizza served. It's got meat, pineapples, mushrooms, peppers, and a lot of cheeeesemmmmngammngghanaangmmmm…."

Sally watched Daphne devour the pizza with gusto, her attention completely consumed. The boy, however, offered her a slice, his eyes pleading. Such kindness, a rare gem in the desolate wasteland of Pandemonium. But could she, who had abandoned her own Virtue, truly deserve it?

"I'm sorry, dear, but I've had my fill…." Sally's voice held a gentle firmness. She took the offered slice, guiding it to his mouth. He chomped eagerly, his gaze unreadable, flitting between Sally and the food. "I'm done with eating…..It's better I do something worthwhile as a Soul doomed to the Pit while I still can…"

He looked up, his gaze unreadable, before taking another bite with quiet obedience. Sally straightened, drawing a puff from her pipe, the green smoke drifting away from him. "I'd love to watch you interact some more with my dear elder sister, but I'm afraid she's had her turn long enough….."

A swirl of emerald smoke enveloped the boy, lifting him effortlessly from the grass and settling him comfortably in her arm. Turning her stern gaze to meet his curious green eyes, she spoke with a hint of disappointment, "And you must learn to control your impulses of charity."

With a sigh, she began their walk towards the Witch of Greed, a meeting she loathed. Any other Sin's path she'd gladly cross, just to postpone this encounter. "These conjured meals, while delightful, drain your mana. It wouldn't be an issue otherwise…."

A venomous scowl contorted the boy's face, a stark contrast to his usual innocent demeanor. Sally bit back the urge to glare, instead maintaining the facade of a wise, all-knowing adult. "Trust me….the trouble is not worth it…."

As if on cue, the venomous glint in his green eyes vanished, replaced by a trusting lean against her shoulder. A silent sigh escaped her lips. Thank heavens for the illusion. Otherwise, controlling him wouldn't be so effortless.

A heavy sigh escaped her lips. The charade weighed heavy, the burden of manipulating him gnawing at her. By containing Emurdol's boundless charity, she saved Viandegroc, the man inhabiting Emurdol's physical vessel in the living world, from succumbing to mana exhaustion during his battles with that crazed woman in the repeated timeline. But the cost, she knew, was immense. They were playing God with Emurdol's reality, trapping him in a fabricated afterlife.

He believed, wholeheartedly, that he had shattered the Soul Gem, leading him to this supposed Limbo on his way to meet his Mother. He accepted the presence of the Seven Witches, even a Supreme Sin like herself share their space, without question. His normal critical mind, normally inquisitive about his sudden childhood form or the transition from a ravaged slum to a serene grassland, was muted. Why question? Why ponder the inconsistencies when the promise of freedom from mortality shimmered before him?

The Smoky Bull Pipe hummed between her lips, a veil masking the storm of emotions brewing within. Fear, frustration, and a gnawing guilt gnawed at her. The boy, Emurdol, should have perished, his soul extinguished. Sally, along with the other Sins, should have been free.

If it weren't for that damn bitch….

Another puff of green smoke escaped her lips, momentarily suppressing the memory of the black veil and the chilling resemblance to Emilia. As the smoke cleared, her exposed form, shrouded in its emerald embrace, heightened the sensation of the boy's robes against her chest and arm. A reminder of her burden.

"Hey, it's Sally! Hi! Welcome back!"

The boy, nestled in her arm, turned towards the voice. A girl, tan-skinned and brimming with youthful innocence, waved enthusiastically. Her cheeks, flushed like ripe apples, contrasted starkly with Sally's own grim expression. He offered a small wave in response.

Sally scoffed. Any interruption was unwelcome, she did want that, but the Witch of Pride? Now that was adding insult to injury.

"Hello again, Typhon…." She maintained a firm stare on the Witch of Pride, making sure the Witch Child doesn't pull anything stupid with her Authority and preparing to incapacitate her the sooner she does. "This is our prison master. The caretaker of our Souls, in a loose way of putting it….."

"Oh, it's Murdol." The boy winced, a flicker of confusion crossing his features. Such a mangled version of his name was likely unheard of, used only in muttered curses or terrified roars from ignorant humans. "Can you lower him down? I wanna see if he's a baddie or not."

Sally fought the urge to shroud him in her protective vapors, known to halt even a falling mountain. It was a reflex, a guardian's instinct, but it would reveal the truth – this afterlife was an illusion, and she was the warden. No, she had to maintain the facade until Viandegroc returned.

"My words are finale, dear." Sally declared, her voice hardening into a honeyed threat. She clutched the boy closer, her gaze unwavering from the Witch of Pride. The Smoky Bull Pipe hummed between her lips, a silent promise of retaliation, "You are not to judge him. Your Mother and I talked about this, and I have the power to stop you."

"But how are we gonna know if he's a bad guy or not? It'll be quick. I'm just gonna pull his arm and see if it hurts. That's it."

Sally's fury boiled over. The green smoke erupted from her lips, hissing like a tortured beast and forming a menacing cloud behind her. In that moment, the Demon of Gluttony took hold, her insatiable hunger fixated on her favorite target: A child, young and fresh, innocent and pure, in the form of the Witch of Pride.

In her place stood the Demon of Gluttony, a grotesque parody of her former self. Drool dripped from her maw, her gaze fixated on Typhon with the cold hunger of a predator finding its ideal prey.

Drool dripped from her transformed mouth as she saw her prey. Her lips stretched wide, revealing rows of needle-sharp teeth. Her tongue split into three, tasting the air, perceiving a symphony of flavors only she could detect. Her vision sharpened, perceiving a spectrum beyond human comprehension, every detail of Typhon laid bare. Her once vibrant red hair came alive, each strand writhing like venomous serpents, seeking to ensnare and constrict.

Pandemonium's worst nightmare, a parent's terror personified, Sally stood before Typhon but the Witch of Pride, barely blinked, her gaze fixed on the boy nestled in Sally's grotesque form.

"Typhon." Sally rasped, the seductive honey in her voice replaced with ice. "Do not force my hand. I may have sworn off gluttony, but the urge still lingers. You'd make a satisfying morsel—"

The threat died on her lips as a small hand clamped around her throat. Not tight enough to silence her, not tight enough to restrict air, but enough to hold her still.

Sally braced for the boy's accusatory glare, but he wasn't looking at her. His eyes were on Typhon, his tiny hand wrapped around her throat, the other pushing off from her arm. He wobbled, landing unceremoniously on his backside, the constant strangeness of his restored legs making the descent less than graceful.

"Oh!" Typhon exclaimed in surprise, quickly running over and taking his hands, "Murdol, are you okay?"

A chilling response materialized. Spears, knives, swords, axes, halberds – an arsenal of weapons conjured from Sally's very being. Every one, formed from emerald smoke, was solid as steel, sharper than any blade, and imbued with the wrath of a demon starved. They all pointed at Typhon, her fingers still wrapped around the one thing Sally would never allow her to touch.

"Does it hurt anywhere? Hmm?" Typhon cooed, one hand holding the boy's, the other rubbing his back. "It's okay. The pain won't last. Typhon will make it go away." Turning to Sally, the angelic facade vanished, replaced by a chilling malice that shouldn't exist on a child's face. "Sally, why didn't you help him? He fell and he's hurting. And you just stood there. Are you being bad again? Do you want me to judge you again?"

"Do your worst," Sally rasped, the seductive allure of her former form stripped away. Now, a monstrous green cloud pulsed with raw power, her true nature laid bare. A menacing green cloud hovering over a monstrous four-legged thing, threatening to devour anything young and vulnerable. "My punishment predates you, Typhon. Your judgment means nothing. But harm him... and you'll understand the true terror of facing a demon as a child."

"But I won't hurt him, Sally," Typhon countered, her voice laced with childish petulance. "But you said you care, yet you let him fall. Are you lying? Are you truly a baddie?"

This brat…..

"I have just about enough of you—"

The world tilted. Sally found herself hurtling upwards, breaching the very fabric of the cosmos before being slammed back down with bone-shattering force. She landed in a crater five feet deep, the impact stealing the air from her lungs.

|||| « ҉ » ||||

Dust swirled in the distance, obscuring the aftermath of Sally's descent. The tremor reached him even here, a ripple through the ground. Then, another blur – a flash of white plummeting like a meteor - Minerva descending onto the impact zone, likely with her healing Wrath. He couldn't see much besides the rising dust, but amidst it all, pink hearts shimmered and danced, carried by the shockwave, reaching him and fluttering against his robes.

Their appearance baffled him even more than the unexpected feat of conjuring an undead dragon's wind blast, the very force that sent the nigh-invincible Gluttony flying.

"Murdol?" Typhon's voice broke his reverie, her hands outstretched. "Ready to stand?"

He grasped them, the challenge akin to an infant's first wobbly steps. Knees buckled, ankles twisted – the frustrations of a body rebelling against his will. Yet, Typhon, patient and encouraging, guided him like an older sister.

"Okay, one more try." She stepped back, their fingers linked, ready to catch him if he stumbled. "Count with me. One." His right foot edged forward, her left countered. "Two." Left foot followed, her right mirrored. "Three, four, five…" They continued, a slow, deliberate dance.

Finally, "Ten! You did it!"

Typhon jumped up and down in her celebration, and he loathed that he couldn't do the same yet, simply huffing his breath in laughter.

To be walking again, his own flesh and bone propelling him forward instead of ivory constructs, was a surreal echo of his past life. He was filled with diligence, ambition, and unwavering faith. Back then, every action held purpose – honing his skills to become a worthy Priest of the Serpent, honoring his Mother's legacy, and aiming to impress Lady Sabarra in the Blood Trial.

And he remembered the ultimate crime…

…..The one thing that led to him being legless.

His smile, fragile as spun glass, shattered. Typhon, oblivious to the shift, chirped, "Now that you can walk, Typhon can finally ask you." She leaned in, her grip tightening on his hand. "Murdol, are you a baddie?"

He said nothing.

"Are you a baddie?" She repeated after a long silence, barely noticing his apprehension, "Are you an evildoer? A bad person? Are you a bad person, Murdol?"

He couldn't look at her. The weight of her gaze, the harmless accusation in her innocent voice, was unbearable.

"Aw, are you too shy to talk? That's okay. I can check it even if you don't say anything."

A tug. A sudden release. It felt like invisible weights lifting from his shoulders, a strange freedom. Then.…Pain.

A guttural croak escaped his throat as he crumpled to his knees. Agony ripped through his chest and shoulders, as if a thousand shards of metal were tearing at his insides. He clawed at his chest, desperation fueling his movements, but his hands passed through his own body, intangible and unseen. Panic surged through him. His arms… they were gone.

Panic surged as he saw his arms, detached, held aloft in Typhon's small hands.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" she chirped, her smile eerily sweet. "That's for being bad, Murdol. Good people don't feel pain."

A 'good person'…..

He scoffed at the mere notion of being "good." Kindness? Charity? Meaningless compared to the hatred that festered within him. Even if he'd performed acts of goodwill, they were mere drops in a sea of resentment. He was a monster, plain and simple, defined by the hurt he'd inflicted on others, human or otherwise. Humans might have wronged his kind first, but what right did he have to judge? He, who had brought dishonor upon his own before even setting foot outside his homeland. Who was he to wallow in self-pity and lash out at others?

"Blunders will become fetters that never unbounds."

A chilling sensation crept up his legs, transforming them into brittle glass. The sound of shattering filled his ears as his feet crumbled beneath him. He stumbled forward, hitting his head, his body mirroring the fracturing of his spirit. Scattered across the grass, his eyes no longer saw the same world, each shard offering a distorted view. Thoughts splintered, coherence slipping away, replaced by a singular, consuming feeling: guilt. It gnawed at him, surpassing even the physical agony radiating from his shattered form.

"So you feel guilty about it, that's good. That's very good. That means you're sorry and want to do better." A hand, a gesture of comfort perhaps, landed on the remnants of his head. He recoiled, not from the touch, but from the undeserved solace it offered. Why pity him? He deserved this suffering, every shard of it. His actions weren't a mistake, a blunder. They were deliberate, etched with guilt. Accountability was the only path forward.

"But it doesn't look like it hurts that much. Look at you. You aren't screaming. You're just crying. That means you only did something a little bad. Don't feel down about that, Murdol. You can still be a good boy."

He longed to shake his head, he yearned to deny her hope, to scream that redemption was a mockery for a dead soul. Even if he could rewind, the deed was done. He had slain a fellow wyrmm, the weight of the act crushing him. He never faced true penance, only hollow duties performed in a desperate search for forgiveness he didn't deserve.

Silencing the Sins, earning human praise for the Order of the Serpent... was that enough? Could it ever be enough to pay for the life he stole, the child he took from parents? Could it ever pay for stealing a child's future? His fractured mind searched for answers, each shard reflecting a different torment, a different facet of his guilt.

He wouldn't think so, even if Viandegroc had succumbed to the Corruption of Lust that day. The Order of the Serpent would have handled it better than him, and he royally fucked it up.

"Typhon, darling, stand back," William's voice, smooth as silk, cut through the air.

Eyes wide, Typhon turned to her towering counterpart. William, ever imposing in his beaked mask and mirrored lenses, held his ground resolutely. "Papa?" she breathed.

"Lady Minerva approaches," he intoned, his voice laced with concern. "Seek shelter behind me before the impact sends you tumbling."

A sonic boom shattered the tranquility, shaking the very ground Emurdol lay upon. Minerva's enraged cry, amplified a thousandfold, reached him first, shattering the fragments of his shattered spirit. Then, in a blink, a million punches rained down, not on Typhon, but on him.

His shattered form pulsed with each impact, the pain a distant echo. Slowly, agonizingly, his body reassembled, piece by agonizing piece. Muscles knitted together, bones reformed, skin stretched taut. He gasped, sucking in the air his fractured lungs craved.

|||| « ҉ » ||||

Fury simmered beneath Sally's green shroud as she spotted Emurdol and Typhon in the distance. The boy, a pathetic whimper escaping his lips, clung to Typhon, who rocked him gently, humming a saccharine tune. Sally's stomach churned. She couldn't decide who deserved the back of her hand more, the crying child or the infuriating Typhon.

Just as anger flared, a black blur materialized beside her. "We leave them be," William intoned, his smooth voice muffled by the beaked mask. "Save yourself another fractured skeleton."

Sally's frustration erupted. Her flaming red hair lashed out, aiming for William's head with the fury of a hurricane. The sound of impact was a sharp crack that echoed through the air, vibrating through her own skull. Unlike her previous life, this skull that's as hard as stone didn't crack open.

"Satisfied?" William asked, his voice genuinely curious despite being attacked. Perhaps her anger had served as a temporary pressure valve.

"Being physical again is more… repulsive than I thought," Sally grumbled, her honeyed voice returning as she puffed out smoke.

"The Master would appreciate your restraint against your physical body's urges, Sin."

Sally scoffed, her chest bouncing under the green shroud of smoke. A basketball-sized puff of smoke erupted from her mouth, coalescing into the snarling visage of the Demon of Gluttony before dissipating on the wind.

"Restraint is for the living. We are dead, William, unchanging. Unlike us, the boy, cursed to revive back to a certain point of time with each death, at least gets to mature himself from his vices." A flicker of envy crossed her features, quickly masked by disdain. "This body's hunger pangs gnaw at me, a constant itch."

"Moderation isn't sinful, Madam. Embrace your original Virtue of Abstinence."

"Self-control was my downfall," She spat, her voice laced with bitterness. Memories flashed: the sudden deaths of her parents, the burden of the Netheridge family thrust upon her twelve-year-old shoulders, the manipulative betrothed, and finally, the maddening hunger that followed her addiction to Eden's Leaf.

She wanted to forget it all. Let Pandemonium, a hellhole even before her time, return to its primordial chaos for all she cares.

"Where…." Her voice hardened momentarily, quickly regaining its honeyed smoothness. Control was paramount. "…is Viandegroc?"

"Within moments of Elsa's repeated abdominal stabbings," William replied, his voice smooth despite the grim news. "Complications arose when the Master drained the vessel's mana, causing Rom to bleed profusely. Thankfully, he's alive."

Sally eyed his beaked mask, exasperation simmering beneath her lidded gaze. Her reflection stared back from the mirrored lenses, a distorted image mirroring her own inner turmoil. "A whole day here, and it's not even midnight out there?" A sigh escaped her, laced with green smoke curling from her lips. She puffed again on her pipe, thoughts drifting to another. "Wonder how Moman feels..."

"Angered, Madam."

Sally didn't need the confirmation. Annoyance morphed into something darker, an unwelcome apprehension she tried to push away. The last thing they needed to know was the boy's Mother now embodying the Wrath she represented, unleashed. Memories of her destroying an entire Order of Assassins to avenge her husband's murder flashed in Sally's mind. If she could do that, what horrors would she inflict upon the bitch who cursed her son, especially when denied the reunion she so craved?

Sally watched with narrowed eyes as Typhon led the boy away, his sobs echoing in the unnatural stillness. She is taking the boy to meet the Witch of Sloth, her Mama.

Sloth…

Ironic, Sally thought, for a boy who clung so fiercely to his Virtue to fall under the Sin's sway so unwittingly.

"William," She drawled, her voice dripping with honeyed venom.

"Yes, Madam?" He replied, his masked face impassive.

"What are the odds..." she mused, her gaze fixed on the distant figure, "...of all seven Supreme Sins being gathered in one place…..?"

"Nil, Madam. We would tear each other apart. Sloth wouldn't even show up."

He was right. Greed, blinded by his avarice, would refuse to acknowledge their presence. Wrath, consumed by her rage, would lash out at anyone who dared interact. Lust, drunk on his power, would flaunt his might for all to see. Pride, in a twisted parody of service, would become an insufferable servant. Envy, festering in his familial isolation, would seethe with resentment. And Sloth? Well, Sloth wouldn't even be there.

A catastrophic gathering indeed, worthy of the apocalypse. Even the most wicked humans shared a sliver of camaraderie with their kind, a twisted reflection of unity. It was a strange irony that only death had brought even a semblance of tolerance among the seven Sins.

Who knows if the Witches suffered the same aftermath upon their passing?

"And what..." Sally continued, her voice taking on a dangerous edge, "...are the odds of the seven Supreme Sins meeting the seven Witches of Sin…?"

William stood silent, his mask an impassive facade. The answer hung heavy in the air, unspoken yet undeniable.

A plume of green smoke escaped her lips, swirling into a wicked grin. The prospect was delicious, a twisted gathering of the damned. Who knew what chaos could be unleashed, what power could be wielded? Maybe, just maybe, this afterlife wouldn't be so dull after all.

|||| « ҉ » ||||

"Mommy, look!" Typhon's voice, filled with childish glee, pierced the heavy air. "I got a friend! His name's Murdol!"

Murdol stood frozen, transfixed by the woman sprawled lazily across the grassy ground. She dwarfed even the largest humans, her magenta hair cascading out for meters like spilled wine stains. One tired eye, the color of her hair, regarded him without a flicker of life. Yet, a faint smile played on her lips, a stark contrast to the overall aura of melancholic apathy she exuded.

"So this is the boy everyone's been buzzing about…haa," She drawled, her voice laced with a languid weariness.

"Mommy, you seem…happy?" Typhon noted, tilting her head curiously.

The woman scoffed, the sound barely audible. "Don't be ridiculous, child…haa. I don't know how feelings work anymore. Too exhausting to contemplate…huu." A sigh, almost constant, echoed in the silence, heavy and weary, as if the very act of breathing pained her. "But there is... a certain kinship I feel within him... huu."

"Kinship? Like he's your little brother?" Typhon's brows furrowed in confusion.

Murdol felt a shiver of unease. The thought of this lethargic being as his sibling was unsettling. A brother should be strong, a pillar of support, a mirror reflecting his potential. This woman, however, offered nothing but an embrace of despair, a chilling invitation to wallow in the emptiness she embodied.

Yet, despite his unease, a strange warmth bloomed within him, drawing him towards her, like a moth to a flame.

"No…" The woman's single eye, now sharp with newfound focus, locked onto him. A spark of curiosity, almost hunger, flickered within its depths. "Something closer…deeper than that…"

His fingers, intertwined with Typhon's, reluctantly released their hold. He dropped to his knees and shuffled closer to the lounging woman, a desperate yearning guiding his movements. His right hand reached out, mirroring hers as she instinctively offered it, her fingers limply parting.

As his hand slipped into hers, dwarfed by its size and chilled by its touch, a firestorm ignited within him. His heart pounded a frantic rhythm against his ribs, tears stinging his eyes. This… this contact was torture, both physically and emotionally.

It felt like a lost right, a connection severed too soon. As if his hand belonged nestled within hers, meant to be held, comforted, guided. A longing gnawed at him, a yearning for a touch he never received. This hand should have stroked his cheek, patted his head, celebrating victories and soothing sorrows. This hand should have delivered the sting of discipline, the harsh guidance that could have steered him away from his fatal mistake.

But it belonged to a stranger. His own mother, the woman he loved and revered more than anyone, had never offered him this comfort. He had been held by her, felt her kiss, known her love… but it was all shrouded in the haze of infancy, a time before he understood the weight of her every touch. He was barely a week old, robbed of his father's embrace at the very moment he entered the world.

The venomous touch of Wrath's Corruption that will twist his mother's love into abuse was his inheritance, a future carved in stone. He'd been denied the warmth of a loving mother, revered by her people, who treasured him more than anything. To shield him from that twisted fate, she had chosen the pyre, leaving him with the searing memory of her final touch.

His tiny hand, then impossibly weak, had reached for her ear as she kissed him goodbye. He clung desperately, his grip a futile attempt to hold back the inevitable. Tears of blood, a chilling symbol of her corrupted love, had fallen onto his palm as she turned and walked into the flames.

This lounging woman, a stranger whose name even escaped him, wasn't his mother. Projecting that sacred image onto her felt wrong, disrespectful. This pale imitation could never hold a candle to his mother's radiant warmth.

Yet, a bond resonated within him – a Link, a desperate yearning for connection, for someone of his blood to walk the earth beside him. A plea to silence the whispers of isolation, the hatred that echoed from the living world.

This Link, inexplicably, connected him to this woman. He held her hand, cold and lifeless, a pale echo of the warmth he craved. It was a connection that shouldn't exist, yet it pulsed with a strange familiarity, a twisted comfort that he couldn't ignore.

Mother...his mother. Nothing more than another skeletal puppet in his morbid collection. A powerful one, sure, capable of summoning the fallen Apocalypse Legions and wielding her scythes with chilling accuracy as she did in her living life. An eerily faithful echo of the Ivory Queen she used to be...but just an echo. Bones, steel, and a tethered soul. Cold. Empty. A being consumed by a single emotion: Wrath.

She was not the mother he remembered nor envisioned.

He yearned for that connection, ached for it in this serene landscape of an afterlife. And then, this woman. Large, listless, exuding an aura of slothful indifference, came to be. But the Link, the echo of his blood, pulsed towards her. It was a forbidden hope, a mockery of his loss, yet he couldn't resist.

Without warning, he was upon her, rolling her from her side to her back. A sigh, not a grunt, escaped her as he buried his face in the crook of her neck, clinging to her like a drowning man to a life raft.

A slender arm hesitantly reached around him, tracing a listless path down his spine. It lacked the strength of a true embrace, yet it whispered a silent acceptance that transcended even Sloth's lethargy.

He leaned in, his kiss on Sekhmet's cheek a desperate, hungry act. It ended with a loud pop, followed by a crushing hug, his grip tightening like a child clutching a worn teddy bear, a silent plea for a response, a touch of warmth in the chilling expanse of the afterlife.

He doesn't care anymore.

The woman barely registered, her only response a listless sigh and her other limp arm draped around his back. Sloth dictated her movements but not her willingness.

Guilt gnawed at him, a traitorous worm twisting in his gut. He was betraying his mother, desecrating her memory with this stolen intimacy. But the reprieve, the fleeting warmth of another's touch, was all that mattered in this afterlife.

His right hand, seemingly of its own volition, reached for her left ear. He didn't notice, didn't question the pull, the strange familiarity that resonated in the bone-chilling touch. He held it tight, a silent plea for connection, for something more than the hollow echo of affection he sought.

|||| « ҉ » ||||

Crimson tears streamed down the Matron's face, each one a silent testament to her heartbreak. Her very soul felt like a wilting flower, suffocated by the weight of their circumstances.

In stark contrast, Echidna sipped her tea from across the table, a satisfied smile playing on her lips, devoid of pity.

The "gifts" from beyond the Great Waterfall, the newly arrived Sins, had been more than knowledge – they were instruments of exquisite chaos. Though she'd initially feigned opposition, that was but a stage prop. She welcomed them all, something Sekhmet easily saw through her charade. Nontheless, she trusted the Witches to craft their own twisted performances to bring something out from their guests.

And perform they did.

Pride had welcomed Typhon as a prodigal daughter, offering a twisted sense of belonging. Gluttony and Daphne found kinship in their insatiable appetites. Lust and Lust and Carmilla, drawn together by their desires, explored the boundaries of their curiosities. Wrath and Minerva embraced their shared lineage of fury. And finally, Sloth, like a mother welcoming a lost child, absorbed the boy into her listless embrace.

Echidna's own interactions with Greed had been...interesting. Greed's initial reception, however, had been less than harmonious. His fury at her calculated facade, meant to appear "normal" but ultimately deemed a "vile lie," had resulted in a spectacular display of rage. Yet, even that was fascinating. The hulk of a man's inevitable meeting with the other Witches promised to be a spectacle.

He may be predictable, but in the mind of the Witch of Greed, no one is boring.

The final piece of the puzzle remained: the Sin of Envy. Echidna, with an iron fist, refused their meeting. Even the prospect of a single encounter was intolerable.

Yet, amidst the chaos she orchestrated, nothing captivated her like the arrival of the boy.

Within hours, he had unknowingly seduced four of the Witches. Minerva, protective of him. Daphne, enamored by him. Typhon, seeing a brother. Sekhmet, glimpsing a son. All achieved without grand gestures, the Witches captivated by his natural charm and unintentional appeal. All fueled by his skewed perception of reality.

For he was trapped in a warped state of mind, believing himself dead, awaiting judgment from a cosmic Dragon Deity. Yet, his living counterpart wouldn't be this easygoing, this trusting, this quick to offer kindness. He'd be guarded, suspicious, his gaze carrying the weight of burdens and responsibilities. Remove those burdens, the constant fight for survival, and this is what remains: the carefree and selfless boy he was before his fateful mistake in the Underground City, his actions driven by innocent impulses and a desire to please.

Then there's his mother. A revered champion of the Necromagi Order beyond the Waterfall, hailed as the Queen of Ivory for her bone magic mastery, rivaled only by their immortal Matriarch. Fate dictated their reunion upon his passing, but the Witch of Envy's meddling twisted the boy's fate, locking the boy away from true death and denying him the solace of his mother's embrace.

The Castle of Dreams, a shimmering mirage offering the impossible: a reunion between the boy and his Mother without the need to die. But the Supreme Sins, burdened by their own tragic awakenings, refused. They saw in the boy a reflection of their own past selves, a ticking time bomb of Corruption waiting to be triggered.

For Wrath, it was the brutal murder of her husband, the embers of vengeance fueling her fiery transformation.

Greed's heart turned to ice after the ruthless elimination of his bloodline, leaving him with an insatiable hunger for power and conquest to fill the void.

Gluttony, betrayed by the one she held dearest, fell into endless consumption and addiction disguised as indulgence.

Pride, his beneficiaries turning to his rivals, found twisted satisfaction in inflicting misery on others.

Envy, abandoned by his own family, craved the very connection denied to him, his jealousy festering into a poisonous rage.

Lust and Sloth, however, were anomalies. Lust awoke to darkness without an external catalyst, a chilling testament to the inherent fragility of the human soul. Sloth, the boy, on the other hand, remained diligently true to himself, defying Corruption even after death.

Now, the Matron faced a second separation, this time mirroring the first. Both driven by the fear of Corruption harming their loved ones. Yet, this time, the void was deeper. The Witches had taken on the roles she once held – loving him, spoiling him, disciplining him, protecting him. They had become surrogate mothers, leaving her with nothing but the agonizing privilege of watching from the sidelines. And Echidna suspected they wouldn't stop there. Even the Supreme Sins had carved out their own spaces in the boy's life.

The Mother was left with nothing but the sting of her own absence. She could only watch, her heart a silent echo chamber of grief and injustice. She was his mother, yet she was rendered powerless, unable to offer comfort or receive his love. A cruel twist of fate, accepted with a stoicism born of maternal devotion. Yet, she endured, knowing this sacrifice, however cruel, was for his well-being.

Echidna, the ever-observant Witch of Greed, witnessed this maternal sacrifice with a twisted fascination. In the Matron's silent suffering, she saw a beauty unlike anything she had ever encountered, one that transcended even her own insatiable desires – a love so pure, so selfless, that it transcended even the boundaries of death and despair. A love that defied logic, a testament to the enduring bond between parent and child, even in the face of loss and manipulation.

Echidna's gaze shifted to Minerva, a silent sentinel beside the weeping Matron. The Witch of Wrath stood stoic, her hand resting on her 'sister's' shoulder, her only offering a silent understanding that transcended words. Perhaps, Echidna mused, the presence of one who shared the Matron's pain could offer a sliver of solace.

Next, Echidna turned to Bart, the Supreme Sin of Envy, who remained glued to the Matron's other side since her arrival. Unlike Minerva's stoicism, Bart mirrored the Matron's grief, his own tears flowing silently down his cheeks. The irony, Echidna mused, wasn't lost on her. He who craved family, who twisted fate to create his own, was now the most visibly affected by another's loss.

Each of these newcomers was a treasure trove of knowledge for Echidna. Their pasts whispered in their expressions, their actions etching stories onto their very being. Their very existence was a feast for her insatiable Greed, and she would do anything to ensure their continued presence.

Speaking of which, a familiar presence flickered at the edge of her perception. Her "brother," Greed, had returned, accompanied by Viandegroc.

Minerva and Bart, attuned to the subtle shifts in the atmosphere, turned their heads as one. The Matron remained unmoving, a statue of grief against the wind that whipped through the castle, carrying with it the sting of her tears. Only her robes and windblown hair betrayed the storm within.

Minutes crawled by, thick with the Matron's sobs. Then, on the crest of a distant hill, a figure emerged, colossal and imposing. Each step of the lion-faced giant, Lucifer, sent tremors through the ground, the swing of his ornate battle-axe stirring the air. Close behind, the young Necromagus, Viandegroc, glided silently, his hands clasped behind his back, eyes distant.

Reaching a preordained distance, Lucifer planted the axe head with a resounding thud, his massive frame finding solace against the pommel with his large hands. Viandegroc silently went ahead of him and approached the weeping Matron. His stoic façade softened into a mask of sorrow.

Bart, sensing the shift, tactfully stepped aside. Viandegroc leaned in, whispering not in words, but in a series of clicks and lip movements so subtle, so perfectly crafted, that even the keenest ears wouldn't decipher their meaning. The Matron, still partially obscured by the hand covering her face, listened intently.

Her response was immediate. Frowning beneath her tear-stained hand, she rose from her chair, her towering form dwarfing those around her. She moved towards Viandegroc, knelt to meet his gaze, and buried her face, streaked with red, in his white hair as she engulfed him in a comforting embrace. A silent sob wracked her body.

Seeing this raw display of pain, Minerva and Bart rushed to offer their own comfort. A hand on her back, a hug from behind – small gestures against the tide of her grief, but offered with genuine empathy.

They are truly wonderful.

A smile stretched across Echidna's face. She set down her teacup, a silent signal, and rose, her gaze fixed on the Matron. The woman, still trembling from the raw emotion of her grief, slowly disentangled herself from Viandegroc's embrace and wiped away her tears with the regal sweep of her robes. She rose to her full height, a towering figure rivaled only by the select few imposing figures in the Castle of Dreams.

Sensing the shift, Viandegroc pulled Minerva away, her weak protest quickly dissolving into acquiescence. Bart, exuding an air of nobility born of wealth and privilege, followed suit, his brightly colored silks shimmering in the constant sunlight.

Across the space, Lucifer stood, his initial boisterousness replaced by a steely gaze that fixed on Echidna with unwavering intensity. A new layer revealed, a hidden facet of the fiery giant.

The Matron glided as she circled the tea table, her emerald eyes fixed on Echidna with a barely veiled loathing. This dislike, however, paled in comparison to the venomous hatred she would unleash on the Witch of Envy, a thought that sent shivers down Echidna's spine.

"Now, Matron, what do you say?" Politely, she asked the Queen of Ivory.

As if in response, the Matron's silver hair danced to an unseen tune, defying gravity and swirling like underwater currents. Her ebony robes deepened, swallowing the light until they seemed to bleed into the emerald grass. Her emerald eyes flared, igniting like twin suns, and the clear sky above surrendered to an encroaching wave of darkness, casting the land in ominous gloom.

But these were no clouds. Echidna, ever the observer, watched with rapt attention, greedily absorbing the power unfolding before her. This was a glimpse into the Matron's true potential, a terrifying hint of what might be unleashed.

And the Matron did not disappoint.

The Matron's voice, raspy and cold, finally broke the silence. "Care-give the Witchessss and Sinsss…. My sssson…shall be in Greed'ssss handsssss….."

Echidna, the Witch of Greed, inclined her head. "We will offer him respite within the Castle of Dreams, free of burdens and shielded from harm as long as he resides here."

In exchange, Echidna would have unfettered access to the boy, a platform to exchange knowledge without restraint, even to leave her mark, be it physical or otherwise. But consent, she assured, would always be paramount.

However, the price came with a chilling caveat. Should any Witch, including the Bitch, the Witch of Envy, extinguish his will to live, the consequences would be swift and devastating.

With that, the Matron's veiled fury erupted. Her face contorted, the Queen of Ivory morphing into a terrifying visage worthy of Wrath itself. Her silver hair, once flowing, writhed like venomous serpents, each strand as sharp and deadly as the metal they mirrored.

"Breaker of live-will…" she hissed, "beware…"

The air crackled with the combined might of the Supreme Sins. Lucifer, with a single swing of his axe, could cleave the earth. Viandegroc could weave a labyrinth of thorns, impeding any escape. The Matron could conjure entire ivory worlds to rain down destruction. William possessed every art of annihilation imaginable. Bartholomew could raise an undead army of legendary Sword Saints. And Selena, equal to Sekhmet, wielded the indestructible vapors of the Smoky Bull.

Echidna, who once considered Gluttony Wrath's equal in might, finally grasped the truth. Gluttony needed no mana to bring chaos, her hunger an inextinguishable force.

"I will tread carefully, Matron," Echidna promised, her voice barely a whisper in the face of such immense power.

With a final glare, the Matron stormed out, Lucifer silently following, his axe abandoned like a discarded toy. The pact was made, but the air crackled with unspoken threats, the seeds of future conflict sown in the fertile ground of this uneasy agreement.

|||| « ҉ » ||||

"Sister," Viandegroc's voice was low, laced with concern, "What do you see?"

Carmilla flinched, her hands nervously twisting the fabric of her scarf. "W-what? Oh...uh...love. I see love," She stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.

Emurdol nestled deeper into Sloth's embrace, with Pride clinging to him from behind like a drowsy koala. Sekhmet, her movements languid, traced a finger across the boy's silver hair, a hint of maternal tenderness in her vacant eyes.

Viandegroc felt a wave of nausea. This warm scene, a mockery of familial affection, should have belonged to Emurdol and his true mother. The Witch of Envy's meddling had stolen that, leaving a hollow echo in its wake.

He turned to Carmilla, his green eyes piercing. "Have you made any progress with Mother's despair?"

"N-nothing!" Carmilla squeaked, her shaky countenance crumbling further. "You said she'd kill me if I did anything!"

"Given your past," Viandegroc cut her off, his green eyes burning with a dangerous light, "I couldn't be more cautious." He turned back to the sleeping trio. "You've lost your interest in love, yet you find yourself drawn to its echoes in others. You yearn to show Mother that she is loved, wouldn't you?"

"Y-yes," She stammered, pulling her scarf tighter. "She… she loves her son dearly. It's not fair for her love to go unanswered…" Her voice, initially shaky, gained a flicker of conviction.

"But good intentions won't suffice," Viandegroc said, his tone firm. "Mother craves love expressed directly from her son, not a substitute woven by a Sin." He glanced towards the approaching black and white figure of Greed. As Echidna approached, Emurdol's companions vanished in a blink. It was time. Six hours had passed since their slumber. "But I understand your sentiment. Be patient. When the time is right, act upon your instincts. Mother will be more receptive then."

Carmilla offered a hesitant nod.

"Leave her be for now," He said, suppressing a sneer. Saying such a set of words felt wrong, distasteful. No mother should be left alone to suffer. "We'll call upon you when needed."

With that, he descended the hill, his gaze fixed on Emurdol who, finally awake, sat up facing the Witch of Greed.

Viandegroc watched the scene unfold with a keen eye.

The woman, introducing herself as Echidna, the Witch of Greed, extended nonchalant greetings to Emurdol.

Echidna, lowering herself to his level, asked if she could share a greeting from his world. Emurdol, ever curious, hesitated for a moment before offering his hand, fingers splayed, mana swirling around them. The Witch, her own mana visible, met his grasp, their fingers intertwining. A brief handshake, two shakes, and Echidna parted ways.

As she withdrew, her smile held a hint of triumph. "May our acquaintance blossom into something fruitful," She purred, before gliding away.

Viandegroc clicked his tongue, a sound laden with apprehension. He knew Madness intimately, having walked alongside the most depraved souls in Pandemonium. That fleeting touch, that seemingly harmless greeting – it was just the first step in Echidna's labyrinthine plan. He could feel it in his bones.

He approached the boy, bracing himself for the moment his presence would draw Emurdol's gaze. As expected, the boy's green eyes widened, welling up with tears as recognition dawned.

But Viandegroc was unprepared for what came next. He barely registered how Emurdol launched himself off the ground, a blur of desperate movement, before a tackle hug sent him crashing to the earth. The impact stole his breath, several ribs protesting the forceful embrace.

"P-w:d…," the boy choked out, his voice raw with anguish, using their native tongue, the language of the Dead that even they could understand. "P-w:d…! P-w:d! P-w:d! P-w:d, V-dn:gr! P-w:d, V-dn:gr! P-w:d, V-dn:gr!"

The pleas, the apologies, ripped at Viandegroc's heart. He knew what they meant, the weight of a past transgression that haunted them both. He felt his heart shatter, knowing the pain he was about to inflict.

Wrapping his arms around Emurdol, ignoring the searing pain in his ribs, he whispered, "Sshh. Sshh. Don't apologize."

"D:t m p-w:d k! G:pt-y k n:k, V-dn:gr!" Emurdol's voice trembled, the native words raw with emotion.

Viandegroc rubbed the back of his head, the sky turning a mournful red above. "That was a long time ago, Brother. I don't hold a grudge. Let it go. We were both young, ignorant… I share the blame. Please… stop apologizing…"

His own voice cracked, tears blurring his vision. In Emurdol's embrace, he finally understood the depth of his brother's pain, mirrored by his own. The past, a gaping wound, refused to heal, its scars etched deep within them.

He held his brother tighter, the silent promise echoing in their hearts: they would face the past together, the burden shared, the road to forgiveness long and arduous, but the first step finally taken.

….

….….

….….….…..He can't do this. It's not possible.

A storm raged within Viandegroc. This couldn't be happening. This impossible task, tearing his own brother apart, ripped at his core. He didn't want to inflict pain, especially not now, not on Emurdol. Anger surged, hot and futile, against the cruel hand of fate. This weakness, this faltering, it disgusted him. He yearned for someone, anyone, to snatch this burden, steal away his trembling resolve.

"Damn it!" He forced himself upright, a grunt escaping his lips as his fractured ribs protested. Tears mingled with the pain, blurring his vision. He gently pushed Emurdol back, burying his face in his forearm, muffling his choked sobs.

Viandegroc couldn't let him see. His tears, a dam threatening to burst, would only amplify Emurdol's torment. His other hand found the back of the boy's head, gently holding him close, a desperate attempt to contain the storm raging within. Sniffles and choked sobs filled the silence, each sound a shard of glass piercing his soul.

He hardened his heart, a futile effort against the tide of grief. Finally, with a voice thick with unshed tears, he rasped, "Brother… Brother…"

His grip tightened on the boy's robes, crumpling the fabric in his fist. The weight of his actions settled like a leaden cloak, suffocating him. He gritted his teeth, the pressure threatening to shatter them. Each passing moment chipped away at his resolve, leaving behind a desolate landscape of pain and regret.

Damn it! Damn it all!

Why does it have to be him and not someone else….!? His Mother would have done a better job!

Damn it all to hell!

"You're not dead…" Viandegroc's words rasped, forced past the lump in his throat.

The boy's sobs ceased, leaving a chilling silence in their wake. He stood rigid, his hand on Viandegroc's arm like a cold, lifeless grip. The weight of the lie pressed down on Viandegroc's chest, fear clawing at his resolve.

Viandegroc's grip on the robes tightened, the fabric straining under his clenched fist. "You didn't die..." He fought to keep his voice devoid of emotion, knowing Emurdol could read through any facade. His only comfort lay in the truth of his words. Emurdol, even without sight, could sense it. "You fainted, the shock and blood loss... the half-elf stabilized you, taking you to her place."

He swallowed hard, the silence of the Castle of Dreams pressing down on him. "The Soul Gem... it's intact. We're here, with you. Our freedom... it still awaits."

Viandegroc loosened his grip, his hand moving to stroke Emurdol's back in a comforting gesture. He lifted his voice, hoping it would lift the oppressive stillness, "It's okay. We can wait. We all can. Didn't you say we'd go home together? What's a lifetime if it means we can leave alongside you in the end? Let us watch you live a little more, show us how you'll find happiness in a world that doesn't hate our kind like Pandemonium."

They remained locked in that embrace, the minutes stretching into an eternity. Viandegroc's heart hammered against his ribs, every tick of the clock an agonizing wait for a response. What response did he even crave? What did he expect from his brother, burdened by this fabricated grief?

Then, movement. Emurdol rubbed his eyes on Viandegroc's sleeve, then sat up, wiping away the grime and tears. Viandegroc quickly blinked away his own moisture before the boy looked up. He met Emurdol's gaze, exhausted but determined, the green fire in his bloodshot eyes dimmed but not extinguished. The illusion of death had faded, replaced by the spark of life, of reason returning like a flickering flame.

A flicker of hope ignited within Viandegroc's chest, hidden behind his neutral mask. The boy hadn't given up. He wouldn't let despair consume him. Viandegroc had done it. He had bought them time, a chance to dream of a future beyond Pandemonium's shadow. It was a fragile hope, but enough to sustain them in the darkness.

Emurdol's mind, freed from the illusion of his death, buzzed with activity. He scanned his surroundings, absorbing every detail. Viandegroc watched as a million thoughts flickered across the boy's face, conclusions forming only to be dismantled, reworked, and reassembled into a larger picture, a tireless internal debate.

Emurdol plucked blades of grass, examining them intently before releasing them into the wind. As he watched them dance away, he turned his gaze to the sun, meeting its gaze directly without flinching. His eyes held no discomfort, no fear of the light.

A pulse of mana, vibrant and potent, flowed out of him, weaving itself into the fabric of the Castle of Dreams. The clear sky, as if responding to his silent command, morphed into a canvas of storm clouds, swallowing the sun whole. The first drops pattered down, a prelude to the impending downpour.

The rain hammered down, soaking their robes and plastering their hair to their faces. Emurdol, his voice barely audible over the storm, turned to Viandegroc. "H-t?"

Viandegroc, wiping away a wet strand clinging to his forehead, contemplated how to explain. "Imagine," he began, "the Soul Gem, where our souls supposedly reside after death, not just memories and emotions... but a whole realm called the Court." He pointed to the muddy puddle expanding beneath their kneeling forms. "That's like the Court of the Witches of Sin, our counterparts. Or rather, this place, the Castle of Dreams, as the owner calls it. You met her, Echidna, the Witch of Greed. Compared to the Court, here, we have bodies."

Emurdol stared down at his hand, the one that had touched Echidna's, then turned, his gaze seeming to pierce through the rain and into something beyond.

He pivoted back to Viandegroc, a grimness settling on his features. "S Y-n:n?"

Viandegroc's heart plummeted. Emurdol's question hung in the air, heavy with unspoken fear.

A click of Emurdol's tongue, sharp and insistent, broke the silence. "S Y-n:n?" he repeated, his voice laced with urgency.

Viandegroc met his gaze, his face emotionless, but his voice betrayed the dread creeping into his soul. "She's here," he said, the single word echoing in the rain. "Your mother… she's here."

Instantaneously, Emurdol got up to his feet and started running—

Bone feelers wrapped around his ankles, tripping him. In no time, Viandegroc had already pounced on the boy's back and held his head down with one hand while the other kept his right wrist to the ground, several more tentacles wrapping around him and keeping him pinned to the ground.

"You can't see her. You promised you'd see her upon death."

"Ng:n!? Ng:n d-l!? Y-n:n! Yan:n! Yanan! YANAN! YANAN!"

Quiet! Quiet! Don't scream out for her! You'll break her heart and mine!

"Don't call for her! It's for your own good! And hers too!"

"YANAN! YANAN! YANAN!"

A thunder crash and a flash of lightning erupted, the downpour escalating to extreme limits in an instant, responding to Emurdol's pleas.

"SHUT UP!" The tentacles flipped him over and Viandegroc held his throat with both hands, tightening it, making sure he can't say anymore and cause further despair to the both of them. And his vision blurred and became red as he looked at his Brother's desperate face. He's crying again. "YOU CAN'T SEE HER! WE CAN'T HAVE YOU BECOMING LIKE US, BROTHER! YOU CAN'T BECOME SLOTH! YOU'RE THE BETTER OF US! I WILL NOT LET YOU TARNISH YOUR OWN SOUL! AND I WILL MAKE SURE YOU DON'T! EVEN IF I HAVE TO DO THIS!"

The storm above began worsening, turning the downpour into a thunderstorm, the cracks of lightning and crashing thunder unrelenting and blocking out all sound, smiting the earth and burning the grass, not even the twister on its way to dislodge him off the boy and punish him was heard.

There was the presence of a sound they shouldn't have heard. A sound that pierced through the storm's fury and sent shivers down their spines.

Mother's cry.

It was a sound of unimaginable despair, a wail that echoed their own buried grief. Both Viandegroc and Emurdol felt it, a heavy weight settling on their souls, a despair deeper than any storm could conjure.

"You must go, Brother," Viandegroc rasped, the storm barely masking the desperation in his voice. "Stay no longer."

The twister licked at his heels, its fury palpable.

"You'll hate me for this," he whispered, his words like leaves swept away in the torrent.

With a guttural command, Viandegroc severed the bone tentacles that bound Emurdol to the ground. "But we promise. We'll make things right."

As Emurdol vanished, pulled back to the realm of the living, the twister struck. It engulfed Viandegroc, tearing his anguished screams apart and scattering them into the storm's fury.

|||| « ҉ » ||||

Emurdol awoke with a strangled gasp, his hand instinctively searching for the phantom tightness around his throat. No Viandegroc, no grassy field, no storm. Panic welled up, quickly replaced by a chilling realization.

He sat upright, finding himself not on damp earth but in a grand chamber, walls adorned with golden symbols of nobility. Moonlight streamed through expansive windows, painting the scene in an ethereal glow. He was on a plush bed, clad not in his own robes but in unfamiliar blue silk sleepwear.

The implications hammered him: the half-elf had taken him in.

He inhaled sharply, the uncharacteristic heavy breaths shattering his usual composure. Glancing down, he found himself stripped of his robes, clad instead in blue sleeping attire. He parted the fabric, revealing the abdomen where the assassin's blade had found purchase.

Not a single scar.

He hadn't died.

He fought the urge to bite his lip, his grief manifesting in the white hair that danced around his head and the green fire flickering in his eyes.

"Yanan…" he reached for her shoulder—

Empty.

His hand met only cold metal. The vessel was empty. Her soul, absent. Just a lifeless shell of bone and metal, a four-armed suit of bone-inlaid armor.

Cold sweat beaded on his brow, his breath quickening. He slowly stretched for the wand resting near her waist, careful not to disturb the hollow shell. With trembling fingers, he touched the skull-shaped top, reaching into the Soul Gem…

Empty. The Soul Gem, his only hope, was as empty as his mother's shell.

|||| « ҉ » ||||

A guttural roar, brimming with loss and despair, echoing with a frequency that shattered glass, ripped through the air. In an instant, 17 sets of windows on the vast mansion, from ground level to the highest floor, exploded inwards. The terrified cries of birds, startled from their nests in the surrounding trees, added to the chaos.