Cassie and Noctis stood at the edge of the ritual circle, watching Klaus writhe and thrash against the stone floor, his voice echoing through the chamber in tortured howls. Cassie, arms crossed, observed with only mild concern—her amusement barely concealed beneath a smirk. Well, serves him right, she mused. My legs are still sore from that stunt he pulled...
Noctis, by contrast, was watching with unblinking reverence. His eyes shimmered, not with pity, but with the thrill of discovery. Of course he was captivated—his student had just created an entirely new form of Enchantment, something profound and heretical.
A vast ritual circle spread beneath Klaus like an eldritch sigil scrawled into reality itself. Intricate tendrils of glowing script, shaped like a thousand curling tentacles, spiraled around a single central sphere. The entire array pulsed with a soft amethyst radiance, casting ghostly reflections on the walls and illuminating Klaus's convulsing form in flickering light.
But the true battle raged within.
Unlike others, he did not possess a tranquil ocean of essence. His inner world was a tapestry of cosmic debris and gravitational singularities—fragmented stars, scattered black suns, and clouds of dust drifting through endless void. Chaotic Cosmos, beautiful and strange.
Floating amidst that stellar chaos was Lich, his skeletal companion. With a meticulous, almost reverent grace, Lich began etching runes onto Klaus's spirit cores. Each stroke seared like a brand into the soul itself. And Klaus screamed. Not from the pain of body, but from the agony of his soul unraveling and reforming.
The first rune flared to life, brilliant and golden, inscribed onto the surface of his primary core—the True Name of Control. At once, the sensation of spirit-flaying ceased. A hush fell over his internal cosmos. The void grew cold, still, tranquil—as if the entire universe had exhaled.
The rune blazed like a miniature sun, casting warmth through the cold dust of his spirit sea. Still breathing heavily, Klaus floated upright, his grin thin but victorious.
He panted, blinking away tears of blood. The toll was monumental. As an Awakened, he lacked the sheer capacity to bear this alone. Lich could carve the runes, but only Klaus could provide the essence to fuel them. Every shred of energy came from within him—painfully, ravenously consumed by the ritual.
With effort, Klaus stabilized himself, walking atop the firmament of his inner world as if gravity obeyed only his will. He extended his essence, and the ritual array bloomed anew. Vectors of spatial essence unfolded like lattices of violet light, spiraling into a plane where time coiled and looped in upon itself. This paradoxical space—a dimension smaller than an atom yet vast enough to cradle his entire spirit sea—became the crucible of his will.
With the aid of Control, he had bent the fabric of his soul into submission, shaping it into a ritual circle far beyond what any Awakened should command. His essence shivered, but held.
And from the depths of that compacted void came the next core: the Devil Core.
As it emerged, it began to tremble violently. The pain was immediate, unrelenting, and horrifying. Agony howled through every nerve of his spiritual self. Klaus collapsed again, twitching, spasming, barely able to keep his mind tethered to reality. His core began to spiderweb, thin lines fracturing its surface like the ice of a dying planet.
His eyes glowed with amethyst brilliance, so fiercely that veins of light split from his pupils and webbed across his sclera. Blood leaked from the corners of his eyes as information surged through him—ancient, incomprehensible knowledge clawing at his sanity like a tide of screaming stars.
Miseria appeared behind him then—calm, ghostly, and cold. The wraith's hands cradled his head gently, fingers of shadow threading through his thoughts like a meticulous librarian. She did not erase the knowledge; she organized it, structured the storm of madness before it could shatter him.
The Devil Core finally broke.
The shattering echoed through his soul sea like a dying sun imploding. Shards of luminous crystal drifted outward, each piece trailing violet fire as it dissolved into his essence. He had sacrificed a piece of himself—and not for strength, nor power, but for resilience. His spirit grew denser, more fortified. Hardened. The pain would not go away, but now he could endure it.
His breath shallow, his soul raw and battered, Klaus whispered silently into the fabric of the void:
"With this sacrifice, I ask… fulfillment of my desire."
On his hand, the Devourer gleamed in the shape of a dark ring. Its enchantment—Conquest—bound his psyche, anchoring it. Without it, and without Miseria's intervention, he would have died long before even the first rune was inscribed.
His spirit didn't become stronger in the traditional sense. It didn't multiply cores or replenish essence. But it changed—became more stubborn, more unyielding. Like iron tempered in the heart of a collapsing star, it refused to break.
Lich gave no pause. The runes continued. Each word carved into spirit core tore screams from Klaus's throat.
Soul damage wasn't just agony—it was finality. In most cases, it was merciful: swift death, obliteration, the end. But this? This was prolonged torture. He was scalding his own spirit, abusing it.
Time became meaningless. Pain was constant.
His physical body began to warp. His flesh remembered other forms—beasts, monsters, and echoes of ancient nightmares. His legs twisted into lupine hind limbs, claws splitting from his toes. His arms became writhing tentacles, then mouths filled with jagged teeth. His skin bubbled and tore, as if unable to decide what he was.
Lich observed the transformation with eerie calm. The constant metamorphosis, coupled with soul damage, would have obliterated most minds. But Klaus was still breathing. Still fighting.
"He'll be fine," he muttered, returning to the runes.
Miseria held tighter. Devourer hummed with suppressed hunger, holding the madness at bay.
Klaus opened his eyes—this time not in the starless void of his spirit sea, but in reality. He was drenched in cold sweat, chest heaving as he drew in ragged, stuttering breaths. A low groan escaped him as he rolled onto his side and struggled to sit upright. His face was twisted with irritation, exhaustion, and no small amount of bitter resentment.
"Fucking hell…" he rasped, voice gravelly and raw. "Now that was some diabolical shit."
Despite his words, a wry smile tugged at the corner of his lips. Cassie, watching nearby, stepped in to help him up. She offered her hand, and Klaus—grumbling under his breath—let her pull him to his feet and guide him to sit properly. His gaze flicked toward her, narrowing with disbelief.
Was she smirking?
I nearly died in there, he thought. This little—
"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, waving a dismissive hand. "Laugh all you want."
Cassie raised an eyebrow and tilted her head to the side with exaggerated innocence, the smirk never quite leaving her lips. Her tone was pure teasing, like a cat toying with a battered mouse.
"Well?" she said sweetly. "Never thought I'd see you scream like a baby."
Klaus lit a cigarette with shaky fingers, inhaling deeply. The smoke calmed the tremor in his hands, and the bitterness on his tongue helped ground him.
"Karma might not exist," he muttered, exhaling a plume of smoke, "but I do. So you'd better watch out. Vengeance is coming."
Cassie chuckled and dropped into the seat beside him, clearly amused.
"Revenge, really?" she echoed, arching an eyebrow.
"Oh yeah," Klaus said, leaning back with a lazy grin. His breath was starting to even out, and the tremors in his limbs slowly faded. "Really."
From across the room, Noctis cleared his throat in an overly theatrical fashion. Klaus and Cassie turned toward him. With his usual flair, Noctis offered a flamboyant smile, arms spread as though delivering a performance on stage.
"Oh my, my!" he exclaimed. "I didn't actually think you'd pull it off. My dearest student, what are you, really? You must have some remarkable blood in those veins, hmm? Well, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. After all, my ancestors include the Moon Goddess herself. Yours must be quite something too. Not quite as divine, of course—but still."
Klaus stood slowly, reaching for his loose haori and sliding his arms into the sleeves with casual ease. He didn't turn around as he spoke, but his tone carried a dry edge of mockery.
"Not really," he said. "My mother was an Ascended who died when I was still a kid. My father? Definitely not a Moon Goddess. Or a good father."
Cassie blinked, then frowned slightly, her expression softening with curiosity.
"What kind of person was he?"
For a moment, Klaus didn't respond. He stared at the floor, brows drawing together in faint contemplation. Finally, he sighed and took another long drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke curl around his face like a veil.
"Well," he began, voice deceptively light, "to him, I was supposed to be the perfect warrior. He started training me when I was three—maybe four. Wasn't the worst at first, but after Mom died… he fell apart. Became a miserable bastard. A broken man trying to shape me into his last purpose."
He moved to pour a drink, offering one to Noctis. The older man accepted it with a pleased hum and downed it in a single smooth motion.
"Oh, your friend decided to help me," Noctis said cheerfully. "Sunless—what an intriguing and ugly creature, isn't he?"
Klaus's smirk returned, sharp and glinting with dark amusement. He raised his glass in mock salute before downing it.
"That he is."
He paused and stretched, his shoulders cracking from residual tension.
"Anyway, we're in. What happened to that lazy woman?"
Noctis chuckled, running a hand through his hair and letting the wind tousle it like he was posing for a portrait. In fairness, he looked like he belonged on a divine tapestry.
"Oh, she's in her chambers. Doing what she always does—nothing. Don't expect any help from her. She's more decoration than deity these days."
Klaus nodded, unsurprised. The One in the North had long stopped caring for the world. All she did was recline, motionless, letting her servants bathe, feed, and clothe her. A living relic, untouched by time or interest.
"Figures. We'll be going, then. The other Chain Lords will move in about two months, so we'll need to prepare."
As they left Noctis's chambers, Cassie continued to glance at Klaus, her curiosity gnawing at her. Eventually, she asked softly, "Will you continue? About your father, I mean."
Klaus glanced sideways at her and gave a grim smile.
"Well, sure. Why not?"
The grin darkened.
"Well, he wasn't perfect. And he used to beat me too. Until I left. Though… it was my decision to follow—"
He stopped. His words caught in his throat. He looked at her, uncertain whether to lie or speak the truth.
Before he could answer, Cassie spoke again, her expression unreadable.
"I know. You and Mordret knew each other since childhood. And if Mordret was taken by Asterion… then he took you too."
At the mention of that name, Klaus moved like a shadow. His hand was suddenly on her lips, his expression cold and solemn.
"Don't say his name," he said quietly. "Ever. Call him Dreamspawn, or anything else. But not that name."
Cassie blinked in surprise at his sudden seriousness, then slowly nodded. He removed his hand, and she asked, voice cautious:
"Why? What'll happen?"
Klaus's cigarette compressed into a pinpoint in his hand—folded into nothingness. He let the remains drop to the floor.
"He might notice you."
Her eyes widened in disbelief. He could hear them? Even now? Even in this Nightmare? A chill crept down her spine. If what Klaus said was true, and Nephis truly intended to kill such a being… it was no wonder Supremes were called demigods.
Cassie exhaled, her lips curling in a faint, dry smile. Nephis really is something, huh… Weak and still climbing high enough to fight monsters like that.