The streets of the city warped and twisted, jagged shadows casting unnatural forms across the once-familiar terrain. The air was thick, suffused with the oppressive weight of Arturia's symphony, a melody that gnawed at the minds of anyone who dared listen. But to ▅▅▅▅▅▅'s ears, the music was different. No, it was that melody, the Pianist's.
And so, he moved like a storm, driven by that unrelenting compulsion to end the infernal sound. ▅▅▅▅▅▅'s body moved before his mind even processed the sight of A̶c̶e̶ Olivier. He stood in the middle of the street, blocking the path to the towers, his hammer raised defensively, his shield braced as if to stop the inevitable. His eyes were pleading, a wordless cry for ▅▅▅▅▅▅ to stop, to think. But there was no room for thought in the mind of the Black Silence.
The blade descended, a flash of black through the air, aimed directly at Olivier's head. He dodged, his movements quick but desperate. The strike carved through the air where his head had been, a razor-thin miss, but already, ▅▅▅▅▅▅ was on the move again. His body blurred with inhuman speed, closing the distance before Olivier could even raise his shield.
The hammer swung in retaliation, aimed at ▅▅▅▅▅▅'s ribs, but he sidestepped effortlessly, his blade flashing toward Olivier's exposed side. The clang of metal on metal rang out as Olivier barely managed to raise his shield in time, but the force of the blow sent him staggering backward, his arm shaking under the impact. He gritted his teeth, trying to steady himself, but ▅▅▅▅▅▅ didn't give him a moment to recover.
Again and again, the strikes came, relentless, brutal, each one faster than the last. Olivier blocked and dodged as best he could, but it was clear he was being pushed back. Each swing of his hammer felt heavier than the last, each deflection more desperate. And still, ▅▅▅▅▅▅ pressed on, his movements a blur, his strikes leaving shimmering afterimages in the air.
Behind him, P̶i̶t̶h̶ Naimon watched, her staff aglow with energy as she hurled Arts toward ▅▅▅▅▅▅. The blasts slammed into him, burning, but he didn't falter. Pain was meaningless.
Naimon moved to flank him, her staff raised for another strike, but ▅▅▅▅▅▅ was already moving. He spun on his heel, his sword cleaving through the space between them. Pith ducked under the blow, her staff flashing as she summoned a wave of energy that crashed into his side, throwing him off balance for a split second. But that was all the time he needed. In one fluid motion, he threw his blade forward, a lethal arc aimed at her throat.
Pith barely managed to parry the blow with her staff, but the force behind it was enough to send her stumbling. Her Arts flickered for a moment, the glow dimming as she struggled to regain her composure. She could feel the weight of his presence, the suffocating aura that radiated from him.
Olivier saw the opening and charged, his hammer swinging down toward ▅▅▅▅▅▅'s exposed back. But he was too slow. With a twist of his body, ▅▅▅▅▅▅ caught the incoming blow with his blade, the metal screeching as the two weapons collided. The impact sent a shockwave through the air, cracking the ground beneath them. But it was not enough to stop him.
▅▅▅▅▅▅ pushed back, shoving Olivier's hammer aside before slashing downward. The blade caught Olivier's shield at the edge, tearing through the metal through sheer force. Olivier staggered, his shield falling to pieces at his feet. He raised his hammer again, ready to defend, but ▅▅▅▅▅▅ was already moving.
In one swift motion, he drove his knee into Olivier's chest, sending him crashing into a nearby wall. The force of the impact cracked the stone, dust and debris raining down around them. Olivier gasped for air, clutching his chest as blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. He raised his sword for the final strike, but before he could bring it down, a blast slammed into his side, throwing him off balance. Naimon stood a few feet away, staff aglow.
Without a word, ▅▅▅▅▅▅ turned to her, his sword flashing as he lunged forward. She tried to block the strike with her staff, but the force behind his blow was too much. The staff shattered under the impact, splintering into pieces as she was thrown backward. She crashed into Olivier's prone form, both of them collapsing in a heap of rubble and broken stone.
The building behind them groaned under the weight of the impact, and with a deafening crack, the entire structure began to collapse. Dust and debris filled the air as the building came down, burying both beneath the rubble. For a moment, there was silence, the chaotic symphony of the battle replaced by the dull thud of settling debris.
▅▅▅▅▅▅ didn't stop to check if they were alive. It didn't matter. They had been in his way, and now they weren't. That was all that mattered. His focus was on the music, that cursed melody that filled the air.
He turned toward the twin towers, their dark spires stretching and spiralling toward the sky like the claws of some ancient beast. The music was louder now, thundering in his mind, pulling him forward with an irresistible force.
His mind was empty, save for one thought—he would reach the towers, and he would smash that piano to bits.
And then, without warning, the ground beneath him surged like a rolling sea. Something immense, something dark, moved beneath the surface. The Dream Devouring Siltcurrent emerged, swimming through solid matter as though it were water, the earth bending and flowing before it. The massive fluorescent shards stabbed into it shone like a beacon in the gloom, but its oversized jaws opened wide. It surged toward ▅▅▅▅▅▅, the ground rolling with the force of its movement.
At the same time, the air thickened with hatred, strands of sharp hatred digging into the world as the Spiral of Contempt appeared, a twisted, golden mass of metallic tendrils and spirals, each spike dripping with disdain and malice.
And then there was the Silent Girl, her pale form ghostly and fragile, yet deadly. Eyes closed, she moved with the eerie precision of someone who did not need sight to find her target. The hammer she carried gleamed in the dim light, and a nail in her other hand reflected the hatred of those she deemed guilty.
They came at him all at once, something that would have torn a regular fixer to pieces. He swung his sword in a wide arc, the blade cleaving through the air with such force that his own muscles tore apart from the exertion. His bones fractured with every swing, his body breaking under the strain, but he did not stop. He couldn't stop. The Mountain of Smiling Bodies coursed through him, holding him together, bleeding tar instead of blood, sealing every wound with its grotesque power.
The Siltcurrent lunged, its jaws wide, aiming to engulf him. He allowed it to come closer, its massive body rippling through the ground like water. And then, with a vengeful thrust, he drove his sword straight into its side. The blade dug deep, tearing through fluorescent flesh, and he used the beast itself as a battering ram, forcing it forward, slamming it into the Spiral of Contempt. The impact was cataclysmic. The Spiral screeched in fury as it was crushed under the weight of the massive shark-like entity, its golden tendrils shattering as they collided.
But even as he fought, the Silent Girl moved in silence. Her hammer came down, slamming into his shoulder with terrifying force. He felt the bone shatter beneath the blow, but it wasn't the pain that stopped him—it was the nail. She drove it into his other arm, pinning it to the ground, her eyes still closed, her face as expressionless as ever. She was already preparing to deliver another blow, aiming to drive yet another nail through his skull.
But ▅▅▅▅▅▅ didn't need both arms. His body lurched forward, ignoring the nail that pinned him, dragging himself free with sheer force of will. His arm ripped clean off, left dangling from the nail embedded in the earth. He didn't care. His other arm—still wielding his sword—rose in an arc of blurred motion, the attack coming with such speed that even the Silent Girl couldn't react. His blade cleaved through her pale form in one brutal motion, bisecting her from shoulder to hip. She fell, her body crumbling in two, and even as she died, her expression remained serene.
▅▅▅▅▅▅ didn't stop to watch her fall. His left arm was gone, but it didn't matter. The blackened bone of his severed limb writhed grotesquely, reaching out like some twisted mockery of regeneration, pulling itself back toward him. Tar-like blood pulsed as the arm reattached, the flesh knitting together, the Mountain of Smiling Bodies forcing him whole again.
The Siltcurrent roared, thrashing wildly in agony, its fluorescent glowsticks sparking as it struggled to recover from the wound. Without a second thought, ▅▅▅▅▅▅ tore one of the glowing rods from the creature's back, the makeshift weapon crackling with unstable energy. His muscles were torn and shredded from the relentless assault, but he ignored the pain. He no longer needed to breathe; his lungs were already pierced by nails and torn apart, yet he fought on, a being beyond the limits of human endurance.
And then, from the darkness, a new threat emerged—the Peccatulum Invidiae, a reflection of himself, twisted and monstrous. It took his form, mirroring his corroded state and weapon. It snarled at him, a beastly sound, and the two clashed in a flurry of violence that tore the very air around them.
The Invidae was fast—inhumanly so—matching him move for move. Its strikes came with the precision of an assassin, its blade a mirror of his own. But where it fought with ferocity, ▅▅▅▅▅▅ fought with something far more terrible—obsession. His improvised fluorescent rod clashed with the Invidae's blade, each impact sending out sparks of blinding light and rippling distortions through space.
They fought viciously, every strike shattering the ground beneath their feet, their movements too fast for the eye to follow. It was a battle of mirrored rage, each refusing to yield. But ▅▅▅▅▅▅ was relentless, his strength amplified beyond human limits, his body a weapon of destruction that could not be stopped. His bones broke with every movement, his flesh tearing as his corroded E.G.O pushed him to the brink. Yet still, he fought, driven by a singular purpose.
With one final swing, he brought the fluorescent rod down in a crushing blow. The Peccatulum tried to block, but the weight of the strike was too much. The rod shattered through its defence, sinking into the creature's head with a blinding flash of light. The Invidae crumbled under the force of the blow, its body dissolving into blackened mist, fading into nothing.
▅▅▅▅▅▅ stood amidst the carnage. His body was broken, bleeding tar and pulped flesh, but he did not falter. With the weight of his obsession driving him forward, ▅▅▅▅▅▅ took another step, then another, and another, his eyes fixed on the horizon. He would reach the towers. He would kill the Pianist. And he would tear apart anyone who stood in his way.
The Black Silence marched on, remorseless in his advance.