The one retrieved from The Void

The Rose chuckled, shaking her head in disbelief. "You're bold, I'll give you that. Maybe too bold for your own good." A fleeting smile crossed her lips, but it didn't last long. The weight of their earlier conversation lingered, heavy and oppressive, as though the very air around them resented the mention of such forbidden knowledge.

"So," she continued, shifting her tone, "you said there was something you needed to do. May I ask what it is?"

Vas leaned back slightly, his gaze steady and unyielding. "I need to revisit my approach to fights," he said truthfully, his words carrying a quiet resolve.

The Rose raised an eyebrow. "Why here, of all places?"

"I have my reasons," Vas replied curtly, his tone making it clear he wasn't going to elaborate.

"Fair enough." The Rose nodded, though curiosity danced behind her eyes. "I'll be leaving, then. I need to find my companions."

"Sure. Good luck with that," Vas answered without hesitation, his tone neutral but not unkind.

The Rose rose to her feet, casting one last lingering glance at him. The dim light played tricks on her face, softening her expression into something almost tender. Then, with a single, fluid motion, she leapt off the ledge, vanishing into the abyss below.

Vas was alone now. Completely.

Neither Morrigan nor The Archivist could reach him in this place, their presences muted and distant as if the very walls of this void repelled them. And now, with The Rose gone, he was the only living soul left in this forsaken expanse. The silence was suffocating, almost sentient, pressing down on him with the weight of unspoken threats and unseen eyes.

It was time to act.

Vas's mind sharpened, his thoughts turning to the ideas he had been contemplating. His abilities, though versatile and powerful, were lacking in direct combat. The battles he had faced so far had exposed his shortcomings, and he was determined to rectify them. But this was no simple adjustment—this would require something far more binding.

He would forge Amrita Pacts.

The concept wasn't new to him, but the stakes of this endeavor felt higher than ever. Amrita was not a benevolent force. It was primordial, untamed, and unforgiving. Each pact would demand its price, and Vas knew the cost would be steep.

As he closed his eyes, an image flickered in his mind like a fragmented reel of film. A voice, disembodied and distant, spoke to him, its tone familiar but impossible to place.

"Make a route," it said.

The words echoed in his thoughts, carrying a strange, undeniable weight. Vas frowned, considering the suggestion. A route… It was a good idea, one that aligned with his earlier thoughts about refining his abilities. But it also complicated things. Significantly.

Still, Vas wasn't one to shy away from complexity.

He began to piece together the framework of his first pact. If he was to summon spirits in succession, they would need to follow a specific order—a route. Each spirit's abilities would build upon the previous one, their effects compounding and evolving as the sequence progressed. This alone, however, would not suffice. He would need multiple routes, each tailored to different scenarios. Otherwise, an enemy who escaped his initial onslaught could prepare countermeasures for future encounters.

This realization led to the second pact. The spirits' summons would be visually represented during battle, allowing opponents to track the progression of his route. This concession served a dual purpose: it granted his foes a fighting chance while significantly reducing the Anima cost of summoning, ensuring he could sustain his strategies during prolonged engagements.

But Vas wasn't done.

For the third pact, he chose Tenebra, the small wisp-like spirit, to be perpetually summoned. It was a bold decision, as it meant sacrificing his versatile Tenebra Blades in their current form. However, he saw potential in molding Tenebra into something new, something that would enhance his approach to combat.

From there, the pacts began to take shape like pieces of an intricate puzzle. He established conditions for the strength and duration of his spirits' abilities:

Strength vs. Duration vs. Area of Effect: Each spirit would follow an inverse relationship. Greater strength would mean reduced duration or area of effect, and vice versa. This balance ensured that his powers remained effective yet controlled, a necessity given the volatile nature of Amrita.

Mudras and Sigils: He would summon spirits through one of two methods: Mudras or Sigils. Each spirit would respond differently depending on the method used, introducing another layer of strategy.

Command Seals: To further appease Amrita, he imposed a rule requiring a specific release command for each spirit before their abilities could be activated.

The final pact was perhaps the most daring. The last spirit summoned in any route would inherit the combined strength of all those summoned before it, creating a devastating crescendo. However, this power came with a cooldown period, the length of which depended on the chosen route.

By the time Vas finished outlining his pacts, he felt a mixture of exhaustion and exhilaration. The enormity of what he had devised wasn't lost on him. These pacts were not mere tools; they were a declaration of intent, a binding agreement with the very essence of creation.

And the stakes couldn't have been higher.

Failure to honor these pacts could result in catastrophic consequences, not just for him but for the fragile balance of power that governed the world. Yet, despite the risks, Vas felt a strange sense of clarity.

Gerald Hek sat in his dimly lit studio, the silence broken only by the occasional crackle of the fireplace. A leather-bound chair creaked faintly as he shifted, holding a thick file of reports in one hand. Lines of tension creased his face—an unsettling contrast to the usual stoic calm he exuded. He had retired from active duty years ago, but even in retirement, Gerald kept his metaphorical hunting dogs on a tight leash, ever watchful for the next disturbance that might warrant his attention.

The government, military, and even private organizations often sought his counsel. Most requests barely earned a glance, discarded after a brief skim of their titles. Only those that piqued his interest—those that hinted at something far darker or more fascinating—were pursued. But recently, reports had begun to arrive that gnawed at his gut with unrelenting unease.

Strange ships spotted in the orbit of Caelum.

Gerald's gaze lingered on those words. He tapped the edge of the file against his desk, thinking. The implications were deeply troubling. The Nu Prison—a fortress buried in secrecy and reinforced with layers of nearly impenetrable security—loomed large in his mind. Its existence was one of the most tightly guarded secrets on the planet, whispered only in shadowed corners by those in the know. Even if someone somehow knew about the prison, targeting it seemed suicidal, if not outright impossible.

And yet.

A heaviness settled in his chest as he stared out the window into the moonlit expanse of the estate grounds. Something didn't sit right. A whisper at the back of his mind told him that what was happening was far worse than he dared admit.

The sound of a faint chime pulled him from his thoughts—a fresh report delivered electronically. When his eyes landed on the title, the blood drained from his face.

"Nu Prison Under Attack."

The room seemed to shrink around him as he opened the file with deliberate slowness, his hands steady despite the storm brewing beneath his surface. What he read made his stomach churn.

The prison's defenses had been breached. The inmates had revolted, splitting into factions and seizing control of the fifth and sixth floors—territories once believed inviolable. But the chaos didn't stop there. A strange phenomenon had taken hold, twisting the landscape of the prison itself into something unnatural, something wrong. Hostages had been taken—students—young, brilliant minds who had no business being anywhere near a warzone.

And among those names stood three that sent ice through his veins: Vastian. Lily. Carmilla.

His jaw tightened, the muscles working as he ground his teeth. Rage flickered beneath his calm exterior like a slow-burning ember. Vastian had been taken hostage. Or had he? Gerald knew the boy well enough to suspect this was not mere misfortune. Vas was always calculating, always playing a deeper game. If he had allowed himself to be captured, there was a purpose to it. But that didn't make the situation any less dire.

Gerald rose, his movements slow and purposeful, as though any sudden action might crack the veneer of control he wore like armor. He activated a communication line, his voice a low rumble of authority.

"Whisper," Gerald said, each word carrying weight.

The reply came swiftly, crisp and professional. "Here, Boss."

"I need you to go to Nu," Gerald ordered.

"No problem," Whisper answered, unflinching as always.

"Be ready to fight at full force," Gerald added, his voice colder now, a predator preparing for the hunt.

"Understood."