Chapter XXVII

(6 Years Ago)

Year 2048

Yoki awoke, the cold iron biting into his wrists, searing against his skin with unrelenting magick heat. His senses reeled, each breath pulling in the damp, musty air mixed with the acrid scent of incense, as his mind slowly grasped the reality of his confinement. Dim, flickering light crept from a narrow slit in the stone walls, painting long shadows across the chamber. The restraints around Yoki's limbs thrummed with palpable energy—runes etched in red that pulsated with a deep, malevolent glow. Their oppressive weight bore down on his consciousness as if his soul were being crushed beneath their power, his Nightwalker Sphaeram buried beneath an unnatural restraint, preventing him from tapping into his Tearing powers.

He strained against the bonds, muscles trembling, but the iron held with the silent arrogance of twilight, that razor-thin edge where autumn’s warmth fades into the first breath of winter, unmoved by his struggle. The cold runes beneath his flesh felt like skeletal fingers dragging themselves through his marrow, carving their mark with agonizing patience. As he struggled, the glow of the runes intensified, and any strength he managed to muster drained away. Darkness tugged at the edges of his vision, and he sank back, his breaths shallow, sweat beading and slicking his brow. The thick silence pressed in, the stone walls standing impassive, bearing witness to his helplessness.

Frigidness gnawed at him, seeping through the thin fabric clinging to his body. Each breath was a struggle, each gasp rasping against his dry throat, as though the very air was trying to deny him life. His heartbeat humped heavily, each pulse reverberating in the stillness. The chains rattled softly as he shifted, the sound swallowed by the oppressive quiet. He let his head fall back, resting against the damp stone, feeling the rough surface scrape against his scalp.

Like an unwelcome tide, memories surged—Stonegate, the relentless hunger of the Lapis Cruciatus, the cold, unfeeling drips of water that watched as he was consumed by constant death. He could see the prison of stone and sunderglyphs, the magick carving lines into his flesh, burning his sphaeram with an unrelenting ache. The droplets had held no empathy, their gaze clinical, the chants echoing in the darkness like a twisted mockery. Every whispered drip left a scar that never quite healed, an invisible scar that lingered long after.

The chamber mirrored those past horrors. Instead of constant drips of droplets, it was the chilling solitude that now gnawed at him. Yoki's medicine had been his ability to busy himself, to drown out his thoughts in activity, but here, the silence pressed against him like unseen hands. A constant drip echoed from the far corner of the chamber, a rhythm that pulled at his sanity, dragging it deeper into insanity. He felt a creeping sense of comfort in the thought of losing himself completely—a surrender that felt almost sweet. The Painkiller's madness, once something to fear, now beckoned as an escape from relentless numbness. His breath shuddered, metallic bitterness coating his tongue. He welcomed the agony that waited; after centuries of dying repeatedly, he craved it. Twisted thoughts swam in his mind, his craving for pain the only constant, his ever-present companion.

The silence thickened, pressing down on him with an invisible weight, trying to drown his resolve. He could almost hear the resonance of past screams, his voice reverberating in the darkness of Stonegate, mingling with the ghosts of his past. The walls seemed to close in, narrowing, suffocating. He clenched his jaw, each pulse of pain in the restraints an anchor keeping him tethered to the present.

A rat scurried across the floor, its tiny claws clicking against the stone—a fleeting reminder of life in this suffocating place. Yoki's eyes tracked its movement, desperate for something tangible to hold onto. The creature vanished into a small crevice, and the chamber seemed even emptier. He was alone—alone with his thoughts, the whispers coiling in his mind like serpents, dark tendrils tightening their hold.

His heart pounded, each beat echoing in his ears, a steady rhythm that reminded him of how hopelessly trapped he was. The air felt heavier with each passing second, as if the room itself were conspiring against him. He squeezed his eyes shut, struggling to keep his thoughts clear, but the memories twisted and knotted together, blurring the line between past and present. Fear pricked at the edges of his consciousness, an unfamiliar sensation, sharp and bitter.

His fingers twitched against the iron cuffs, his restlessness growing. He needed something—anything—to keep his mind from spiraling further. He tried to remember a time before this, a time when he wasn't confined by trauma. He thought of warmth, of laughter, of a youth’s innocence as the sun shined down upon them, a sensation that felt almost mythical now. He tried to remember faces, smiles, but they slipped away, lost to the shadows that consumed his mind.

He searched for a memory—his father’s eyes, bright with pride as he watched Yoki train, the sound of his mother’s laughter as they played together in the park. But those images were faded, blurred at the edges, slipping away as did all his good memories. It felt as though those memories belonged to someone else—another version of himself that had long since died. The darkness had taken root, swallowing the remnants of who he once was.

After what felt like an eternity, the sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor. Shadows shifted beyond the door, the torchlight casting long, wavering silhouettes. The door scraped open, iron grinding on stone, and a figure entered—their presence heavy, foreboding.

Not the lapis cruciatus.

A masked face, expressionless and blank, the eye slits unfathomable. Yet Yoki could feel their gaze burrow beneath his skin, searching, probing. The Veilseeker knelt, dark robes pooling around them, gloved fingers brushing Yoki's face with a touch devoid of warmth. The hollow eye slits seemed to look straight through him, their presence exuding a cold menace. Yoki flinched at the contact, his skin crawling beneath the lifeless touch. However, a twisted smile found its way to Yoki’s lips. He could still feel, even if it was only pain—pain was something real, something that reminded Yoki he was still alive.

The Veilseeker's voice was low, deliberate, each word resonating in the small chamber. "The Painkiller," they intoned, the words striking like hammer blows, breaking the silence. "Tell me of its nature, of its bond with you." Their mask betrayed nothing, only the detachment of an inquisitor.

Yoki clenched his jaw, the thought of torture bringing a strange satisfaction. He welcomed it—the idea of pain was more real than anything else. It was truth.

The figure tilted its head, waiting for Yoki to respond, perhaps expecting a protest, a plea. Yoki gave them nothing. The silence stretched taut between them, until the Veilseeker rose, a faint hiss of amusement escaping beneath the mask. "No matter," they said, their tone almost casual.

They gestured toward the runes, and they flared in response, searing light filling the chamber. Yoki gritted his teeth, refusing to scream. The pain comforted him, a distraction from the silence's incessant gnawing at his mind.

"We have ways of extracting the Painkiller, with or without your cooperation."

The words resonated in his mind after they left, and a flicker of something unfamiliar that gripped Yoki—a new fear. They wanted to take it from him—the Painkiller, the one thing that gave him purpose, that made the agony bearable. His heart pounded, each beat a struggle to hold onto what he had become.

Then, there it was—the whisper, curling at the edges of his thoughts. Dark, familiar, like smoke creeping through a locked door. The Painkiller. Its voice was honeyed, laced with power.

Embrace it. Give in. The world cannot hold you if you accept me. We could rip the enemies apart and leave this wretched place behind.

Yoki closed his eyes, his heart pounding against his ribs. The darkness pressed in, but part of him longed for it—the challenge it brought, the fight. He could feel the temptation, the separate pool of sphaeram deep within him now, a pool that was always too elusive to pinpoint yet seemed so close now, power that thrummed just beneath the surface, waiting for release. But something fragile held him back, something precious—his humanity. A tether that was fraying with each passing moment.

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The chamber faded, leaving only darkness, that seductive whisper wrapping tighter around his mind. He hesitated, not out of fear, but out of anticipation. He craved the pain, the rawness of power, the reminder that he was still alive. There was a part of him that feined for it, that wanted the sharp edge of it to help drown out the silence.

They can't shatter you when you're already broken. Take the power, boy.

Yoki exhaled, and he made his decision. He gave in.

The world erupted into darkness.

Shadows burst from his skin, coiling around the cold iron that bound him, numbing his senses even as they sharpened, bringing a heightened awareness to every painful detail—the rough metal against his wrists, the cold air seeping into his bones, the power coursing beneath the surface. The pall clung to the metal until it groaned, cracked, and shattered. The runes flared in a desperate, crimson blaze, resisting in vain. Yoki roared—a guttural, primal sound, a force that shattered the sunderglyphed bindings. Power surged through him, venomous and euphoric, a tide of black energy drowning everything else. He was no longer numb—he was alive, raw, filled with intoxicating power.

The Veilseeker stood across the room, their body poised, unaware of the shift in power. Yoki caught sight of his reflection in a shard of iron—eyes glowing crimson, filled with an emptiness that mirrored his soul. He smiled, and his body responded—wings erupted from his back, leathery and dark, magnificent in their monstrous glory. Talons sprouted from his fingers, teeth elongating into feral points. He was darkness given form, an unfeeling force, heightened senses focused on one thing—the hunt.

The Veilseeker turned, surprise flashing beneath the mask—a brief moment of disbelief as they sensed the surge of power too late, a hand reaching for a weapon that would never be drawn. Yoki's speed, driven by raw, unrestrained energy, overwhelmed even the Veilseeker's formidable reflexes. Too late. Yoki moved, his body a blur, slipping into the shadows clinging to his skin. The temperature dropped, a deep chill pulsing in time with his racing heart. His taloned hand lashed out, darkness given form, slicing through the Veilseeker's neck in a single, vicious stroke. Blood sprayed, warm droplets spattering Yoki's face. The metallic scent filled his lungs, electric.

The world became Yoki's hunting ground, the stone walls rippling like a mirage, surfaces shifting under his influence. The torchlight flickered, trembling shadows stretching long, the air itself seeming to bend to his will. Each corner, each hallway was his stage, a place to unleash his wrath.

Yoki moved like a wraith, his wings folded tight against his back, talons aching for more. He heard the footsteps of others echoing down distant halls, unaware of the nightmare now stalking their midst. The stone walls loomed above, still acting as silent witnesses. What once seemed an endless maze of twisting corridors warped for him, shadows guiding his path.

Yoki emerged behind his next target, his talons cutting through the air with ruthless precision. The Veilseeker gasped, a crimson arc painting the wall before collapsing, lifeless. Yoki vanished before the body touched the ground. He was no mere mortal; he was death incarnate, the reaper made flesh.

Another Veilseeker fell, their scream smothered by the leathery shroud of Yoki's wings. He drove his talons deep into their chest, feeling the resistance of a protection rune, then the give of flesh and bone. The sensation was almost sensual, power thrumming through his fingers as he crushed their life. He discarded the corpse without a glance, eyes already searching for the next.

He was a nightmare given form, his movements a ballet of death. The world blurred, shadows bending to his will, opening paths that no mortal eyes could perceive. The walls whispered secrets of escape, urging him forward.

Yoki stepped out of the chamber, the thick scent of blood still clinging to the air. The corridor stretched before him, dissolving as he passed, opening into a twilight forest. Trees stood like silent sentinels, their bare branches swaying, an owl's distant hoot echoing across the darkness.

Yoki looked behind him, but the corridor was gone, in it’s wake a forest that stretched endlessly, a dark expanse obscured by mist. The moon hung above, casting pale light over the frost-covered leaves. He could feel the pulse of life around him—the rustling of creatures, the watchful eyes of predators. There was something primal in the air, a reminder of his place in the food chain—far above all others.

He drew a deep breath, the cold air searing his lungs. The thrill of the hunt thrummed in his veins, a call he could not deny. He needed to move, needed the chase, the surge of power with each victory. At that moment he realized a shadow stood before him, hands outstreched.

Yoki could sense the shadow’s emotion as if it were alive. “Ppllesaseasae takkeeeekeeeee.” The wind whipsered words that weren’t words, present only from what could’ve been from the shadow. With a flick of his wrist, Yoki’s deep purple Umbra cloak flung out of the shadow’s hidden insides, followed in turn with his Newsboy Cap and compass. It seemed to all make sense in the moment, and Yoki simply moved onward, compass raised to his now enlarged lips.

"Library," Yoki said, his voice layered with the Painkiller's resonance.

The compass glowed faintly in his hand, its needle pointing unwaveringly forward, aligning with the direction of his intended destination—the library. Yoki spread his wings, the leathery appendages catching the moonlight as he launched himself into the sky, the forest below blurring into darkness. The wind roared, and for a moment, Yoki felt invincible.

Then the fatigue hit.

It started as a dull ache in his wings, spreading to his bones, weighing him down. Yoki's vision blurred, the world shifting in and out of focus. The power that had surged through him moments ago now burdened him, his muscles crying out with each beat of his wings. The Painkiller's seemingly urgent whispers faded beyond comprehension, leaving only the raw exhaustion of over exertion.

Yoki tried to keep going, but his body betrayed him. His wings faltered, altitude dropping sharply. The compass slipped from his grip, spinning away into the dark as he plummeted. The nippy air roared past him, gravity pulling him down, his body weightless. His vision darkened further, the edges fading until there was nothing but all black.

Branches broke beneath him as he crashed through the treetops, snapping against his skin like brittle fingers. Leaves tore at his wings, sending him tumbling through the canopy. The world was a chaotic blur of black and grey until a final, sickening thud as he struck the ground, pain exploding through his body.

He lay amidst the underbrush, the cold earth cradling him. Yoki’s breathing was ragged, pain reverberating through every inch of his battered form. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled—a haunting, lonely sound. He blinked, vision returning ever so slight but still dim, catching sight of the compass half-buried in dirt, its needle still pointing toward the library.

The Painkiller's presence that had dwindled to a faint whisper seemed to be urging him onward. Yoki’s fingers twitched, curling into the soil, feeling its rough texture. He tried to push himself up, but every muscle refused to cooperate. The power slipped away from him, the shadows that had been his allies fading.

Caught in that liminal space between life and something beyond, flashes of faces came to him—men, women, and creatures Yoki’s never seen before. He tried to hold onto these images—they seemed, important somehow. Interconnected with Yoki’s very being. But darkness pressed in, absolute, and Yoki felt himself sinking.

Yet there was still something—a flicker of consciousness, a refusal to let go. Deep within, the Painkiller's essence burned like a dark ember, refusing to be snuffed out. Weak, but enough. Yoki gritted his teeth, jaw clenched, and pulled himself forward, inch by agonizing inch. The leaves rustled beneath him, the cold biting deep, but he did not stop. Yoki reached for the compass, his fingers brushing against its frigid metal. He pulled it close, feeling the faint thrum of magick pulsating from it.

Slowly, painfully, Yoki forced himself to his knees. He swayed, vision still dim, but he did not fall. He looked toward the horizon, the sun just beginning to rise; of the library far in the distance, its presence calling to him. Yoki spread his wings, the effort painful, but he pushed off the ground, rising unsteadily. The forest receded below, but he kept rising, higher and higher.

I will not stop, not now, not so close.

The darkness lingered, exhaustion still clinging to his bones, but Yoki embraced it. He would not allow them to take the Painkiller, would not let them strip away the one thing that had both kept him alive and burdened him with its twisted comfort, a source of strength yet also a dangerous vulnerability. The sky stretched out before him, and Yoki flew, the cold air whipping at his face.

The wind howled, dragging at him, but he fought against it, wings flapping with furious desperation. His muscles strained, each beat an agonizing effort. His vision flickered, the compass clutched tightly in his hand, its weight a reminder of his mission.

The last thing he saw was the treetops racing toward him, leafless branches outstretched. His body, already drained, finally gave in as his vision dimmed completely, exhaustion and pain overwhelming even his enhanced resilience—then, nothing.

Silence.

The darkness swallowed him, but in that black void, something flickered—fire, distant and watching. Yoki's consciousness slipped, but he felt it: a presence brushing against his mind, ancient, patient, waiting. Chief, it seemed to whisper.

──── ∗ ⋅◈⋅ ∗ ────

Far below, the compass landed with a muffled thud, its needle unwavering, still pointing toward the library, glinting ominously in the twilight.

In those distant halls of the library, a figure dressed in all green stirred from their desk, a knowing smile spreading across their face.

A distant howl pierced the silence somewhere outside—a warning, perhaps a welcome. The Academy was stirring in the early dawn, unseen forces aligning, threads of fate pulled to the brink, ready to snap.