Abyss

The ballroom ceased to carry it's joyous atmosphere. The dancers moved around the ballroom and shuddered as the voices also caused them tremendous pain - more so than even Cypher and Elie. They tormented the dancers with such malice that even a thousand lifetimes of agony could not match.

This was their revenge. They forced the dancers to endure every second and be unable to react in any way. They couldn't cry, cower or stop under the control of Corydon.

All the while, Elie was still face to face with the demon god.

The man's tears mixed with the black tar, forming thick, viscous trails that stained his skin. His breath shuddered as he forced himself to look at the mask hovering just inches from his face.

The inside of the mask was coated in the same black substance, but it behaved unnaturally. Instead of remaining still, thin tendrils of liquid darkness slithered outward, reaching for him, twitching like hungry parasites eager to pierce through his flesh.

"Spare... me," his dry throat rasped. The words barely escaped, weak and brittle.

Behind him, even his parasitic shadow chuckled at the notion. Across the grand, golden ballroom, the dancers stood in eerie silence. Their quiet sobs and shuddering breaths filled the space, thick with something beyond fear—something closer to nostalgia.

Corydon exhaled softly, tilting his head as if Elie had said something amusing.

"Ohh, you misunderstand." His voice, so often teeming with mirthful chaos, dipped into something almost tender. "This..." he whispered, lowering his tone as though confiding a secret, "this is a gift."

The words only made Elie tremble harder. Corydon found this reaction disappointing—if not outright baffling. He had thought this man would appreciate the liberation he was offering. But children never know what's best for them.

"Cypher..." Elie gasped, a desperate plea meant for his companion.

But there was no answer.

Across the floor, Cypher knelt, his head bowed, hands clamped over his ears. Blood dripped from between his fingers where his nails had dug into his skin around his ears. Even if he had wanted to help—which he did not—he wouldn't have been able to.

Corydon clicked his tongue. "Now, now... it's time for you to see the truth."

His bony fingers tangled in Elie's hair, wrenching his head back with such force that tufts of it ripped free - allowing blood to flow down from his scalp and onto the jesters glove.

The mask moved closer, inch by inch.

The black tendrils struck.

They stabbed through his skin with precision, burrowing deep, latching onto him, threading into his very being. Elie choked as an overwhelming weight sank into his bones. His thoughts grew sluggish, his willpower bleeding away, unraveling thread by thread.

"Just a little more, human."

The mask settled over his face.

The moment it did, his vision darkened, edges blurring like ink bleeding into paper. The golden grandeur of the ballroom faded, its warmth extinguished, replaced by an endless void.

Silence.

He stood upon a vast, white surface that stretched infinitely in all directions—smooth, cold, lifeless. No stars, no sun, no horizon. This place did not exist in time.

Elie staggered forward, though there was no wind, his disheveled hair swayed as though caught in an unseen current. His mind teetered, wavering between resisting and surrendering, caught in a spiral of uncertainty.

Then, a light flickered in the distance.

A spotlight.

It had no source, no explanation, no logic. And yet, it existed. It shone defiantly in the darkness.

It called out to him without any words, fueling a curiosity that should have been fear.

Like a moth to a flame, Elie moved toward it. His body ached, and a thin layer of frost crept up his limbs, numbing his fingers, his thoughts, his soul.

When he was close enough, he saw him.

A tall figure stood within the light's embrace.

He had long, silver-white hair that drifted, weightless, as if suspended in water. His face was sharp, his expression serene—yet behind those eyes, there was only sadness, only tragedy. His skin was porcelain-white, unblemished, his ears long and pointed. His simple gray tunic and black trousers were ragged, worn by time itself.

And he danced.

Effortlessly, endlessly.

His bare feet moved along the very edge of an abyss—a gaping wound in reality itself. A chasm without depth, without end. A hole that swallowed existence.

Yet, the man smiled.

A wide, euphoric grin, unfaltering even as he danced on the precipice of oblivion.

Elie's breath hitched.

This was a Soul Space.

The realization should have horrified him. And yet… it faded. His memories slowly faded, slipping through his grasp and clouding his judgement.

Time did not function here. Seconds, minutes, days—none of it mattered.

The man continued to dance.

He never acknowledged Elie's presence.

Then, a thought—foreign and intrusive—entered his mind.

"What does he see?"

The question rooted itself deep, growing into something insidious.

Curiosity. Unease. Terror.

Elie swallowed, his pulse thrumming in his ears. He felt the pull—an urge, a need—to look into the abyss.

To understand.

To see what this man saw.

His hand trembled as he stepped closer, steadying himself as he leaned and peering over the edge.

Something was wrong.

It was hypnotic, an unseen force coiling around his mind, whispering in the silence.

He saw nothing—yet everything.

A truth so profound, so utterly consuming, it stripped away all else. Fear, suffering, hope—gone.

The void whisperered in his ear like a devil on his shoulder. It spoke to him without words, calling him to see what was always there.

It didn't matter.

Nothing ever had.

This place and the universe were one in the same, the only difference was that this void was stripped of all material illusions until all that was left was the uncaring, cold and desolate corpse that reality was. It was empty and meaningless yet Impossible to Decipher by logic.

So why fight? Why struggle? Why try to comprehend something that never cared?

Why not let go?

Surrender to the freedom of insanity.

Sever the chains of reason and simply dance to the silent tune the void played.

Elie's breath steadied. He understood now.

A reflection stared back at him from the abyss.

A mask.

White, vacant, hollow. Its grin stretched wide—artificial, meaningless.

This was no monster staring at him.

It was himself.

Gradually, his Soul Core dimmed.

The last vestiges of resistance faded.

His body moved—not by will, but by instinct.

Elie danced.

Even as the void swallowed everything, he never stopped moving in the rhythm of nothing.

---

Cypher finally released his ears.

His hands, slick with blood, fell to his sides as he blinked through the haze. The ballroom returned, golden and lavish, yet something was wrong.

Elie stood motionless, stiff as a corpse.

The raw fear that once radiated from him had vanished.

Instead, there was… nothing.

A hollow husk remained in his place.

The porcelain-white mask carved a stretched smile across his face. The flesh beneath was gone, replaced by empty, black voids where his eyes should have been.

Corydon stood behind him, no longer grinning. He gazed upon Elie's still body with satisfaction, his own shadow completely eclipsing the man's. His skeletal fingers rested gently on Elie's shoulder.

He leaned down, whispering directly into Elie's ear.

"°Ubi `est ∆fides §tua?"

Elie's lips parted.

His voice, once that of a young but battle hardened man, was now empty.

"My allegiance… is to Lord Corydon."

His words were flat. Mechanical.

"qui`d |huc a'dvexisti, ad h∆unc l°ocum?"

Slowly, Elie turned his head.

His vacant gaze locked onto Cypher, exuding coldness without any hint of mercy.

He lifted a hand, his fingers extending outward, pointing directly at him.

"He... brought us here. He... used the Dragon Core."