The raw, primal scream of the Conduit still vibrated in Akira's bones, a phantom echo of its despair. She lay on the silver ground, panting, every muscle screaming in protest, her head a throbbing drum. The overwhelming self-loathing remained, thick and cloying, but now, beneath it, pulsed a terrifying, alien sensation: the sheer, destructive might she had just wielded. It was a power born of ruin, and it had tasted like bitter, metallic victory.
Eriol stood over her, her posture as unyielding as the realm itself. Her emerald eyes scanned the smoking crater, then settled on Akira with an unnerving lack of emotion.
"You have shattered a Conduit of Despair, Akira," Eriol's voice was a flat statement of fact, devoid of praise. "A small victory against a pervasive blight." She looked from the smoking crater to the shimmering, unstable ground around them, where distortions still rippled like disturbed water. "But destruction alone is not enough. You broke this realm. You must learn to mend it."
Akira pushed herself onto her elbows, her arms trembling. "Mend it?" she rasped, the word tasting like ash. "My power... it only destroys. I watched it destroy everything." Lily. Her father. The images flashed, sharp and agonizing.
"Your power is raw, uncontrolled energy," Eriol explained, her voice gaining a rare, subtle instructional tone. "The same volatile force that tore the veil between worlds. It is the catalyst for the corruption. But a catalyst can also reverse a reaction, if properly guided. This realm, Akira, is not merely a repository of sorrow. It is a living, fractured thing. And your purpose here is not just to witness; it is to heal."
Akira stared at Eriol, disbelief warring with a desperate, unwelcome sliver of hope. Heal? Her? The architect of ruin?
"She lies, Akira," the omnipresent voice hissed, a chilling whisper that seemed to ooze from the very ground beneath her. "She wants to chain you. To turn your power, your glorious destructive power, into a tool for her futile game. Embrace the chaos. Embrace the shattering. It is your true nature."
The voice's words stirred a cold dread within Akira, but also a strange, perverse comfort. Embracing the chaos felt more natural, more honest, than the impossible task of mending. Yet, the image of the corrupted world bleeding, of countless potential Lilys and fathers, sparked a grim, terrifying purpose.
Eriol turned, beginning to walk towards a part of the realm where the silver light pulsed with an almost blinding intensity, yet the air felt strangely… solid. Less distorted. "The conduits, like the one you just faced, are born of the deepest scars in this realm's fabric. Each one further destabilizes the connection to your world. To mend these scars, you must not only destroy the corruption that feeds on them, but also understand the nature of the original wound."
Akira pushed herself to her feet, her legs protesting every movement. The landscape changed as they moved, the fractured mirrors on the ground less chaotic, more like vast, still pools of liquid silver that reflected not distorted images, but strange, ethereal glyphs that pulsed faintly beneath the surface. The constant hum of the realm softened, replaced by a low, almost mournful thrum that resonated deep within Akira's chest.
"These are places where the realm's tears are most potent," Eriol explained, gesturing to the glowing glyphs. "They are nexus points of raw, unfiltered emotion, the origin points of the greatest suffering. The corruption thrives here. But here, too, lies the potential for true mending."
Suddenly, the mournful thrum intensified, vibrating through Akira's teeth. From the nearest pool of silver, the ethereal glyphs began to swirl, drawing the ambient light into themselves. A new form began to rise, not of despair, but of chilling, profound grief. It was a towering figure, slender and ethereal, its form woven from swirling silver mist, yet its posture spoke of eternal sorrow. Its head was bowed, and from its misty eyes, tears of pure, glowing silver flowed, not falling, but rising into the air, hovering like spectral stars.
"A fresh scar, Akira," the voice chuckled, a dry, triumphant sound. "A new wound to mend. Can your destructive touch heal a soul broken by unending grief?"
Akira stared at the newly formed entity, her heart sinking. This was different. This wasn't a conduit of despair to be shattered by raw force. This was a manifestation of pure, unadulterated sorrow. Her power, so destructive, felt utterly useless against such profound, silent agony. Her past had broken things. Could it now fix them? Or would her touch only deepen the scar? The true test of her tainted power, and her agonizing purpose, had just begun.