My Heart And Thy Actions!
The once-young eyes now bore a strange, cold color—like a storm cloud on the verge of release, a fury that was boundless yet restrained. Standing tall, an aura of utter disdain rolled off him in waves. Here was no boy, no Natsuki Subaru fighting for ideals, but a force that bore the essence of archaic power, an Authority honed over ages. The presence of Pride incarnate, the very Sin Archbishop who had once cast a shadow over the stars themselves.
A hollow chuckle escaped from his lips, echoing with the echo of another age, filled with scorn and contempt. "Lovely lady, is it?" His voice, now richer and deeper, curled around each word, mocking, unforgiving. "Tremble, creature, for thou stand in the presence of Pride—one who neither bows nor yields."
Capella's composure cracked, her usual smirk replaced by unease, a gnawing fear she couldn't quite quell.
Capella erupted into mocking laughter, her voice dripping with disdain as she flicked her fingers dismissively. "Well, well, well… stride back from the depths, are we? How charming." Her eyes gleamed with contempt, and a smirk twisted on her lips as she took him in. "Tell me, oh illustrious Pride, do you still remember the sting of failure? Dying to commoners like a mutt?" she sneered, leaning forward with a sinister delight.
Stride, taking none of her mockery to heart, allowed a knowing, icy grin to stretch across his face, his gaze sharp and unwavering. "'Twas but a mere inconvenience, a passing shadow upon my path. Dost thou see me now, in full return, as I stand before thee—this form of Natsuki Subaru, strong and unyielding as the Vollachian blood itself."
As he spoke, a blinding light erupted from his right side, shimmering in his grip as if materializing from another realm. And then, there it was, as if summoned from the ether itself—a blade brilliant as the sun, casting a radiant, golden glow that rivaled the daylight. It was the fabled Yang Sword of Vollachia, a relic only the royal bloodline could wield, a weapon imbued with the very essence of their dominion.
Capella's smirk wavered, but only for a second, before twisting into a scornful sneer once more. "Ah, that's precious," she mocked, giving a disdainful flick of her wrist. "The ancient one returns, armed with a glorified lightshow, yet thou hast not the will nor the strength to wield even thy Authority properly! Weak, Pride—you always were."
Stride let her venomous words linger for a beat, then tilted his head in defiant amusement, the yang blade pulsing with raw energy in his hand. "Mock all thou wish, cur of Lust," he replied, his voice dripping with disdain. "For if weakness is mine own, 'tis weakness thy corpse shall soon taste." His tone was soft but resolute, filled with an underlying power that rattled through the air like thunder held in check.
The city trembled with an unearthly brilliance as the clash erupted, light spilling out across the skyline in waves so intense that bystanders could only shield their eyes in astonishment. The ground itself seemed to pulse with the force of each strike, and for a moment, every battle paused, both Witch Cultists and defenders alike backing off as if compelled to give space to this terrible display of power.
Garfiel, his knuckles white from clenching his fists, looked up in shock, the awe plain on his face. "What th' hell… is that really the damn kid?" he muttered, half to himself, as the image of Subaru wielding a radiant sword imprinted itself on his mind. Beside him, Wilhelm's gaze narrowed, scrutinizing every detail of the scene above them, his jaw set.
"That blade…" Wilhelm murmured, barely audible but with a tone that carried the weight of recognition. The Yang Sword, a weapon carried only by the true blood of Vollachia. The meaning wasn't lost on him—or anyone who witnessed.
Meanwhile, across the city, Priscilla strolled with calculated ease, seemingly unfazed by the pandemonium. Her crimson eyes flicked upward, noting the radiant light slicing through the air. "Of course," she mused, a faint smirk gracing her lips. "As if I ever doubted it. That boy is as Vollachian as they come." She continued her pace, Lillian beside her, captivated by the sight.
From a shaded hotel window on the other side of the city, Regulus Cornelius, the Sin Archbishop of Greed, looked up with an exasperated sneer, his irritation blatant. "There they go again—Pride and Lust, trampling over the rights of everyone else," he muttered venomously, disdain dripping from every syllable. With an annoyed huff, he turned away from the view, his gaze landing on his present company.
Huddled behind the bed, Emilia, with her silver hair now cut short, watched him in a mixture of terror and confusion, too paralyzed to respond as Regulus continued his tirade. The flicker of light outside cast shadows around the room, illuminating the cold amusement in his eyes as he spoke, unphased by the battle raging in the city around them.
In the dim, abandoned corner of Pristella, dust floated lazily through narrow beams of light, casting an almost haunted glow. Felt, her blonde hair tousled and her eyes wide with confusion, felt the cold edge of a blade pressed against her neck, held firmly by none other than Heinkel Astrea. Her mind raced, disbelief and anger twisting her features as she locked eyes with him.
"What the hell?" Felt spat, her voice a mixture of shock and disdain. "I thought you were part of bro's entourage! Aren't you supposed to be on his side?"
An unsettling silence filled the room, broken only by the shallow, unsteady breaths of Heinkel. Reinhard stood close by, his expression unreadable but his eyes unwavering, fixed solely on his father's face. "Father, you don't have to do this. There's still time to stand with us—"
"I don't care," Heinkel cut him off, his voice cold, yet betraying a hint of bitterness. "That boy—he's delusional if he expects someone like me to stand against the Witch Cult." He pressed the blade a fraction closer, as if reinforcing his resolve through the steel itself. "There's no chance he'll last against them. Not for long."
"Pathetic," Felt sneered, her voice dripping with contempt. "Cowardice dressed up in excuses. Subaru's ten times the man you'll ever be, and he doesn't need fancy titles or family names to prove it."
Heinkel's face twisted in an ugly sneer, the resentment raw in his gaze. "Subaru might be formidable," he replied, his voice barely a whisper, a bitter undertone lacing his words, "but he doesn't understand the scale of the fight he's taken on. None of you do. If you think he can really stand against the cult, then you're all just as foolish as he is."
Reinhard's hands clenched, but his voice remained steady as he addressed his father. "No one ever said it would be easy, Father. But you still have a choice."
"Enough from you monster-" Heinkel's voice halted mid-sentence as a deep rumble echoed through the building, the floor trembling beneath their feet. Everyone tensed as a blinding light seeped through the cracks around the windows, casting sharp, white streaks against the dim walls.
"The hell's going on?" Heinkel muttered, his gaze darting to the light in confusion.
But before anyone could react further, the door to the room burst open, swinging wide with a sharp, echoing crash. A dark figure pressed forward from the blinding light, moving with unsettling stillness and precision, and as the glow faded enough to make out his features, they saw it was Chin. His posture was rigid, his face expressionless, and something about him felt… wrong.
Heinkel lowered his blade slightly, his confidence shaken as he squinted at the uncharacteristic vacancy in Chin's eyes. Felt's eyes widened, caught off guard by the sudden shift in presence. Even Reinhard took a cautious step back, sensing something malevolent, something oppressive lurking behind Chin's stillness.
"Chin…?" Reinhard ventured, his voice steady but uncertain.
There was no reply, no recognition in the man's hollow gaze. For a moment, Chin simply stared, his eyes empty and devoid of life. And then, with a faint, chilling grin stretching across his face, he took a single step forward.
"...Such delicious despair," Chin murmured, though the voice was barely his own. His gaze swept over each of them, lingering with a disturbing sense of satisfaction, as if savoring every ounce of their confusion and fear.
Heinkel took a step back, instinctively raising his weapon. "What… what in hell's name is this?"
Chin's eyes glinted, and his expression twisted into something far darker, an eerie resonance in his voice. "It's only fitting, don't you think? To find you all here, quivering, so easily broken." His gaze flickered toward Reinhard, a trace of contempt slipping through.
Everyone stood frozen, the oppressive air thick with a dark, unsettling energy. It wasn't Chin standing before them—it was something far older, far crueler, and infinitely more dangerous.
Chin's body hit the ground with a dull thud, and the room went silent, everyone staring in stunned surprise. Reinhard, ever the dutiful knight, stepped forward cautiously, concern shadowing his usually stoic face as he approached the fallen man. He knelt down, extending a hand to check Chin's pulse, but the moment he turned him over, an oozing, viscous black substance erupted from Chin's mouth and latched onto Reinhard's face.
"What—?" Reinhard's voice came out choked and strained, his usually unbreakable composure cracking as the dark sludge spread rapidly, covering his features in seconds. Tendrils of the black substance snaked around his neck and arms, pulsing as if alive, moving with disturbing intent. It wrapped around him in a suffocating grip, darkening the air with a sense of menace that felt impossible to counter.
"Reinhard!" Felt's voice wavered, uncharacteristic fear slipping through her usual bravado as she took an instinctive step back. She could see the way the substance moved, how it seemed to almost eat away at the light around him, and her stomach twisted at the sight.
Heinkel, wide-eyed and paralyzed, watched the black substance creep over his son, shock and disbelief freezing him in place. For a man who'd never been fazed by anything, not even his own child's feats, the helplessness in his eyes was unmistakable.
"Reinhard!" Felt shouted again, desperation and terror twisting her voice, but Reinhard remained motionless, his divine protections useless against this ancient, unknowable force. For the first time, the invincible Sword Saint seemed vulnerable, and the cold realization sank in that this was something beyond anything they'd ever faced.
The black substance contorted and pulsed as it tightened around Reinhard, almost sentient in its movements, as if savoring each inch it enveloped, digesting his form in a macabre display of possession. Veins of dark, shimmering sludge wound over his armor and skin, sinking into every crevice, his attempts to move, to break free, met only with the tightening, unyielding grip of the malicious ooze.
In a grotesque twist, the Sword of Reid Astrea, strapped to his side, was abruptly rejected. The blade, a symbol of Lugnican might, was spat out from the dark mass, clattering lifelessly to the ground. It lay there, cold and untouched, abandoned by its bearer, stripped of purpose as Reinhard's figure was engulfed entirely by the consuming darkness.
Felt's eyes widened, her voice caught in her throat as she watched in growing terror, her knuckles white as she clenched her fists. For once, the slum-born girl who had seen countless horrors found herself rendered powerless.
Heinkel's face twisted with a mix of horror and guilt, his usually mocking gaze softened with disbelief. His mouth opened slightly as if to speak, but no words could find their way past his shock. He staggered back, hand reaching instinctively for his own weapon, but even he knew that in this moment, nothing could break through the terror filling the room.
The ooze began to settle and harden, and soon the twisted, grotesque figure of what had once been Reinhard stood motionless, cloaked entirely in black, a nightmarish silhouette of the hero they once knew.
The black mass twisted and crackled, reshaping itself in unnatural, jagged motions, each creak like the splintering of bone, each crack a haunting echo. Slowly, horrifyingly, the form shifted from Reinhard's familiar silhouette into someone else, someone entirely foreign, yet utterly dreadful. The solidifying ooze took on a new, more grotesque shape, morphing and swelling in a nightmarish display of transformation.
As the final contours of this new figure took form, a chilling sensation swept over the room, an aura of oppressive dread that felt like the death cries of countless souls condensed into a single, suffocating presence. It was as though, in this horrid metamorphosis, Reinhard's essence—his divine protections, his indomitable spirit—had been violently torn asunder, leaving nothing but a hollow shell.
And then, like a gust of cold wind from some unearthly void, came the voice. Silky yet dripping with derision, it snaked through the silence, each word drawn out with an unsettling blend of disdain and dread.
"My, my, how…irritating, how annoying, how truly saaaadening but vaguely, oh-so-vaguely… annoying." The voice seemed to echo from the blackened mass itself, as if the very darkness had become sentient, its tones mockingly theatrical yet seething with malice.
The figure's form finally solidified into something awful, something that bore an unmistakable air of menace. The shape, now no longer recognizably Reinhard, exuded a creeping, ancient dread—a being with a presence that defied time, imbued with an authority that felt like it could twist reality itself.
As the dark figure finished its ghastly transformation, it solidified into a towering man draped in shadows, his form gaunt and his face etched with an eternal, hollow sadness. His heavy-lidded eyes seemed to carry the weight of lifetimes, sinking every glance with a sense of bleak despair that threatened to suffocate the very air in the room. Every breath he took was labored, as though each inhale itself was a weary resignation.
Everyone was silent, gripped by the weight of his presence. Felt's defiant stance faltered as her gaze locked onto this strange being, her usual fire replaced by a fearful intensity. Heinkel, ever the brash and overconfident warrior, found his own bravado curdling as he felt himself drawing back, unable to peel his gaze away from the stranger inhabiting his son's form.
The figure's gaze slid to Felt, his brow twitching, a thin line of irritation creasing his ashen face. He let out a long, drawn-out exhale, huffing and puffing in a voice thick with fatigue and disdain.
"Looking, looking, looooking… at me, staring for so looong, little girl," he droned, his words slow, labored, dripping with condescension. "So insolent, so… irritating, always, always… these eyes." His gaze turned darker, his voice more drawn out, as though every syllable exhausted him. "All this insolence, this… overbearing stare. I am not here to be… ogled. I am here to… pass through."
He lingered for a moment, his body still as he shifted his gaze from Felt to Heinkel, barely acknowledging them, yet his presence loomed, filling the room with a heavy, crushing silence. He let out another sigh, repeating his words slowly, dragging them out.
"Sad, sad… this one's life, Reinhard, so sad, so hollow… bearing burdens and never…being the burden. Always strong, always bearing… melancholic, isn't it? Oh, yes… deeply, so deeply…" His voice drifted off as if lost in a memory, his gaze unfocused, his face sinking further into its weary expression.
Without another word, he began to move, gliding towards the exit, his shrouded form casting a shadow over them all.
As Hector, wearing Reinhard's body as a twisted mask, turned to leave, Felt felt a sudden, agonizing weight crash down on her heart. The disbelief, the horror, the helplessness—it was all too much. Her knees buckled, her vision blurred, and before she could even realize it, a guttural cry tore from her throat.
"REINHARD!"
The desperation in her voice echoed through the room, raw and unrestrained, as if the very walls absorbed her grief. Heinkel's sword lowered slightly, his grip loosening as he stared at the retreating figure in utter disbelief. That monster- The Sword Saint- His son, the symbol of undefeatable strength—reduced to this... dark, twisted mockery. A chilling realization clawed its way into his mind: Reinhard, the man known for being insurmountable, had been overcome, his very being consumed by this cruel specter. It was as if everything Heinkel believed about his son had been upended, as if the invincible had been hollowed out before his eyes.
Heinkel staggered backward, his sword slipping from his hand and clattering to the floor. Felt, her heart pounding, stumbled out the door, chasing the fading hope that maybe, somehow, this was all just some twisted illusion. But as she reached the empty hall, the wind hit her face, chilling her, and she realized that Reinhard—her protector, her unwavering pillar—was gone. The cruel joke had left only emptiness, filled with nothing but the cold, biting gusts that drifted through the desolate street, today, the flame had been extinguished.
The scene shifted with a jarring intensity, back to the brutal, unyielding clash between Stride Vollachia, now inhabiting Subaru's body, and Capella Emerada Lugnica, the twisted embodiment of Lust. They circled each other, both brimming with raw, deadly power, each movement as poised as it was ferocious. In Subaru's hands, Stride wielded the Yang Sword with a commanding, lethal finesse that seemed to sear the very air around him, its light blazing with every swing.
Capella's lips twisted into a taunting smile, her eyes glinting as she shifted her form at will, her body stretching, snapping, transforming in a grotesque display of her Authority. Limbs reshaped, hardened scales forming one moment, dissolving into feathers the next, as if reality itself warped to her whims. Stride's eyes, alight with the authority of Pride, held no fear, only an intense, focused disdain as he charged forward. Their weapons met, and the force was so immense that cracks radiated through the stone ground beneath them.
Stride's swings were precise, his footwork honed, calculating every brutal strike, every devastating arc of the Yang Sword. He was relentless, relentless in a way that was almost terrifying to watch, a storm contained within flesh and steel. Capella responded with her own mockery, her voice a venomous song as she contorted her body into monstrous forms. At one point, her body stretched, warped, and in a flurry of scales and twisted limbs, she became a black, massive dragon with eyes glowing a sickly violet. The creature's jaws opened, spewing fire that raged with a heat so intense it felt like the air itself had turned to molten iron.
Stride didn't flinch. He charged straight through the flames, his blade cutting through the inferno with a blinding glow. The Yang Sword hummed, slicing into Capella's dragon form with an otherworldly precision, each cut forcing her back, her dragon scales shattering under the brutal strength of the blade. She roared, and as blood splattered, she reformed again, twisting herself into another grotesque shape, each transformation more unnatural than the last.
"Thou darest to call this a fight?" Stride sneered, Subaru's voice echoing with a depth and authority foreign to him, his tone laced with scorn. "Mine venerable self hath witnessed much in mine time, yet thou, pitiful creature, dost hide behind Authority, shape-shifting to escape thy weakness. Dost thou truly believe that makes thee a queen of aught? 'Tis naught but a hollow display—a base, repugnant charade."
Capella's eyes narrowed, her voice dripping with mock pity as she transformed again, her limbs elongating, her form becoming fluid, shifting into countless shapes. "Oh, Pride, you really think all this grandstanding means anything? Holding on to some dead kingdom's honor? It's laughable from here. I could crush you in any form I choose, any form at all!" She laughed, her shape grotesquely shifting, contorting in a taunting display meant to intimidate him.
But Stride's gaze remained unwavering, his expression dark and assured, the power of the Yang Sword resonating with a strength that matched his own fierce will. He leapt forward again, and with a fierce, ruthless precision, the battle pressed on, their clashing wills and brutal strength filling the desolate city square with the sounds of their vicious, unrelenting war.
The clash between Stride and Capella tore through the city with an intensity that seemed to shake the foundations of Pristella itself. The buildings around them crumbled like paper as the raw power of their blows resonated through the streets, causing the very earth beneath them to quake. The air was thick with dust and the stench of burning, the remains of what had once been a thriving city now caught in the violent struggle of supremacy between the empire of Vollachia and the kingdom of Lugnica.
Stride's expression, dark and serene, betrayed no fear as he wielded Subaru's body like a conductor commanding an orchestra of destruction. Capella, on the other hand, was all vicious glee and unrestrained rage, her laughter echoing through the ruins like a bell of madness. She transformed from beast to beast, her authority warping her body into monstrous shapes—one moment a towering serpent, the next a creature with the wings of a raven and the claws of a bear, her sinewy frame a constant shift of grotesque forms. And yet, her taunting words cut deeper than her talons or teeth.
"Thou dost think thy shape-shifting impressive, doest thou?" Stride sneered, his tone heavy with disdain. "A shallow display, as empty as thy vapid pride." His voice, filled with the ancient authority of Vollachian lineage, struck a chill through the chaos, each syllable a scornful hymn of his superiority. "Thou art naught but a pale mimicry of life's worth, bending thyself to every whim. Pathetic!"
Capella let out a screeching laugh, her dragon form towering over him, violet scales gleaming even in the dim light of the ruined city. Her face contorted, part snake, part dragon, her teeth bared in a sneer as she roared back at him, "Oh, is that what you believe, Pride? Always so high and mighty, the mighty Vollachian, sneering down from his perch. But what would you know of the world's beauty, of true form?" She sneered, stepping closer, her enormous claws sinking into the rubble. "This lovely lady can be any form, better, perfect! I am the pinnacle of existence—anything thou canst desire or adore, I am!"
Stride's gaze remained unyielding, his stance in Subaru's form unwavering. "Aye, call thyself 'perfect' till the end of days. But hear me—perfection without will, beauty without purpose, is as hollow as the husk thou hast become. I see only emptiness, not strength." His hand rose, and with an eerie stillness, he tapped into the depths of Subaru's shared od, pulling forth that dark, sinister authority that would chill the soul of any witness. "And now, as Vollachia hath conquered and conquered again, so shall I conquer thee."
As Capella began to morph into her dragon form, enormous claws ready to strike, a sickly darkness emerged from the ground, coiling and pooling around her with ominous intent. It was the shadowy manifestation of Sloth, Betelgeuse's sinister authority, summoned forth from deep within Subaru's core—a power that did not belong to him, yet had been subdued and brought to heel. Giant, spectral hands began to rise from the shadows, clawing their way toward Capella with terrifying purpose. One by one, the hands reached, grabbing her wings, her legs, her neck, and pinned her to the ground, holding her monstrous form in place as she shrieked in fury and terror. [ Invisible Providence ]
The dragon writhed and twisted, her scales cracking under the relentless force of Sloth's authority. Her entire body strained against the spectral grip as the black hands tightened around her, dragging her down as if into the very bowels of the earth. But even in this helpless state, Capella's snarl turned into a mad cackle, and with one swift shift, she dissolved into the form of a small bat, slipping through the hands' hold and fluttering upward with a mocking laugh. She reformed before him, her twisted face a picture of sickly amusement.
Stride's eyes, now glowing with a prideful light that seemed to rival the sun, narrowed in disdain. "Run and transform as thou wilt. Mine victory is inevitable, sealed by mine own decree." He took a step forward, gripping the yang sword with Subaru's body, its light blazing in a fury of white-gold. The brilliance of the blade illuminated the battleground, its righteous fury cutting through Capella's darkness. The clash of light and shadow, of imperial pride and fiendish lust, was a violent waltz of unyielding wills.
Capella shrieked, her body twisting into something grotesque yet again, as if attempting to both intimidate and impress. "Oh, Pride," she hissed, her voice dripping with venom. "Your arrogance blinds you! Lust, form, beauty—these are the highest things. I am the apex, the pinnacle! And you, you are just a boy, fumbling with powers beyond you!" Her form rippled, morphing into an enormous beast yet again, prepared to strike.
But Stride did not falter. His expression remained stern, darkened with a profound understanding of her weakness. "Lust, beauty—thy so-called perfection hath no strength against that which is pure of heart and indomitable in will. Try, try, and try again, beast. My might shall break thee, and mine will shall cast thee aside!" With a swift motion, he brandished the yang sword, its light flaring brighter than ever, casting long shadows that seemed to shrink away from its brilliance.
The battle raged on, a terrifying display of powers clashing. The buildings around them continued to crumble under the intensity, a fitting testament to the titanic forces at play—Lugnica and Vollachia embodied in two figures locked in mortal combat.
Anastasia clutched the edge of a table, her normally cool expression slipping just enough to reveal concern. Ferris stood nearby, eyes narrowed, ears perked for any sign of what might come next, while Tivey and Hetaro huddled closer to their sister's absence, the worry evident in their darting eyes.
"What in the blazes…" Anastasia muttered, her Kagaragan accent slipping into urgency. She glanced around, the tremors rattling everything, even her steady composure. "It's like the whole city's tryna break itself apart."
Ferris clenched his fists, frustration mingling with the ever-growing concern. "All this is too much," he muttered under his breath, scanning the room for something, anything that might provide answers.
Tivey, attempting to put on a brave face, took a shaky breath and said, "I bet Mimi's okay, ya know? Big sis is strong, she's tough—"
"She better be okay," Hetaro interrupted, his voice cracking slightly. He looked up at Anastasia, searching her face for some sign of reassurance.
Anastasia forced a soft smile, hoping to steady the boys. "We'll make sure everyone's alright, ya hear?" she replied, her voice firmer than her own confidence felt. The quakes continued, shaking the very ground beneath them, but she held her ground.
The door slammed open with an unceremonious bang, and a sharp voice cut through the tense air.
"Hey, hey, hey—what is this mess?!"
Kiritaka Muse, trade representative of Priestella and head of the prestigious Muse Company, strode into the room with a hurried, exasperated air. Tall and wiry, with an air of polished urgency, his face was shadowed with worry. He took a sharp breath, eyes darting over Anastasia and the others.
"Kiritaka!" Anastasia's eyebrows lifted in genuine surprise. "What're ya doin' burstin' in like that?"
He ran a hand over his forehead, visibly struggling to maintain his composure. "What am I doin'?" he repeated with disbelief, almost as if mocking himself. "I'm survivin', that's what I'm doin'! Everythin's gone to hell, and I'm the last one of the Priestellan Council of Ten left standing." His voice grew heavier, almost a whisper, "The last one."
Anastasia frowned, the weight of Kiritaka's words sinking in. "What…what happened to the others?"
"They were picked off one by one," he muttered, casting a glance over his shoulder as though haunted by unseen memories. "One killed by the city's invaders, another drowned…fate didn't spare any of them. The Sin Archbishops have torn this place apart." His voice dropped to a grim tone. "I got out lucky."
Ferris, biting his lip, exchanged a quick look with Anastasia before speaking up. "So, what now? They're attacking each other, but they've still got the city locked up tight."
Kiritaka shook his head in frustration. "They're not just fightin' each other. The chaos they've caused is on such a massive scale that Priestella's about to be overwhelmed. The waterways are all clogged, our barriers are breakin', and I've heard reports that some of the floodgates are rigged to burst."
"What?" Anastasia's eyes widened, her composed expression faltering. "You mean the city could be flooded?"
"Exactly that!" Kiritaka's voice was thick with urgency. "The entire city's designed to work like a clock, each channel and floodgate precisely calibrated to manage water flow. But with the Sin Archbishops takin' control, all those systems have been compromised. It's like they've turned the entire waterway system against us! They're usin' the rivers as weapons."
The room fell silent as the weight of his words settled over them.
"What's more," he continued, his voice dropping, "the Sin Archbishops aren't just any enemies. They're like forces of nature—wrath, greed, lust…they're tearing apart the city from every side. I've already seen destruction I thought was impossible to repair. The Sin Archbishop of Lust is transforming the citizens." He shuddered. "And then there's the issue of Pride, whoever he is, fightin' like some hellish storm."
Anastasia crossed her arms, her expression steely. "So, what're you sayin'? Are ya givin' up? Ya came all the way here just to give me that bit of news?"
Kiritaka's eyes narrowed. "You think I'd walk away from Priestella? My home, my family's legacy? I've done everythin' in my power to keep this city safe, but with the Archbishops tearing us apart, I need help—and fast. If we don't get these monsters out of the city, Priestella's gonna drown."
A cold resolve settled over Anastasia's face, and she met his gaze with unwavering determination. "We'll find a way, ya hear? Ain't no way I'll let the city fall to a bunch of fanatics." She paused, looking around at the others. "But we're gonna need every resource we can muster, and everyone here needs to be willin' to see this through. There's no more hidin' from what's comin'."
Kiritaka nodded, his face hardening. "Then let's not waste another second."
Walking with the slow, deliberate pace of one who carries a burden he neither welcomes nor cares to discard, Hector, the Warlock of Melancholy, drifted across the land. His shoulders slumped, eyes half-lidded, as though even existence itself were a task too cumbersome. A bleak aura hung about him, dark and heavy, as he moved with exasperated boredom, his path unknown to all save him.
A figure appeared behind him, silent and unyielding. In a mere breath, the world seemed to pause, as though holding itself captive in her presence. Her voice, soft as a whisper but clear as a bell, carried over the space between them.
"You aren't supposed to be here," she murmured with a slight, knowing smile. The Witch of Vainglory, Pandora, looked upon him with her gentle gaze, her silver hair unnaturally still, untouched by the wind.
Hector let out a long, drawn-out sigh, rolling his shoulders in discontent. "Neither…should you exiiist, I suppose," he replied, voice thick with resentment. He dragged his gaze slowly over to her, his tone dripping with an almost petulant displeasure. "You know, hearin' you point out the obviouuus… bores me," he groaned. "Makes me irritated, makes me wanna just… walk away."
His words hung heavily in the air, every syllable a weighted complaint.
Pandora remained unmoved, her expression placid as she responded calmly, "That body isn't yours," she noted, her words a quiet but undeniable judgment.
Another sigh escaped Hector as he shook his head. "Pointin' out thaaat too, are you…?" He dragged his hand through his hair, fingers trembling faintly. "It isn't mine, no, but… t'ain't been easy, takin' hold. The boy has… will, stubborn… like a stain that just won't… fadeeee."
The Warlock's gaze drifted away as he spoke, his tone trailing off into long, drawn syllables. His frustration was laced with an undercurrent of hate and drag, as if every word Pandora uttered tugged at his patience.
Hector's eyes slid slowly over to Pandora, his gaze a veil of irritation and disinterest. He lingered in silence, taking a drawn-out breath as if to summon the patience to engage with her at all. Finally, he asked in a low, sluggish tone, "So…are you here to stop me, Pandora? Or… just here to grace me with that…innnncessant judgment?"
Pandora's soft smile didn't falter, her deep blue eyes holding an almost amused light. "No, no, I'm not here to stop you," she replied, each word a carefully measured dose of calm that only served to stoke the Warlock's irritation further. "I am in this city for two things alone—the Sage, and the Key," she said, her voice hardly more than a whisper, but one that seemed to echo with weight. Her gaze, unwavering and cool, met his. "The rest—" she gestured with a slight shrug, "it's beneath my interest."
Hector huffed, rubbing his temples as if the very conversation were a weight on his skull. "Ahh… always with yer own goals, Pandora," he muttered, his voice thick with resentment and sarcasm. "So you've come here, pointed yer finger, twisted the truth, but what's it matter if I, say… chase down my own quarry? Or would that spoil yer precious plans, hmm?"
"Plans?" she repeated, her tone mockingly light, a slight tilt to her head. "Oh, Hector, you do have a way of seeing the world so dimly. If it puts your soul at ease," she added with a shrug, "chase her to eternity. Hunt her for as long as you can muster the strength… it doesn't concern me."
Her mocking calmness seemed to press on Hector, his face tightening with a frustration he struggled to suppress. "Ah, well, forgive mine…persistence," he grumbled, "but I… well, I suppose I thought you'd care more, Pandora. Thought you'd wanna keep your plans from…oh, I don't know… unraveling?"
Pandora's laugh was soft, almost gentle. "There are few things, Hector, that could disturb me. You're not one of them." She let her gaze drift over him, her calm tone like a lull as she added, "So long as your foolish vendetta does not intrude on my goals, chase her as you wish. Eternity may suit you well, Warlock."
Her indifference struck him in a way that seemed to reach far deeper than her words. He breathed slowly, his irritation roiling beneath the surface, barely restrained. She didn't have to care, and she knew it—her confidence, her mocking calm, all of it needled at him with every syllable she spoke.
"Fine, theeeen," he murmured, almost to himself. "You may think yer plans are…untouchable, unassailable…but we'll see, dear Pandora. I've come to enjoy…watchiiiiin' the world turn on people who thinnnnk they're…untouchableeee." His voice dragged with disdain as he watched her, lingering a moment longer than necessary before looking away.
Pandora's smile remained, undeterred. "Perhaps one day you'll learn, Hector," she murmured, her eyes glinting with a quiet amusement, "that the world's vastness has little tolerance for grudges that linger."
As swiftly and silently as she had come, Pandora faded, as if she were a specter called back into the shadows. The air that had been tense with her presence softened, but Hector showed no sign of relief or reaction, his expression a mask of weary indifference. He merely gave a long, exasperated sigh, brushing off the encounter like a smudge of dust on his coat.
With his shoulders hunched, he resumed his slow, lumbering stride, eyes fixed ahead. Each step was deliberate, his movements slow, but undeniably focused. His destination remained a mystery to all but himself, and perhaps, to the shadows that seemed to stretch longer in his presence.
And so, the Warlock of Melancholy drifted through the veins of Pristella, his path unwavering, his dark purpose a silent promise to the city caught unaware in the grasp of turmoil.
As Capella's monstrous form lunged at the midnight-haired youth with a furious swing, Subaru barely registered the attack before an invisible force—Stride's Authority—caught her blow mid-air, deflecting it with an almost casual precision. The impact sent ripples through the air, but he remained unmoved, calmly steadying himself. The two Archbishops clashed with a ferocity that shook the very foundations of Pristella, eventually tearing their way through streets, buildings, and finally reaching one of the city's control towers.
Capella, realizing the limits of her strength in a direct brawl, slithered into the shadows of the dark control room. Only the faint, ominous glow from her serpentine eyes glinted in the darkness as she disappeared, leaving the space in silence, save for the faint echoes of their heavy footsteps. Stride, holding the mighty Yang Sword of Vollachia, considered his next move, knowing the sword's power could easily obliterate the control room. Any misstep here could send the entire city under a tide of water.
The blade hummed with restrained power, casting pale beams that carved through the blackness as Stride walked forward confidently, unphased. Then, suddenly, Stride's control faded, and Subaru took command of his own body, his raven hair catching the blade's light.
"Hand-to-hand combat? That's my territory," Subaru muttered to himself, flexing his hands with a mix of concentration and determination. The invisible strength within him, bound by the Authority of Pride, swelled as he locked his gaze on the shadows, ready for anything that emerged. Shadows twisted and writhed, and then—figures, dozens of them, emerged from the darkness, Witch Cultists.
A grin played at Subaru's lips. His hands took on a practiced rhythm, moving with grace and brutal efficiency in the confined space. He weaved through the cultists with seamless movements honed through countless sessions with Halibel. As the first of them charged, he ducked, striking them with a precise blow that sent them sprawling, then another as he turned, pulling out everything Halibel had taught him.
"[Stride's Eye]," he muttered, activating the first of his Authority's abilities. With a predatory intensity, he judged each of the cultists as he passed them, his gaze piercing through them, discerning every hidden sin. The result was instant: as he called their sins to mind, he watched each one of them twist and contort, blowing apart in dark explosions of their own sin as if they were crumbling under the weight of judgment itself.
The energy around him intensified, growing darker, building with every judged cultist. Power swirled in the air, the "Sin Points" accumulating within him like a dark storm of energy waiting to be unleashed. "[Breakpoint]," he murmured under his breath, channeling this accumulated power to reinforce his body, fueling his strength to superhuman levels. His muscles seemed to surge with unearthly power, and with a smirk, he drove forward, each punch sending cultists flying, his enhanced blows more devastating than before.
Cultist after cultist fell, each one torn apart in the dimly lit room, their bodies breaking as the Authority of Pride made quick work of them.
Subaru burst into the next room, his breath steady but his muscles tense from the onslaught he'd just waded through. In the dim glow of the room, Capella stood beside an archaic control module, a large, ominous lever gripped in her clawed hand. A twisted smile stretched across her face as she looked down at Subaru with a gaze full of mockery and disdain.
"Oh, you poor, pathetic child," Capella sneered, her tone dripping with condescension. "You really thought you could stand against me? Against this lovely lady with nothing but brute strength and those petty tricks? What laughable, naive predictability!" She let out a grating laugh, eyes gleaming as she continued. "You lumber around, thrashing at shadows and hoping your brute force can fix everything. It's almost endearing, really, the way you cling to that foolish pride of yours. You don't even see how weak you are, how outmatched you are in every way that matters. You may be able to break what's in front of you, but you can't touch what lies beyond—beyond your shallow comprehension."
Capella's hand tightened around the lever, and Subaru's eyes widened in alarm. He began to lunge forward, intent on stopping her—but her mocking laugh rang out once more as she effortlessly pulled the lever down. The room shuddered, gears grinding as a faint rumbling echoed up from the depths of the city, signaling something ominous in motion.
In a sickeningly sweet, almost taunting voice, she crooned, "Don't even think about trying to chase me down. Try to fight fate if you'd like, but I assure you, my dear Pride, you'll only find yourself more pitifully tangled in it." With that, her body warped, transforming into a tiny, nearly indistinguishable insect, her face a grotesque mockery of beauty even in such a small form. She skittered away, disappearing into a nearby drain before Subaru could even process her escape.
Subaru clenched his fists, his jaw tight with frustration as he stood there, feeling the weight of her words and the reality of the situation pressing down on him.
As the rumbling reached its peak, Subaru felt the city shudder beneath him, and with an earsplitting roar, a massive explosion tore through a quarter of Pristella. Water surged into the city, a churning, merciless flood sweeping through streets and alleys as the lake outside drained with terrifying speed. The city began to drown, sinking beneath the sheer force of the flood that Capella had unleashed.
Subaru's heart dropped as he dashed back to the control switch, grabbing it with both hands and shoving it upward, hoping desperately to undo what had just been done. But it was futile. The system whirred unresponsively, and the flood outside only grew more violent. The realization settled into him, deep and bitter: he had failed, once again.
"Damn it… Damn it!" he muttered, his voice growing louder with each repetition, anger building until it erupted. "Damn it! Damn it all! Not again, not—again!" His fists slammed against the console, his knuckles turning white. "Every time, every single time, I try to stop them… I try to stop this from happening. And now look at it—look at what I let happen."
His thoughts spiraled, circling back to the same sickening feeling of helplessness. His breathing grew ragged as the weight of his anger and guilt pressed down, crushing. The walls seemed to close in, each thought like a vise around his chest. "I can't… I can't keep failing them. How many more times? How many more lives are going to be—"
Subaru's head dropped, his fingers curling and uncurling against the cold metal. The unending sense of failure twisted inside him, repeating like a cruel mantra. This flood, the destruction, the screams echoing somewhere in the distance—all because of another defeat.
Subaru slumped against the console, his mind a chaotic storm. For a long moment, he stood still, his breaths sharp and shallow as the city crumbled and drowned beyond him. His muttering was barely a whisper, "This… this was all Stride's fault. Letting a Witch Cultist into my head—what kind of idiot am I?"
A low, derisive scoff sounded within the depths of his mind, Stride's voice slipping through in that archaic, taunting tone. "Mine venerable self wonders, young fool, dost thou lash at naught but air? Thy fury is like a dog caged, barking at the bars while fate remains unmoved by thy yelps."
Stride let the words linger, savoring the dark satisfaction as Subaru's fury simmered. "But perhaps thine energy would be better spent—redirected, as it were—into a true course of action."
Subaru's brow knit, but then his face broke into an eerie grin. "You're right… you're so right," he murmured. His eyes hardened, and without another thought, he activated his Authority on himself, a dark determination shining in his gaze. His heart pounded once, twice—and then it stopped.
In an instant, his world went black.
Subaru's consciousness snapped back with the jarring force of the return. His eyes shot open, taking in the surroundings with an overwhelming dread. He was back, standing in the exact spot where he'd last faced Capella. The cruel checkpoint had dropped him back into a moment that left him teetering on the edge of despair.
Stride's voice hummed in amusement, "So… Return by Death it is, then. What a bitter choice our dear Envy hath left thee with."
For the next fifteen minutes, he paced back and forth, his mind spiraling with doubts. The scene was all too familiar, and frustration gnawed at him. He didn't know which way to go or where to start—too much had been shattered, too much left teetering on the edge of disaster.
Stride's voice slithered into his thoughts, sharp and commanding. "Gather thine wits, boy. If this fate doth displease thee, act with purpose. Think not only of thyself but seek those allies who yet fight on thy behalf."
Subaru paused, Stride's words cutting through the haze of his frustration. It made sense. His mind steadied, and he knew what he had to do. The first step was to reunite with his allies and check on them—Julius, Ricardo, Garfiel. He had to make sure they were safe before planning his next move. And he had to see how Anastasia and Emilia were faring, now more than ever.
Subaru bit down hard on his lip as the realization hit him—he'd left Beatrice behind with Hienkel. How could he have been so careless? She was more than capable of defending herself, yes, but in an active warzone, Beatrice's powers were invaluable. She could dampen the destruction around her, mitigate damage, shield them all from the chaos tearing through Pristella. The thought of her somewhere out there, unprotected, only fueled his frustration.
Tuning into the faint, warm link of their contract, Subaru focused, allowing himself to feel the subtle pull guiding him back to her. He hurried toward the shelter, ignoring the chaos around him as his steps quickened. Within minutes, he found himself pushing open the door to a shelter, his gaze instantly landing on the tiny figure who was unmistakably scanning the crowd with worried eyes.
As soon as she saw him, Beatrice's face lit up in shock before she rushed over, throwing herself into Subaru's arms without hesitation. She clung to him, her voice trembling as she poured out her worries.
"I was beginning to think… I wouldn't see you again, I suppose! Betty could only feel the city quaking… all the destruction, in fact!" she said, gripping his jacket as if letting go would make him vanish. "It's like everything's falling apart around us, and you were out there alone, I suppose…!"
Subaru held her close, stroking her hair to comfort her, letting her spill her fears. For just a moment, amid all the tension and destruction, he allowed himself to be grounded by her presence.
Subaru's gaze swept over the room, an oppressive sense of dread and guilt settling over him. He saw rows of civilians lying on makeshift beds, huddled together on blankets, many in shock, others clearly suffering from severe injuries. His heart twisted painfully as he noticed that every single person he looked at shared the same horrifying injury—all missing their right arms. He tried to breathe through the nausea rising in his throat, forcing himself to focus on the battered figure crouched against the wall.
"Roswaal…?" Subaru whispered, disbelief edging into his tone. He took a hesitant step forward, scarcely believing that this was the man he had known, the man who had always been so full of schemes and hidden intentions. Now Roswaal looked barely able to lift his head, his once vibrant and smug expression drained into something hollow, resigned, broken.
Roswaal's face was ghostly pale, eyes sunken and shadowed with exhaustion. His breath came shallowly, each one a struggle. His midsection was wrapped in blood-stained bandages, barely containing the deep gash that marred his torso. Subaru's mind spun, trying to make sense of the sight in front of him, until Roswaal's weak voice broke the silence.
"The Sin Archbishop of Greed…" Roswaal murmured, his voice a faint rasp. He winced, gasping in pain, the words faltering as he tried to continue. "He... took her, Subaru." Roswaal's gaze flickered weakly in Subaru's direction, something close to desperation flashing in his usually unreadable eyes. "Emilia… she's… gone. You've got to… set things right…"
Subaru's expression hardened, frustration seeping into every corner of his voice as he struggled to keep his tone level. "That's not how it works, Roswaal," he replied, his jaw clenched tight. "I can't just 'set things back.' You think I can just… fix everything like it's nothing? It doesn't work like that."
For a long moment, a heavy silence fell, pressing down on them with the weight of everything that had been lost and all that Subaru had yet to face. Subaru closed his eyes, willing himself to stay calm, to push down the storm of anger and guilt swirling within him, even as his hands shook from the effort. Opening them, he found himself unable to meet Roswaal's gaze, looking away as the helplessness of their situation crashed down over him.
But he was pulled back by the familiar, trembling voice of his spirit companion, breaking through his turmoil with a sharp edge. Beatrice's small hand clutched onto his sleeve, and Subaru looked down to see the fury blazing in her usually composed expression.
"Hienkel abandoned Betty, I suppose!" she spat, anger flashing in her blue eyes as she clung to Subaru's arm. Her voice was thick with resentment, her frustration spilling over as she glared at the ground. "He left Betty here, left Betty with all these people while he went off to 'find' Reinhard, in fact! He didn't even say goodbye properly—just ran off without a word!" Her tiny fists shook, and Subaru could feel the weight of her disappointment and anger, a betrayal that went beyond words.
"He just… left you?" Subaru's voice softened, shock and concern flickering in his expression as he placed a comforting hand over hers. He could see how much Beatrice had been struggling, shouldering this burden alone, left to tend to the wounded without support. Guilt twisted in his chest. He shouldn't have left her here, especially not in a situation as chaotic and dangerous as this.
"Yes," Beatrice replied, her voice trembling with frustration. "He left without even a second thought, and Betty had to take care of everyone here all by herself!" Her shoulders shook, a mix of anger and sadness radiating from her as she looked up at him, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "Betty is tired, Subaru. Tired of watching people suffer, tired of seeing everyone hurt and helpless, in fact…"
Subaru's jaw tightened, and he placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently as he met her gaze with a fierce determination. "I'm sorry, Beako. I'm sorry I left you here. This wasn't supposed to be how it turned out." His eyes drifted back to the wounded civilians around them. "But we'll make it right. Somehow."
Beatrice's hand hovered over Roswaal's wound, her expression hardening at the name. She halted her healing spell, her entire body tense, while Subaru's brows knitted in confusion. He crouched closer, eyes narrowed as he tried to understand what Roswaal had just whispered, but the battered mage's eyes were already fluttering shut, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.
"He said… Hector?" Subaru muttered, glancing at Beatrice. Her face was drained of color, her normally bright eyes darkening with something unreadable—a mix of fear, anger, and recognition. Subaru could tell this wasn't a name she heard lightly.
Without looking away from Roswaal, she spoke, her voice almost a whisper. "How does he… know that name, in fact?" Her words were stiff, and her shoulders were drawn up as though bracing herself against an unseen threat. She swallowed, finally turning her gaze to Subaru, her expression guarded. "Hector… that's a name Betty hasn't heard in… centuries, I suppose. It's not one to be spoken of lightly."
Subaru's gaze darted between Roswaal's still form and Beatrice's intense expression, questions filling his mind. But as he opened his mouth to ask, Roswaal's body shuddered, his lips parting in one last whisper, barely audible, "The Warlock… he's… returned…"
A cough racked his body, his head rolling to the side, eyes slipping shut as if those final words had drained the last of his strength. His breathing became shallow, slipping into unconsciousness, leaving Subaru and Beatrice in a tense silence. The name lingered between them, heavy with the weight of something deep and ominous, something that seemed to reach far beyond anything Subaru had encountered before.
Subaru's jaw clenched as he looked to Beatrice, catching the fear she tried to mask in her gaze. "Beako, who… who is Hector?" he asked, his voice quiet but insistent.
Beatrice looked away, the set of her jaw tight. Her gaze drifted to Roswaal's unconscious form, then back to Subaru. "The Warlock of Melancholy… Hector," she whispered, barely able to say the words aloud. "He's a force… not of this world, in fact. A threat long thought gone." Her hands curled into fists, and she glanced to Subaru, her eyes full of worry. "If Hector has truly returned, Subaru… things may only grow worse from here, I suppose."
"Hector," Subaru muttered, the name rolling over his tongue with a weight that felt both foreign and grim. "Is he… strong?" His voice was steeled, a mix of curiosity and challenge.
Beatrice nodded solemnly, eyes drifting with a mix of sadness and awe. "Stronger than anyone Betty's ever known, in fact," she murmured. "Stronger than even her mother."
Subaru blinked, confused. "Wait… mother? I thought you were… well, a spirit." He tilted his head, genuinely puzzled.
Beatrice looked at him, a faint, bittersweet smile on her lips. "Betty is a spirit," she affirmed, voice low. "But… I was created, Subaru. I'm an artificial spirit, born from magic. My mother—the Witch of Greed—created me four hundred years ago."
For a moment, Subaru simply stared at her, the layers of her past slowly sinking in. Then, with a sigh, he muttered, "Witch bullshit. Always coming back to that." He ran a hand through his hair, processing this revelation, but surprisingly, he didn't feel weighed down—if anything, he felt more resolved.
"Well," he said, voice firm, "then I'll just have to add another name to my list. Warlock, Witch, Sin Archbishop, cultist, mabeast—if they want to pick a fight, they're getting one." He looked at her, his resolve almost fierce. "I'll defeat every last one of them, Beako. No matter what."
Beatrice looked at him, her wide eyes softening, a rare glint of pride surfacing in her expression. "Subaru… you're foolish, but… if anyone can carry such a burden, it's you, in fact."
Subaru smirked, giving her a playful nudge. "Guess you're stuck with me, then."
Authors Note:
Huge chapter. so lets clarify somethings.
As you've seen, Rienhard has been... incapacitated. So just remember that he couldn't see Hectors attack, the logic being that a witch authority will always overtake a divine protection. There is also an argument to make that Melancholy was able to take over as Rienhard was just a sad lil guy? I dunno, not here to justifiy my plot devices into the pitts of hell.
Furthermore. Didnt want to be too brash with Capellas character, let me know if her dialogue was good or if I should adjust it. The same goes for Hector, we have such little information its gonna be hard to get the guy right lol.
Just remember theres sort of this grand story at play here, well I want to keep the story to feel and look like Re:zero, I also want to spin my own take on everything. The main goal is just to keep the cast as close in personality to how'd theyd be in the main timeline, but in saying that as the plot continues, certain characters are subject to change.
This was also Subarus first glance into the insanity of Pride, terrible things are going to be more common from here on out :)
Thanks for stopping by, see ya in the next chapter!