The pressure descends—not merely physical, but metaphysical. A force so overwhelming it threatens to dismember the very architecture of consciousness, reducing beings to their most primal, fragmented state.
Leonardo becomes landscape—a terrain of suffering. Each muscle is a battlefield where survival negotiates with annihilation. His lungs, once instruments of breath, now feel like crushing chambers of desperation. Each incomplete inhale is an act of rebellion against a force engineered to erase existence itself.
When the pressure finally dissolves, silence becomes a living entity.
"Ah, I spoke too loudly," the sage says simply.
Leonardo collapses. Tremors ripple through him—aftershocks of a near-extinction event.
Elara sinks to her knees, her surrender a concession to their shared flesh. Tears hover on the brink, held back only by a will forged in the crucibles of unspoken trauma.
"That was hard," Henri mutters gritting his teeth towards Koroko.
Koroko nods in agreement. Except for the heirs and the guides, the other heads show only minor frustration before their heads slam against the table.
Koroko looks upward. His eyes are stale, empty—lifeless. They lock eyes, and history settles between them like dust in an ancient tomb.
"You're one nasty prick," Henri says, his voice tight. Blood rushes to his face as memories flare—flame, gasping, his fists bloodied.
"What's even the point of living?" he snaps.
Koroko smirks, the expression creeping toward his ears as he slowly leans forward, his scar-bound face fully exposed.
"You gave your son all your worst traits," Henri hisses.
"Ryuji will become a better man than I ever was," Koroko replies. "And I'll admit it—I am a bad father."
"Where is Marquis?" a voice suddenly breaks in from the table.