Lucien's vision dimmed.
Fear clutched his chest like a vice—but then, something inside him snapped.
Not like a bone. No.
Like a lock.
Like a door flinging open where no door should exist.
And suddenly...
The world screamed into clarity.
Color bled from the alleyway, leaving behind a clinical, cold landscape. Every surface pulsed with an eerie outline—trailing lines of motion, trembling arcs of kinetic intent. The air itself shimmered with possibilities.
He looked at the man before him—and what he saw was not human.
Muscle fiber coiled like snakes under flesh. Joints tightened in millisecond premonitions, like pistons preparing to fire. The man's foot twitched slightly—
To Lucien, it roared like thunder.
And then—he saw it.
Not in the present.
But in the meta-now.
A ghost-image overlaid reality—a horrifying, translucent echo of what would happen.
In that echo, the man lunged—impossibly fast—hand extended like a blade, slicing through air—
—straight for Lucien's throat.
The phantom attack connected.
Lucien watched himself die.
He saw blood erupt like red mist. Saw his own eyes, wide with helpless terror. Felt his body collapse—
—before it even happened.
Then—
CLAP.
It all vanished.
Back in the real moment, his instincts jolted like lightning. Without thinking, without understanding, Lucien threw himself backwards—arms flailing, spine screaming, shoulder slamming into the dusty floor.
A gust of death whooshed past his ear.
The man's arm sliced through empty air where Lucien's neck had just been.
Behind him, the wall cracked with impact. Splinters flew like shrapnel.
Lucien lay on the ground, gasping, sweat slicking his skin. The world still shimmered unnaturally—his vision fluttering with afterimages. Trails. Probabilities. Ghosts of moments yet to come.
His eyes burned in excruciating pain,
the "special" eyes were still active and it was draining him.
He saw the man adjusting for a follow-up blow—
—but alongside that, he saw three more versions of the future:
One where Lucien dodged right and was impaled.
One where he ducked and broke his own arm.
One where he stood completely still… and the man hesitated.
They all danced before him. Real. Possible. Terrifying.
Lucien realized something awful:
He had to choose.
But before he could—
A crimson crescent flew over his head.
The figure dodged it and it splattered into the wall.
Drip—then BOOM. The liquid detonated, sending debris everywhere.
Lucien looked back—
A figure leapt above him.
He wore a dark red–lined inner coat beneath a weathered gray windbreaker, its hem frayed from too many fights. . His trousers were fitted, tucked into rugged boots scuffed with ash and dust. The whole look carried a kind of rough elegance
Mid-air, the figure clenched his right fist—a fist covered with brown leather gloves but bore no protection on the fingertips . His halo glowed crimson.
Lucien gazed deeper—his eyes still fracturing under the power.
Wrath Sub-branch: Scaldheart
Information began to pool in. But before it could settle—
The dark figure with the glass eyes threw a coin into the air—and with a deranged laugh, vanished.
The Indulgent, the one bearing Scaldheart, surged forward—barefooted. Blood pooled into his legs before detonating, launching him into a mid-air flip which he transitioned smoothly into a roll.
"Gael, above you," a calm, detached voice warned.
Lucien looked up.
His pupils, already cracked from overuse, seemed to fracture further. His skull throbbed as if someone had shoved a hot iron through it.
And yet—he saw deeper.
He saw the man.
The hat was gone—stolen by the wind.
His face was wild. Scarred. A battlefield written in flesh. Gray hair jutted out in jagged tufts. His glassy eyes shimmered with romantic bloodlust.
He fondled another coin—then threw it again at Gael.
Before it landed, he appeared inches from Gael—in the direction of the toss. The coin was already back in his hand. The grin, still maddening.
Another pulse of pain. Another data dump:
Envy Sub-branch: Covetous
Glimmer of Greed. Coin of Want. Mirror of Pocket.
He was using Glimmer of Greed to "acquire" minor physical traits he envied—like density.
Mirror of Pocket stored those traits.
Coin of Want activated them.
Lucien's head throbbed harder from the flood of knowledge of the eeiry man's abilities.
Gael muttered, shifting his stance:
"This idiot should only be Phase 8… how the hell does he have access to location already? Even if underpowered… he's using Glimmer of Greed to acquire the coin's position, and activating the trait mid-flight. It's seamless."
Gael threw a punch.
The man with glass eyes twisted midair, caught Gael's tricep, and flipped over him—trying to slam him into the ground.
"Velda!!" Gael shouted mid-flip in the air.
A whisper answered. Eerily calm.
"By the bloom that never breathed,
Let sight become cage,
Let the moment before memory…
Be all that remains.
Sleep now, in the silence between seconds."
Two orbs spiraled from Velda's hand. They didn't glow.
They warped reality—like heat over tar.
Lucien's "special" vision flared.
He saw the air bend, sink, as if gravity was being swallowed.
—One orb struck the man's arm. Fingers went limp—like cut puppet strings.
—The second hit his temple. His eyes froze, pupils dilating, staring at a memory that no longer existed.
Lucien turned.
She wore a pale gray coat, simple and oversized, the sleeves falling just past her hands. Beneath it, a high-neck blouse fastened with a single pearl button, and a skirt that brushed the floor — plain, slightly frayed at the hem. A small silver brooch of a wilting flower rested at her collar, dull in the lamplight. She moved as if half-asleep, each step unhurried.
Sloth Sub-branch: Stillborn Bloom
Phase 8: Dreamroot Keeper.
His brain boiled with the weight of it.
Beside her stood a man clad in a bone-gray high-collared shirt sat beneath a dark navy waistcoat stitched with faint sigils, barely visible under the light. Slim trousers tucked neatly into tall leather boots.
His charcoal greatcoat hung to mid-calf, double-breasted and heavy, concealing the straps and holsters beneath. Black gloves covered steady hands, every movement deliberate in his hands he held a dark wood mahogany cane.
.
Phase 8.
That's all Lucien could see.
"Arthur, finish him off," the calm voice ordered again.
"Tsk. You don't tell me what to do," Arthur muttered.
Still, he drew a his can twisting the top which came out as an handle—and from it, a plasma blade hummed to life.
Gael began to fall.
But from the right—cackling laughter echoed.
The glass-eyed man stood, surrounded by five floating glass orbs, each shaped like eyes. Laughing madly. He pulled out a revolver and fired twice —
At Velda.
Her eyes widened.
Gael rolled to his feet, flicking fingers—blood crystallized into claws. They shattered under the bullet's force—but deflected the bullets.
One grazed his shoulder.
Gael's rage ignited.
"My my," the man sneered. "I knew those who rejected indulgeing were weak... but this? This is pathetic."
His laughter rang again.
"Shut the hell up!" Arthur roared, lunging forward.
Lucien, still writhing, whispered:
"He's using Mirror of Pocket... he stored the memory of envying a blade to sharpen his nails... and added the density of iron."
Arthur's irises burned gold.
"Stop resisting," he commanded.
The words hit like divine law.
The man convulsed, body locking—trembling beneath the weight of Order.
Gael shot forward.
But the floor betrayed him.
Glass shards, remnants of the decoy, quivered—rose—reassembled.
A humanoid shape. Bladed fingers.
It stabbed.
Gael took the hit, staggered, but didn't stop. His bloodied fists crashed down, shattering the decoy.
The moment's pause was enough.
The real threat reformed behind him.
The man surged from the shadows—nails gleaming.
CLANG.
A blade intercepted the strike.
Arthur stood between them, sword braced, eyes sharp.
Their weapons locked briefly. Arthur's glowing blade grinding against the man's sharpened nails.
Arthur stepped back, blade sweeping low, stabbing with mechanical efficiency. The man sidestepped. Again. Again. Arthur changed stance fluidly, shifting momentum mid-swing and slicing toward the man's abdomen.
But he was too fast.
He knew.
The man flipped overhead, narrowly dodging. It was almost as if he'd seen it before.. . like he'd known it was coming.
Lucien,crouched on the floor still writhing in pain, watched through the burn of the "special" eyes, looked on his eyes narrowing further
"It was a feint," he muttered through bloodied lips.
Then—
Crack.
A sound like splintering ice. One of the floating glass orbs hovering nearby burst with a hiss.
The man lunged from the remains of the eye
Arthur flinched, body freezing—eyes wide with horror.
The attack had come from nowhere.
No... not nowhere.
The coin.
The trait coin had been hidden inside the eye.
The man's laughter bubbled, low and maddening, as if bleeding through Arthur's very skull.
Then another voice rose in
"By the bloom that never"..
The voice was making the chant for the dirge of the stilled heart again.
Soon after two orbs came at the man .
He threw the coin aside and appeared again
The man pouted a little Not fair I am up against 3 young ones don't you have any respect for your elder then he grinned wider, as if joy bloomed in pain.
"Only five uses left," he muttered, glancing at the rusting coin. His voice dropped, almost disappointed. "But that's more than enough."
He threw the coin again .
Pop.
He vanished, reappearing in a burst of cracked light—at the landing point of the coin.
"Don't worry," he said, standing tall as ever. "I'll kill you before they run out."
The five floating glass eyes twisted midair—shifting, warping.
Changing.
They took shape. Figures of himself, reflected perfectly.Five copies of him stood in a semicircle. Clones with the same twisted grin.
All of them stared with hollow glass eyes.
All of them smiled the same eerie, soulless smile