Cyrus shuffled back to the kitchen, his shoulders hunched under an invisible weight. The sink loomed before him, a precarious tower of neglected dishes teetering on the brink of collapse. A cloud of tiny insects swarmed in the stagnant air, their incessant buzzing a maddening symphony. He swatted at them half-heartedly, but their droning only intensified, as if mocking his futile efforts.
His mind drifted, caught in the riptide of memory. The Moving Star Island of his youth materialized in his mind's eye—a vibrant, pulsing hub of tourism he'd visited with his parents before the mines claimed them. Yet, paradoxically, it felt as though he'd spent lifetimes there, trapped in an endless loop of forgotten experiences.
A fragment of recollection flickered like a faulty film reel: himself, supine on a cold table, gazing up at a woman whose smile sent shivers down his spine. The nature of her actions eluded him, but dread coiled in his gut. His gaze inadvertently caught his reflection in the grimy kitchen mirror, and he recoiled. His face had become a ghostly mask, drained of all vitality. Dark hollows cradled his eyes, as if sleep had become a long-forgotten luxury.
"A modified toy," he chuckled, the sound brittle and harsh in the oppressive silence. The bitter truth settled like lead in his stomach. Somehow, he'd become a pawn in the Queen's twisted game. His body trembled as his imagination ran wild, conjuring nightmarish scenarios of what she might have done.
They say the fear of death outweighs death itself. That uncertainty, that yawning void in his mind, tormented him relentlessly. The imagined atrocities were far more terrifying than any lived experience. Like a formless shadow, it stalked his thoughts, refusing to grant him even a moment's peace.
From a mound of rotting produce, Cyrus plucked the last semi-edible fruit. He sank his teeth into its flesh, the crushing sound echoing in the empty room as he forced himself to swallow. Seconds later, he doubled over, heaving as his body rejected the meager sustenance. The fruit, devoid of flavor and life, might as well have been a chunk of rubber—tasteless and unyielding.
Stumbling to his bed, Cyrus observed the trembling walls with detached interest. Dust cascaded from the ceiling in fine rivulets, a constant reminder of the building's precarious state. The structure's sturdy foundation had weathered countless tremors, but the growing network of fissures signaled the inexorable approach of the karmic monsters. He cocooned himself in threadbare blankets, a futile shield against the terrors that lurked both without and within.
Cyrus squeezed his eyes shut, silently pleading for the oblivion of sleep. Time stretched and warped, elastic and uncertain. Suddenly, he jolted awake, sweat beading on his brow and soaking his clothes. The same nightmare had clawed its way into his consciousness: his parents' blood-streaked faces, contorted with disappointment and accusation. Regret gnawed at his heart with razor-sharp teeth.
Deep in the recesses of his mind, he'd always known that compromise was a fool's errand. Destroying the Bureau had been the only viable option, but fear had shackled him, rendering him impotent. He'd clung to the misguided belief that gifting the primordial canine to Lionore would magically resolve the tangled web of conflicts. Now, the consequences of his cowardice mocked him mercilessly, a chorus of silent accusers.
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His once-lofty aspirations—to save his father, to aid the Bite, to effect meaningful change—now felt like cruel jests. Stripped of his powers, he could barely summon the will to help himself, let alone others in need.
Like a man possessed, Cyrus shuffled back to the kitchen, his movements jerky and uncoordinated. His trembling hand closed around the handle of a knife, its blade glinting dully in the dim light. He raised it to his throat, feeling the cool kiss of metal against his skin. Despite his resolve, he couldn't complete the act. The blade clattered to the floor, the metallic ring a damning testament to his failure. "Even to embrace death, I'm too afraid," he whispered, his voice cracking.
A shimmering cube materialized in the air, pulsing with ethereal energy. It projected an image that snapped Cyrus from his spiral of despair. Neno's face swam into focus, his forehead streaked with rivulets of crimson. The image jostled continuously, evidence of Neno's frantic flight.
"Cyrus, are you there?" Neno's voice crackled with barely contained panic. "The Bureau, Nemesis, the karmic monsters—we're all doomed. We need you." He ducked for cover as magical explosions rocked the once-peaceful villa, now a hellscape of flame and destruction.
Cyrus's brow furrowed in confusion, momentarily forgetting his own misery. "How is this possible? I thought the magic ward surrounding the villa could resist anything. How did they breach it?"
Neno hesitated, his expression a mask of grim resignation. "Spill it," Cyrus demanded, bracing himself for the cruel twist of fate he knew was coming.
"The last portrait Mariline made—it's through it they entered the villa."
Cyrus staggered as if physically struck, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place with sickening clarity. He recalled Mariline's awe-inspiring magic in the park, her uncanny ability to breach separate domains on Marko Island. The memory of her enigmatic smile as she requested that final portrait now felt like a dagger twisting in his heart. His last, desperate hope—that perhaps it had all been an elaborate ruse to cover her escape—shattered like fragile glass.
"There's nothing I can do, Neno. Forget about me," Cyrus said, waving his hand to dismiss the image. But the cube reformed stubbornly, refusing to be banished.
"You don't understand, Cyrus. It's not just about the Bite anymore—it's about City Zero. Children, babies, mothers, fathers... all will die, non-human and human alike."
"I'm not blind, Neno," Cyrus retorted, bitterness seeping into every word. "I've seen it all. What do you expect me to do? Run headlong into battle and fight karmic monsters bare-handed? They're unstoppable killing machines. I might as well hurl myself from this building and be done with it."
"I know a way to grant you back your powers," Neno pressed, his voice urgent and pleading. "You told me to be courageous, remember? Now I'm asking you to do the same. Will you rise above these hurdles, or will you allow yourself to be buried alongside City Zero? No one can make this decision for you, I—" A deafening explosion cut him off mid-sentence, forcing him to flee once more.
The cube faded into nothingness, leaving Cyrus rooted to the spot, his mind reeling. Two divergent paths stretched before him, each fraught with peril: rush to the villa and attempt to save the city, likely perishing in the process, or remain in his self-imposed sanctuary of misery, whiling away his final hours playing mindless games and choking down rotten food until death inevitably claimed him. Faced with the most crucial decision of his life, Cyrus trembled, adrenaline surging through his veins as he teetered on the precipice of choice.