Project:Imagine

As Faker stood there, deep in thought, something grotesque began to happen. His skeleton slowly crawled out of his body, cracking and snapping as it separated from the amalgam of flesh and darkness. With each step, the bones clattered together, and, piece by piece, a new form began to take shape—flesh re-knitting itself over the skeleton, clothing weaving back into existence around him.

Meanwhile, his original body, left behind, twisted into something monstrous. A hulking mass of shadow and nightmares, its form oozed with malice. Draconic scales emerged from the mass, turning it into a grotesque hybrid—a towering, armored beast with glowing red eyes burning through the darkness. The abomination crawled toward Eliza, its claws dragging across the floor, each movement sending a shiver through the atmosphere, as if the air recoiled from its presence.

Now standing in his new form, Faker had a distracted air about him, his hand morphing into a grotesque array of miniature puppets. Each one took on the appearance of different faces—distorted, familiar, yet unrecognizable. He cycled through them one by one, his frustration growing.

“No, not this one… no, not that one,” Faker muttered, his brows furrowed in concentration as his hand rapidly shifted through more faces, each a hollow representation of past victims. "Damn it. She looks so familiar, why can't I remember? It's just one face out of a couple million… how hard could it be?”

His puppets morphed quicker, his frustration palpable, like a boiling storm ready to unleash. Each face blurred into the next, flickering across time and memory. The remnants of his former self—this collection of fragmented lives—mocked his inability to pinpoint the source of his unease.

Eliza braced herself as the shadow monster lumbered toward her, its six limbs scuttling across the ground with a grotesque, unnatural speed. Its dragon-like head, adorned with a single, menacing red eye, locked onto her with predatory intent. The black feathers that covered its entire body seemed to writhe and ripple, emitting a chilling aura that sapped the very life from the air around it. She could feel it—just standing near this thing was draining her, each breath growing heavier.

But Eliza stood firm, gripping the broken Excalibur in her remaining hand. She wasn’t backing down. This monster, no matter how twisted or nightmarish, wouldn’t break her spirit.

With a low growl, the creature lunged, its claws raking the ground as it hurled itself at Eliza. She dodged, barely avoiding the swipe of its razor-sharp talons, but even the proximity to those feathers left her feeling drained, like her strength was being pulled from her bones.

The monster roared, its voice a guttural mix of a dragon’s fury and something far darker. It swung again, faster this time. Eliza dodged to the side, her broken Excalibur glowing faintly in her hand, but the blade’s power seemed diminished in the presence of the monster’s life-stealing aura.

"You're nothing but a shadow of yourself," Eliza spat, deflecting another strike with the remnants of Excalibur. She pressed forward, slashing at the creature's flank, but the blade barely made contact before the feathers sapped the energy from her strike.

The creature bellowed, furious now, and leaped into the air, bringing all six limbs down like a crashing wave of darkness. Eliza rolled out of the way just in time, but she felt her energy draining even faster with every moment spent near it. Her breathing became more labored, but she gritted her teeth and refused to give in.

Meanwhile, Faker stood off to the side, his frustration mounting as he continued to cycle through faces with his puppet hand. His face twisted with irritation, his voice dripping with malice.

“Why can’t I remember you?!” he hissed, the puppet faces blurring faster, the memories slipping through his grasp. “This shouldn’t be this hard! You’re just another worthless human!”

Eliza seized the opening. While Faker was distracted by his growing frustration, she darted forward, driving the broken Excalibur into the creature’s chest. Light erupted from the blade, momentarily burning through the feathers and striking deep into the shadowy mass. The creature howled in agony, its eye flaring with rage, and it swiped at her with a claw. Eliza stumbled back, barely avoiding the deadly blow, but the damage had been done.

The monster staggered, black smoke billowing from the wound as its body shuddered. Faker’s face twisted with fury as his creature faltered.

“Enough of this!” Faker roared, his eyes wild with frustration. He raised his arm, commanding the monster to attack with renewed ferocity. But as it lunged again, Eliza was ready.

In a final burst of energy, she dodged to the side, driving her fist into the creature’s eye, shattering it in an explosion of light and shadow. The beast let out a deafening screech, collapsing in on itself as the life force it had stolen was released all at once.

“Damn it, stop being annoying while I’m trying to think,” Faker complained, snapping his fingers as the corpse of the shadow monster began to convulse.

Eliza’s breath was ragged as she stood amidst the dissipating remains of the shadow monster. She had barely any strength left, but her determination remained unbroken. The sudden convulsing of the creature’s corpse made her tense, eyes narrowing as it shifted and twisted unnaturally.

Before her, the grotesque amalgamation reformed, stretching into a new shape—this time, that of a woman clad in black armor. Long, flowing blonde hair cascaded down her back, but her face was a void, a swirling mass of darkness that sent a chill down Eliza’s spine.

“Another failure,” Faker muttered with irritation, pacing behind the faceless woman. “Why can’t I ever get it right? Mordred deserves a proper body… not this.” His voice dripped with impatience as he snapped his fingers again, as if the faceless warrior were merely a discarded thought. “Come on, just one memory. Just one,” he growled, still cycling through the faces, seemingly unconcerned by the new danger he had created.

Without warning, the faceless woman summoned a sword, forged from the same pitch-black substance as her body. In a fluid, deadly motion, she dashed toward Eliza, her blade gleaming ominously.

Eliza barely had time to react. Her instincts kicked in, adrenaline surging as she threw herself to the side, narrowly avoiding the strike. The force of the faceless woman’s sword crashing into the ground sent a shockwave through the floor, cracking the stone beneath her.

“She's fast,” Eliza thought, gritting her teeth as she rolled to her feet. But she couldn’t back down now. Not after everything.

The faceless woman advanced again, faster this time. Her movements were eerily graceful, almost inhuman. Eliza ducked under the swing of the sword, feeling the air whistle above her head as she just barely escaped the lethal arc. She retaliated with a punch, aiming for the faceless woman’s chest.

Her fist connected, but it was like hitting a wall of shadows—solid yet intangible. The blow did little more than make the figure sway for a moment before she struck back with ruthless precision. The black blade lashed out, grazing Eliza’s shoulder, and drawing blood. She winced but pressed forward, determined not to lose ground.

“I don’t have time for this!” Faker snapped from the sidelines, clearly growing more frustrated with each passing second. He waved his hand dismissively, as if the faceless woman was nothing more than an afterthought. “Just kill her already!”

As the next swing came down, Eliza didn’t dodge. Instead, she caught the faceless woman’s wrist, stopping the attack cold. The void-like figure struggled, her strength immense, but Eliza held firm. Her eyes locked on the darkness where the woman’s face should’ve been, and with a fierce battle cry, she drove her fist straight into it.

The faceless woman shuddered violently as Eliza’s punch connected. For a moment, the dark void of her face seemed to warp and contort, as if Eliza’s strike had disrupted whatever dark energy held her together. The figure stumbled backward, her form flickering and distorting.

“Now!” Eliza thought, rushing in with everything she had. She slammed her knee into the faceless woman’s midsection, and with a final, brutal punch to the head, the void-like figure shattered into a cloud of shadow and dissipated into the air.

Eliza’s knees buckled beneath her as she fought to stay upright, her chest heaving with labored breaths. Her vision blurred, the edges of the world closing in from sheer exhaustion. But even through the haze of pain and fatigue, she could hear Faker’s mocking voice—sharp, gleeful, as though he had finally uncovered some grand secret.

“Finally,” Faker purred, his voice dripping with sick satisfaction. “I’ve got it now… How could I have forgotten this one? It was such a good memory.”

Eliza’s heart froze as she saw the puppet that had once been a grotesque amalgamation of figures slowly shifting. Its form contorted, skin stretching and bones cracking, until it settled into a shape that struck terror deep within her soul.

It was her mother.

The puppet now bore an uncanny resemblance to her—down to the last detail. The same long, hair, the same warm eyes, the gentle curve of her smile that had once brought Eliza so much comfort. But this wasn’t her mother. The sight before her was twisted, wrong.

The figure’s expression twisted into something monstrous, its eyes gleaming with malice as Faker’s voice oozed from the puppet’s mouth.

“That annoying pain bumped into me while I was getting snacks at the store,” Faker drawled, his eyes glinting with wicked glee. “So, I decided to have some fun and steal her body. Oh, the look on her husband’s face—your father’s face—when I… well, bit it off was priceless.”

Eliza’s vision narrowed into a tunnel, her mind reeling from the weight of his words. It felt like the ground was falling out from beneath her. The air left her lungs, cold dread settling in her gut as the puppet—her mother—smiled that haunting smile. Faker had done more than just kill her parents—he had defiled their very existence.

Faker grinned with twisted delight as the grotesque puppet show unfolded before Eliza's eyes, his mocking voice narrating each cruel reenactment.

“And you know what’s even better?” Faker's voice dripped with sadistic glee. “Let’s recreate that moment, shall we?”

His other hand transformed, twisting into another puppet—this one resembling Faker himself. The scene before Eliza began to play out like some sick, twisted theater.

The puppet representing her mother moved in a clumsy, exaggerated motion, bumping into the Faker puppet. His bag of chips fell from his hand in slow motion, the chips scattering across the imaginary ground. Eliza’s heart pounded in her chest, dread creeping up her spine as she watched the horrifying display.

“Oh no,” Faker's puppet voice chimed with mock innocence. “Look what you’ve done, bumping into me like that. How rude.”

Eliza’s breath caught in her throat as the macabre scene continued. The Faker puppet's hand twisted grotesquely, morphing into a writhing maggot. It slithered toward the puppet of her mother, crawling inside its hollow body.

For a moment, the mother puppet’s form contorted, grotesquely morphing into Faker, before flickering back to her mother’s image, as if mocking the stolen identity.

“That is act one,” Faker mused, his voice sickeningly jovial. “Truly a fun story, isn’t it?”

Eliza felt sick, her stomach churning as the realization washed over her like a tidal wave. The horror of what she was witnessing made her hands tremble, but it wasn’t just disgust—it was rage.

“That night…” her voice was barely above a whisper, trembling with fury. “It was you… You’re the reason that happened?”

Faker’s smile grew even wider, eyes gleaming with malicious satisfaction. “Yes, it was,” he replied casually. “But please, do sit still. We have an entire play to get through.”

Eliza’s mind snapped. The horror, the twisted mockery of her family, the nightmare she had lived through—it all coalesced into a singular, burning need for vengeance.

With a guttural roar, she charged at Faker, the broken remains of Excalibur clenched in her fist. The blade, though shattered, flared with light as she swung it at him, desperate to end this nightmare.

But Faker was fast, too fast. He dodged each of her attacks with ease, slipping between the slashes with mocking agility, his twisted grin never fading.

“Hmm,” Faker hummed thoughtfully, dodging another furious swing. “Now, how did act two go again? Let’s see, which characters do I need?”

His voice was as casual as if he were recalling the lines to a children's play, completely unbothered by Eliza’s frenzied attempts to strike him down. Each time she swung, he danced out of the way, his voice humming in thought as if she were no threat at all.

Eliza’s vision blurred with fury. Her mind raced, her heart pounding in her chest, but Faker was toying with her—turning her suffering into some grotesque form of entertainment.

Her breath ragged, Eliza swung again and again, her strikes becoming wilder and more desperate with every miss. Faker laughed, his voice ringing out, taunting her, pushing her further to the edge.

“Come on now, Slayer,” Faker sneered, his voice oozing with smug confidence. “Surely, you’re not going to tire out on me this soon? We’ve barely begun! I still have so many memories to share. So many scenes to reenact!”

Eliza’s eyes burned with tears, but not of fear or sadness—of pure, unadulterated rage. She wouldn’t let this monster keep twisting her past, wouldn’t allow him to keep desecrating the memory of her family. Her grip tightened around the hilt of Excalibur, the flickering light pulsing in response to her will.

Faker’s twisted puppetry continued, the grotesque theater unfolding before Eliza as if her worst nightmare was being performed live. The mother puppet, animated by Faker’s cruel hand, walked around the room, its movements jerky and unnatural. Faker's other hand morphed and twisted, creating grotesque imitations of random civilians—puppets representing innocent people who had crossed paths with her mother.

The first puppet appeared—a mother, standing protectively beside her child. Eliza’s breath hitched in her throat as she saw the crude figures. Faker moved them closer to the puppet of her mother, and with a sickening smile, the mother puppet’s hand morphed into a cartoonish monster’s head. The mouth opened wide, jagged teeth gleaming as it lunged forward.

Chomp.

The puppet of the mother was beheaded, its head rolling to the ground. Eliza’s heart raced, bile rising in her throat.

“No… stop… Stop it!” Eliza screamed, her voice shaking with fury and grief.

But Faker didn’t stop. He was grinning, his eyes gleaming with malice as he continued. Another bite. This time, it was the child puppet’s head that rolled to the floor. Eliza’s body trembled with rage, her knuckles white from how tightly she gripped the hilt of Excalibur. The light of the broken blade flickered, struggling to match the intensity of her emotions.

Next came the policeman puppet, its head severed in an instant. Then a drunk man in a suit. Over and over, Faker puppeteered Eliza’s mother, turning her into a grotesque executioner, reenacting the murders she was never responsible for. Each bite, each cruel motion, sent another wave of fury crashing through Eliza’s veins.

“You bastard!” Eliza roared, her voice breaking with the weight of her anger. “Stop it! Stop it!”

In a flash, she unleashed a burst of fire breath, the flames shooting out from her mouth with deadly intensity. The inferno surged toward Faker, threatening to consume him, but he dodged with a laugh, sidestepping the flames as they licked the air where he once stood.

“Oh, Slayer,” Faker mocked, viciously smiling through it all. “The fun has only just begun.”

Eliza’s chest heaved, her vision blurred with tears, but she wasn’t done. She charged at Faker again, slashing wildly with the broken Excalibur, the blade’s light flickering with her relentless fury. Her strikes were fierce but unfocused, driven by emotion rather than strategy, but she didn’t care. She just wanted to end this—end him.

But Faker was too fast, slipping through the chaos with ease, dodging her every move as if it were nothing more than a game.

“Now, let’s see…” Faker mused, tapping his chin in mock thought as he sidestepped another furious slash. “That’s act two. Now, how did act three go…?”

He paused for a moment, his twisted smile widening, as if he’d just remembered something deliciously vile. “Ah yes, I loved this part.”

Eliza’s heart pounded in her chest, her rage boiling over. She couldn’t take it anymore. She couldn’t watch this monster desecrate her mother’s memory any longer. She slashed again, the blade glowing brighter, pulsing with her fury.

But Faker just laughed. He dodged effortlessly, his puppet show continuing as if her attacks were nothing more than an amusing distraction. “If I had the time, I’d love to collect your tears into my cup, what a shame.”

Eliza’s vision went red. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, but she wouldn’t give up. She couldn’t. With each step she took, she felt the weight of Arthur’s power just beyond her reach. The moment was coming. She could feel it.

“Let’s see how you handle the next act, shall we?”

Faker’s cruel laughter echoed through the air as his puppet theater of horrors continued. Eliza watched in stunned silence as the next act unfolded—a mockery of her father’s final moments.

Faker’s other hand twisted, transforming into a crude puppet version of her father. The two puppets, representing her parents, kissed for a brief moment, a sick parody of love, before the father puppet seemed to notice the blood dripping from the mother’s hands. His puppet form jerked back, eyes wide with fear as the realization set in.

Eliza’s stomach churned. Her fingers clenched around Excalibur, her breath ragged with fury and disgust.

“Stop it…” she whispered, barely audible over Faker’s twisted performance. But he didn’t stop. He was far too caught up in his own cruel spectacle.

A cartoonish tendril suddenly sprouted from the mother puppet’s back, lashing out with impossible speed. It wrapped around the father puppet’s arm, and with one quick motion, it sliced through it. The father puppet’s arm fell to the ground, a ridiculous geyser of bright red, cartoonish blood spurting from the stump in exaggerated arcs, as if this was all some kind of sick joke.

Eliza’s heart raced. Her knuckles went white around Excalibur's hilt.

Faker continued, gleefully narrating his twisted recreation. “Oh, don’t you just love this part?” he grinned, watching as the father puppet staggered back, cartoonish blood still spurting from his severed limb. “It’s just so… poetic.”

The mother puppet’s face suddenly split open, vertically down the middle, jagged teeth emerging in a grotesque grin. Eliza’s stomach turned. That wasn’t her mother—that wasn’t her at all. It was a sick, twisted thing that Faker had created. A mockery of the woman she loved.

The father puppet tried to run, its tiny legs scrambling in place, but the mother puppet’s tendril lashed out again, wrapping around his neck. With one swift yank, it dragged him back.

“No!” Eliza shouted, her voice cracking with the sheer force of her emotion, but she couldn’t stop what was happening. Not yet.

The mother puppet leaned in, its grotesque mouth opening wider. In one swift motion, it bit down, ripping off the father puppet’s head. The body crumpled to the ground as more exaggerated, cartoonish blood sprayed from the severed neck.

Eliza’s entire body shook with rage, her vision blurred with tears of anger and pain.

Faker glanced at her, his grin widening. “Hmm, I could’ve done that better, don’t you think? Next time I’ll really stretch it out. Make him beg, make him cry like he did that night.”

His words cut deeper than any wound. Eliza’s breath hitched, her hands trembling. The room seemed to close in on her, the weight of her memories and Faker’s twisted performance crashing down all at once.

But then, amid the storm of emotions, something shifted inside her. The heat of her rage coalesced into something sharp—something focused. She could feel Arthur’s power stirring beneath her skin, waiting, ready. Her time was coming. She could feel it in her bones.

“Keep laughing,” she thought to herself, her gaze locked on Faker’s smug face. “I’ll end this play at the height of your amusement.”

Her grip on Excalibur tightened, the flickering light from the blade growing stronger as her resolve solidified. She wasn’t just going to destroy Faker—she was going to obliterate him. And when she did, there would be no curtain call. No encore. Just silence.

Eliza’s breath caught in her throat as the grotesque puppet turned into her mother’s likeness once more. Its distorted, twisted version of her parent slowly walked toward the small puppet that resembled her younger self—a crude, heartless mockery of the innocence she’d lost that night.

Faker’s voice dripped with malicious delight, mimicking a mother’s voice. “Mom, I had a nightmare. What was that noise?” The child puppet asked, its voice a caricature of Eliza’s childhood, one filled with innocence and fear.

Eliza’s stomach churned with rage and helplessness. The memory, the nightmare she had buried so deeply, was now playing out right before her eyes. Her fists clenched until her nails dug into her palms, drawing blood. She didn’t care. The sight before her was worse than any pain she could feel.

Faker’s smug voice broke through her thoughts, taunting her. “Do you remember what happens next, hmm, Eliza?” he sneered, his face twisted in delight as he watched her struggle.

The “mom” puppet’s face split vertically once more, revealing rows of jagged teeth that tore through what was once a familiar, comforting visage. The puppet began to grow, warping and distorting further as Faker’s body dissolved into it, merging with the monstrosity.

It transformed into a figure of pure nightmare—a grotesque parody of the monster from that night. Its body was unnaturally tall and lanky, its rotting, gray skin hanging loosely over long, thin limbs that ended in jagged, claw-like fingers. A tendril-like tongue slithered from its gaping mouth, dripping with something vile. Its eyes were nothing but dark, empty voids, yet they bore into her with the intensity of a predator savoring its prey.

Faker’s mocking voice rang out again, filled with cruel glee. “Do you remember this scene? Can you cry for me like you did that night?”

The grotesque puppet lumbered forward, its long claws scraping the ground as it moved, an embodiment of every nightmare Eliza had ever had. It was too close, too real. Her heart raced, her pulse thundering in her ears, as the memories of that night crashed through her mind like an unstoppable wave.

Her hands trembled, but not from fear. The emotions coursing through her now were something more potent—something sharper. She could feel the rage bubbling up, fighting to take control. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think—only feel. The pain, the loss, the horror—it all came flooding back with such force that it nearly paralyzed her.

But she wasn’t a helpless child anymore.

“No,” she whispered, her voice hoarse with emotion. The twisted creature moved closer, its foul breath filling the air, but she stood her ground. “No more.”

Faker stumbled toward her, mimicking the monster that had haunted her dreams for years, feeding on her terror. But this time, Eliza’s fear was giving way to something far more dangerous, rage. She could feel Arthur’s power pulsing through her veins, begging to be unleashed.

“Do you feel it, Eliza?” Faker taunted, his voice like nails on a chalkboard. “That helplessness, that fear? It’s just like that night, isn’t it?”

Eliza’s eyes narrowed, her vision sharpening with fury. Her muscles tensed as she raised the broken Excalibur, its faint light flickering in response to her mounting resolve. The tendrils of darkness from Faker’s monstrous form reached for her, trying to drag her into despair, but she wouldn’t allow it. Not again.

“That night…” Eliza’s voice was a low growl, trembling with barely contained rage. “That night doesn’t define me.”

She gripped Excalibur tighter, feeling the warmth of Arthur’s power ready to ignite. Her eyes locked onto the twisted puppet that once wore her mother’s face. “You don’t define me!”

Eliza's scream echoed through the shattered remnants of the battlefield, her voice filled with a fury that shook the very air around her. “There’s a scene you forgot, Faker! Come on, show me the ending of that play! Show me how that damn night ended!”

Her voice cracked, not from weakness, but from the raw, unfiltered power of her emotion. Every muscle in her body tensed, her knuckles white around the hilt of Excalibur, as the weight of her memories poured into her words.

She wasn’t finished. "I remember it clearly," Eliza continued, her voice rising like a storm about to break. "Clearer than any nightmare you’ve tried to create. I watched it in awe—watched as you were obliterated. That small, pitiful portion of your filth wiped off the face of the earth.”

Her eyes locked onto his. "So play it out, right now, you bastard!" she roared, her words a command that reverberated through the very core of the room.

Excalibur, broken and battered moments before, began to glow in her hand. Eliza raised it high above her head, the blade regenerating in a brilliant flash of light. It was as if the very essence of the sword had returned, stronger and purer than ever before. The light filled the room, illuminating every dark corner that Faker had tried to shroud in his grotesque illusions. The brilliance was almost too much to bear, a beauty so radiant that it outshone any darkness.

Faker’s smirk faltered. His ear fell off, transforming midair into a puppet—a grotesque representation of Alexander Jones, the leader of A.E.G.I.S. The small, legless puppet squirmed and crawled with its tiny, useless arms, trying desperately to escape the blinding light.

Eliza’s lips curled into a grim smile. “Here’s the finale,” she said, her voice filled with the confidence of someone who had already won. "Here’s what happened that night, Faker. I even have the same weapon.”

The brilliance of Excalibur intensified, its light now blinding. She brought the sword down with a calm, steady motion. There was no need for rage anymore, no need for fury. The blade itself carried the weight of her justice, and as it descended, an immense light engulfed the room.

Everything was obliterated. Faker’s twisted form, his mockery of her family, the darkness he had conjured—all of it was swallowed by the light. When the brilliance finally faded, all that remained was half of the pathetic Alexander puppet, still feebly trying to crawl away.

Eliza walked over to it, her steps deliberate, her exhaustion momentarily forgotten. She stared down at the broken puppet with cold, hard eyes. Without a word, she lifted her foot and, with one final stomp, crushed it beneath her boot.

Silence settled over the room, and the oppressive darkness finally lifted.

But somewhere far away, under the warm Hawaiian sun, a man lounged lazily on the beach, sipping from a coconut. His face twisted into an amused grin, eyes hidden behind sunglasses as he watched the waves lazily lap at the shore.

“What a pain… I lost,” Faker chuckled, taking another sip. "Oh well, there’s always next time." He laughed, the sound carried away by the breeze, carefree and unbothered by the destruction of his twisted puppets.

As Faker lounged in his chair, basking in the sunlight, his hands began to shift. Slowly, the fingers warped and twisted, transforming into small, grotesque puppets—one a mocking caricature of himself, the other a representation of Alexander Jones.

With a smirk on his lips, Faker orchestrated the scene. The Alexander Jones puppet raised a tiny version of Excalibur high into the air, and in a swift motion, it brought the blade down upon the Faker puppet. The fake Faker crumbled into pieces, a mockery of the battle that had just unfolded.

Faker chuckled darkly, amused at his own twisted game. "Oh, the irony," he muttered to himself, letting the puppets fall lifeless in his hands. He settled back into his beach chair, sipping from his coconut. The nightmare was far from over—it was just delayed.

Meanwhile, back on the battlefield, Eliza could feel the last remnants of her strength slipping away. She fell to her knees, her chest heaving as the adrenaline that had fueled her began to fade. Excalibur, the mighty sword that had been reborn in her hands, shimmered briefly before returning to its broken, shattered state. Its light faded, leaving her in silence.

But despite her exhaustion, a small smile crept onto her lips. She had done it. She had faced her past, faced the twisted embodiment of her nightmares, and emerged victorious. Even if she couldn’t yet destroy Faker entirely, she had won this battle. And for the first time in a long time, she felt joy—pure, unfiltered joy.

Her vision blurred as the weight of fatigue finally overwhelmed her. She swayed, her body giving in to the exhaustion that had been threatening to pull her under. And then, with a final exhale, she collapsed, her consciousness fading into the void.

When she woke up, her surroundings had completely changed. No longer was she on the battlefield, nor in the nightmarish remnants of her memories. Instead, she found herself in a grand, expansive library. Rows upon rows of towering shelves filled with ancient, weathered books surrounded her, their spines coated in dust and mystery.

“Good morning, you did quite well, Eliza,” The Bookkeeper's calm voice echoed through the vast library.