The greatsword fell like the edge of the world—apocalyptic in purpose, unheeding of reason, bearing down with inexorable force. With claws wrapped tight about the hilt of his blade, Havoc caught the strike. His mist-born shell groaned beneath the weight, cracks veining his shoulders, wrists, and arms as the fallen Spirit drove him back. Their blade-lock broke—only for the greatsword to swing again, low and wide, angling for his side.

The world tumbled. Havoc came loose—his upper-self spiralling from the shattered half below. Were he confined to mortal flesh, he would have ended there—life and regret spilling too fast to gauge. But he was of the mist, and from the mist he came renewed.

'Hardly sporting,' Pride Godsborne inveighed, greatsword levelled to his shoulder, poised to thrust.

Steel ground against the Truecourse—the lancinating blow deflected aside. Without hesitation, Havoc struck diagonally down. A clang and shatter rang out as ebony shards of sheared plate scattered to the air.

'I'm not trying to win any trophies,' Havoc replied at last, his voice like the biting gale—cold, low, and pressing in from all sides.

The black flames smouldering within Pride's sockets flared. Its jaw angled up as if weighing acknowledgement against conceit.

'Droll,' the Spirit said after some time.

It reclaimed a fighting stance, feet planted, shoulders squared, blade levelled at Havoc's chest. Havoc mirrored the motion. Yet when the Spirit sprang forth, he fell back.

Mist-sired serpents tore from the ground. Guided by his Captive Spirit, they clamped down upon Pride's armoured limbs, stabbing through dark steel until torn metal cried out.

Havoc pressed in—blade extending for a decisive thrust—then pulled away as sable fire twisted through Pride's frame, obliterating heat spilling out to drive him back.

As if liquescent, the flames recoiled into their host, clinging to the armour, slipping through every crevice, break, and seam.

Those flames… Havoc did not grasp them. Giving no light, only violence, their searing heat did not so much penetrate as defile. Earlier, when they had poured across his side, he had come to know anguish beyond words. Yet more than that, he had been consumed—body and soul burning into that fire, becoming one with it as though a still pond meeting the ravishing sea.

'Pandemonia,' Pride intoned, its flaring gaze fixed upon Havoc's trembling hands. 'Surely by now you should know its taste.'

Havoc steadied his grip and exhaled. Mist, white and red, steamed from the jagged maw of his shell.

To him, Pandemonia was simply power—little different from Harmony. It strengthened his Remnants, gifting abilities, varied and unique. And when bound into Catharsia, the storm that surged within defied definition, tearing through reason and restraint alike. Yet at its heart, he had yet to understand what made him different—gods-touched, godsdamned. He knew his constitution was divinely fashioned, divinely pursued. But why? What was more power to those before whom reality bent the knee?

'You stand ignorant? That cannot be.' Pride staggered back as if struck. Its gaze swept from side to side, like a spectator among a crowd, awaiting others' laughter—yet oblivious to the joke. 'If that is so, allow me to stand as tutor.'

From every fissure in its armour, black fire surged forth. The flames coiled overhead, then burst like shooting stars—seven comets streaking through the air before crashing down to form a ring around Havoc as Pride's hollowed form clattered lifeless to the ground.

The heat warped the air, sweltering waves visible to the eye. As if rubber pulled taut, space stretched in every direction. The ground fell away. Black, mirrored tiles replaced it. The domed ceiling cracked, shattered, and fell—no sun rose against the mist-born sky. Above, like an upturned ocean, white vapours surged, twisted, coiled, and raged.

From the seven burning hearts that spanned the ring, towers rose. Each sable monolith oozed like tar at its base—frothing, seething, pooling outward before sludging back into form.

'Pride stands above all,' the Spirit said, its voice carried on the wind. 'Holy—set apart. Consecrated only for the highest things,' it continued—everywhere, yet nowhere to be seen in the dark, mirrored expanse. 'Yet it was my very nobility that left me incapable of elevation.'

Like taut hairs on a string, a sound pierced the air. Hauntingly melancholic, the music rose and fell with a sorrowful cadence.

Havoc made to move—but could not. For an instant he stood still, sharp dread coursing through his being. Had he a heart within his chest, it would have spiked. Had he but mist within his shell, his breath would have caught.

Then came the violent cry of the tune—his legs released just as black flames surged where he had stood.

The music slowed. Havoc's joints stiffened, bound as if in glue. Then the string-song trilled once more, and he came unstuck in time to slip free of a pillar of flame.

'Kingdom of Pride,' came the voice in the wind. 'Perfection pressed into the world—consuming all, yet cursed to stand alone.'

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

The music swelled once more, joined by operatic howls riding the wind. Thunder rolled percussive through the sky. Above, the ocean of mist writhed—wisps breaking from the whole, igniting as they loosed, the burning heavens crashing down.

The world had ended, and this was hell—fire falling from the sky in symphonious rhythm, Havoc weaving through the madness, staggering and still as all came undone. One step ahead, he moved where he could. One step delayed, and he would burn where he stood.

Searing stars detonated the mirrored glass. Yet, as though the world rejected every defect, even as the reflective shards rained, they pulled back into place—slotting together, the ground made anew.

'Harmony draws from without,' Pride intoned. 'It takes what there is, stirs it within—the you and the them, as one, yet distinct.'

The music rose. Havoc swerved between rising pillars and falling fire, his movements staggered, bound to the music's relentless pace.

'Pandemonia is of another kind,' the sky avowed. 'Rejecting distinction, all would be as one. One would rise as all.'

Then there is Catharsia, his Captive Spirit spoke, its voice steeped in reverence—and hunger. One as all. All as one. United. Divided. Birthing. Consuming. Light and darkness—order and chaos. The good of one is the good of the whole; the triumph of the whole exalts all—the One.

'Save me your gospel,' Havoc roared, sprinting an arc as the ground erupted where he had been.

He surged Catharsia through the Spectre's Band. Mist flared, seeking to shape wings upon his back—but his form held firm. Stern hands bore down upon an infant's shoulders, correcting, restraining. He could not break free.

Futile, my boy—

He ignored his Spirit's taunt, diving clear of a heavy bombardment as the stringed scream struck a violent chord—operatic vocals crying out like a man condemned.

He was enduring—but only just. No path to triumph carried underfoot. All the while, his soul screamed against Catharsia's surge. He considered shedding his form, disentangling his twin powers, returning to flesh. The thought was brief. Even as he felt himself come apart—soul-bound wounds spilling anguish like a blade drawn across a scar—he knew that without Catharsia, he was only a Soldier. In an instant, he would be dust upon the wind.

It was untenable. It was hopeless—a prison realm where only Pride's perfection could endure. He staggered, then dove, narrowly escaping dark, immolating fire.

'Perfection…' Havoc whispered—an inhuman sound.

The thought cut through despair like an unforeseen kiss: startling, warm, breathing life into the lifeless.

Pride could not be overwhelmed; it stood above. But perhaps it could be felled—not against, but from within.

Through the Midnight Urn, he summoned the spiritual mists. By the Spectre's Band, he shaped them to his will. But it was the Dreamwalker's Mask that bound his world-defying might—the power that let a Soldier stand against a Champion. With it, he stepped into the intangible, merging with the mist within his Core.

That had been its use until now: a clever trick for a power that seemed dull. But perhaps it held another. There was no reason it could not do more; no reason it could not let him inhabit this world.

The Kingdom of Pride—he recognised the taste of it. A realm of spirit, not of form. Different from the mist, yet only just.

It was a wager—but the only hand to play.

'Pride's Kingdom comes,' Havoc breathed, his voice an eerie hollow. 'Now see it fall.'

He stood his ground as a searing comet streaked toward him. Just as it was to strike, he vanished.

No longer within—he was above, beside, beyond. Stitched into the fabric of Pride's world, he was every raging flame, every falling star, the white sea above, the black slates below. He was Pride itself: marrow in the bones, bones encasing marrow. Everywhere and nowhere—all at once.

'What... is this?' Pride thundered—his tone vulnerable, breaking—true fear calling that could not be hid.

Havoc did not reply; he did not know if he even could. For the first time, he allowed Catharsia to flow unhindered, coursing potent elimination through the world he had become.

It came undone—cracking, breaking, collapsing beneath the weight of its perfect flaw. How could what stands alone ever be one with something else? It could not. Yet neither could it burn away and meld the infection. To do so would bring all things into itself.

By Pride's own words, its flaw was his glory—it could not share it with all that was. To such an existence, Harmony was poison to its veins. And even if the Dungeon could stabilise it, within its own realm, no such aid would be found.

The music—still riding the wind—now reaped Havoc: a discordant cacophony of apocalyptic sound. Yet there was something else within the noise. It tugged at his Core, even as the world bled away.

Assimilation. Transformation. Integration Sublimation. Becoming.

He could almost grasp it—but it slipped away, leaving only the echo of a truth too vast to hold.

The world turned white. The white drew in. When it had receded completely, he felt the ground beneath his feet. Blood-must air rushed into his lungs like an assailant. His heart thrashed—once more a mortal man. The weight of flesh bore down upon him. He swayed, then fell. The Truecourse shattered as he struck the ground, the Dreamwalker's Mask and Spectre's Band breaking with it. Even without reaching for his Spirit Chains, he felt their absence—each of his Remnants ground to dust, unable to withstand the full measure of his unleashed power.

Around him burned a wall of fire. The flames flickered, faded, and burned down to nothing. Before him, Pride's armour lay lifeless upon the stone, its greatsword held loosely between still fingers.

Though his vision swam and his breaths came shallow, Havoc forced himself to stand, his muscles screaming at the exertion. Like a ghost within a corpse, he dragged himself to where the armour lay. An ebony wisp fluttered above—so faint it could have faded, yet the power it still held called out to Havoc's soul.

Do it, his Captive Spirit urged, glee thick in its tone. The mighty has fallen—such a wonderful sight.

He did not need the provocation. Nothing could have kept him from his task. Even as the sounds of fearsome struggle rose to his side, even as Naereah cried his name—panic sharpening her voice—all that mattered was the wisp and the burning hunger it drew from him. He poured the faintest drips of power left within his Core into his Anchor.

Dense mist, all-consuming, surged from Havoc's form. It enveloped the wisp. For a moment, there came a tug of resistance—Pride to the end, even as the curtain came down. Then it fell away. The mist receded, and another Captive Spirit was bound within the Midnight Urn.

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