The violet glow pulsed, casting sickly flickers on the cave walls. Shadows stretched unnaturally long, twisting like broken marionettes, their limbs jerking in grotesque mockery of life.
Crazy's breath hitched as the whispers burrowed deeper, curling like thorned vines around his thoughts, squeezing.
He ran blindly. The endless corridors of stone spiraled around him, warping, shifting, twisting into something unfamiliar.
His feet pounded against the cold ground, but it felt distant—like the sensation belonged to someone else.
Follow… follow… almost home…
Home?
The word clawed at the edge of his consciousness, hollow and cruel. Home was a lie. He had no home. Not since the white room. Not since the voices had become his only company.
Distant shouting rang in his ears. Was it Ayeka? The sound was warped, muffled, like it was bleeding in from another reality. It didn't matter. None of it mattered. Only the voice. The one sinking into his bones, slithering through his veins like liquid fire, whispering dark promises of something primal, something waiting.
A flicker of warmth pressed against his chest, familiar, gentle. Urging him forward.
It felt right to keep moving.
The cave walls shimmered, flickering between jagged stone and smooth, gleaming marble—black as the void. The air thickened, suffocating, steeped in the acrid stench of decay and something far worse. The violet glow pulsed sharper, jagged like the gleam of a blade cutting through the dark.
Then...
A gate. Blocking his path. Looming. Towering. Blacker than the abyss itself. Chains coiled around it like a serpent's grip, glowing seals laced over its surface, thrumming with ancient power. The weight of it pressed against reality, distorting it.
…Tch.
An obstacle.
Without thought, his fingers tightened around the worn grip of his sword. Chipped, stained. Tainted by the blood of the False Deity. But it didn't matter.
"Fool's Heaven-Defying Sword Arts."
A crimson window flickered in his vision. He didn't bother to read it.
It was nothing but a failed creation.
Form One.
A single slash.
The air shattered.
The gate howled. The chains screamed as they unraveled, the seals splintering like brittle glass. The very fabric of the cave twisted, tearing apart in the wake of his blade.
Absolute Nihility.
A wound split through the door, a gaping, festering hole leading to the other side.
Warmth bled through. Familiar. Clawing at the edges of his mind.
He coughed out blood, the red liquid pooling onto the smooth marble ground. He felt the taste of iron in his throat. His veins trembled.
But he didn't care.
…He was home.
A rare expression settled on his face—peace.
Beyond the gate, a vast chamber stretched before him, hollow and endless, pressing against his skin like a living thing.
The walls were metal. Cold. Wrong. Something about them made his skull itch. The violet light coiled around the room, emanating from an altar in the center. Chains spiraled from the ceiling, wrapping around a single pillar—a prison.
Something ancient was trapped here.
He wiped the blood off his lips.
His gaze dropped. Beneath the pillar, half-buried in dust and time, lay a coffin. Dark. Heavy. The metal blackened with age, breathing death into the air around it.
He took a step forward, then another. His sword felt lighter—
No.
It was gone.
He glanced down. The blade had already crumbled, its remnants scattered at his feet.
…Whoops.
He tossed the hilt aside, uncaring, and lunged forward.
BAM.
The chains snapped like brittle bones. The pillar shattered under his fist, debris scattering like fallen stars. The force sent him skidding back, his breath ragged, his pulse roaring in his ears.
The coffin was free.
Still. Silent.
Waiting.
He moved without thinking, fingers brushing over the metal lid. The cold seeped into his skin, a phantom chill spreading through his veins.
Then—
A rush of footsteps. A ragged breath. The scent of iron and sweat.
"YOU CRAZY BASTARD—"
Ayeka.
She stood at the ruined doorway, wild-eyed, red hair tangled, chest rising and falling with frantic urgency. Sweat dripped down her face.
She saw the coffin. The broken chains. The shattered pillar.
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "…What the hell did you do?"
Crazy didn't answer.
Didn't care.
His fingers curled tighter. The whispers shrieked in his mind. A chorus of a thousand voices. Singing. Begging. Screaming.
He pushed open the lid.
Ayeka's breath hitched, her hand reaching out in desperation, her pupils shrinking, her voice breaking into a scream.
"NO!"
But it was too late.
The lid creaked open slowly, agonizingly so, revealing a torrent of blackness pouring from the crack. A bitter wind howled through the chamber, carrying with it the stench of decay and malevolent power.
The whispers, once soft and insidious, exploded in his mind, a thousand voices clawing at his consciousness, drowning out all reason. They screamed in madness, pushing him further down a path he could no longer turn from.
A shadow grew in the room, immense and suffocating, swallowing the light, twisting the very air into something wrong. The pressure built like an avalanche, crushing the room with an overwhelming, demonic aura. The bloodlust was unbearable.
Ayeka collapsed, her body jerking violently, her knees buckling beneath her as she fell to the ground. Blood spilled from her mouth, thick and dark, her body convulsing as if something was tearing through her very being, as she scratched at her throat.
Crazy simply stared.
He wasn't affected by the pressure. He glanced at Ayeka, who was trying to crawl away from the chamber.
His eyes slowly drifted back to the coffin, as if something was forcing him to turn his head.
Inside the coffin...
A single severed hand stood out from the rest of the dark, desolate coffin.
Pale. Long fingers, black nails curled like the talons of some ancient beast. The air around it was thick with an unimaginable power - an aura that twisted the very fabric of reality.
The touch of it made his skin crawl.
And yet... He smiled.
As if he found an old friend.
[The lost fragment of the Apostle of Lust recognizes you.]
Something inside his skull snapped. A jolt of pain, like lightning, shot through his mind, as if the world itself were breaking open.
His breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, he thought he might lose his mind entirely.
[The lost fragment of the Apostle of Lust calls out to you.]
Crazy slowly lifted a bloodied hand towards the ominous severed hand, as the whispers grew louder, overtaking his mind, screaming, clawing at his brain.
[The lost fragment of the Apostle of Lust reveals it's true name.]
Just as his hand made contact with the pale, white skin...
[The Third Blighted Apostle, Lilith D'veil, calls your name.]
Everything went black.
_________________
...
Crazy opened his eyes.
His eyes were on a wall that seemed awfully familliar.
He looked around...
White walls. Soft padding covering every inch of the room. The hum of the overhead light. The scuttling of rats. The distant laughter of guards. The small camera in the corner, always watching.
...He was... Home..?
He stood, staring blankly at the wall.
"…Was all of that… just a dream?"
Just then, a new voice called out to him from behind.
A soft chime. Like the toll of a funeral bell.
"…I'm afraid not, dear."
His breath caught. A voice.
Not the rats.
He turned his head, his eyes widening slightly.
A figure.
Pale. Beautiful. Midnight-black hair flowing like ink. Piercing violet eyes.
A familliar red halo above her head. And an outfit that... Made him immediately looked away.
She chuckled, floating closer. Cold fingers cradled his face, tilting it back up. His gaze was trapped in hers. A swirling void of power, madness, and something… else.
Her lips curled.
"We're finally together again…"
A smirk. A glint in her eyes.
"…My love~"