When Antoine, Alicia, and Clea opened their eyes, they were surrounded by ash, mud, blood, and the remains of a fallen army. Dismembered bodies, broken swords, and distant shrieks filled the landscape. Clément stood there, trembling, hands soaked in blood that wasn't entirely his.
The moment they recognized each other—even if only by name—was enough for him and Alicia to fall into sync in the present: in the fight against a terrifying enemy neither of them could yet understand.
"I don't know how you got here, but your help is appreciated," said Clément, eyes fixed on the shifting shape of his next foe.
"No point in discussing it now," Alicia replied, taking a defensive stance. "We need to focus on that thing."
The enemy emerged from the smoke, droplets of blood hanging in the moist air. A Nevron. Alicia had fought one before: it was a Dualistte. Or rather, what was left of it.
Tendrils of an unplaceable substance—both black and white—protruded from its joints and head. The movement lacked any clear pattern. But they both knew it would strike soon.
Without warning, the battle began. Alicia dodged the first attack; Clément, the second—each in opposite directions. They counterattacked in harmony, as if they had trained together for years.
Their blades clashed against the Dualistte's purple sword, which no longer followed any known logic. It moved on brutal instinct, its tendrils slicing the air with violin-like shrieks. Its body was no longer muscle or magic—it was a fusion of living ink and rage.
Clea stepped back. She extended her hand, attempting to control the creature with the same gesture that had once subdued her creations. But nothing happened. That thing wasn't hers anymore.
"Stop, damn you!" she shouted in fury.
The monster ignored her. She changed tactics, summoning her own constructs. A Brûleur. A Cultist. A golden Chevalière. All three rushed into battle.
They fought alongside Alicia and Clément, managing to confuse and slightly wound the Smarrax. But only enraged it further.
The Brûleur was the first to fall, cleaved in half by one of the monster's blades. The Cultist held on longer but was pierced by inky tentacles. The Chevalière attacked with both fire and ice—until it was crushed, shattered into golden shards.
"This—this thing is going to kill us all!" shouted Clea, panic rising.
Clément dodged a downward strike, rolled across blood-soaked sand, and stood, gasping.
"Clea, watch out!"
She barely avoided the blow. Antoine was paralyzed, horror flooding his veins. That thing wasn't just a monster—it was an ontological error. A living denial of art. And worst of all, he had made it.
But then he saw it.
The Dualistte's right leg—a crack. A frozen shard of ice remained, left behind by the Chevalière's desperate strike. It had worked. Somehow, the Smarrax had inherited a vulnerability. Random or not, it was something.
"There's a crack!" Antoine yelled.
He pulled out his notebook with trembling fingers and scribbled frantically:
"Then, a spear of ice pierces the Dualistte's chest, stopping it cold."
And it happened. A spear formed in his hand—blue, cruel, perfect. Raising his arm, Antoine aimed and threw. It flew straight, exactly as written. The Smarrax shrieked, its body trembling and still for the first time.
"Now!" he shouted.
Clea summoned a new Chevalière, this one charged with ice. Alicia lunged, her foil stabbing the creature's side. Clément's sword severed a tendril. The Chevalière pierced the monster's heart—aligned with the ice spear, forming a stake of pure frost.
The creature exploded. Not in fire, but in ink, in ash, in a foul mist reeking of blood, ink, and soaked parchment. Like a vampire undone by its own weakness—its heart exposed.
Then, silence.
Everyone stood in place. Wounded. Exhausted. But alive. Clément wiped the blood from his face with trembling hands. Only now could he begin to process the massacre. His hands wouldn't stop shaking. And that was normal.
Antoine stared at his palm, still trailing wisps of icy vapor. It burned like hell—his skin turned blackened. He'd have to be careful. His power was immense, but his body fragile. He could create horrors, but wielding them came at a price. Still, he had fought. And that mattered.
For the first time… he wasn't trembling.
"Is everyone okay?" Clément asked, kneeling, trying to steady himself.
"I think so…" Alicia replied, her hand resting on her throat.
She had forgotten the true sound of her voice. Its real tone. It echoed in her mind, but now it resonated from her chest again. She looked around. The cursed creatures had retreated. Likely, that Smarrax had been their leader. Once a new one emerged, they'd return. They had to move—fast.
"There might be a ship still intact. Or maybe a lifeboat," Clément said, still catching his breath. "It docked further south. We should move along the shoreline. Looks like those abominations can't swim. Yet."
Antoine nodded. That made sense. A Smarrax materialized by inhabiting a Nevron. Which meant its ink-based nature was exposed. And ink… diluted in water.
"That's good news. Means they're partly made of ink," he said with relief.
"So these abominations are your creation," Clea snapped, stepping toward him in fury. "You're a monster, Antoine."
"I am," he answered, eyes downcast. "Of course I am, Clea. But… we can fight back. Now we know they have a weakness. Even if it's because they've consumed your creatures."
Clea said nothing. That bastard was infuriating. Head hung low, pathetic, yet brilliant. His talent was undeniable, and his mind… sharp enough to match hers, even if they were a decade apart. She turned her back on him and started toward whatever remained of the boat.
Alicia, lost in thought, felt nauseated. Blood, death… and the unmistakable stench of ink. Someone stood beside her—Clément. No, Verso. Or… maybe just both.
"What do they call you here?" she asked with a small smile.
"Clément," he replied, scanning the bloody shore. "Clément Beaumont."
"I'm Alicia Dessendre."
Clément looked at her. He remembered the name—but nothing else. And that was the worst part. It was maddening. It meant maybe he wasn't himself. Maybe he belonged elsewhere. Maybe someone remembered him—fondly, bitterly, or with hatred.
"I'd love to ask why, or how you know me—or why I feel like I know you too, Alicia," Clément said, concern growing in his voice. "But right now, we should go. There's only death here."
Alicia nodded. Clea had already walked ahead. Antoine followed her, stumbling. There was nothing left to do on that island, just the first of many in the archipelago. All it offered now was horror—horrors of blood and ink.