I let my eyes shut. Just a little. Just for a moment.
A breath stolen by exhaustion. I shouldn't have.
Thud. Thud.
Not my heartbeat. Footsteps. Sharp. Rhythmic. Deliberate. Not echoes. Not illusion. Too precise to be chance. Too close to be comfort.
A crawling cold ran up my spine, curling like it had always lived there—dormant, waiting. Something was coming. No—someone.
A presence. A weight in the air. A hand—
Too close.
My eyes snapped open. My breath seized in my throat. My body moved before my mind did—sliding sideways, ribs screaming.
And there she was.
Standing far too close. Her.
The woman.
The murderer.
Her hand hovered in the air, fingers twitching, grasping at the space my head had been a second ago—like it hadn't caught up with the fact that I'd moved.
She hadn't expected that. I saw it. Surprise flashed in her eyes,
"You…" My voice broke around the word. My feet stumbled backward, body coiling around instinct, not thought. Wanora was still down—fragile, breathing shallow.
I couldn't let her hit Wanora. I couldn't let her get close.
The woman's glare could carve through bone. I felt my knees dip, the pressure unbearable, but I spread my stance wide. Planted my weight. I had no choice.
And then—
She moved.
Not ran. Darted.
My palm struck the ground. Stone surged upward in response—an instant wall.
She crashed through it. Like it was made of paper.
Too fast. Too strong, No I was too weak currently
Another motion—my hand rose, barrier forming between us a breath before impact.
The ground beneath my feet cracked from the force.
Her elbow was bleeding, her shoulder bent at a cruel angle
And then her bag moved. No, it wriggled. Something alive.
She reached in. Pulled out a beetle. Black. Shiny. Disgusting. It twitched between her fingers, its legs flailing uselessly.
Her hand was still bleeding. Veins popped under the strain.
And then the insect burst.
Blood trailing behind her, hand reaching in again.
Another insect. A centipede. Its legs curled inward, as if even it could sense the horror it was being drawn into.
She was bleeding more now—her thigh torn open, gushing with every movement. But her face didn't register it. No pain. No hesitation. Only resolve.
I didn't think. I slammed both palms into the ground.
Stone pillars erupted beneath her. One struck her side with a dull crunch. The other launched her upward. She didn't resist. Didn't fight it.
Her body flew—limp, arms flailing, blood carving arcs midair like trailing ribbons. But I knew she wasn't finished. I had to buy seconds. That's all. If Wanora woke up I would win
I raised both hands, called the earth. A dome enclosed around me and Wanora. Temporary sanctuary. Thin and trembling.
But she didn't stay down.
The dome shattered.
Cracks formed, then splintered. The ground beneath my feet screamed.
"What the hell are you," I muttered, not expecting an answer.
My brain scrambled for meaning. The insects. The wounds. The absence of pain.
Pain transfer.
That was it. She was transferring her injuries to the insects at the last second. That's why they exploded. That's why she kept moving.
But—no. Her wounds still bled. Her joints still twisted. She was just negating pain. Not injuries.
And then it clicked. A memory, half-buried.
The visual novel. The Clarions.
Five official ones—but more existed. Hidden ones. Rare ones.
Clarion of Intuition.
The gut feeling. The one the protagonist had. The reason she could help others. The reason she just knew who could be trusted.
But there was another....
The Clarion of Pain.
A Clarion that could transfer pain to another living being. Sacrifice one to keep moving. Blood for blood.
It meant one thing.
She had trauma-dumped Ophean.
She didn't have a good past. That kind of Clarion wasn't born from peace.
Even I—I'd been tortured. But I never developed that Clarion.
No. That was because I already had mine.
Clarion of Touch.
I still remembered the blood. The first time I killed someone. The way it stuck to my skin. The memory hadn't faded. My Clarion was born that day.
And yet—
"You don't even look at me, do you?" I whispered, realization dawning too late.
She had touched me.
Her hand. My chest.
A pulse of energy. A whisper beneath skin.
Fuck. I'm dead.