Chapter 210: True Self

Chapter 210: True SelfThe godless crucifix stepped back. The crystalline bone walls of the tower trembled with him, their jagged interiors echoing the motion like ribs shifting around a buried lung. The veins of dark red pulsed faintly again, slow and deliberate—spirit-fed hunger stirring beneath the surface.

The whispers returned.

Not louder—but closer.

They pressed in from behind the stone, from under the floor, from somewhere inside the black screen that no longer glowed. The chorus of trapped souls gave no names—only presence. A rising sound, full of weight and unfinished endings.

The crucifix’s silver eyes narrowed.

The faint smile disappeared entirely.

His voice, when it came, didn’t need to rise. It moved the air on its own.

"It means that either his soul was captured..." he said.

He let that line hang—half spoken, half dismissed.

"Which is insanely unlikely for the planet he ’died’ on..."

He paused again. Not for effect. For clarity.



"Or he’s still alive."

Each word landed with force. Not loud. Just undeniable. The crimson mist stirred again at his boots. The veins in the wall flared slightly before dimming. The black screen behind him no longer shimmered, only reflected—dark and depthless.


A long silence stretched between them.

The hum of the spires outside crept back in—a low, distant vibration, like breath through fractured stone. The scent of ozone lingered around the crucifix’s cloak, curling together with the soft red mist still clinging to his boots like fabric woven from fog.

Elias didn’t move.

His glow pulsed once—faint, hesitant.

Then again.

His voice followed, trembling with disbelief, cutting across the silence like a thread of fraying hope.

"Impossible," he whispered.

The word didn’t fall flat. It just didn’t carry.

"The ache of Kikaru’s absence, of Dot’s silence... they never faded. But this..."

He flickered again, edges dim.

"If he was alive, then he would have come back."

His tone didn’t accuse. It begged.

"It’s been over ten years."

The godless crucifix didn’t respond immediately.

His silver eyes glinted with a faint curiosity, the expression unreadable but focused. The red veins beneath his skin began to glow brighter, their pulse slow and deliberate as he turned his gaze to the see-through orb in his right hand.

Dot’s sleeping form hovered within—still, silent, her blue glow faint but unwavering. Each pulse of her light mirrored Elias’s own, the connection between them still holding, even across dimensions.

He didn’t answer Elias’s doubt.

Instead, his voice emerged quietly—soft, but unshaken. Each word landed with weight, pressing into the air like cold pressure sinking through water.

"The Aegis Virus," he said.

The name didn’t echo.

It settled.

The crystalline walls of the tower trembled in response. Not violently—but with recognition. The red-threaded veins along the bone shimmered faintly, and the whispers curled inward, their layered tones twisting with unease.

Elias’s glow pulsed, his voice catching, uncertain.



"I’m sorry?" he asked.

The ache of Kikaru’s absence hadn’t dulled. Dot’s silence still pulled at him. But now there was something else—something older than grief. A word he’d never heard, but his soul responded to it anyway.

His glow flickered with the effort, trying to remain steady.

The godless crucifix stepped forward.

The crimson mist curled tighter around his boots, rising slightly with each step, as if the floor itself resisted him. Behind him, the faint glow of the outer spires filtered through the bone-lined tower walls, casting jagged shadows across his pale blue-white skin.

When he spoke again, the air thickened.

"The Aegis Virus riddled that world to its knees," he said.

"And thousands of others."

Each syllable spread outward. Slow. Heavy.

"It’s not known what causes the outbreak. Not even to those who created the shard systems."

The veins in the walls pulsed again—this time, slower. Duller.

"But once it starts... the world becomes unsalvageable."

He let that truth hang.

"It’s no longer a question of defense or repair. It’s avoidance. Isolation."

He exhaled once, not tired—measured.

"Some even argue for complete annihilation. Planetary deletion. But that... has had consequences."

Elias’s glow pulsed, his voice trembling with uncertainty, cutting through the hum that still lingered in the chamber.

"I... I still don’t get what you’re saying," he said.

The words weren’t confrontational. Just tired. Worn at the edges from too many unknowns stacking without space to process them.

The ache of Kikaru’s absence hadn’t shifted. Dot’s still presence in the orb lingered on his periphery, unchanging. But now another shadow pressed in behind it—one shaped like a name he hadn’t expected to hear again.

His glow flickered. Not weaker—just strained.

The godless crucifix tilted his head slightly. His silver eyes narrowed, the red glow beneath his skin pulsing slow and deliberate. The faint smile returned—not amusement, but something colder. Practical. Distant.

He studied Elias’s soul as if re-measuring it.

"Your father," he began, his voice humming low through the air, "was most likely sent to that planet on a suicide mission."

The crimson mist at his feet stirred. The veins in the crystalline bone walls flickered, then dimmed again—like the tower itself resisted hearing more.

"I can’t say why. Maybe he volunteered. Maybe he didn’t."



The crucifix’s tone didn’t waver. But something in his posture shifted—tighter. He wasn’t guessing. He was calculating.

"But somehow... he’s still alive."

He didn’t offer hope with the statement. Just possibility.

"Could be he’s bunkered somewhere. Could be he was altered. Repurposed. Or... turned into something unrecognizable."

His gaze never left Elias’s form.

"I don’t know much else."

Elias’s glow pulsed again, his voice trembling now with something colder than confusion—something slower.

"So what..."

He swallowed the question halfway through but pushed the rest anyway.

"Some type of zombie infection?"

The godless crucifix stepped back. The crystalline walls shuddered with his movement, their webbed veins pulsing a deeper red, the bone creaking with the strain of holding so many layered voices. The whispers rose again—not screaming, not warning, but alive in their own way. Each trapped echo moved differently when he spoke.

"They aren’t the dead brought back," he said, his voice humming low through the room, folding the air around them.