Memories

Darkness swallowed the chamber.

Viole moved on instinct, rolling to the side as a blade of pure shadow cut through the space he had just occupied. The figure—his reflection, his Hunger given form—stalked forward, its silver eyes unblinking, its jagged black weapon humming with lethal intent.

The laughter still echoed. Not from its mouth, but from the surrounding void.

"Do you think you can fight yourself?" the shadow asked, tilting its head. "Every strike you land only strengthens me. Every fear, every doubt—you feed me, Viole."

Viole exhaled sharply. "Then I'll stop feeding you."

He lunged forward.

His broken katana, still glowing faintly, met the shadow's blade. Sparks flew as the weapons clashed, the force sending ripples through the swirling darkness.

The shadow moved fluidly, effortlessly mirroring his every strike. But Viole wasn't holding back anymore.

He had spent too long fearing this power. Too long resisting.

Now, he would use it.

The Hunger inside him burned hotter, but this time, he didn't try to push it down. He focused it. Controlled it. He let it surge through his limbs, let it guide his movements—not as a force overwhelming him, but as a tool.

His speed doubled.

The next clash sent a shockwave through the chamber.

The shadow staggered.

For the first time, its expression changed.

Viole didn't let it recover. He spun low, slashing at its legs. The jagged edge of his broken blade tore through the darkness, and the figure hissed, stepping back.

Silver cracks appeared across its body, flickering for just a moment before sealing again.

Viole smirked. "Looks like I can fight myself."

The shadow's face twisted. "You misunderstand."

It blurred forward, moving impossibly fast. Viole barely raised his sword in time. Their weapons clashed again, but this time—

Pain.

Not physical, but deeper.

It was like something was pulling at him.

Memories flashed behind his eyes. His past. His losses. The faces of the people he had failed. The blood on his hands.

The shadow's whisper curled around him.

"I know you, Viole."

The pressure grew. His arms trembled.

"I know your fears. Your regrets. Your weaknesses."

The pain sharpened.

And then—

The vision of himself twisted. Changed.

The silver eyes darkened. The face in front of him was no longer his own.

It was his father's.

Viole froze.

The figure grinned. "You remember, don't you?"

His grip wavered. For just a second.

And in that second—

The shadow struck.

A blade of darkness plunged into Viole's chest.

He didn't hit the ground.

He fell.

Down, down into the void.

The air burned cold around him, and the world twisted, shifting into something else.

The battlefield was gone.

Now, he stood on a bloodstained street.

He knew this place.

A child's cry echoed. A voice—his own, younger, shaking.

"No—no, please—"

A body lay in front of him.

His father.

The same empty eyes. The same wound through his chest.

Viole staggered back, his breathing uneven.

The shadow stepped beside him, still wearing his father's face. "You think you're in control now?"

It gestured at the scene.

"You never had control."

Viole clenched his fists. "This isn't real."

"No?"

The blood gleamed under the dim streetlights. The air smelled of iron.

Viole could still feel the weight of the sword in his hand. The way his fingers had shaken. The moment he had made the choice.

To live.

At the cost of his own family.

The shadow leaned close. "This is your truth, Viole. No matter how much power you take, no matter how much you fight—this is who you are."

It smiled, slow and cruel. "A killer."

Viole's breath was ragged. His hands curled into fists.

For a moment—just a moment—he felt it creeping in.

The doubt.

The guilt.

The Hunger stirred, feeding on the weakness.

The shadow laughed. "Yes. That's it. Just let go, Viole."

And then—

A voice.

Soft.

Familiar.

"Get up."

The vision fractured.

The weight lifted. The cold retreated.

Viole inhaled sharply, and the world snapped back into place.

---

THE NAME THAT CANNOT BE TAKEN

He stood in the chamber once more.

His chest ached, but there was no wound. The blade of darkness had vanished.

The shadow-figure remained, still grinning. "You felt it, didn't you? The truth. The part of you that you can't erase."

Viole exhaled slowly. Then he lifted his gaze.

And smiled.

The shadow faltered.

"You don't get to decide what I am," Viole said.

The Hunger inside him shifted—not as something pulling him down, but as something waiting for him to take control.

His broken katana began to glow, the shattered edge reforming. Not into steel. But into something new.

A weapon of his own will.

Viole tightened his grip. "You think you are me?" His eyes burned. "Then prove it."

He charged.

The shadow barely had time to react before Viole's blade tore through it.

The darkness didn't shatter immediately. It fought—writhing, twisting, trying to latch onto him again.

But Viole didn't let it.

He pushed.

The Hunger wasn't pulling him under.

He was pulling it in.

The shadow's silver eyes widened as its form began to crack.

"No—"

Viole didn't let it finish.

With a final, decisive strike, he cut it down.

The chamber exploded with light.

The Hunger roared—one final cry—

And then, silence.

Viole stood there, breathing heavily, his sword still glowing faintly in his grip.

The Sealed One watched, their expression unreadable.

Kairos let out a long breath. "Holy shit."

Ha-eun stepped closer, but she didn't speak.

Azael inclined their head slightly, as if acknowledging something.

The Sealed One finally broke the silence. "You understand now, don't you?"

Viole exhaled. He looked at his hands. The Hunger was still there. He could still feel it.

But it was no longer a force waiting to consume him.

It was his.

His to wield.

His to command.

He met the Sealed One's gaze. "Yeah."

Their silver eyes gleamed. "Then let us see what you will do with it."