[If you've come this far… thank you.I won't lie — this part will cut deeper than the last.But this pain isn't meaningless. It's the cost of growth, the moment that will shape everything that follows.I'm sorry for what happens here — and grateful that you chose to face it with me.]
Olivia cried out as she was dragged closer to Angelo. Every creature in the chamber howled with laughter, their voices echoing like a chorus of madness.
Then the Duskborne began.
They started with small cuts—deliberate, slow—drawing blood with each slice as Olivia screamed in agony. Angelo thrashed in his restraints, pulling harder and harder against the chains. His body trembled with fury, veins bulging, until the skin at his wrists began to split. Blood poured from torn flesh as he pulled with everything he had, desperate to break free.
Serika chuckled, her voice dripping with malice.
"It's pointless. No matter how hard you pull, you'll never break my chains."
And then—Olivia's legs were severed just below the knees.
Her screams pierced the air.
Angelo's body responded in kind. His fury surged past the threshold of pain. With a final, monstrous heave, he yanked against the chains with such force that the skin and muscle at his wrists and ankles tore completely. The restraints slipped from the raw, mangled joints. Blood sprayed as he collapsed to the ground—a broken, mangled heap—but free.
The Bound Choirmaster released what remained of him, and Angelo slumped into a pool of his own blood.
Olivia saw him. Through her pain, she began to crawl—dragging her bleeding body across the cold stone floor. The Duskborne moved to intercept, but Vaelgor raised his hand to stop it.
"Let her go," he said.
Olivia reached Angelo, pulled him into her arms, and held him close. She sat there—knees gone, pain overwhelming—but she held him all the same. Her trembling fingers brushed his blood-soaked face.
"Don't cry, my son," she whispered, her voice cracked but warm. "It's not your fault. I have always loved you… and I always will. You're strong. Stronger than you know. Get out of here. Survive. Live a happy life. That's all I want. Promise me."
Angelo—limbs broken, drenched in agony—wrapped what little he could around her.
"I'm sorry," he sobbed. "If only I were never born… none of this would have happened."
Olivia gave him a tired smile through bloodied lips.
"Don't say that. We never hated you. Not once."
Olivia's eyes glistened with tears, her voice trembling but steady. "You were always special to us. You were our little miracle. That's why I named you Angelo."
Vaelgor's voice shattered the moment.
"Kill her."
The Duskborne seized Olivia and tore her from Angelo's embrace. Angelo tried to move, dragging himself forward by the stumps of his wrists, inch by inch—but it was no use.
Then—
A sickening crunch.
The Duskborne slammed Olivia's head into the floor. Her body twitched. Then it brought its foot down on her skull, crushing it beneath its heel.
Silence.
Angelo just stared.
Tears streamed down his cheeks, but he didn't make a sound. Something inside him had cracked—deeply and permanently. The laughter of the creatures still echoed around him… but he couldn't hear it anymore.
He was gone.
Within his soul, he returned to the throne.
The void churned below, endless and black. The shadowed figure stood waiting once more.
"Are you ready to let go?" it asked, voice echoing like a whisper through the abyss.
Angelo stared ahead, his voice hollow.
"I don't care anymore."
And then—he stepped into the void.
The figure grinned, wide and monstrous.
"Good."
Outside, the mark on Angelo's back cracked again. This time, the fracture split deep and wide, stretching across the entire sigil.
And then—
It happened.
A sudden pressure filled the air—like gravity had multiplied a hundredfold. A presence so overwhelming that even the most twisted of creatures began to tremble. Some collapsed, others fell unconscious. The air itself grew heavy with dread.
Vaelgor rose abruptly from his throne. Serika stood frozen in place, paralyzed by fear.
Far beyond the castle walls, in every corner of the world, people paused—hearts skipping beats, instincts screaming that something unspeakable had awoken.
The source of it all… was Angelo.
Smoke curled from his wounds—arms, legs, and the gaping hole in his stomach—until, slowly, every injury began to vanish, erased like they were never there. His flesh reformed.
He stood.
His head hung low, staring at the blood-soaked ground.
Vaelgor, rattled, shouted, "Kill him! All of you!"
The Hollowed Saints and the Duskbornes charged from every direction. A frenzy of twisted steel and unnatural power surged toward him.
Angelo raised his head.
And everything stopped.
The charging beasts froze midair—bodies folding, crumbling, collapsing into small dark spheres that hit the ground with hollow thuds. The Cradle-Eaters turned to flee but were shredded in an instant, torn into dust.
Vaelgor unleashed a torrent of searing flame—but the fire evaporated before it touched Angelo.
Black cracks crept along Angelo's body, spreading without pain, without blood. They weren't wounds—they were the manifestation of something else. The void inside him had awakened.
Vaelgor, panicking, screamed to the others, "Kill him! Now! Seal him if you must!"
The Pale Choir. The Withered Crown. The Bound Choirmaster.
They all struck together.
Nothing touched him.
He didn't move. He didn't even flinch.
Serika was shaking, unable to raise a hand. Vaelgor grabbed her, urging her to use her chains, but her body refused to obey.
Then Angelo spoke.
But it wasn't his voice.
It was a thousand voices, overlapping, layered and distorted—like the echoes of countless souls all speaking as one.
One word.
"Destruction."
An invisible dome burst outward from him.
And then—silence.
The entire castle, the armies, Vaelgor, Serika, the creatures, even the bodies of Angelo's loved ones—gone.
No remains. No ruins. No ash.
Only Angelo stood, alone, in the center of a vast, perfect crater.
The nearby bastion—the last line of defense—had been swallowed whole in the blast.
A crack spread across his face—from the left side of his chin to the right of his forehead.
Then he collapsed.
Not dead.
Just still.
The pressure lifted. The presence faded.
Two days later.
A man stumbled upon the crater and spotted a figure at its center—unmoving, bloodstained, but breathing.
He climbed down carefully, knelt beside the unconscious boy, and gently shook him. "Hey… are you alright?"
Angelo stirred, opening his eyes. They were empty, lost.
"What happened here?" the man asked.
Angelo looked around. "I don't know. I can't remember."
"Your name?"
Angelo blinked. "Angelo… I think. I don't know if it's my first or last name. Everything else is a blur."
"Check your clothes," the man said. "Maybe there's a clue."
Angelo looked down and began patting himself down. "Let's see if there's anything…"
His fingers brushed something in his back pocket.
He pulled it out—a small, smooth device, no larger than a coin. A faint blue light blinked from its surface.
"What is this?" he muttered.
The man leaned closer, squinting. "Looks like a tracker. Someone really wanted to keep tabs on you."
Angelo stared at it for a long moment. "I don't remember who… but I think it helped?"
He slipped it back into his pocket.
"You can stand?" The man asked.
Angelo nodded and stood with ease.
The man chuckled, pointing at Angelo's ruined shirt. "Nice look. Big hole in the middle. You're all in black, so how about… Black Angelo? Wait, that sounds racist."
Angelo gave him a deadpan stare. "Seriously?"
"Well, you've got a crack on your face. That a tattoo? Oh wait—you don't remember. What about… Crackface Angelo?"
Angelo groaned. "Stop giving me weird names."
The man grinned. "Fine. I got it—Nero Angelo. It's Greek. 'Nero' means black. Sounds cool, right?"
Angelo paused, then gave a faint smile. "Yeah… that does sound cool."
"Alright then. Until you get your memories back, you're Nero Angelo. And I'm Elias Dorne. Come with me—I know a doctor who can help."
Angelo nodded. "Sure… I've got nowhere else to go."
The two of them began walking toward the distant town.
— End of Arc III —