The silence in the wake of the fractured moon mission was a physical presence, thick and suffocating. It had been three weeks. Three weeks since the gorge, since Anya's whispered, "You never even try," since the last flicker of hope in her eyes had guttered out.
Our training had changed. K had separated us.
Anya's new coliseum was a symphony of controlled annihilation. From my isolated training sector, I could hear the thunderclaps of her strikes against Bane-class entities, the shriek of tortured air, the deep, resonant crack of conceptual boundaries being tested and broken. She was ascending, leaving the atmosphere of mere power, heading for some stratosphere I couldn't even comprehend.
My coliseum was a tomb.
A single Nuisance-class demion, a lumbering stone brute, shambled towards me. It was the same one from day one. My own personal Sisyphian boulder.
« COMMENCE COMBANT TRIAL 8,412. »
I raised a hand, reaching for the Spatial Divinity. I didn't beg or shout anymore. I just… went through the motions. The power was there, the vast, shimmering ocean. I dipped a cup in, and as I tried to pull it out, the familiar, invisible hand wrapped around my wrist. My hand.
The spatial warp flickered, a pathetic distortion of air that made the demion stumble slightly before it continued its advance.
It's safer here, a voice in my head whispered. It was the same voice that had comforted him in the cold, all those years ago. The voice of survival. Power is pain. Power is death. This is safe.
The demion's fist, slow, telegraphed, predictable, connected with my chest. I felt ribs splinter. The pain was sharp, real, but it was a familiar pain. It was nothing compared to the psychic agony of Anya's silence.
« SIMULATED DEATH #14,887: LOGGED. CAUSE: INTERNAL TRAUMA. »
Darkness. Light.
Again.
I stood there, waiting for the demion to respawn. I looked at my hands. They weren't the hands of a god. They were the hands of a victim, permanently stained with the memory of his own blood.
The demion appeared. I didn't move.
I let it hit me. Again. And again.
« SIMULATED DEATH #14,888: LOGGED. »
« SIMULATED DEATH #14,889: LOGGED. »
The System's voice was a monotone chant at my own funeral. Each death was a penance. A confirmation of my own worthlessness. It was easier than fighting. It was what I deserved.
A shadow fell over me. It wasn't the demion.
I looked up. Anya stood at the edge of my training sector. She was silhouetted by the brilliant light of her own arena, a warrior-queen gazing into a pauper's grave. She was breathing heavily, a sheen of sweat on her skin, a new, intricate scar glowing with silver energy on her forearm. She had just vanquished a real threat.
She watched as the demion reformed and I made no move to defend myself.
There was no anger on her face. No disappointment. No heartbreak.
There was nothing.
Her eyes, once filled with fiery spirit, were flat. Empty. They looked through me as if I were a ghost, a mildly interesting stain on the coliseum floor.
She watched for a full minute, her expression unchanging. Then, she turned and walked away without a single word.
That silence… that absolute, utter indifference… was a thousand times worse than her tears. Her tears meant she still cared. This meant I was already dead to her.
I fell to my knees. The demion's blow was a footnote.
« SIMULATED DEATH #14,890: LOGGED. »
The darkness that took me was a mercy.