"To ex-EEST, or not to EX-eest... Hah! A mere ripple in the vastness beyond vill itself, comrade. You think too much, yes? In that question... lies the essence of all that was, is, and—vill—ever be. It's as futile as wondering if a star's light matters in the endless void. I already know the answer, of course. To everything. It's all so painfully simple, don't you think? So utterly... insignificant, da?"

—KBZ

In the ancient and brooding halls of Umbraheim, where the stone walls whispered secrets of ages long past, the summit had gathered. It was a place where gothic spires reached towards the eternal twilight, and shadows seemed to move with a life of their own. The rulers of disparate realms, each with their own burdens and legacies, had convened to address the most dire threat their worlds had ever known: Ophelia, the Warbringer Prototype, a being whose very name inspired dread across the omniverses.

The grand chamber, adorned with dark, elaborate tapestries and lit by flickering candelabras, exuded a heavy atmosphere. The rulers were already seated, each in their place of power, their eyes fixed on the centre of the round table where an image of Ophelia's last known whereabouts flickered ominously in a holographic projection.

Cordelia, the Doom Knight and Emperor of the Tartarus Imperium, broke the silence first. Her presence was as formidable as the demonic spiked mace that rested by her side. Clad in black armour with a crimson cape flowing behind her, Cordelia's red eyes gleamed with an intense, almost otherworldly fire. Her dark brown hair framed a face that was both stern and regal.

"Ophelia," Cordelia intoned, her voice resonating with the authority of one who ruled over legions of the damned. "She is not merely a criminal but a blasphemy against the natural order, an aberration that seeks to overthrow the very gods. Her theft of the Apex Ascendant from Rosalind—may her soul find peace—marks her as a foe beyond mortal comprehension. The Tartarus Imperium stands ready to bring her to justice, to drag her from her false throne and into the abyss where she belongs."

Seated beside her, Beatrice, the crusader and illegitimate princess of Sanctumaria, nodded solemnly. Her long blonde hair and piercing blue eyes contrasted sharply with her imposing heavenly hammer, which rested against her chair. Despite her divine lineage, there was a shadow of grief in her gaze—a grief born of loss and betrayal.

"Cordelia, you speak with wisdom," Beatrice said, her voice steady but laden with emotion. "Ophelia's crimes are not abstract horrors to me. She was once like a sister, a cherished member of my family. Matthias, the great paladin, adopted her as his own, and we all believed she would bring light to the world. But now... now she is the very darkness we sought to vanquish. The death of my half-brother, Sebastian, found defiled on our throne, is but a fraction of the torment she has wrought. I swear upon my bloodline, upon the legacy of Sanctumaria, that Ophelia will answer for her sins."

Across the table, the air shimmered as Portia's holographic form materialised. Despite being aeons away in her Spire of the Solitary Champion, her presence was potent. Her long white hair cascaded to the ground, her holy aura barely contained by the blindfold and straitjacket that bound her. Even in her spectral form, the purifying energy she radiated was tangible, cleansing the air around her.

"Ophelia is an anomaly," Portia's voice was soft but carried the weight of millennia. "She wields the Apex Ascendant, a weapon of unfathomable power, designed in my world to safeguard, not destroy. Its fall into her hands is a travesty. Her nanomachines, born of my era's technological marvels, give her the ability to warp reality itself. But we must remember, even in the face of such overwhelming power, there is always a light to counter the darkness. We must be that light, united in purpose."

The feral energy of Maria, the barbarian queen of the Omegasaurus Tribe, added a primal intensity to the gathering. Her wild blonde hair and primordial armour spoke of a time when life was simpler, yet harsher. Though displaced from her time, Maria's spirit was indomitable.

"My tribe is gone," Maria growled, her voice thick with barely restrained anger. "Lost to the sands of time. I do not know if it was Ophelia's doing, or if we simply faded into history, but it does not matter. What matters is that I am here now, and I have the strength of the ages behind me. Ophelia's armies, her machines, her dark magics—they will fall before the might of the primal. I will see her broken, just as she has broken so many."

Macbeth, the lamia magistrate of Shuanglu, coiled gracefully in her seat. Her serpentine form exuded a cold, calculated menace. Her gaze, sharp and unblinking, held the weight of countless judgements rendered, countless lives condemned.

"Shuanglu is a land of shadows and secrets," Macbeth said, her voice a silken whisper. "We have heard whispers of Ophelia's atrocities, tales of her pursuit of godhood. In her quest to transcend the divine, she has made enemies of all creation. My courts have deliberated, and we find her guilty—not just of crimes against nations, but against existence itself. She must be stopped, but it will require more than brute force. We must be cunning, strike when and where she least expects, and with a precision that leaves no room for escape."

Viola, one of the four ruling queens of Umbraheim and their host, adjusted her black shirt and white dress, her harpy wings rustling slightly. Despite her youthful appearance, there was a wisdom in her brown eyes that spoke of deep understanding.

"Ophelia's nanomachines are her greatest strength," Viola mused, her tone thoughtful. "But they may also be her greatest vulnerability. We must find a way to disrupt them, to strip her of the power she has stolen and bring her to heel. Umbraheim has resources, knowledge of ancient magics and technologies that may prove crucial in this fight. We must pool our knowledge, our strength, to craft a strategy that addresses her on every front—physical, magical, and technological."

The last to speak was Yoshiko Amane, the serene spear-wielder from Yugen, who stood with quiet dignity. Her connection to the Enlightened One, Rosalind, lent her words a weight beyond her years.

"Ophelia was once a beacon of wisdom and kindness," Yoshiko began, her voice calm, imbued with a sense of tragic inevitability. "She was my mentor's most beloved student, a sister to us all in Yugen. Her fall is not just a loss; it is a wound that bleeds across realities. But even in the face of her betrayal, I cannot help but remember the good she once represented. We must defeat her, yes, but we must also strive to understand her—to perhaps, if it is possible, save her from the darkness that has consumed her."

The sombre atmosphere within the grand hall of Umbraheim thickened as the rulers absorbed Yoshiko's words. The flickering candlelight seemed to dim, casting deeper shadows that danced like spectres across the stone walls. The silence that followed Yoshiko Amane's plea for understanding hung heavy, each ruler contemplating the implications of her proposal.

Cordelia was the first to break the silence. Her red eyes narrowed, and a dark, unsettling energy radiated from her. The Doom Knight's voice was like the grinding of iron on stone, filled with a barely contained fury.

"Save her?" Cordelia spat the words as if they were poison. "You speak of mercy for a monster who has laid waste to worlds, who has committed atrocities so vile that even the demons of the Tartarus Imperium recoil in disgust. Ophelia is beyond redemption, Yoshiko. She forfeited any right to our compassion when she chose to wield the Apex Ascendant for her twisted ambitions. Mercy is a weakness she will exploit. No, we must not offer her the chance to repent. We must bring her to her knees, break her, and ensure she can never rise again."

The room fell silent, Cordelia's words hanging in the air like the edge of her mace—sharp, heavy, and inescapable. Her stance was clear, and her gaze bore into Yoshiko with the intensity of a warrior who had seen too much darkness to believe in light.

Beatrice shifted in her seat, her blue eyes thoughtful, though her heart was conflicted. The princess of Sanctumaria was a beacon of justice, but she had also known Ophelia before her fall. Her voice was measured, though it carried the weight of personal grief.

"Cordelia, I understand your rage," Beatrice said softly. "Ophelia has committed unforgivable acts. But Yoshiko's point is not one of weakness; it is one of caution. We must be certain that our judgement is not clouded by anger alone. There was a time when Ophelia was a force for good, a time when she fought alongside us against the darkness. Perhaps that part of her still exists, buried beneath the corruption. If there is a way to reach her, to restore even a fragment of the person she once was, we owe it to the omniverses to at least consider it."

Cordelia's response was immediate and cutting. "Beatrice, your sentimentality will be our undoing. Ophelia's crimes are not the result of some tragic fall—they are a calculated choice, a path she walked willingly. She is not some lost soul to be saved; she is the architect of her own damnation. If we allow our emotions to sway us, she will exploit it, and countless more will suffer. This is not a time for mercy; it is a time for absolution by fire."

The holographic form of Portia shimmered, her voice as serene as ever but with an undercurrent of stern resolve. "Cordelia, while I do not disagree with your assessment of Ophelia's threat, we must also acknowledge the complexity of her situation. The nanomachines she wields, the Apex Ascendant—these are tools of immense power, yes, but they are also symbols of what she once aspired to be. If we can turn those tools against her, if we can strip her of the corruption and perhaps reignite the spark of the person she was, then we may find a solution that does not require her total annihilation."

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Maria, the barbarian queen, leaned forward, her primal instincts warring with the modern understanding she was slowly coming to grips with. "Mercy is not something my tribe offered easily," Maria rumbled. "But there is wisdom in what Portia and Beatrice say. If there is a way to weaken her without letting her know, if we can bait her into thinking we might spare her, then strike when she is at her most vulnerable... perhaps there is a path that serves both justice and the omniverses."

Macbeth, however, was less inclined to this line of thinking. Her voice, as cold and calculated as ever, sliced through the discussion. "This debate is a distraction. Ophelia is a tactician, a manipulator. She will see through any attempt to sway her with appeals to her former self. What we need is a strategy that leaves no room for her to manoeuvre, no space for mercy or hesitation. The moment we show even a hint of leniency, she will use it against us. We cannot afford to be anything less than ruthless."

Viola listened intently, her harpy wings rustling slightly as she absorbed the differing opinions. Finally, she spoke, her tone reflective. "There is merit in both arguments. Ophelia is undeniably a threat that must be neutralised, but we must also consider the long-term implications of our actions. If we destroy her without attempting to understand the full extent of her power and motivations, we may miss an opportunity to prevent another from following in her footsteps. Yoshiko's suggestion is not merely about mercy; it's about strategy—about ensuring that we address not just the symptom, but the disease itself."

Yoshiko Amane stood silent, her serene expression unchanged despite the heated debate her words had sparked. When she finally spoke, her voice was calm, imbued with a quiet strength. "I do not ask for mercy out of naivety, nor do I suggest we abandon our duty to protect the omniverses. But we must remember that Ophelia was once like us—she had hopes, dreams, a desire to make the worlds better. The very tools she now uses for destruction were created with the intent of safeguarding life. If we can find a way to remind her of that, to bring her back from the brink, we might avert further catastrophe."

Cordelia's red eyes flared with disdain. "And what if we fail, Yoshiko? What if your attempt to save her only strengthens her resolve to destroy us all? I have seen too many fall because they believed in the goodness of those who no longer deserved it. Ophelia is a cancer, and the only cure is to cut her out completely. We do not have the luxury of hope."

Yoshiko met Cordelia's gaze steadily, her voice unwavering. "And what if we succeed? What if, by reaching out, we save not just Ophelia but the countless lives she might destroy in the future? This is not just about her—it's about what we become in our fight against her. We must not lose our humanity, our compassion, in the name of justice."

Finally, Viola spoke, her voice a quiet but firm command. "Enough. We have heard all sides. This is not a choice we can make lightly, nor is it one that should be decided in haste. We will continue to deliberate, and in the meantime, we will prepare for both possibilities. If Ophelia can be redeemed, we will try. But if she cannot... then we must be prepared to do what is necessary to end her threat once and for all."

Cordelia's lips curled into a grim smile. "Very well. But do not mistake my agreement for approval. I will be ready when the time comes—ready to deliver the final blow."

Her crimson eyes narrowed, lost in the darkness of her memories. Her expression was grim, an iron resolve forged in the fires of betrayal and despair. "My fate was sealed long ago," she began, her voice resonating with a bitter edge that cut through the silence like a blade. "In another life, I was a daughter—loyal, loving, and ultimately forsaken. My father, King Lear, blinded by flattery and deceit, cast me aside, believing the lies of my treacherous sisters. Even as I remained true, even as I returned to him in his madness, it was too late. I died in chains, a victim of ambition, jealousy, and a world that had no place for honour."

Her gaze swept across the others, her voice dropping to a near growl. "In that life, I was powerless, at the mercy of forces beyond my control. But in this life, I have forged myself anew. I am no longer the naive daughter who believed in the righteousness of others. I am Cordelia, Emperor of the Tartarus Imperium, and I will never again be at the mercy of fate or the whims of lesser beings. I will crush those who stand in my way, for I have learned that only the strong survive."

Beatrice leaned forward, her blue eyes softening as she considered Cordelia's tale. "Your story is a tragedy of loyalty repaid with betrayal," she said, her voice tinged with compassion. "But it is also a tale of strength born from suffering. You've turned that pain into a weapon, Cordelia, and I respect that. But we must remember that not every story of redemption is doomed to failure. Sometimes, the strongest hearts are forged in the fires of loss."

Cordelia's eyes narrowed slightly, her expression hardening. "Perhaps. But I will not let sentimentality cloud my judgement. We have seen what happens when mercy is given to those who do not deserve it. Weakness is a luxury we cannot afford."

Maria shifted in her seat, her primal energy barely contained. The barbarian queen let out a low growl as she reflected on her past life. "In another time, I was a mother," she said, her voice rough but filled with a deep, enduring strength. "I bore a child who was destined to change the world, a son who was loved by many but understood by few. I watched him suffer, watched him die for the sins of others, and though my heart was shattered, I carried on. I bore the weight of the world's sorrows on my shoulders."

She glanced at Beatrice, a hint of a smile on her lips. "I suppose we both know what it is to bear a burden that others cannot comprehend. But in this life, I am no longer the quiet, grieving mother. I am a queen, a warrior, and I will not allow my people to suffer as I once did."

Beatrice's eyes softened further. "You've carried a burden that no one should ever have to bear, Maria. But you've turned that sorrow into strength, just as we all have in our own ways. There is power in grief, in love, in the bonds that tie us to this world."

Portia's hologram shimmered, her serene aura filling the room with a subtle sense of peace. "In another life, I was a woman of law and reason," she began, her voice calm and thoughtful. "I saved a man's life with a clever argument, disguised as a lawyer to circumvent the biases of the world. But even then, I saw how easily justice could be twisted by those in power. My victory was bittersweet, for though I saved a life, I could not change the hearts of those who ruled."

Her blindfolded gaze seemed to turn inward, as if recalling the distant echoes of that life. "In this life, I have seen the cost of such victories. Power, like justice, is a double-edged sword. We must wield it wisely, lest it turn against us."

Viola ruffled her wings slightly, her expression pensive as she absorbed Portia's words. "Your past life speaks to the challenge of doing what is right in a world that often resists justice," she said softly. "You saved a life through cleverness and disguise, but it came at the cost of your own truth. I, too, know what it is to hide one's true self. In my past life, I was a woman lost in a world that did not know me. I disguised myself as a man, took on a role not meant for me, all in the name of survival."

Viola paused, her eyes distant as she recalled the pain of that life. "I found love, but even that was complicated by the lies I had to tell. In the end, I was lucky—my lies did not lead to my ruin, but they could have. In this life, I have learned the value of truth, of being who I am without pretence. But I also understand the necessity of deception, the need to hide one's true self in a world that is not always kind."

Macbeth coiled tighter in her seat, her serpentine form shifting uneasily as she prepared to speak. Her eyes were cold, reflecting the bitter lessons of a life long past. "In my past life, I was the wife of a man who would be king," she hissed, her voice dripping with both regret and defiance. "I spurred him on, urged him to seize the crown through murder and betrayal. We believed we could shape our own destiny, that power was ours for the taking. But I learned that power seized by blood is cursed, that the stains of our deeds cannot be washed away. Madness took him, and guilt consumed me. We were both destroyed by the very ambition we sought to satisfy."

She looked at the others, her gaze hard. "In this life, I am not so easily swayed by promises of power. I understand now that ambition must be tempered with wisdom, and that the price of power can be too high to bear. I will not make the same mistakes again."

Cordelia's lips curled into a faint smile. "Ambition tempered with wisdom... Perhaps we all have our scars to bear, and our lessons to learn. But the question remains: can those lessons truly change us? Or are we doomed to repeat the same mistakes, no matter how many lives we live?"

Before anyone could respond, Yoshiko Amane spoke, her serene voice cutting through the tension. "We live in strange times," she said, her tone contemplative. "More and more, people are recalling past lives, as if the barriers between worlds are thinning. My own past life was as Tomoe Gozen, a warrior of great renown in the Heike era. I fought bravely, and my skills were legendary. But even then, amidst the chaos of battle, I found a deep sense of balance and mindfulness that guided me through."

Yoshiko's gaze swept over the room, taking in the varied reactions. "It is curious, is it not? That so many of us remember our past lives now. Perhaps there is a reason for this. We carry the weight of our former selves with us, shaping who we are in this life. And yet, despite the strength and wisdom we have gained, we still face new challenges that test us in ways we could never have anticipated."

Beatrice nodded in agreement. "Tomoe Gozen... A warrior of immense skill and honour. Your past life is an exemplification to the virtues of courage and discipline. It's remarkable how such lives can shape our current selves. Perhaps it is not merely the memories but the lessons from those lives that guide us."

Maria grunted in agreement. "I understand that well. My own past shaped me in ways that still influence me today. We all carry the weight of our former lives, whether as warriors or as rulers. It is a burden and a blessing."

Macbeth regarded Yoshiko with a cold but thoughtful gaze. "A warrior of such renown... It makes sense that you would bring a sense of balance to our discussions. Your past life speaks to the power of discipline, of maintaining one's integrity amidst chaos. Perhaps we all need that reminder."

Portia smiled, her holographic form shimmering. "It seems our past lives have bestowed upon us wisdom that defies the boundaries of time. We must wield this gift, not merely with strength, but with elevated awareness and a clarity that pierces through the fog of uncertainty."

Cordelia's expression hardened, her voice dripping with dark resolve. "If we are to confront Ophelia, we must focus on the here and now. Our past lives are but echoes, shadows of what we once were. What matters is our present strength and determination. We cannot afford to be swayed by nostalgia or regrets. We must be ruthless in our pursuit of victory. I stand firm on this: it's kill or be killed. And I refuse to die like a naïve fool again—pathetic and powerless."