Chiaki stood in the corridor's dim glow, her body locked in place as her mind reeled from what she had just witnessed.
Razor hadn't been struck—at least, not directly. Morvain hadn't even moved much during the fight, barely lifting his sickle except to deflect. And yet Razor now lay unconscious, broken and bleeding.
Chiaki's breath trembled.
Her eyes dropped to the streaks of red left behind on the stone floor—blood that didn't belong to her, but stirred something hollow in her chest. Something familiar. Her own wounds… when she had run across those rooftops… when she had thought the pain had come from the fall, the chase, the sheer effort. But now it clicked.
Morvain hadn't touched her then either.
And yet she had bled.
Not from reopened injuries… but from something deeper. Something colder. As if her body had unraveled without a visible strike. As if just being near him tore things loose inside her that she couldn't see, couldn't name.
Her gaze slowly turned back to Morvain.
He still stood in the corridor, slouched and unmoved, his posture that same lazy bend of apathy he wore like armor. But now… it terrified her.
"You…" she whispered.
Morvain raised his head slightly at the sound of her voice.
"You did this to her. Without even trying."
He blinked. "Wasn't really the plan. She just… kept throwing herself around like a bad dream with blades. Thought she'd give up after the first two swings, honestly."
Chiaki's hands curled into fists, her nails digging into her palms. "You didn't even move… just like before…"
"Oh," Morvain muttered, rubbing at his neck with tired fingers. "So you finally figured that part out, huh."
His words landed with all the weight of dust—light, slow, uncaring. But for Chiaki, they thundered. Her thoughts spiraled through the memory of that rooftop chase—the moment her knees buckled, the warmth of blood soaking into her clothes, the confusion. All this time, she thought she'd pushed herself too far. Thought she had broken on her own.
But it had been him.
It had always been him.
Whatever Morvain was—whatever weight he carried—it tore through people like rot beneath the skin. Quiet. Invisible. Devastating.
Chiaki's chest rose and fell with sharp, uneven breaths. Not from fear.
But fury.
Morvain let out a slow, exhausted sigh, dragging a hand down his face as if the effort to even talk was too much.
"Man... this is the part I always hate," he muttered, glancing toward the far wall rather than meeting Chiaki's gaze. "Explaining it. Like it matters."
He rubbed at his eye with the heel of his palm, then gestured vaguely at the empty air between them. "There's no fancy name. No cool title. No ancient prophecy junk. It's just... me. I exist, and things around me don't. Or they fall apart. Or… maybe they forget how to hold together. I dunno. Doesn't really come with a manual."
Chiaki narrowed her eyes. "That's not an answer."
"I know," Morvain replied flatly, slouching a little more. "But it's the only one I've got. I don't hit people. I don't set stuff on fire. I just… show up. And they bleed. They break. Not all at once. Not in some dramatic way. Just… slowly. Quietly. Like their body gives up before they do."
He gave a weak shrug, as though none of it mattered. "You probably thought it was your wounds opening again on the rooftop. Razor probably thought she tripped, or swung too hard, or lost her breath. But it's not like that. It's not a punch or a stab or whatever. It's... being next to me. It's like gravity, but worse. Pulls the fight outta people. The will. Even their insides get tired, I guess."
Chiaki's breath caught in her throat.
Morvain yawned, his hand lazily covering his mouth. "I'm not proud of it. I don't even try most days. It just… happens. Whether I want it to or not. Makes friends kinda hard to keep. Makes people... leak."
He looked down at the floor, at the faint streaks of blood Razor left behind. Then back at Chiaki.
"You're right to be mad. I'd be mad too. But don't waste it on me. I've been like this too long to care." His shoulders sagged, his voice thinning to a murmur. "You wanna blame someone? Blame the world that thought this kind of power was useful."
He turned his eyes away again, the weight of himself dragging every word like it was nailed to the floor. "I never asked to be this empty."
Chiaki stood still, her chains faintly rattling with each breath, but her gaze held firm—clear, sharp, and laced with something deeper than anger.
"You've felt it before, haven't you?" she said quietly, almost like a realization more than a question. "What it's like… to sever someone's soul."
There was no judgment in her tone. Only certainty. As if she wasn't asking at all—just speaking aloud the truth they both already knew.
Morvain let out a long, tired sigh, slumping back against the wall as if just standing upright had become optional. His sickle dangled at his side, forgotten for now, like a tool he barely had the will to use.
"Second mate," he muttered, his voice low, dry. "Rhaziel's crew. That's me. Not that it means anything special. It's just a rank. A placeholder. Something to call someone who didn't die fast enough."
He scratched the back of his neck, eyes half-lidded, looking everywhere but at her.
"He used it on me too, y'know… that power. The soul-severing thing. Hurts like hell. Not in the way you'd think, though. It doesn't scream or bleed. It just… hollows you. Like something warm got yanked outta your ribs and left the wind echoing through you instead."
He paused, gaze distant.
"I was different before. Sharper. Alive. People used to say I had presence, if you can believe that. But after what he did... I just stopped feeling things the way I used to. Got quieter. Slower. Tired, all the time. Not from moving—just from being."
His eyes finally met hers, bleak and unguarded.
"I didn't survive because I was strong. I survived 'cause I agreed. Rhaziel said if I served under him, I could keep the pieces I had left. Whatever was left of me after he carved out the rest. So here I am. Still walking. Still breathing. Just… not all of me anymore."
He shrugged, as if confessing the theft of his soul was no more significant than reporting a spilled drink.
"I can't help being like this. I don't even know if there's a 'me' to fix anymore."
Chiaki blinked, the weight of his words settling over her like ash. The quiet, the stillness—it all made sense now. That emptiness she'd felt when he fought, the way Razor bled without being touched, her own wounds opening when he was near. His presence didn't crush. It hollowed. Like a walking silence in the shape of a man.
But what struck her most wasn't the revelation of his power.
It was the resignation in his voice.
Her brows furrowed, breath catching in her chest. "Then why?" she asked, voice lower now, steadier. "Why serve her? If you already gave yourself to Rhaziel, why the Empress too? What does she have over you?"
Morvain didn't answer right away. His head tilted slightly, eyes drifting toward the ceiling as if trying to remember something he wasn't sure had really happened.
"I don't serve her," he said finally, his tone flat but not defensive—just... exhausted. "Not really. Not in the way you think."
He turned his gaze back to her.
"I show up when she asks because Rhaziel tells me to. I stand in place. I listen to orders. But none of it sticks. None of it means anything. I don't care about her empire. Her throne. Her breeding chambers or her grand vision of perfect soldiers."
His voice fell quieter still.
"When you've been emptied out, it doesn't matter who's pulling the strings. You're just... following the weight of your own shadow."
He leaned forward slightly, his arms hanging loose, like gravity was doing most of the work of holding him together.
"I'm not here for her. I'm here because I've got nowhere else to go. That's all."
Chiaki's breath caught as she stared at him—not with fear this time, but something closer to understanding. There was no malice in Morvain's eyes. No hunger for violence. Just that same weary emptiness, like a man sleepwalking through obligations he never chose.
"…Don't you want to be free?" she asked quietly, her voice barely more than a whisper. "To cut the strings? To live for yourself again?"
Morvain's eyes drifted downward.
"Of course I do."
The answer came fast. Immediate. Like it had been sitting on the edge of his throat, waiting for someone to ask.
"But I can't," he said, slower now. "You don't walk away from someone who's already carved into your soul. You just… drift where they leave you. Even if you know it's wrong. Even if every part of you wants out."
His shoulders slouched a little more, his sickle dragging faintly against the stone at his side.
"I remember what freedom felt like. That's the worst part. The memory of it's the heaviest thing I carry. But it's not mine anymore. It belongs to the person I was before he reached into me and took the part that said no."
He looked back at Chiaki again, tired but strangely honest.
"You still have that part, don't you?"
Morvain's gaze lingered on her, dim but steady.
"…Then why not keep going with it?" he asked, his voice soft and low, like a half-faded thought. "You still have your will. Your voice. That fire in your gut. So why kneel now?"
Chiaki didn't answer right away.
The question wasn't judgmental—it wasn't even curious. It felt more like a man trying to remember something he'd lost, reaching through someone else's clarity because his own had long since been smothered.
Morvain glanced away, slouching more under the weight of silence.
"If I still had that kind of freedom," he muttered, "maybe I wouldn't have to keep standing in halls like this… playing the guard dog for chains I hate."
Then, quieter still—almost to himself.
"…Maybe I'd be running too."
Chiaki's fingers tightened slightly at her sides, her breath unsteady, yet her eyes never wavered from Morvain's. The words she had been holding in finally pushed forward, voice low but charged with something deeper—an aching thread of clarity.
"…My brother left me a letter before he vanished," she said. "He told me there were things hidden beneath all of this—truths I wouldn't want to believe, things I'd have to find on my own. He said I needed to understand everything if I wanted to survive with my soul still intact."
Morvain tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable, but the usual haze behind his eyes seemed to still, if only for a moment.
"I thought I understood what he meant," Chiaki went on, voice trembling faintly. "But I didn't. Not until I saw what they were trying to make me into. Not until I realized how many people were already twisted by it."
She glanced down, for just a moment.
"I can't run anymore. I need to learn the truth. About the empire. About Resonators. About what the did—what they're still doing to all of us. Even to you."
Her eyes lifted again—brighter now, but solemn.
"I owe him that much. And I owe it to myself. If I walk away now, I stay ignorant. And they'll win."
Morvain's shoulders rose with a quiet sigh, the sound barely more than a breath. But he said nothing, just kept looking at her, tired and hollow… yet listening.
Morvain's gaze drifted down the corridor, as if the weight of the conversation had pulled him inward. His voice followed, low and without urgency, like someone already halfway resigned to his own advice.
"You know," he mumbled, "Resonance… it was never meant to be a solo thing. Not truly."
Chiaki furrowed her brow. "What do you mean?"
He rubbed the back of his neck, lazily, like the thought alone exhausted him. "A Resonator—at its core—is a reflection of two forces. Not just power and will. It's connection. You can train all you want, sharpen yourself to a blade, but it'll never reach what it could… not without someone else beside you. Someone who pulls the echo out of your soul. Someone who matches it."
Chiaki's lips parted slightly. The idea was familiar—and yet she'd never heard it spoken aloud.
Morvain's eyes met hers, dark and dull, but strangely sincere. "You want to understand what you are? What your brother was? Then stop thinking you've gotta do it all alone. That's not strength. That's… survival. It's different."
He gave a dry, humorless chuckle. "Hell, maybe if I'd figured that out back when I still had something left, I wouldn't be walking around like this… half a shadow and all that."
Then, after a moment, he sighed. "So yeah. If you're gonna keep moving forward… maybe find someone who makes the soul inside you louder. Instead of quieter."
He glanced away again, muttering, "Might help more than chasing ghosts ever will."
Chiaki's voice was quieter this time, almost uncertain. "Are you… a Resonator too? To know all that?"
Morvain shook his head, slow and tired, as if even the question weighed on his spine. "No. Gods, no. If I were, I wouldn't be standing here, talking to you like this."
His fingers flexed slightly at his side, then dropped again like they'd given up on the motion halfway through.
"Severing a normal soul's bad enough," he muttered. "It hollows you out, sure. Leaves you… numb. Makes food taste like ash, makes days feel like echoes. But severing a Resonator's soul?" His eyes, dim as they were, gained a flicker of something darker. "That's different. That's worse."
He looked down at his hand as if it didn't belong to him. "They're built on connection. Emotion. Purpose. Cut that thread, and they don't just fall apart. They fracture. Collapse in ways you don't come back from."
Chiaki felt a chill crawl along her spine, but Morvain just kept speaking—quiet, almost like a confession.
"I've seen it. What Rhaziel's power does to people like that. It's not clean. Not merciful. And once it's done, there's no healing. No rebuilding. Just... noise in the shape of who they used to be."
He leaned against the wall, exhaling like it hurt. "So no. I'm not a Resonator. I'm just someone who got lucky enough to keep breathing after my soul got carved out." A pause. "Lucky, I guess. If you wanna call it that."
Chiaki stood silent for a long moment, her breath shallow, eyes locked onto the crumbling expression that Morvain wore like a second skin. The weight of everything—the Empress, the palace, the chains, the scars—it all started shifting, narrowing, funneling toward a single, looming name.
"…Rhaziel," she said at last, her voice brittle but full of realization. "He's the one behind all of this."
Morvain didn't answer immediately. Just leaned his shoulder back against the wall and tilted his head to the side, staring at nothing.
"Yeah," he muttered eventually, like dragging the truth out from under a collapsed roof. "He's the rot behind the roots. Empress thinks she's in charge, like she's directing some grand blood-soaked opera… but he's the one humming the tune before the curtain even opens."
Chiaki's gaze sharpened. "Then tell me. About Soul Linking. And Soul Resonance. I need to understand what all of this means—what it can actually do."
Morvain's eyes drifted toward her. For a moment, they weren't just tired—they were heavy with something older. Grief, maybe. Or regret carved too deep to name.
"Soul Linking," he said slowly, "is just that. A link. Two people. Two souls. A thread between them. Might be weak. Might be strong. Might be born outta hate or love or some stupid accident where you both end up sharing pain. Doesn't matter how it starts. Once you're linked… you feel things. Echoes of each other. Sometimes thoughts. Sometimes instincts. A flicker of someone else's heartbeat inside your own."
He paused, his voice quieting. "But that's all it is. A thread. Fragile. Doesn't heal what's broken. Doesn't make you whole."
Chiaki watched him closely. "And Resonance?"
Morvain gave a low, bitter chuckle.
"That's the real thing," he said. "Soul Resonance... that's not just a connection. That's harmony. When two souls don't just touch—they move as one. Perfect rhythm. No gaps. No hesitation. You and someone else vibrating so close to the same pain, the same purpose, the same fire… that the world can't tell you apart anymore."
He shifted his weight, eyes dimming with each word. "It's rare. Real rare. Can't be forced. Can't be planned. You don't earn it by being nice, or strong, or even loyal. It just happens. When it does, it's like breathing for the first time. And for someone who's had pieces of their soul torn away…"
He trailed off, glancing at his own hand like it wasn't entirely his. "It's the only thing that makes them feel real again."
Chiaki stood frozen, the truth settling deeper than any wound. She understood now—what was at stake. What had been twisted. What had been taken.
And maybe… what could still be reclaimed.
Chiaki's gaze dropped as the silence stretched between them. Her hand slowly rose, trembling slightly, and pressed over her chest—over the quiet, steady beat that still hadn't broken, even after everything.
"…Then let me go," she whispered, her voice raw, but steady. "Let me learn how to use it. Soul Resonance."
Morvain didn't respond.
Chiaki's fingers curled against her chest, the pain in her voice thick with purpose. "If it's the only way to heal what's been lost… then I have to understand it. Not just for me. Not just to survive."
She looked up at him, eyes shining—not with defiance this time, but conviction.
"I want to heal others, Morvain. I want to fix the things that were broken by people like him. Even if I don't know how yet. Even if I have to start from nothing. I want to learn."
The corners of Morvain's mouth twitched faintly. Not quite a smile. Not quite sorrow.
"And maybe…" Chiaki hesitated. Her voice softened, like she wasn't sure she should speak it aloud. "Maybe if I learn how… I can even heal you."
She meant it.
And that—more than any declaration before—was the one thing that gave Morvain pause.
He stared at her, that same tired emptiness still dragging down his posture, his breath, his words.
"…You're serious."
Chiaki nodded once.
Still, he didn't move. But something in his eyes flickered. A hesitation. A doubt. A tiny crack in the shell of detachment he'd worn like armor since the moment they met.
"…No one ever said that to me before." His voice was low. Barely audible. "Not once."
She didn't answer. She didn't have to.
She just stood there, hand over her heart, waiting—for him to see what she saw. That even shattered things could still glow in the dark.
Morvain's head dipped slightly, his eyes fixed on the floor between them as if it held some kind of answer—something carved there only he could see. His fingers tensed around the handle of his sickle, then relaxed again. Back and forth. Like he was arguing with himself in silence.
"I shouldn't let you go," he murmured, voice dragging like a sigh that never found rest. "Not after what I've done. Not after what I am. Someone like me doesn't get to just… let people go."
His gaze slowly lifted, meeting hers. "I'm supposed to be the chain. The last wall. The... pathetic excuse that keeps this whole mess from collapsing."
Chiaki stayed quiet, watching him.
Morvain let out a dry, humorless breath. "But I'm tired. I've been tired for so long, I don't even remember what it felt like to want something else."
A pause.
Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he stepped aside.
Not a grand gesture. Just a quiet shift of weight—enough to open the way past him.
"…Go," he said, eyes dull but unwavering. "Learn your Soul Resonance. Fix what you can."
But as she started forward, he lifted a hand without looking at her.
"Just… don't try to fix me."
Chiaki slowed, confusion and sympathy flashing behind her eyes.
Morvain's tone dipped lower, almost inaudible. "Some things aren't broken. They're just hollow. Like an old well. No matter how deep you dig, it won't hold water again."
He turned his face slightly away. "So don't waste your light on someone who's already used up their last spark."
The corridor felt colder for a moment.
But the path was open.
Chiaki stepped forward carefully, the marble beneath her bare feet cool and steady. She moved past the space Morvain had cleared—quiet, cautious, still unsure if he might change his mind. But as she came level with him, just a pace behind, his hand suddenly shot out and caught her wrist.
Not roughly. Not with force.
But firmly.
She froze, her body angled in a run, the tension in her limbs locked like a coiled spring. He didn't turn to face her. He didn't even look. His fingers, though tired and thin, held with surprising strength.
"…Wait."
His voice was the same as always—low, strained, like it had been dragged across stone. But this time, there was something different in it. A layer beneath the apathy. A murmur of hesitation… and maybe something close to care.
"I'll let you go," he said quietly. "But don't just run into the dark thinking your will alone will solve everything. It won't."
Chiaki's breath caught. She didn't respond, not yet.
"There's someone," Morvain continued, eyes still forward. "Someone who might be able to teach you what you're after. If… you can get her to trust you."
He slowly released her wrist, arm dropping back to his side.
"Her name's Avenya. A Resonator, but different. She doesn't fight anymore. She gave up the war when she realized her power could do more than just hurt people."
Chiaki's lips parted. "She knows how to heal severed souls?"
Morvain gave a slow nod. "Better than anyone still breathing."
He turned his head slightly, just enough for his tired eyes to catch hers.
"She lives far from here, up past the aqueducts. Keep going north, past the old citadel ruins. There's a narrow path that winds through the cliffs. At the top of the mountain… there's a shrine. She hasn't come down in years."
Chiaki stared at him. "Why hasn't she?"
"Because she's afraid," Morvain said. "Of what she used to be. Of what she still feels when she touches someone else's soul."
Silence again.
Then he added, "She doesn't take students. Doesn't want them. But… if you're serious about healing others, about doing something different with all this power—then you'll need her."
Chiaki nodded slowly, but then Morvain's hand gently caught hers again.
This time, there was no force behind it—just a whisper of resistance. His voice came out barely audible.
"Think carefully, girl. About what you want. About what healing means. It's not always kindness. Not always mercy. And sometimes… sometimes trying to fix people can break them worse."
He finally let go.
The path ahead lay silent. Beyond the corridor, the golden arches and domed halls of Lyvoria Crest shimmered with the haze of late morning light.
Chiaki stepped forward again—but now with something heavier in her chest.
"Thank you, Morvain."
To be continued...