“The strongest Tide?

There is no ‘Strongest Tide’. There is only the strongest Seafarer.

Any path can deliver you to the Shattered Peak. You must only walk it fondly and remain dedicated. Obsessed. Obsession will take you further than talent.”

* Anomaly 0, answering the questions of a newly risen Praetor.

Dante stood balanced on an abnormal lily pad atop a small, mist-shrouded pond, surrounded by ghostly plants that arched around the shore behind him, their translucent leaves whispering in the soft breeze. Tiny, spectral bugs skittered along the pale stems, casting faint glows in the vague light from nowhere and everywhere all at once. Misty carp drifted serenely below the water’s surface, their scales shimmering as evaporation streamed from their forms.

He watched the fish, their lives simple and unbothered. Unable to think while looking at them, he shook his head, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face. The man wasn’t sure where he was, but he found himself lost in the bizarre nature.

However, a noise from ahead drew his attention, pulling him from his reverie. In front of him, a line of lily pads stretched toward a central island nestled within the pond, where a raised terrace extended over the land. Sitting on a chair at a long table under the roof was a man, barely visible, his form almost translucent, like an echo from a forgotten memory.

Dante’s gaze fixed on him with recognition. This was Geist. Whatever remained of him, at least.

Step by step, he moved across the floating lilies, each pad rippling beneath his weight yet holding firm, carrying him closer. The mist curled around him, thickening as he neared the island, wrapping the world in a hazy silence. But it wasn’t threatening, utterly unlike Geist’s Arido.

Instead, the fog graced his flesh with a soft touch, closer to an inquisitive animal than a murderous monster. Dante furrowed his brows, his curiosity growing. When he first gained his powers, he had nothing like this. Was it because of Judas?

He wasn’t sure.

A moment later, his foot touched the edge of the island’s land, intangible stalks of grass beneath him, and a voice drifted to him from across the terrace.

“I always dreamed I’d create a place like this,” the man spoke, his voice as faint as his form yet laced with longing. “A real world. A place where my creations wouldn’t break at a sharp gust.” His gaze traveled over the pond and misted plants, a flicker of sadness in his fading expression. “It’s… a painful thing, to only hurt and never create.”

The man turned to look at him, eyes searching Dante’s with a depth that made the words resonate, “What do you think, Dante? Are you not the same?”

Geist’s gaze pierced through the human’s flesh as if he, too, was translucent. It continued, plunging into the distant fog beyond the canopy of flowers, lilies, and life.

Dante hesitated, the echo of Geist’s words lingering in the mist between them. The man had come here ready for a battle, but with such a question, his gaze drifted over the ethereal scene—the mist-laden pond, the ghostly plants, the shimmering, spectral fish. He took it in.

He breathed it in.

The scents entered his air, that of a calm spring.

This was the first thing he had ever seen created by the Lightsea that felt... peaceful. His mind flashed to his thoughts regarding the Dirge being manipulated toward madness.

Geist’s abode was a creation that seemed as fragile as a breath. Yet, it held a strange, timeless beauty, as though it existed just outside the boundaries of reality. Indeed, it did.

The two faced each other between worlds and realities upon the precipice of life and death. It was easy to see which stood on either side, but the hearts of each were not always so simple.

Dante looked back at Geist, the ghostly figure seated at the table, his gaze steady yet searching. Dante wasn’t sure how much of Geist was still present here, if he remembered who Dante was, or if this was merely a fragment—a lingering piece of Geist’s power and mind. Regardless, he ignored his surprise at the Anacrux’s nonviolence and walked closer.

There were questions he needed answers to, even if he couldn’t ask them.

“Is that really all you think you were capable of?” Dante asked, his voice steady with profound caution, though his words carried a trace of accusation. “Only able to hurt?”

Geist’s face flickered, the faintest shadow of a smile passing over his almost featureless visage, “Hurt, destruction… it’s what I understood. It’s what I was given to work with. It’s what was forced upon me. And all the rest,” he murmured as if admitting a bitter truth to himself. “When you are starving, Dante, everything becomes prey.”

Dante’s eyes narrowed as he took another step, his weight leaving the intangible grass and landing on the dense stone. “But this place,” he said, gesturing to the misted world around them, “this doesn’t look like a starving predator’s work. It’s… something else.”

Geist looked away, his head drifting to the murk that settled over the pond. Then, his eyes softened as though he glimpsed something Dante could not, “A different world, a different life, perhaps.”

He continued with a slow, almost wistful sigh, “I know you wish answers. I cannot give you them. The consequences are more than you can endure. Leave it be. Some things are not meant to be known by mortals.”

Dante scrutinized the ghost, his own expression indistinct. “Why not? Is there anything you can tell me? Why aren’t we fighting?”

Geist’s head tilted, his gaze falling back on Dante, and for the first time, there was something piercing in his translucent eyes, “Who says we aren’t? Battles are decided before the first blade is drawn. You know this. As do I.”

His attention ignored Dante’s most pressing question and focused on something inside Dante’s solid flesh, “Perhaps I wanted to see if you’re bound by the same curse. If you’re bound to become like me—a weapon in a world that demands destruction.”

Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

Dante stiffened, a flicker of defiance sparking in his eyes. “Who? What did this to you?”

Geist’s eyes narrowed, his face twisting with a mix of bitterness and resignation, “I can’t tell you names, but even if I could, it wouldn’t matter much,” Geist murmured, his voice hollow. “We’re all caught in a web, Dante. A web spun so wide and fine that we can’t even see its threads, only feel the pull. Those who see more… well are the ones with the strings in their hands, and none are eager to let go.”

Dante felt the weight of Geist’s words settle over him, a creeping unease forming as he tried to make sense of what Geist was saying. This didn’t feel like the confession of a mere weapon, of a man content to be used. There was more, a resentment buried deep, layered under years of bitter acceptance. Dante was no stranger to the manipulation of others. But this was different. It wasn’t some clever ruse to drop his guard.

This Geist... it wasn’t the man he had spoken to before. It wasn’t the man who taunted him and Thanaris. He was utterly different from the man that he had just slain.

This man... he was consumed by remorse. Depressed. Hopeless. But why? Why was he this way? Was the web really that awful? Was there indeed no hope?

Something had made Geist into the man he was. Vile and murderous. Yet, as Dante stared at him now, he saw something other.

“You’re saying someone forced you into this?” Dante pressed, his voice edged with frustration. “Who has that kind of power? What do they want with people like us?”

Geist turned to him, and for a moment, his translucent face held an expression of almost pity, “Not everyone is forced, Dante. Some are lured, tricked, and seduced by power and purpose. Others… others have no choice at all, either life or death. And then, there are those like us. Those who are just... given a path. If we stray... they—”

Dante felt a chill crawl down his spine as Geist paused. His already indistinct figure faded further. The man had said something he shouldn’t.

That he couldn’t.

The once-firm eyes of Geist unfocused, and Dante sat beside the man. He raised an arm, arranging it against the Anacrux’s shoulder. It felt like that of a cloud, damp and formless.

“What about this?” Dante asked, gesturing to the tranquil world around them, his intent to bring Geist’s mind back from whatever took him. “This doesn’t look like destruction, Geist. This is peace—your peace. If you were nothing but a weapon, why create this place?”

For a second, nothing happened, as if Geist didn’t hear a word Dante said. However, the dead man blinked in the growing stillness, regaining some clarity.

Geist’s hand reached out, grazing the air as if he could feel the faint mist. It was as if he could touch the fleeting beauty he had somehow forged in this broken space.

“Because this was my dreamland. When I slept, I wished to be safe. To be... here,” he whispered, the ghost’s voice laced with finality. “It’s everything I wanted to be—a creator, not a destroyer. But even here, I am not free. I am nothing borrowed dream, bound to fade. Worse... when I return, I will no longer be me. I will merely share the same abilities and flesh.”

Dante watched him. The ghost’s defiance eased into an accepted fate. Dante hadn’t come here to pity Geist or to feel anything but rage toward the man. He thought they would battle here. That he would once more face death. Yet here, in this dreamlike world of the dying spirit, there was no struggle to be had.

“So, what now? Is there any way out?” Dante asked, his voice steady.

Geist’s eyes met his, and for the first time, they held a glimmer of something—hope or perhaps mere desperation, “A way out? Who knows? If anyone were to know, it would be your Vicar. Or my Stranger. The Eventide Seraphim and the Nameless Drifter stand at the apex of the Shattered Peak. If any could... it would be them.”

Dante’s heart pounded as Geist’s gaze bore into him, an intensity burning in the echo’s evanescent eyes.

“You have power, Dante. Power you don’t fully understand, but it’s different from mine. Pure, untouched. That’s rare,” Geist continued, his voice thick with urgency. “They’ll come for you. I was born with a chain. Your kind... you only chain yourselves. They’ll dress it up, promise you purpose, and give you reasons to embrace that power. But be wary, Dante—what seems like control is only a chain in disguise.”

Dante clenched his fists, anger and resolve building within him as he recalled Astraeus’ struggle with his emotions and Judas’ ministrations, “I don’t intend to be anyone’s plaything. I won’t let anyone take my mind. But... I already had something inside me. Do you not sense it?”

A faint smile flickered across Geist’s face before it twisted into agony, “You already had a Qualae? No. You... My death will awaken yours. I had thought... no. It must have been another trick. Here, I can hold some bits. I...”

Geist took a long, parting look at the world around them as though he were saying goodbye, “Whatever... fuck...” each word echoed with centuries of agony, of millennia of chains ripping out the man’s soul.

An Anacrux had a chance at revival should they overwhelm their challenger. They could take over the body and mold it to fit their whims. Awakened to reality, Geist fought ferociously against a foe more spectral than his Tide.

Dante sat silent, observing the man as he struggled to relay his message instead of resisting death. The ordained duel shifted into an old man’s parting words.

“That thing... It shared your face, no? The Forgotten Pride. Ego. That is his name. I... didn’t think... he was... real. A horror story... amongst young Dirge. I can see it... through our connection. I... It made a mistake, Dante. It let you live. You...” Geist’s figure flickered, the edges of his form dissolving into the mist. It was as though he were part of this world, and now it was calling him back.

The last traces of his face, that small, hopeful smile, faded into the fog with an echoing warning, “Do not say his name aloud. Until you can break the void, he will hear you. Names have power, Dante Penance. No matter his reason, he let you live. Please. Make. Them. Regret. It.”

With his departure, Dante sat alone in the estate of ghosts. After a long sigh, he stood and walked up to the pond’s reflection. The surface hid the depths from him.

One last time, he desired to see Geist’s creations. The man, while an enemy, didn’t wish to be one. He wanted only to be a gardener. Instead, he was compelled to engage in endless slaughter and massacre.

The fate of the man weighed on Dante’s mind. It made him worry for Thanaris and Astraeus. How would they turn out?

Were they resisting? Had they already fallen?

Hana. Melody. Even that Joseph. Were they long gone? Geist said Dante’s kind were born only shackled by themselves. A man like Joseph must have been seduced by whatever lurked in the shadows.

As the human turned to leave, his figure evaporating like the dead man did, a faint ripple passed over the pond. Beneath the tremors, the ghostly carp drifted closer as though drawn to him, their misty forms mirroring the faint light from the world Geist had left behind.

They spun in circles, unbeknownst to Dante, as the man knew he would have to wait until he achieved a Domain Collapse to share this information with anyone. The exact reason was beyond him, but he acknowledged the warning after all he had seen.

The moment he left, the fish ceased their movement. Water froze, and the air stilled as the temperature dropped. Soon, there was nothing in the tranquil pagoda other than dead meaning.

However, Dante’s mind couldn’t remain idle. Colors crumpled his vision as a rapid-fire volley of information entered his mind. Lesser Qualae delivered only the Tide and the Stigmata. Those of the Anarchy and Anachronism did more, bestowing knowledge and instinct.

An Anacrux did far more.

It was as if the Lightsea itself spoke to him. And maybe it did.

Visions pierced through the menagerie of colors, showing him practicing his Hydro and all his failures. It edged him toward success, demonstrating paths of development. Moreover, it went beyond the Tide.

It showed his Stigmata. It told Dante who he was. Who he truly was.

A cunning charlatan. Conflicts made only after careful rehearsal. Death is decided before the blade is drawn. Betrayal tightens trust and elevates preparation.

The words coalesce from thousands of different voices, originating from all those Dante had met over his life. They created him. They, altogether, knew him. He was them.

With the voices’ guidance, Dante listened to himself explain his Stigmata to Eight in an echoing chamber, “I can store skills. Only three right now, and they’re kinda limited in scope, but they can grow. Even if I’m tired, even if I’m under Inverted Palace, even if... they take it from me again. I’ll still be able to fight.”

The bizarreness of hearing himself talk threw Dante off, but his excitement tore through the oddity. This was his Stigmata, and the voice continued, imparting countless experiences that would help him in manipulating his Tide. It directly pushed him a level higher with his mastery, from a novice to an adept. He stared down at his broken arm as the visions and noises faded, and he forced a wall of water to form within his own flesh.

With a tiny tug, one that felt just right, unlike Reset, the Tide vanished into his body.

Even as his feet landed on solid ground and he saw seven people who looked identical to Eight, the man held a smile. He ignored the impossible scene before him, too engrossed in his own evolution. The Stigmata was perfect for him.

It wasn’t overbearing like Melody’s or mind-bending like Sonna’s. Neither was it as impressive as Eight’s or as distant as Rejo’s.

It was simple. It stored a movement of Tide...

That could be triggered with a preset condition.

As Eight sputtered beside Dante and the seven figures hauled corpses while ignoring the two spectators, the human properly set up his three Matchlocks.

The first contained a charge of Flick, the burst of water that held the potential to pierce through feet of steel. When Dante said “hello,” high-pressurized water would erupt from his pinky finger.

Next, he created an ability based on Rasa’s expertise. In the same way the Centurion kept his organs inside, Dante formed a rudimentary version that would continually push against any bleeding wound with water. Such would activate when he received a life-threatening injury.

Furthermore, the final one was a little special. It would activate whenever Dante snapped his fingers, detonating a jet of water from his feet, allowing him to evade an incoming attack or close in on a foe. This was something new he had thought of after seeing Joseph’s movements.

He could only prepare three for now, and their scope and complexity were limited. With enough practice, however, he could loosen those restraints. Every foe he could prepare countermeasures, every situation accounted for, and every future dealt with.

Eight’s short sob, however, broke him from his dreams. The human left his imagination and thoughts to witness the boy on his knees, shouting at seven identical copies of him killing each other on a stage.

“Why! No! Stop! I... this isn’t real! STOP!”

Every word from Eight possessed years of unwinding memories, and Dante felt the storm of emotions swirling around the boy. The man was still not in reality. This was yet another vision, but this was completely different.

It was a memory of the living, not the hopes of the dead.