The silence in the sanctum was a living thing. It pressed against Yuki's fading consciousness like a physical weight, thick with the scent of ozone, burnt sugar, and the architect's lingering malice. His translucent hands trembled as he pushed himself up, the obsidian floor chilling him through his insubstantial form. The black veins were gone, but their echo remained—a phantom network of cold fire beneath his skin.
Aoi lay crumpled where the ritual dais had been. The crimson bands were gone, but her skin bore faint, glowing sigils, like brands left by the architect's touch. She stirred, her eyes fluttering open. They weren't vacant anymore. They burned with a feverish, unnatural light.
"Yuki?" Her voice was a rasp, raw from screaming.
He tried to speak, but no sound came. He was a ghost in his own body, a soul frayed at the edges.
The architect's shadowy form writhed above them, its vortex-face swirling with fury. You defy the inevitable, Corrupted Vessel. But the wound you inflicted… it festers.
The sanctum groaned. Cracks spiderwebbed across the obsidian walls, leaking not light, but thick, tar-like shadow. The shadow pooled on the floor, then flowed upward, coalescing into figures—Hollow Men. They were humanoid but hollow, their bodies woven from solidified darkness, their faces smooth, featureless ovals that wept black tears. They moved with jerky, unnatural grace, their forms shifting like smoke.
The blight spreads, the architect resonated. Your world rots from the inside out.
The sorcerer watched, her amethyst eyes cold. "Master, the vessel—"
Is broken, the architect finished. But not destroyed. And the anchor… Its gaze fixed on Aoi. …is changed.
Aoi clutched her head, crying out as the sigils on her skin flared. Visions flooded her mind—not memories, but fragments of the architect's realm: the obsidian spires, the rivers of tar, the endless screams. She saw the Hollow Men being born from the shadow leaking into the city. She saw the blight spreading like a cancer, turning parks into wastelands, buildings into tombs.
"The city…" she whispered, her voice trembling. "It's dying."
Yuki reached for her, his translucent fingers passing through her arm. He couldn't touch her. He couldn't help her. He was a spectator to the apocalypse he'd only delayed.
The architect's laughter echoed, a sound like grinding continents. Dying? No, little anchor. It is being reborn. In my image.
The Hollow Men advanced, their featureless faces turning toward Yuki and Aoi. The sorcerer raised her hand, shadowy symbols flaring to life. "Cleanse the remnants."
Yuki stood his ground, though his form flickered like a bad hologram. He had no power left. No demon. No soul. Only the hollow echo of defiance.
Aoi looked at him, her feverish eyes wide with terror and understanding. "What do we do?"
He met her gaze, pouring every ounce of his will into a single thought: Run.