There is an old River that has been flowing at the very bottom of the world for many an age. This river was no ordinary river, for it did not course through valleys of earth and stone but through the deepest recesses of the mind, winding and twisting through the collective unconsciousness of all who lived. It was a cognitive wellspring, a vast and unfathomable current of forgotten thoughts and buried emotions, long obscured by the relentless tide of time.

Nobody knew of its existence, but somehow, in the world, there are very small gaps, or holes. It is through these that the river gently finds itself a stream. These gaps were the hidden seams of reality, places where the fabric of existence was stretched too thin, where the borders between thought and form, dream and waking, became perilously fragile.

Strange beings would sometimes crawl out of such a gap, their forms twisted and grotesque, not entirely bound by the laws of the physical world. Abnormalities were creatures of the mind, birthed from the darkest corners of the soul, emerging in the Outskirts, those bleak and forsaken lands that lay beyond the City.

Now, as the Light surged and spilled over Zwillingstürme, the River of the collective unconsciousness began to creep upwards, its dark and swirling waters seeping through the cracks in reality. The city, once a bastion of culture and knowledge, stood poised on the precipice of madness as the river began to carve its treacherous paths through the streets and alleys, intersecting with the waking world.

Reality itself began to warp and bend under the pressure of the rising tide. The streets of Zwillingstürme, which had once been orderly and predictable, were now a shifting maze of impossible angles and incomprehensible architecture. Buildings swayed and twisted as if they were made of liquid, their facades rippling like the surface of a disturbed pond. Windows melted into doors, and doors led to nowhere. The once-proud spires of the Twin Towers now seemed to stretch infinitely into the sky, their tips lost in a churning maelstrom of clouds that blazed with an otherworldly light.

Abnormalities swarmed into the city en masse, their forms shifting and changing with every passing moment, their bodies composed of nightmares given shape and substance. The people of Zwillingstürme, once proud and composed, were now overwhelmed by the intensifying emotions that surged through them like a tidal wave. Arturia's music perforated their very being, dredging up long-buried memories and repressed desires, twisting them into something dark and dangerous. The air was filled with the sound of screams and sobs, as the citizens began to turn on one another, their minds unravelling under the weight of their own emotions.

Some of them began to distort, their bodies warping and changing, humanity slipping away with every passing moment. Others were not so fortunate. They became Peccatulum, bound to the sins and regrets that had once defined them.

The chaos of battle was an unrelenting storm, a cacophony of screams, clashing steel, and the vile squelching of bodies transforming into abominations. Yet, within this maelstrom, Ace struggled not just against the monstrosities that surged around him, but against the tempest brewing within his own mind.

He could feel it gnawing at the edges of his consciousness, like a wolf with bloodied teeth, tearing through the sinews of his self-control. That accursed melody had dredged up memories he had buried long ago, memories that now rose to the surface, slick and black like oil on water.

He remembered the heat of the Sargon sun, the dry, biting wind that tasted of dust and iron. He remembered the weight of the spear in his hands, the way the sweat dripped down his brow, stinging his eyes. And he remembered his brother—always the better fighter, the quicker, more precise of the two. They had been training, as they always did, pushing each other to the very brink of their abilities. His brother's movements were fluid, almost graceful, as he sidestepped Ace's every attack with ease.

But then, in a moment of frustration, Ace had seen a flaw—a tiny, almost imperceptible opening in his brother's defense. It was nothing more than a brief misstep, a slight shift in balance, but to Ace, it was an invitation. His grip tightened on the spear, and in that heartbeat, he lashed out, driving the blunt end towards his brother's exposed side.

He had underestimated his own strength, overestimated his brother's speed. The blow that was meant to unbalance instead connected with a sickening crunch, shattering the bone in his brother's thigh. The scream that tore from his brother's lips was not just one of pain but of betrayal. Ace could still hear it, even now, reverberating in his skull like the tolling of a death knell. His brother's leg had never healed properly. The limp was a constant, visible reminder of that day—a day Ace had locked away deep inside himself, under layers of duty, resolve, and denial.

But now, the River had brought it back to him, the guilt swelling in his chest, threatening to drown him as surely as the twisted creatures that clawed at his flesh. He wanted to scream, to rage against the injustice of it all, to tear his mind free from the memories that shackled him. But there was no time, no space in the midst of the frenzied battle, to dwell on such things. He forced the memories down, crushing them beneath the heel of his willpower, even as they snarled and snapped at his insides.

Around him, the civilians—if they could even be called that anymore—were turning into monsters, their bodies contorting, bones breaking and re-forming in grotesque ways, eyes glazing over with a madness that knew no bounds. They were attacking anything and everything, driven by some primal, insatiable hunger.

Pith was beside him, her staff aglow with Arts, the air around her crackling with energy. She blasted back the horde with precise, powerful bursts, each strike lighting up the darkness with a brilliant flash. Her face was a mask of concentration, her eyes narrowed as she directed the force of her magic. She was covering him, giving him the room he needed to fight, to push through the seething mass of flesh and fury.

Together, they fought their way through the writhing crowd, step by bloody step, until they found themselves in a small clearing—a momentary respite from the onslaught. The silence that fell was sudden and jarring, like the eye of a storm. But it was not a silence of peace; it was the kind of silence that precedes a calamity, the air thick with the promise of something terrible.

Ace turned, and his eyes fell on Roland—or what was once Roland. Durandal was in his hands, teeth vibrating eagerly like a chainsaw. He swung the sword with such force that the very air seemed to recoil.

For a heartbeat, it was as if the world held its breath, marveling at the action. Then the shockwave hit, carving through the earth, splitting stone and flesh alike. Blood sprayed in an arc, staining the ground, as bodies were cleaved apart with terrifying ease.

But Roland did not stop. More came at him—these twisted things that had once been human—but each one that neared him fell within moments, their forms reduced to little more than scraps of meat and bone. With each strike, each gory dismemberment, Roland seemed to grow faster, stronger, more dangerous.

It became difficult to even focus on him, the edges of his body flickering like a mirage, an ambiguity that filtered perception itself. The normal tells—the position of the weapon, the shift in balance—were scrambled, making it almost impossible to react.

The horde that had once beset him lay in ruin at his feet—bodies cleaved apart, torn asunder by the relentless swings of Durandal. Blood soaked the ground in thick, viscous pools. The sword in his hand still thrummed with the lingering energy of his wrath, and the air around him shimmered, as if reality itself recoiled from the violence it had witnessed.

But even as the last of the distortions fell, the fixer did not pause. The masked gaze of the Black Silence swept the battlefield, and saw them—Ace and Pith—standing amidst the chaos. To the fixer, they were nothing more than silhouettes, shadows against the backdrop of rage. Recognition was a distant memory, buried beneath the avalanche of emotions that surged through him.

Soundlessly, the fixer lunged forward. The earth cracked beneath his feet as he closed the distance between himself and Ace in an instant. Durandal arced through the air, the blade moving with a grace and lethality that belied the berserk state he was in. The sheer force of the swing sent shockwaves rippling outward, and the ground trembled.

Ace barely had time to react. His hammer came up in a desperate block, the heavy metal colliding with Durandal in a clash that rang out like a bell tolling doom. The impact jarred Ace to his core, the vibrations running up his arms as if he had struck an unmovable object. He gritted his teeth, muscles straining as he pushed back with all his might. But the fixer was relentless, pressing the attack with the same cold precision that had felled so many before.

Beside him, Pith moved swiftly, her staff glowing with the power of her Arts. She unleashed a blast of energy at the Black Silence, the force of it strong enough to knock back even the most resilient of foes. But the fixer, masked and silent, barely seemed to notice. The energy washed over him like water against stone, and he turned on her with the same deadly intent.

The mask he wore obscured his face, but not the madness that burned behind it. In the fixer's mind, the world had ceased to exist as it was. He was no longer in Zwillingstürme, no longer fighting against comrades. He was back in that moment, that terrible, consuming moment when the Black Silence had unleashed his fury upon the world. The world around him blurred, becoming a nightmarish landscape where the only reality was pain, the only truth was vengeance.

She was dead. The light of his life, the anchor that had kept him grounded, was gone, snuffed out by the cruel, uncaring world. And in that moment, all that remained was the need to make them pay—to find those responsible, to tear them apart piece by piece until they felt even a fraction of the agony that tore at him. All were guilty, all were complicit. No one was innocent, no one free from the blame that weighed upon his heart.

The Mountain of Smiling Bodies had corroded his EGO, locking him into a role, a grotesque mimicry of what he had once been. There was no doctrine that could bind him, no creed that could guide him. The force that drove him was beyond reason, beyond understanding. It was a concept specialised in killing, faceless, formless, and unrestrained. It was pure, unfiltered violence, untainted by the complexities of morality or the burdens of conscience. He was the Black Silence, the sword of massacre, and nothing could stand in his way.

Ace struggled to keep up, his shield a blur as he blocked and deflected the fixer's relentless blows. But with each strike, the force behind Durandal grew. The hammer in Ace's hand felt heavier with each passing moment. He tried to speak, to reach the man behind the mask, but his words were lost on the fixer.

Pith, too, was finding it harder and harder to maintain her focus. Her Arts flared and sputtered. She could see it—the blurring effect of his E.G.O., the way his form seemed to waver and shift, making it nearly impossible to predict his movements.

And with every drop of blood spilled, with every life taken, the Black Silence only grew stronger.


The Witch King watched as his beloved capital, Zwillingstürme, descended into chaos. Though his body had long since turned to dust, his soul persisted.

From his vantage point beyond the mortal plane, the Witch King saw everything: the swirling madness that gripped the streets and the corruption that threatened to consume the city whole. His once-proud capital, a jewel among nations, had become a battlefield, a stage for horrors that defied the very fabric of reality.

Though he no longer had a body of flesh and blood, his will remained, as potent as ever. He could not allow this to continue, could not permit the city he had once ruled to be consumed by this madness.

He gathered what remained of his strength, drawing upon the power that had once made him the most feared Caster in all of Terra. It was a power born of centuries of knowledge, of the deepest secrets of Originium Arts, and of a resolve that had never wavered, even in the face of death itself. His will coalesced into a force that transcended the physical world, reaching out across dimensions, grasping at the threads of reality that held the city together.

And with a mighty exertion of his will, the Witch King sought to crush the threat that had dared to rise against Leithania.

The skies above the twin spires trembled and split asunder. Dimensional cracks tore through the heavens, each one a wound in the fabric of space and time. Beyond those cracks, something immense and terrible began to emerge, a structure that defied all understanding—the Spire of Genesis. It was a monument to the impossible, a spire that pierced through the boundaries of reality. It was as though it was alive, breathing with the pulse of the universe itself.


The Wayward Passenger struck. Space shattered like glass under the force of its strike, the fragments of reality hanging in the air like a broken mirror. Time itself seemed to scream in agony as the fabric of the universe was torn apart.


"Amiya… missing… Ascalon… liches to bypass… Logos… Empresses…"