"A figure moves unseen through the narrow hallways, dragging Synthena and Absynthe's limp bodies with steady, unrelenting force. Their struggle is silent, but their exasperated breaths tell the story of their resistance—gasping, desperate, fading. absynthes and synthenas newly patterned skin quietly fading a unknown scheme of uncertainty."
**************************************************************
A sparrow, small and silent, glides past the golden daylight rays, its effortless flight a fleeting contrast to the urgency below. A calendar hangs near the doorframe, three crimson circles marking the passing days—a quiet yet undeniable sign of time slipping away.
Beyond the marked days, a training target crumbles under the sheer force of Absynthe's energy blades. She stands tall, her sword still pointed forward, breath heavy with exhaustion. Beads of sweat roll from her brow—a testament to relentless discipline and unforgiving effort.
On the sidelines, Celestia remains steady, a notebook gripped in her left hand, a pen moving swiftly in her right. Ink scrawls across the pages as she meticulously records every motion, every detail—an observer shaping strategy from the chaos of training .
"Try harder! Your attacks are still sloppy! You need to control your strikes better!"
Celestia's voice cuts through the training ground, her sharp demand laced with unwavering precision.
"That's exactly what I'm doing!"
Absynthe's reply comes strained, trembling with exertion. Her breaths are uneven, her vision blurring at the edges—her body teetering on the brink of collapse. Sweat drips down her temples, pooling along her collarbone. She's giving everything she has, but it's still not enough.
On the sidelines, Celestia watches in silence, biting down on the end of her pen, her gaze fixed on the notes before her. Patterns. Repetitions. Weaknesses. She processes each detail methodically, her mind threading through the data she's compiled.
"Her performance weakens significantly during the daytime… Compared to her strength at night?"
The thought burrows deeper, and she bites harder on the bottom of the pen.
"What does this mean? Can she only fight effectively in darkness? And if so… why?"
Her last question echoes in her mind, reverberating like an unsolved equation. Slowly, her eyes drift toward Absynthe's silver-veined arms, their radiant pulse dimming—far weaker than they had been under moonlight.
Celestia lifts a curled hand to her forehead, knocking it gently as if trying to shake loose an answer. The pieces are there. But why don't they fit yet?
she gazes towards synthena her eyes becomes fixed her body slumped h
Celestia's gaze locks onto Synthena, watching the rise and fall of her breathing with quiet fixation. Her body lies slumped, legs askew, posture slack—but something about her still feels calculated, as if even in unconsciousness, she is following a pattern.
"She's been out for four hours now... but she always wakes after six."
The realization settles uneasily in Celestia's mind, a nagging inconsistency she can't quite place. She chews on the thought, frustration flickering behind her eyes.
"She creates... and she destroys."
She tilts her head toward the sky as a flock of birds cuts across the pale horizon, their migration a steady procession—predictable, guided by unseen forces. Instinct. Timing. A cycle.
Her pen hovers, hesitant, as a single word forms in her mind.
"An artist?"
the echoe of absynthes blade against the target echoes through the brisk wind.The echo of Absynthe's blade reverberates through the brisk wind, each strike carrying a force that lingers long after impact.
*********************************************************************
Celestia sat across from her computer, her right leg crossed over her left, leaning deeper into the headrest of her chair. Her arms were folded, head tilted downward toward the concrete floor, eyes shut as she sharpened her focus. Thoughts spiraled, threading through every detail she had gathered about Absynthe and Synthena's abilities.
Patterns. Inconsistencies. Strengths. Weaknesses.
Each fact wove itself into an equation she had yet to solve—a puzzle with shifting pieces, its edges elusive.
Then, slowly, her second pair of eyes began to open, their gradual emergence signaling heightened concentration.
Until—
A sharp call echoed from above, cutting through the silence like a blade.
"Celestia! You need to see this! Come quick!"
The words shattered her focus.
She sprang from the chair, urgency coiling within her like tightened steel. Her body stiffened, fists clenched, every muscle responding to the weight of the moment. In a breath, she moved, feet pounding against the floor as she charged toward the voice.
Celestia climbed through the trapdoor, stepping onto the top floor with brisk urgency.
Synthena sat at the edge of the couch, eyes locked onto Obsidion's unconscious body. Behind the sofa, Absynthe leaned forward, staring down with rigid focus, as if waiting for something to shift.
Obsidion's body—twisted, evolving, caught between familiarity and something unrecognizable.
His aura pulsed deep red, like embers waiting to ignite, veins brimming with something volatile. Spikes, a tail, claws—far beyond human.
The tar across his skin grew darker, thickening into jagged fractures. His nails had lengthened, curling into claw-like points—no longer human, but something far more monstrous.
"Why does he look like that?" Synthena's voice broke the silence, urgent, demanding.
Celestia's breath stalled in her throat. Shock washed over her face, but no immediate answers formed.
"He wasn't like that before," Synthena pressed again, tension lacing her words—a clear sign this transformation had happened suddenly.
The voices around her blurred. Synthena's urgent questioning. Absynthe's sharp interrogation.
Absynthe turned, eyes narrowed. "Do you have any idea what's happening here?" She asked as if Celestia had all the answers.
She should. She should have the answers.
Her mind raced, threading through every calculation, every pattern she had recorded.
This transformation—why now? What triggered it? Had there been signs before?
But the pieces wouldn't fit.
Her second pair of eyes blinked open instinctively, searching for meaning within the fragmented data. Change like this wasn't random—it was a reaction.
But to what?
A shiver ran down her spine. Obsidion was still human. Barely.
.