The Doctor sat across from Kal'tsit, their face shadowed not just by the light but by the weight of their revelations. The room, usually a place of clinical efficiency, now felt like a confessional.

"I remember, Kal'tsit," the Doctor began, their voice cracking under the strain of their memories. "I remember the original purpose of Originium—to assimilate and record all life on Terra." Their hands trembled as he clasped them tightly together, seeking some anchor as they delved deeper into his past. "And I remember... Theresa's assassination wasn't possible without my betrayal."

As they spoke, the walls of their well-guarded emotions crumbled, and tears started to track down their cheeks. By the end, they was sobbing, each confession tearing at them as if spoken for the first time.

Kal'tsit watched, her face a mask of stoicism that barely concealed the turmoil beneath. After a moment that stretched between them like a chasm, she replied, her voice steady but cold. "Theresa made me promise to protect her murderer in her dying moments." Her eyes, usually so impassive, flickered with a pain she seldom showed. "I told her I wouldn't take revenge, but I will not forgive them, nor forget their sins, even if they regain all their memories and atone for their actions."

She leaned forward slightly, her gaze locking with the Doctor's. "You once told me to find my own purpose in life. I hope you can do the same for yourself."

...

In a bustling workshop of Rhodes Island, Mechanist and Talulah stood by a workstation, surrounded by tools and metal parts. The air was thick with the smell of oil and metal.

Talulah held the longsword delicately, balancing its weight in her palm. "Mechanist, this is lighter than I expected. The balance is perfect."

She had envisioned something like a swordstaff or perhaps a greatsword like the one she used before, but Mechanist had opted for a longsword. It was sleek and elegant, made of similar alloys used in Blaze's heat-resistant chainsaw, with an originium core embedded in the handle.

Mechanist, wiping his hands on a rag, smiled with a touch of pride. "I thought a lighter frame would suit your style better. The originium core should add the necessary heft when you channel your arts."

Talulah swung the sword gently, getting a feel for it. "It's different from what I initially wanted, but perhaps this suits me better now."

Roland had mentioned that a Stigma Workshop in the City manufactured superheated weapons used by fixers. At the very end was the signature weapon of someone called the Vermillion Cross, a weapon that burned so intensely they could cut through almost anything and were capable of causing explosive strikes by superheating the air. Inspired by this, Mechanist designed Talulah's sword to mirror those capabilities.

Talulah gripped the sword, channeling her arts through it, making the edges glow an intense orange. Pleased with the initial test, they headed to the training facility to put it through its paces.

The clashing of steel greeted them as they entered. Flamebringer and Roland were already there, their blades meeting in a fierce conflict of metal and might. Roland's movements were precise and controlled, his breaths even and measured, while Flamebringer was visibly exerting more effort, his breathing heavier.

Flamebringer taunted, pushing off the ground to regain his stance. "Going to get serious and use that black, toothed sword of yours, or are you like Shining, refusing to wield a blade you believe has been besmirched?"

Roland's reply was calm, his eyes never leaving his opponent. "We are training, not fighting to the death."

Scoffing, Flamebringer prepared to launch another attack. "Then that's a shame, for swordsmen without faith in their swords are beneath mention."

Talulah stepped forward, about to intervene, but Roland held up a hand to stop her. "He's as stubborn as Renaud," he muttered, then Durandal was his hands. The sword appeared, black flesh pulsating, pale, withered faces shifting along its length, their empty sockets seeming to observe the room.

Handing it to Flamebringer, the moment the swordsman's fingers touched the hilt, the dormant voices within the blade roared to life. "Grr… Ghrrrgh… Consume… eat all…! Sweep them all… Get more bodies…!" The chants were maddening, clawing at the edges of Flamebringer's mind.

Quickly, Roland snatched the sword back. "When using an EGO weapon, you risk fusing with the abnormality if your sense of self isn't strong enough," he explained, his voice low. "That's why I'm cautious with it outside of battle."

Meanwhile, far from the clang of swords and the heat of the forge, in Leithania, a youthful woman and an older, bearded man examined a rusty music box in an empty room. The words Theresia were engraved on the front.

Ermengarde, her wide-brimmed hat casting shadows over her thoughtful face, spoke softly, "I probed them with witchcraft, and there are fragments of human emotion lingering, though no discernible arts can be found."

Fremont grumbled, "A music box driving back the campus to hysteria. Can't these Leithanians keep things together for even a single day without us?"

"Could this be one of the 'abnormalities' Dame Kal'tsit mentioned in her message?" Ermengarde asked.

His expression darkened. "That woman is giving me more headaches by the day." Yet, his curiosity was piqued. "Still, I wonder if we could use these things to open a path to the Genesis Horn..."