The one retrieved from The Void

As their conversation drifted into the background, Vas's attention split between Carmilla's battle and the still body of The Cobalt lying before him. One hand rested on The Cobalt's chest, a faint hum of energy emanating from his fingertips as he channeled Audron's powers. Healing was no easy task, especially with Audron's abilities, and Vas could feel the strain it placed on him. Exhaustion gnawed at his reserves, but he pushed through.

According to what he could sense through the bond with Audron, The Cobalt would wake soon. Vas's decision to expend his energy on this effort wasn't without calculation. Even if The Cobalt couldn't fully recover, he could at least serve as a valuable distraction later on.

The Warden had kept his promise, granting The Negotiator a fleeting couple of minutes before pursuing him. The Nu Prison was no ordinary penitentiary—it was a crypt of nightmares, built to house those too dangerous for standard incarceration yet too consequential to execute outright. Its halls were a testament to the Hidden Heresy, a shadowy chapter in history whose participants—knowingly or not—had earned their place in this labyrinth of punishment.

To be considered a candidate for the Nu Prison, one had to meet strict and damning criteria. First, no inmate here could be deemed "normal"; they bore cybernetic augmentations, wielded Anima, or were otherwise touched by the extraordinary. Second, their ties to the Hidden Heresy had to be undeniable, even if only revealed through investigation after their crimes. Lastly, their capture required the intervention of agents of exceptional caliber.

This was why the prison was built like a fortress—a descending tomb of seven underground floors. The deeper one went, the darker the horrors became. Each level served as a more grotesque threshold into madness, the inmates increasingly monstrous in their abilities and crimes. The fifth and sixth floors were the current flashpoints of concern. If the rioters breached them, chaos would spill like blood from a wound. But the seventh floor—ah, the seventh—was a sealed abyss. Even if the inmates clawed their way to its gates, none would dare disturb the eldritch entities imprisoned there. If they did… well, The Warden doubted any of them would survive the encounter. Only someone of Abigail Hek's caliber could stand a chance against what lurked below.

But The Warden's immediate focus wasn't on the seventh floor—it was on the missing students. During the chaos, Vastian Hek and several others had been taken by the inmates, a dire complication that demanded swift resolution. Already, he had subdued multiple prisoners, some executed on sight, their transgressions too grievous for mercy. Others had surrendered the moment they glimpsed him, their terror palpable. They knew The Warden's reputation—knew what it meant to face him. Yet none of the captured inmates provided useful information about the missing students' whereabouts, only vague whispers that Vas and the others had been spotted on the lower levels.

Now, as The Warden descended toward the third floor, he found his path blocked—not by a guard, not by an inmate, but by her.

The figure standing before him radiated an unsettling elegance, her presence as incongruous as it was foreboding. She hummed a melody, soft and lilting, the words indistinct yet eerily familiar. Her voice echoed faintly off the steel walls, filling the corridor with a haunting tune.

"Who are you?" The Warden demanded, his voice cold and authoritative, though he felt a chill crawling up his spine.

The woman ignored the question, continuing her unnerving hum as she swayed slightly, almost rhythmically.

"Don't worry about that, dear," she said finally, her tone dripping with otherworldly grace. "But I need you to wait before going down."

The Warden's eyes narrowed. "This is my prison, madam. You cannot bar me from going anywhere within it."

The woman smiled—no, shifted. Her form shimmered, bending and reshaping as if reality itself bent to accommodate her whims. What had moments ago been a woman now appeared as a long-haired, androgynous figure with eerily perfect features. Their presence exuded an uncanny beauty that defied human understanding, yet beneath it lurked something ancient and malevolent. Still humming, the figure took a step closer, their bare feet gliding over the cold floor without a sound.

"I can bar anyone from anywhere, everywhere," the figure said softly, their voice now a chorus of layered tones, male and female, harmonious and discordant. "You will not go down—not yet. In fifteen minutes, perhaps, but until then, stay here. Be a good Warden."

Something cold and primal gripped The Warden's soul. His muscles locked, and no matter how hard he willed himself to move, he couldn't. A deep, creeping fear took root, blossoming into a terror unlike anything he'd ever felt. It wasn't just the impossibility of disobeying the figure's command—it was the why. He couldn't name the source of his dread, yet it consumed him, gnawing at his sanity.

The figure stepped back, resuming their eerie hum before breaking into a song that sent icy shivers through The Warden's body:

"Hush now, my dear, close your eyes,

Under the veil of the moonlit skies,

Nekyroth watches, so still and so near,

Guarding your dreams, there's nothing to fear."

The haunting melody echoed long after the figure disappeared into the shadows, their form dissolving like mist. Alone in the corridor, The Warden's legs buckled. He leaned against the cold steel wall, his hands trembling. He tried to rationalize the encounter, to make sense of what had just happened—but he couldn't. He had faced murderers, monsters, and maniacs in his time. Yet nothing—nothing—had ever instilled such bone-deep terror.

And the worst part? He still couldn't explain what had terrified him so deeply.

Carmilla steadied herself, wiping a trickle of blood from her lip as she rose from the rubble. The Vice's earlier blow had been brutal, but she had endured worse. Her mother and Abigail had ensured she would never crumble easily, their relentless training forging her body into a weapon of resilience. Pain was familiar; recovery was instinctual.

Across from her, The Vice seethed with fury, clutching his wounded side. His voice boomed, raw and venomous, filling the battleground like a storm. "You bitch!" he spat. "What is it with you followers of the usurpers? Why won't you let us put the world back the way it's supposed to be?!"

Carmilla tilted her head, her claws flexing idly, crackling faintly with residual electricity. "I don't understand a single word of the nonsense you're spewing," she said, her tone dripping with disinterest, though her eyes stayed sharp, locked on The Vice like a predator sizing up prey.

"The gods you worship," The Vice hissed, staggering slightly as his wounds began to bleed through his shirt. "They stole their power from the Primals! Just die already—let us set things right, let us restore balance!"

"That's interesting," Vas's voice cut through the tense air, calm but brimming with curiosity. He stepped forward, arms folded, his gaze shifting toward The Rose, the enigmatic woman standing nearby with her signature poise and a faint smirk on her lips. "The Rose, you know about this too?" he asked casually, his words an arrow aimed straight at her.

The Rose's smirk deepened, her beauty as disarming as ever. "I do," she admitted, her tone teasing yet guarded. "Why?"

"Would you mind explaining it to me later?" Vas asked, his question blunt, as though they were discussing trivial gossip rather than matters of gods and heresy.

The Rose let out a soft, incredulous laugh, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Heh," she exclaimed. "Sure, darling—if you manage to beat me first."

"It's a deal, then," Vas said, his voice steady as he raised his hands and performed a deliberate mudra. The motion was smooth but forceful, his intent palpable as the symbols coalesced in the air between them.

The Rose's smile faltered. "What?" she asked, the surprise evident in her voice. "Did you just—"

"Yes," Vas interrupted firmly, his gaze unwavering. "I'm not as skilled as The Negotiator when it comes to forming Amrita Pacts. I still need a mudra or a sigil to solidify one, but it's still a Pact."

The Rose's eyes narrowed, her playful demeanor hardening. She studied Vas with newfound respect, her earlier assumptions crumbling. This boy, who moments ago had seemed like little more than an overconfident upstart, now stood before her as something more—a wildcard. If he could wield the power of Amrita Pacts, he was dangerous.

The Vice, meanwhile, gritted his teeth, realizing he couldn't afford to hold back any longer. His chains began to glow, their hue intensifying as he summoned more, the metallic links rattling like the ominous chimes of a death knell. He raised his arms to command the chains, but his movements were sluggish, his muscles twitching from the electricity coursing through his body thanks to Carmilla's earlier attacks. The spasms were manageable—until a strange tingling sensation began to spread through his chest.

"He's going to have a hard time handling that," a voice interjected suddenly. The room turned, stunned, as The Cobalt staggered to his feet.

"Welcome back," Vas said, his tone even, though a glint of satisfaction flickered in his eyes. "Smart move."

The Cobalt shook his head, his expression weary but determined. "It wasn't intentional," he admitted. "I have an implant in my brain that makes decisions like this to ensure my survival, young one."

The sheer audacity of The Cobalt standing once more left everyone stunned. Vas's gamble had paid off. The room buzzed with disbelief, but Vas himself remained unshaken, his calm demeanor lending weight to his already growing reputation.

"I'm sorry I couldn't beat him," The Cobalt said, his voice low with regret.

"Don't worry, man," Ken said, stepping up with a reassuring grin. "Let's trust Carmilla now."