The one retrieved from The Void

"Don't worry," a voice echoed through the darkness, reverberating through the cavernous space. It was calm, almost too calm, and unnervingly clear. "You can come here. You'll be safe. If I harm you—or her—so be it that Amrita strike me down."

Vas's breath hitched as he focused on the figure silhouetted against the dim glow of the warped prison. They stood unnaturally still, their form cloaked in shadow and faintly shimmering, as though they existed on the edge of reality itself.

"I just made an Amrita Pact with myself," the voice continued, with an unsettling sense of finality. "You'll be safe here."

The declaration echoed like a solemn vow, but it did nothing to ease the knot of tension coiling in Vas's chest. The figure was strange—wrong, even. Something about them felt entirely out of place in this world, as though their very presence was an affront to reality.

Vas's exhaustion weighed on him like chains. His Anima reserves were almost completely drained, sapped first by using Audron to stabilize The Cobalt's injuries, then by the relentless fight against The Sculpture and now the toll of summoning his Tenebra Blades. His body screamed for rest, his reserves flickering dangerously low. He couldn't hold the blades much longer, but the alternative—plummeting into the abyss below—was unthinkable.

He gritted his teeth, glaring at the figure. Was this another trap? Another game in the endless torment this place seemed to orchestrate? He had no way of knowing, but he had no choice.

Without a word, Vas hurled himself toward the ledge where the figure stood. The distance was greater than he expected, his legs barely pushing him halfway before gravity began its cruel pull. Desperation flooded his veins, and he tapped into the last dregs of his Anima, summoning an Amrita platform midair. It shimmered faintly, a fragile lifeline that existed for no more than a heartbeat—just enough for him to springboard toward the ledge.

The impact was brutal. He hit the stone hard, his body crumpling as pain radiated through his limbs. The force wrenched The Rose from his grasp, sending her limp body rolling across the ground. Vas groaned, struggling to push himself upright, but his limbs felt like lead.

Before he could react, the figure moved. With an almost inhuman fluidity, they caught The Rose mid-roll, cradling her as though she weighed nothing.

"Long time no see," the figure said, their voice eerily calm as they turned to look at Vas.

Vas forced himself to his knees, glaring up at the figure through the haze of exhaustion. "I don't know you," he spat, his tone sharp despite his ragged breaths.

"Oh, but you do," the figure replied smoothly. They reached up, pulling away the cloth that concealed their face.

Beneath it was a face Vas hadn't seen in quite a while—a man from the very beginning of his journey. The memory hit him like a tidal wave: a ragged drifter he'd encountered during his first mission under Madeline's command, back when he was still learning the ropes. The man had been living on the streets, his cryptic directions leading Vas to the first set of hybrids he ever fought.

Vas's breath caught. How could it be him?

"You remember now," the man said with a sly smile.

Cold dread coiled in Vas's stomach, twisting tighter with each passing second. Questions clawed at his mind: How long had this man been following him? How much did he know? And more importantly, what was he?

"Don't worry," the man said, as though sensing Vas's turmoil. "I'm not here to hurt you."

"That's comforting," Vas replied bitterly, forcing himself to his feet. "Except I have no idea who you are—or why you wouldn't hurt me."

"If I wanted to harm you," the man said, his tone maddeningly even, "I wouldn't have helped you get here."

As he spoke, his form began to shift. The ragged features smoothed out, his tattered clothes replaced by pristine, almost radiant garments. His face became unnervingly perfect, exuding an allure that felt unnatural.

"That's not exactly reassuring," Vas muttered, his voice tinged with unease. "But strangely… I believe you."

"Of course you do," the man said, his lips curving into a serene smile. "What kind of parent would lie to their child?"

The words sent a jolt through Vas, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten. "What does that even mean?" he demanded, his voice laced with suspicion.

"Morrigan, what the hell is this guy talking about?" Vas reached out with his mind, desperate for an answer.

"Oh, don't do that," the man interrupted sharply, his tone darkening. "Speaking with Morrigan in front of me is rather rude."

Vas froze. His blood turned to ice as the realization hit him—this man knew about Morrigan. This was the first time anyone had acknowledged her without either him or Morrigan revealing her presence.

"I've blocked their influence," the man continued, his voice taking on a smug edge. "Morrigan, The Archivist—none of them can hear us right now. I want to speak with you alone."

Before Vas could react, the man's form shimmered again, morphing into a woman. Vas's heart sank as he recognized her: the enigmatic figure he had seen outside the Hek mansion before coming to Nu Prison.

"I've been watching your progress with great interest," she said, her voice unnervingly casual as her form began to shift again, this time into a woman in an inmate's uniform. "And while you've done well, it's not enough."

Fear clawed at Vas's throat, choking his words.

"I gave you an Archetype with the potential for limitless power," the figure continued, their voice hardening. "Yet you've barely scratched the surface. Even with Morrigan guiding you, you've let the spirits dictate your actions instead of imposing your will upon them."

The figure's form shifted again, now taking on a more menacing aspect. "You are the Forger. It is your duty to shape the spirits, not the other way around. That is why I told your friends to encourage your latest idea—it shows a glimmer of the potential you're squandering."

"Why do you care?" Vas forced out, his voice shaking. "What are you—a Forgotten?"

"You could say that," the figure replied, their smile twisting into something darker. "But it's more complicated than that. Who I am doesn't matter. What matters is that you remember this: you are the Forger. It is your duty to exert your will upon the spirits. If you don't… your potential will remain wasted."

The air seemed to shift, the oppressive weight lifting slightly as the figure began to fade. "Stay here and recover," they said, their voice echoing one last time. "Nothing will harm you in this place. Not while I'm watching."

And then, they were gone.

Vas was left alone on the ledge with The Rose, her small form still eerily still and unconscious. The only sound was his own ragged breathing, echoing faintly in the oppressive silence. Whatever that enigmatic being had done, it had severed his connection to Morrigan, leaving a cold void where her guiding presence had once resided. It wasn't just Morrigan—there was a disconcerting sense of isolation, like a shroud had fallen over him, cutting him off from everything he had relied upon.

Strangely, he found some solace in that solitude. For now, it gave him space to think, though the words the being had left him with churned relentlessly in his mind. You've barely scratched the surface of your Archetype. You've let the spirits dictate you, rather than the other way around.

The weight of those accusations gnawed at him. He hated to admit it, but there was truth in them. He had believed that by allowing the spirits he forged to decide their own abilities, he was respecting their identities. It felt… just. But the being's rebuke had illuminated a bitter flaw in that logic. A forger does not let the materials dictate their form. The forger decides. The forger creates.

That revelation hit him like a hammer strike. He wasn't just a conduit for the spirits—he was meant to mold them, to give them purpose. Yet, he had been too hesitant, too deferential.

The quiet isolation served another purpose: it sharpened his focus. There were deeper implications to what the being had said, and Vas needed to unravel them if he hoped to survive the path ahead. The being's cryptic mention of his "idea" being a good one stood out, a beacon of clarity in a sea of doubt.

Vas shifted uncomfortably against the cold stone, his muscles aching, his Anima reserves drained to dangerous levels. Yet his mind worked tirelessly, replaying fragments of recent battles and insights. He had been toying with an idea—a radical shift in how he wielded his Archetype.

The first clue had come from The Sculpture, whose relentless creations had almost overwhelmed him. It could summon one new construct after the previous one was destroyed, but not simultaneously. That limitation had sparked a thought: what if Vas could forge an Amrita Pact to bypass such restrictions, allowing him to summon multiple spirits at once, seamlessly, like an army at his command?

The second clue was more nuanced. During the brutal clash between The Trauma and The Vice, Vas had observed how sigils were wielded as both tools of destruction and intricate tactics. Especially striking was The Trauma's mastery of sigils—each one a deliberate choice, its effects shaping the battlefield with precision.

Together, these ideas had coalesced into a grand concept, one Vas had dismissed as too ambitious. He envisioned not merely summoning spirits but integrating them fully into his combat style, each spirit a living extension of his will, moving and fighting as one cohesive unit. Not just tools or allies—but manifestations of his mastery as a Forger.

The problem was, it was a colossal undertaking, both conceptually and in practice. The complexity of such a plan was daunting, a labyrinth of interconnected challenges. Could he forge a Pact powerful enough to sustain such an intricate system? Could he master sigils to command his spirits with the finesse he envisioned?