Liberi Reader

Ebenholz remains silent. The Witch King's tone is calm, even... gentle.

It was a feeling not unlike he had discovered a child who'd stolen an old item from his home, stopped him, and explained the item's provenance after the necessary scolding.

The weakening golden melody seeks an exit from the secret chamber, with Ebenholz and the Witch King standing outside the door. Before them lies a steep, dark red staircase.

A series of changes have taken place since the Vyseheim incident, and he had been gone for over a year. But he could never forget the place.

The Witch King ascends the stairs. The sound spreads far down the long corridor as the lamps along the walls light up one by one, illuminating the path beneath the feet of the spire's owner.

Between the lamps float interconnected intricacies of witchcraft. The tutor sent by the Empresses was intended to perform poorly, so many a night Ebenholz would sneak into subtler corridors to practice.

He unconsciously followed the Witch King. For a moment, he seemed to think that the man was still living in the spire, only waking up in the middle of the night to head to the door, for whatever unknown reason.

Nightmare?

The increasingly empty house, the white-haired child holding his trembling hand on his knee, softly singing a song that begins with 'The Sky is blue and fine'...

The sound of the cello spreads out like an endless grassland, while the sound of the piano turns into a flowing stream. He washes away all weariness, allowing him to walk a long way, with the dark of night no longer so heavy...

He often dreamed of these things.

Dreams are already fleeting, and if he has to miss these beautiful moments, he would rather never sleep.

Memory?

Fall des Hexenturms, Triumph der Goldmond: Vorspiel zu Zwillingstürme...

The theaters across the country must perform certain plays each quarter, all with similar themes. With Urtica being the old tyrant's homeland, such plays were put on twice as often.

And as Graf of Urtica, he was required to attend all of them.

How many times did he sit in the audience, watching the Witch King perish during a duet of justice, shortly before leading a standing ovation?

A sudden headache washes over him, much like the nights he was haunted by the Voice of Mundane.

On those nights, he could only grip his flute desperately. He felt as though he was dying, so he would exert all his strength to curse the man before him... until his surroundings became clear.

But the Voice of Mundane is long gone, so why does the pain still flow?

Ebenholz cannot see his own bloodshot eyes, but the layer of red webbing in his field of vision becomes increasingly heavy.

Pain stirs all memories, tearing through all emotion, as if trying to draw everything out of his head to transform into something tangible.

The Witch King waves his hand and the golden melody, as if finally released, flows toward the door like so many harmless fireflies, quietly drifting in the river of history.

They pass by Ebenholz, brushing against his clothes and hair with a touch ever so gentle.

Ebenholz suddenly feels a baffling sensation. As if the Witch King... had patted him on the head.

Ebenholz cannot control himself, he bursts into laughter.

He laughs at the image of himself, at his own embarrassment. He laughs at the past nineteen years, realizing he has never laughed this heartily.

Even if thunderous rage were to punish him for his lapse the very next second, and headaches were to him back into the abyss, or even if he were to shatter into pieces, he wants to keep laughing.

But nothing happens.

The endless staircase, the spire of Urtica, even the Witch King, it all vanishes. Nothing remains but an empty throne.

Ebenholz stands before the throne in silence, waiting for the unreal sensation to fade away completely.

Arturia releases her grip on the cello and simply looks at the Witch King.

His entire life, all he has been through, his thoughts and emotions collectively resonate through the space, filling every cubic inch. This is the palace he has built for himself.

You walked in, you see what he sees.

Arturia sees what she had read in the old Lich's memories, the 'blackness.'

Infinite 'blackness,' or rather— 'chaos.'

Human understanding of this word often comes from the negative emotions associated with it—confusion, disorientation, sadness, anxiety, fear...

In reality, it normally refers to a state that is difficult to describe, or an object or concept that cannot be established.

But this is the only word that can describe the scene before Arturia.

Desolation. A land of annihilation.

What sits behind the material world, the vector of collapse.

No visible boundaries, no discernible direction. Sound, light, shape, color...

Things that do not belong in the same dimension mix, stack, and stretch. The cursed lifeforms and their environment are symbiotic, even mutual bodies.

Annihilation is the only ecology here.

'Chaos' surrounds the Witch King's palace, like sunlight and air surrounding a... bubble that could burst with a touch.

The Witch King's Spire stands in the center of the palace, with Originium crystals growing from its base like moss between the bricks.

But such moss covers the entire palace, connecting seemingly irregular spires and other buildings, comprising some vague formation.

Chaos invades the outermost cluster of spires, like a rising layer of mist. Once the mist dissipates, Der Wiener Uhrturm and Die Tür des Wissens no longer exist.

Clearly, the palace is gradually emptying. But its boundaries remain, as if adhering to predetermined rules.

The dead don't feel pain or exhaustion.

They surge endlessly from the cracks between reality and chaos, repeating the last howl they gave before death.

He slowly unwinds the wrappings on his longsword.

The cloth is long enough to use to cover his ears.

But he doesn't do that.

After so many years of hard work, Lessing has grown accustomed to focusing all his attention on the edge of his blade.