The cityscape around Guard and his team had descended into hell. Streets twisted like spirals, lanes split and doubled back on themselves, some stretching far beyond sight, while others looped in on themselves like hungry serpents. Pavement cracked underfoot, and buildings loomed over them with jagged edges that seemed to inhale and exhale, each brick quivering like it was barely holding in some unseen malice. Guard felt every beat of his heart thrumming with the desperation of a man who knew he was running from death itself, and yet, the monstrosities were relentless in their pursuit.
"Keep moving!" Guard shouted, his voice hoarse and tinged with the exhaustion clawing at his bones. "Don't stop, whatever you do!" Beside him, his team staggered forward, their eyes wide with terror, flicking between the shifting alleyways and the writhing shadows around them. Sweat poured down his face, mingling with grime, blood, and the sting of despair.
Folinic had already begun to succumb to the sickening melody that plagued them, her breaths coming in sharp, erratic gasps, her skin crawling with unnatural cracks. But she turned, her eyes blazing with a fury that seemed to burn past the wrath consuming her, her fists clenched around her reagent launcher as she stepped into the space between her comrades and the pursuing horrors.
"Go!" she roared, her voice a shrill echo that ricocheted off the distorted buildings. "I'll hold them! Just run!"
Guard stopped briefly, his chest heaving, his gaze meeting Folinic's for the briefest of moments. There was defiance there, a strength that seemed to radiate despite the distortion beginning to take hold of her. He opened his mouth to protest, but the look she gave him was one of finality, and in that moment, he understood.
"Thank you," he managed, his voice cracking with the weight of his regret and guilt. Folinic smirked, a bitter edge in her expression, before she turned her back on him, facing the oncoming swarm with a grim resolve.
As Guard tore himself away, he could hear her war cry shatter through the streets, filled with a desperate, violent rage that seemed to shake the very air. He could imagine her battling through the throes of distortion, even as her roars mixed with the monstrous wails of their pursuers.
"Move!" Guard commanded his team, gripping the shoulder of a stunned operator and pushing him forward. "We can't let her sacrifice be in vain."
They plunged deeper into the maze of twisted alleys, each step a battle against the shifting ground that seemed to pulse and quake beneath them. Memories flickered through Guard's mind, unbidden, of a time when he had first joined Rhodes Island, the promise he had made to protect the Infected and offer them a glimmer of hope in a world that saw them as monsters. Now, he was fleeing with Infected and non-Infected alike, all equally prey in this horrific nightmare.
"This… this wasn't what I signed up for," one of the operators beside him muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, laced with terror. Guard's jaw tightened as he navigated the ever-twisting streets, his mind tormented by the truth in those words.
No, this wasn't what they had signed up for at all.
They rounded a corner, only to find themselves trapped in an alleyway choked with vines. The air here was thick and sickly sweet, an oppressive perfume wafting from the darkened blooms that twisted up the walls, their thorny vines weaving into a suffocating tapestry of malice. Each step forward became a test of endurance as Guard's team picked their way through the dense, clutching growth. The vines seemed to sense them, stretching out as if hungry, their cruel thorns glistening with some unknown liquid, each barb ready to rip through skin, sinew, and bone alike.
"Stay close!" Guard hissed to the others, his voice barely more than a strained whisper. "Eyes on the thorns, watch your footing."
A strangled cry from behind him made him turn. One of his teammates had tripped, and in a heartbeat, the vines were upon them, coiling like serpents around his limbs, digging in deep. Blood blossomed where the thorns pierced, staining the dark leaves and petals a deep crimson as they greedily sucked it up, the roses themselves seeming to grow darker, fuller, as they drank in the life force.
"Hold still!" Guard rushed to help, slashing at the vines with his sword, only for another teammate to scream in agony as vines wrapped around their leg, dragging them down.
One by one, his team was falling, ensnared by the roses' thirst. Guard swung his blade furiously, each strike severing tendrils that seemed to regrow just as quickly. His heart thundered in his chest as he fought, the sound of tearing flesh and ragged breathing mixing with the wet, sucking noises of the roses as they drank deeply from their captive prey.
"Guard, help!" A voice cried out—a familiar one, though choked with pain and fear. He turned just in time to see one of his oldest comrades, their face twisted in agony as roots tore and spread beneath skin. The corrosion spread like wildfire, flesh warping and contorting into a monstrous form. This wasn't just an attack—it was a massacre.
"Pull yourself together!" Guard screamed, more to himself than anyone else. He charged, raising his sword high, and with a furious roar, he brought it down into the chest of his twisted comrade. Bone and infested muscle gave way as the blade sank deep, wedging itself into their ribcage. He yanked, but it was stuck fast, his weapon ensnared in the grotesque remains of someone who had once been an ally, a friend. The flower that tore out of the bloody remains of a face leered at him.
"Damn it!" He grunted, struggling to pull the sword free, desperation flashing in his eyes.
Just then, a thunderous crack echoed through the alley, followed by another, and another—each shot like a hammer against his mind. Guard whipped his head around just in time to see crimson plumes bloom where his comrades' heads had once been. They exploded in a sickening spray of blood and bone, painting the alley walls with viscera, each shot clean and unerring.
"Haha! What a splendid sight!" The voice rang out, cold and amused, mingling with the echo of gunfire. At the end of the alley, wreathed in shadows, stood a crimson shooter. His face was a twisted mask of flame and malice, and his eyes glowed white-hot with a cruel light. His shotgun was still smoking, tendrils of black and red curling from the barrel. He chuckled as he loaded another shell with a casual, almost detached precision, his gaze sweeping over the remnants of Guard's team.
"In this gory war," he murmured, voice carrying down the blood-soaked alley, "the devil himself gave me this gift. I kill so cleanly, so beautifully." He raised the shotgun, aimed with a lazy grace, and fired again, and another head disappeared in a mist of red. "Ah, the sound. The echoes. So exhilarating."
Guard's fingers clawed at his sword, but his hands trembled, the weight of despair pressing down on him like an iron shroud. The flowers around him seemed to pulse, drinking in the fresh blood with a sick enthusiasm, their crimson deepening, becoming darker, richer, as if they, too, were savouring the carnage.
His mind teetered on the edge, a sickly vertigo washing over him as he watched his comrades—the ones who had once laughed with him, fought beside him—being reduced to mere targets in this hellish spectacle. He could feel his sanity slipping, a last fragile thread fraying under the weight of the horror around him.
"Fight… dammit, fight back…" he whispered, but his voice was hollow, defeated.
The shooter's gaze fell upon him, and for a moment, their eyes met. "Ah, you still have fight in you?" Der Fluchschütze's voice was a soft purr, mocking. "Tell me, do you remember who you're fighting for? Or have you, too, forgotten?"
Guard's grip on his sword slackened, his vision blurring as despair clawed at his heart. He was sinking, drowning in a sea of crimson roses, each petal whispering of death, each thorn a reminder of his failure.
And then, like a thunderclap, something crashed down from above, shaking the very ground beneath him. The air split open, and from the heavens, a monstrous figure descended. It crashed with a resounding impact, sending shards of rubble and clouds of dust in all directions. As the debris cleared, the Black Silence was revealed—twisted and monstrous, his body cloaked in a writhing shadow of E.G.O. Corrosion, his movements menacing as the aura settled around him like the depths of an abyss.
Der Fluchschütze's eyes lit up with mad glee. "Ah! Another one to break! Let's see if you bleed like the rest, shall we?" His voice dripped with cruel anticipation as he raised his shotgun and fired, the shot ringing out like the crack of doom itself.
The fixer didn't flinch. Without hesitation, he raised his arm, and from his glove emerged a firearm. He leveled it and returned fire.
Each shot tore through the fabric of the air, moving faster than sight could follow. The gunman in red laughed as he danced aside, firing his shotgun in sporadic, almost casual bursts that seemed to defy all logic. The shots, no matter where aimed, found their way to the fixer, striking him with the force of a battering ram. Yet he moved through the onslaught, his corroded form absorbing each impact, his steps unrelenting.
"What are you?" Guard whispered, watching in horrified fascination. Through the smouldering haze of his E.G.O., the figure before him bore no resemblance to the operator he'd known. Instead, he saw only a monstrous clash between two forces, neither of whom bore a trace of humanity.
A shot struck the fixer's mask with pinpoint precision, and it shattered, fragments scattering like dark glass. Beneath it, there was no face, only an endless, gaping void, a dark maw that devoured light and sound. The sight was nothing short of abominable—a bottomless emptiness, a void that defied reality and beckoned to the abyss.
"Let's keep this up!" Der Fluchschütze laughed. "Come on, I've got more bullets just for you!"
The Black Silence's empty gaze turned toward him. He raised a gloved hand, the gun barrel switching seamlessly into the serrated teeth of Durandal, the weapon's hunger resonating with a guttural growl as it closed in on its target.
The haze around him pulsed with a raw power that gnawed not just at perception, but also at the fabric of space, creating fractures and weak points in the world itself. In a movement impossible to follow, the fixer carved through the air. Distance was disregarded. It was as if the battlefield itself bent to accommodate his swings. Durandal's teeth tore through Der Fluchschütze, each slice carving chunks from his form as the cursed gunner laughed, unfazed, seemingly delighted by the violence.
"Good! Excellent!" Der Fluchschütze staggered, blood spilling from fresh wounds as he loaded another shell with manic precision. "I knew I'd find someone worth this gift!" He lifted his shotgun and fired at point-blank range, his laughter echoing as the blast struck the fixer's chest, splintering flesh.
Yet he moved through it, unfazed, as tar-like ichor seeped from his wounds. Durandal surged through a blindspot forced into existence, tearing into Der Fluchschütze's torso with relentless fury. The twisted marksman's form fractured and broke, yet his laughter continued, a disembodied echo that lingered in the air even as his body dissolved. His shotgun fell to the ground, somehow intact amidst the carnage, a grim relic left behind.
The fixer bent down as he picked up the weapon, his fingers curling around the handle. He turned toward the tower looming above, his void-like gaze fixed upon it, unrelenting, unyielding. Without a word, he leapt upward, each step shattering the stone beneath his feet, his power building with every impact until he was nothing more than a shadow against the towering structure, ascending with impossible force.
Guard lay amid the carnage, his breaths shallow and ragged, barely clinging to life. The ground beneath him was damp with blood and shadow, and it seemed to pulse in rhythm with his own weakening heart. As he tried to rise, pain lanced through his body—a pain that was not his own. He looked down in horror to find the roots of Four-hundred Roses burrowing into his flesh, winding around his arms and legs, slithering under his skin, and draining him with every sickening heartbeat.
"No…" he gasped, feeling his strength ebbing away, replaced with a terrible thirst and yearning. He clawed at the roots, tearing into his skin, but the vines seemed to have a will of their own, tightening their hold. Blood trickled from the wounds, feeding the unnatural, blooming roses that sprouted around him. Each blossom was dark and thick with crimson, drinking his life in cruel, greedy gulps. His vision began to blur, but a faint, pulsing from within his chest caught his eye.
The Originium infection within him, his curse and his burden, surged to life. A wave of searing heat radiated from deep within his core, fighting against the foreign roots with an intensity he had never felt before. He cried out in agony as the infection coursed through him, spreading through his veins, expanding with violent energy. He felt it sear his flesh, black crystals piercing through his skin as the infection fought back, clawing its way to the surface in defiance of the roses' hold.
"No… you don't… get to take me," he gritted, his voice raw. "Not… like this!"
The roots around him shuddered, recoiling as the infection consumed them, burning away the invasive vines with a dark, crystalline growth. The Originium twisted and sprouted, clawing its way up his arms and neck, leaving a lattice of jagged black shards embedded in his skin. His body was breaking down, but it was his; his will was pushing the infection forward, forcing the curse to act as his shield, even as it took more of him in exchange.
All around him, the streets began to change. Originium crystals surged and spread from the ground, sprouting from buildings, from cracks in the pavement, and along walls, overtaking everything in sight. The light of Arturia's melody, which had once filled the streets with an eerie glow, flickered and dimmed, its reach stunted by the relentless spread of Originium. The force of standstill stagnated the emanation of her song, nullifying its influence as it twisted the landscape further.
In the midst of this turmoil, a new sound filled the air—a heavy, ominous chant, low and reverberating, as if the earth itself was singing. The air grew thick with an overwhelming pressure, and the walls of the city, which had once bent and fractured under Arturia's melody, began to reform. The Witch King's Güldenesgesatz resonated through the streets, a crushing counter-melody that forced the broken city back into place, bending reality back under his command.
As the two forces collided, Guard felt the weight of it bearing down on him, pressing against his lungs, against his skin, against the infection raging within him. His body shook, barely holding together under the onslaught of competing melodies.
Upon the top of the tower, a figure emerged—a man with a lean, almost emaciated frame, dressed in a plain white lab coat that seemed out of place amidst the chaos. His steps were deliberate, his face inscrutable, framed by a pair of piercing, golden eyes that observed everything with a quiet intensity.
Across from him stood Arturia, her eyes narrowing as she took in his presence. Her melody faltered, the Light slipping away from her control as Ayin's gaze settled upon her.
"So, you finally decided to intervene, as Carmen had said." Arturia remarked, "There's beauty in freeing people from the fetters of their own making. I help them unearth what they truly desire, liberate them from society's expectations. Isn't that closer to what you once wanted—true freedom for those within the City?"
Ayin's expression didn't change. "True freedom," he echoed slowly, his tone both calm and cutting. "But do you really believe freedom exists without boundaries? That it isn't ultimately something earned, tempered, even honed by one's limitations?"
Arturia's laughter was soft, dismissive. "Boundaries only serve to trap people. They keep them from realizing who they are. We're taught to curb our desires, to fit within society's structures, but what if—"
"Conviction without temperance only leads to ruin. Look around you. How many people have been destroyed by their own unleashed impulses, drawn in by your music? You give them courage, yes, but without any sense of responsibility. You let them drown in their desires."
Her eyes narrowed. "And what would you have them do? Bottle up their emotions until they rot inside?"
"Temperance is not suppression," Ayin countered, his tone steel beneath the calmness. "It is understanding, shaping, and channeling desire so it builds instead of erodes. Freedom, without the wisdom to use it, is empty."
Arturia's reply was cut off when the city trembled.
The outburst of Originium, its jagged veins erupting from the ground, shimmered like molten glass as it spread, warping the land with untamed power. But the Witch King had seen opportunity within the chaos, an open path through the frenzied tones of Arturia's Arts.
Above the city, he extended his arms wide, a conductor ready to summon the heartbeat of a nation. The air itself stilled, pregnant with tension, as he began to chant a low, haunting refrain, summoning the ancient power of the Güldenesgesatz. The ground under him pulsed, first faintly, then in powerful, rhythmic waves. The golden glow spread outward, each note of his counter melody rippling across the city in shuddering resonance, a tremor that broke against Arturia's oppressive song like a wave against stone.
His voice rolled like a thunderous incantation. He called upon the bond forged centuries ago, the pact that united the tribes of Leithanien under a single melody. This was the core of their national anthem, a melody not just to inspire but to bind, to reinforce the boundaries between order and chaos. Its tone was harsh, ancient, a relentless cadence that seemed to fold time itself as it pulsed, reshaping the air and the architecture with authority that only he could command.
The sprawling chaos of the city's warped streets and corrupted skies began to shudder in response. Streets and buildings were pressed back into place, their fractal shapes flattening, straightening under the force of his music. Towering structures that had teetered on the edge of collapse were thrust upright again, locked into an unnatural but rigid stability by the weight of his Arts.
Guard lay at the edge of the alley, watching with dimmed eyes. He could feel the infection still raging within him, spreading further, wrapping around his heart, his lungs. Every beat of his heart was a sacrifice, another piece of himself given to fight off the roses' corruption.
As he lay there, his vision began to fade, his senses numbed by the relentless pain. He could hear the melodies battling above him, the echoes of voices he could barely comprehend, locked in a struggle beyond mortal understanding.
But as the world darkened, one thought lingered in his mind—a promise he had made to protect those who had no one else, a promise that had brought him to Rhodes Island, to this very moment. And even as his body weakened, even as the infection threatened to claim him, he held onto that promise, a fragile hope in the face of overwhelming darkness.