The battle that commenced was unlike any they had fought.
The Archivist did not attack with spells or weapons.
He simply unmade. He pointed a finger, and a wave of nothingness spread towards them.
The very stone floor and air in its path didn't break or shatter; they ceased to exist, replaced by a perfect, lightless vacuum.
They fought back with pure, desperate physicality.
Kaito's sword, though devoid of magic, was still a masterfully crafted blade, and he deflected shards of crystal the Archivist hurled with his mind.
Lyra's elven agility was their greatest asset, allowing her to dodge the waves of nullification and launch arrows that, while magically inert, were perfectly aimed at the Archivist's physical form.
But it was futile.
The Archivist simply restored any damage to his body by drawing more of the spire's crystal to himself.
He was not a man; he was a concept given form, and you cannot kill a concept with a sword.
Haruto stood his ground, not attacking, but observing.
He closed his eyes, ignoring the terrifying advance of nothingness, and reached out with the one part of him that was born of a similar void—his shadow magic.
He couldn't push against the Silence, but he could feel its edges, its shape.
And he felt something else, something the Archivist had buried deep beneath his cold logic: a flicker of profound, eternal loneliness.
The loneliness of a god who had spent millennia in a world without a single other voice.