The moment stretched between us, the Shroud frozen in the wake of those two words, my own phantom breath caught in disbelief.
The questions collided in the space where our consciousnesses intertwined.
Had I possessed this ability all along? Or was I really experiencing a false awakening since my childhood?
I clawed for an answer, but the past remained as opaque as the blizzard around us.
The Shroud, meanwhile, trembled with something dangerously close to hope, its form rippling toward the boy’s retreating back. I felt its impulse like a physical pull, to manifest another illusion, to ask, to finally be known—
—and then, just as sharply, its recoil.
Memories surged through our bond: a woman screaming at its whispered voice, hunters firing arrows into spectral faces, the endless, hollow weight of being called a monster.
This was enough. To be seen, to be acknowledged, even for a moment, by this one small, resilient human.
With something akin to peace, it turned back to the storm, resuming its vigil.
But a new problem, the one it had overlooked in its relentless quest for connection and purpose, began to manifest. It was changing, and not for the better, not in the way it hoped to.
Its thoughts, once clear and driven by nascent empathy, grew darker, tinged with a cold, creeping malevolence. Its illusions grew twisted, turning into monsters instead of vanishing.
The corruption deepened with each passing moment.
The gentle urges of connection warped into a raw, undeniable hunger: to destroy, to revel in tormenting creatures, to seize absolute control, even... to kill.
The Shroud, the entity that had recoiled from fear, was now inexorably becoming the very monster it had once abhorred.
I felt that same corruption reaching for me, a frigid tendril coiling around my consciousness. There were moments when my thoughts would merge with the Shroud’s dark impulses, a chilling echo of its destructive desires.
But I fought, my very essence screaming in protest, my consciousness a searing pain as I resisted the encroaching tide.
The same could not be said for the Shroud.
It fell, steadily, irrevocably, into already deep corruption.
Its original self, the lonely entity yearning for connection, was consumed by the malevolent force with each passing second, its light dwindling to a pinprick against the encroaching darkness.
And finally, this year, the corrupted self achieved complete dominance, shedding its former guise to become the terrifying entity we know today, the Lament Shroud.
It was this new, monstrous will that had initiated the blizzard’s early arrival, while slowly seizing control over the very storm that spawned it.
Yet, even through the overwhelming torrent of the Lament Shroud’s destructive will, I still sensed it - a tiny, almost imperceptible fragment of the original self.
It still lingered, hiding deep within the monstrous entity, biding its time.
And... It had recognized me, truly recognized me, after seeing my memories in our first encounter, where I intercepted Shroud’s plan to take over my father.
And it had noticed the power I held, the power which could kill itself. And so, with the last, desperate flicker of its original will, it had used its tiny, infinitesimal influence to convince its corrupted counterpart to ’merge’ with me, to draw me into its core.
It had taken the job to lure me in.
A sharp, poignant sting erupted in my phantom chest as the full, tragic picture snapped into place.
It was the original Shroud’s desperate, final act.
It hadn’t lured me to consume me as its corrupt self. It only wanted to show me its moments of peace, happy memories it wanted me to have, to share them with me before its ultimate, inevitable death - before its light was extinguished forever by the overwhelming corruption.
Because it believed I, Aman, with my unique power, could defeat the monster it had become.
It would even help, a silent, internal ally in my impossible task.
But I had exceeded the Shroud’s expectations. My own secret plan, the Crescent Mirror’s final reversal, had taken a wrong turn at the end. And now...
I was here, in a pitch-black void, the abyss.
This must be the Shroud’s consciousness, I thought, as I processed the infinite darkness around me. But even as the thought formed, the name itself felt inadequate, incomplete.
The Eyes in the Snow.
After all I’d seen, all the good it had tried to do before the corruption twisted it, those titles felt like a shroud indeed – concealing a deeper, more tragic truth. What should I call it now? What name could encompass both its fallen state and the flickering spark of kindness I knew still hid within?
The immensity of the void around me seemed to amplify the question, drawing my attention inward to my own, improbable existence here.
So, I looked at myself. I was in my own body again, whole and familiar, though not physically. It was a phantom recreation, solid to my own senses, yet intangible, untouched by the pervasive nothingness.
"Where are you..." I murmured, my voice swallowed instantly by the infinite silence. My eyes, even in the absolute darkness, constantly scanned, searching. My phantom feet pushed forward, taking one step, then another, through the intangible expanse. I had to find it.
"Alas, I can’t use my abilities here," I mused, feeling the familiar hum of my power completely absent, muffled by the pervasive gloom. There was nothing to draw from, nothing to manipulate. Just endless dark.
The silence began to fray at the edges, replaced by a subtle hum, a low, insidious vibration that seemed to emanate from the very fabric of the void.
Slowly, insidiously, dark thoughts began to seep into my consciousness, not my own but whispers from the encompassing corruption, invading my mind like a freezing mist.
What’s the point? the thoughts slithered, their voice like ice on stone. Why bother with any of this?
Their gratitude means nothing.
They’ll only betray you anyway.
This power is wasted on kindness.
Take what you want. Crush those who defy you.
Justice is a lie. Mercy is weakness.
Who wept for you when you bled? Who remembers your sacrifices?
It’s simpler this way.