Azazel staggered, black blood dripping from his lips, yet his eyes blazed with an otherworldly fire—not ordinary demonic eyes, but the eyes bearing the consciousness of an ancient entity—Qayïn.
Flickers of ethereal purple flames intertwined with faint aurora-like shadows swirled around those eyes, awakening a power long sealed within the mythic corridors of time. The air grew heavy and dry, as if swept by a mystical desert sandstorm, signaling the rise of primordial energy. The subterranean atmosphere turned colder, a sharp chill spreading through the cavern that crystallized the dew into glistening tiny ice shards hanging like fragile jewels.
"You force me to go further, child of time..."
"Then let me show the world... what Kronofracture has sealed away."
In that instant, the underground realm quaked; thin fractures spiderwebbed across the massive stone walls, as if the very fabric between dimensions was tearing open. Azazel clawed at his chest with desperate ferocity.
Deep gouges from his nails bled dark blood onto the earth, which pooled and seeped together to form a three-layered dark circle—known far and wide as the Gnosis Spiral.
Each layer of the circle radiated a distinct hue: the outermost ring was a profound black, etched with archaic symbols that flickered and writhed like slithering serpents under a restless wind; the middle layer glowed with a slow, mesmerizing spin of magenta-purple light; and the innermost core pulsed with a vibrant radiance, resembling a miniature, throbbing sun suspended in darkness. This circle was far more than a mere emblem—it was a potent sealing spell that imprisoned raw dimensional energy, bound by an unbreakable chain of fate that only two eternally cursed entities could unlock.
"Rise, Qayïn Semi-Manifested."
"The unfinished pact will now be enforced."
The subterranean sky above warped and twisted.
In an instant, gravity reversed, an invisible force flipped its direction.
The gravitational field surrounding them morphed violently, conjuring a counterclockwise whirlwind that tore through the stagnant air. Thick, oppressive gray clouds churned in response, swirling anticlimactically yet charged with sharp, electric blue flashes of cold, biting light. The temperature dropped precipitously; the air turned brittle, and every breath crystallized into mist, shimmering faintly as it hung frozen midair—synchronized with the deep, haunting rumble of arcane energy.
Spirits were irresistibly drawn toward the nexus. From within the dimensional veils, the faint, desperate wail of a baby echoed—a heart-wrenching cry layered with haunting reverberations that deepened the ritual's eerie and otherworldly mystique.
⚫ [Azazel: Qayïn Semi-Manifested]
Azazel's form expanded and transformed into a semi-manifested being—half-human, half-spirit—composed of swirling liquid ink that constantly shifted and rippled like a living shadow. Ancient, primordial energy coursed through his veins, infusing him with power as thick tendrils of black smoke spiraled upward, enveloping him in a shimmering mist speckled with dark, twinkling stars. These stars were said to herald the manifestation of a forbidden soul, one lost between realms.
Within this new, unsettling visage were three distinct faces, each etched deeply into his ink-like form:
The Face of Sorrow: This countenance wept silently, tears of pure black ink streaming relentlessly from wide, haunted eyes. An overwhelming aura of grief radiated from it, a wave of despair so potent it threatened to shatter an opponent's spirit on an ethereal plane.
The Face of Anger: Flames roared from its gaping mouth, burning embers and dark fire leaping forth in violent waves. The heat radiated with searing intensity, scorching and corroding the spiritual energy of any adversary unfortunate enough to stand before it, steadily eroding their strength.
The Face of Sacrifice: This visage whispered ancient incantations beyond human tongue, accompanied by a sinister hiss of mystic energy. From it, a brilliant light emanated, focused through an ancient Kushan symbol that spun slowly like an hourglass suspended midair. This symbol manipulated the very flow of spiritual time, turning an opponent's old wounds and regrets into living disasters, sealing their fate.
During this transformation ritual, each face reveals a distinct expression and action: eyes brimming with sorrow lock onto the enemy with painful intensity; the angry visage furrows its brow, unleashing fiery breath that spreads in all directions like a scorching inferno; meanwhile, the face of sacrifice clenches the air tightly, as if drawing in an elusive, subtle energy, weaving both a protective shield and a potent offensive barrier within a single, fluid cycle.
He slowly opens his hands.
Each fingertip now bears the name of a history erased from time.
With deliberate, trembling movements, those fingers begin to glow, ancient symbols flowing across them like ink spilling on forgotten manuscripts. Each finger hums the resonant names of legends sealed away by the relentless passage of time and the weight of silence.
A swirling wave of spiritual energy radiates outward, rippling through the battlefield's volatile energy field. The reversed gravitational pressure becomes adorned with oscillating waves that tremble through the soul, causing the very atmosphere to shudder and the temperature to shift violently — from piercing cold to blistering heat in mere moments — making it nearly impossible for enemies or the environment to remain steady or breathe without struggle.
This powerful energy weaves an invisible net, a cosmic aura that mentally and spiritually shackles the foes, binding their wills and weakening their defenses.
🔥 Technique 1 — 「Qayïn's Scripture: Oratio Ex Nihilo」
("Prayer from the Void")
"Ten tongues unite, chanting a prayer spoken before creation.
The song strikes reality like a curse.
All ordinary cultivation techniques begin to crack."
As the girl utters the ancient mantra, her voice weaving ten celestial tongues in perfect harmony, the air thickens palpably around her, as if space and time themselves bow and yield to the void she summons. A spectral wind arises—cold and biting, like primordial frost birthed at the dawn of the universe—swirling rhythmically in sync with the resonant vibrations flowing from her lips. The true activation of the mantra ignites the moment she opens her eyes, revealing glowing circles spinning within her irises—an eerie reflection of the energy channels of heaven and earth beginning to interlace and converge.
Her preparation becomes clear as her slender fingers point steadily to meridian points etched upon her chest, where a faint, ethereal glow pulses gently beneath the skin, unveiling the long-hidden pathways of her inner energy network. As the prayer swells and continues to ripple outward, reality itself stirs with unease, trembling as if its very foundations of time and space threaten to unravel; the gravity surrounding her softens inexplicably, allowing dust particles to drift lazily upwards before settling in a serene stillness. An icy chill cascades through the air—a bone-deep cold that silences the tension, freezing the atmosphere in a fragile, breathless moment.
Sensing this shift, the girl reacts with swift precision.
Her body trembles as three meridian points on her chest flare open fully, glowing with newfound energy.
As the three meridians on her chest opened fully, a brilliant flash of clear light burst forth from their center, exploding like a supernova igniting a distant galaxy. This concentrated spiritual energy pulsed and shimmered, flickering through delicate layers of iridescent, aurora-like light. Each wavering glow revealed subtle fluctuations within the energy field, all meticulously controlled by the girl's unyielding will. Her hands stretched open, rising gracefully as if to summon an ancient, primal entity woven from the shadows that preceded the universe itself. Her gaze was unwavering—eyes burning with a fierce serenity that spoke of her absolute command over this primordial force.
🌌 Technique 4 — 「靜界·無念舟」
Jìng Jiè · Wú Niàn Zhōu ("The Mindless Boat in the Silent Realm")
With a single, deliberate breath, she drew his soul inward into a formless, desireless void. His body became ethereal and weightless, akin to drifting motes of spiritual dust. All Qayïn spells shattered harmlessly against him, for there was no will within to wound.
"You cannot wound what does not intend to live," he declared calmly.
In preparation, Azazel bowed his head, pressing his palms together before his chest in an ancient mudra embodying emptiness and inner stillness. His breathing slowed and deepened into a long, vibrating exhalation, emitting an aura of profound silence that enveloped him. Around him, it was as if gravity thinned and time itself stilled, the temperature dropping toward absolute zero, rendering his physical form faint and untethered from all worldly bindings.
As he activated the technique, his body seemed to dissolve into weightlessness, drifting like specks of dust caught in a swirling, otherworldly breeze. A soft, ethereal light wrapped around him, forming a protective shroud of spiritual energy vibrations—a barrier so potent it deflected all spell attacks beyond the boundaries of reality, isolating him within a realm utterly devoid of desire and intent. This was the pure embodiment of the absence of will: an impenetrable inner fortress shielding him from both physical harm and emotional turmoil.
Azazel's expression remained serene and composed, a steady, unwavering gleam flickering beneath his brows. His movements were slow and measured, reminiscent of a monk deeply immersed in meditation, traversing the silent depths within. Those nearby stood bewildered, caught in a maelstrom of chaotic energy that bent the very fabric of space and time. With every step and leap, the gravity shifted unpredictably, weighing heavily as if he were treading the precarious boundary between dreams and reality.
⚔ Technique 2 (Azazel) — 「Blood Script: Testament of Hunger」
Azazel plunged his hand deep into the earth.
From the blood that seeped forth, a majestic tree rooted in the endless flow of time surged upward,
its hanging fruit bearing the many faces of future possibilities, shimmering with untold potential.
As Azazel's blood seeped into the soil, subtle vibrations surged deep beneath the surface, fracturing molecules and distorting the very fabric of reality where the blood touched. From this contact, the blood tree began to ascend, its roots twisting sinuously like unseen serpents weaving through the threads of time—reaching simultaneously into the distant past and uncertain future. This mythic arbor, reminiscent of Yggdrasil, served as a living conduit that connected all dimensions of existence. But the tree's growth was not merely physical; it radiated an intense, palpable spiritual energy that thickened the air. The sharp scent of iron-rich blood permeated around it, while an abrupt rise in temperature signaled the blood's relentless consumption of the fragile boundary between the present moment and what was yet to unfold.
The glowing fruits suspended from its branches flickered like ethereal screens, each one alive with flickering images of unrealized futures—human faces etched with hope, fear, and doubt, reflecting the countless paths destiny might take. These visions were bound tightly by Azazel's unquenchable hunger for dominion, casting the scene into a mysterious, shadow-laden drama of darkness and servitude. As the tree throbbed with life, the surrounding gravity intensified, pressing down on the earth with an almost magnetic tension, as if the very ground itself was being shackled by the tree's formidable presence within its unfolding radius.
Azazel's expression sharpened; his eyes blazed a fiery red, like smoldering embers igniting with wrath, while his jaw clenched tightly, embodying unyielding resolve. He drew in a slow, deliberate breath, then, with a fluid yet commanding motion, swept his hand to the side, unleashing the blood tree's pulsating energy in a wave that rippled outward in all directions. This sweeping gesture radiated an unstoppable force, a cold and deliberate command to sever every alternate future that dared to branch away.
"Every path you have not taken… I forbid."
"You will become nothing but the vessel of Qayïn."
☯ Technique 5 — 「封命·斬未道」
Fēng Mìng · Zhǎn Wèi Dào
("Sealing Fate: Severing the Unopened Path")
The girl summoned her spirit sword with unwavering focus.
An ethereal blue aura blossomed around the blade's tip, shimmering like scattered stardust drifting silently through the infinite void. The atmosphere thickened as gravity gently eased, causing specks of dust and tiny fragments to rise and hover in suspended stillness, caught in the spell of the moment.
Suddenly, the air grew chill and crisp; a fine mist spiraled at her feet, weaving a ghostly veil that cloaked her silhouette—an otherworldly threshold where time and space seemed to bend. Dense spiritual energy hung heavy and potent, vibrating with the faint echoes of ancient incantations, just stirred from the depths of a timeless slumber.
Invisible, yet her shadow sliced through Azazel's own, a dark silhouette cutting sharply against the ethereal glow. Her sword moved with an almost supernatural speed and grace, dark reflections rippling along its blade in a barely perceptible dance. Each strike seemed to pierce the very fabric between moments, carving paths through time itself. Sharp traces of crackling energy tore across the sky of souls with every flick of her blade, sending subtle vibrations that warped the local gravitational field—as if she wielded the power to bend reality and shape the undulating ripples of the time to come. Azazel's gaze sharpened, his brow furrowing deeply, a flicker of both caution and awe crossing his face as his body tensed, momentarily frozen by the shadow that defied the laws of existence.
"The path may not be open, but that doesn't mean it can't be forged."
Her voice rang with fierce conviction, charged with blazing confidence. She summoned every ounce of her determination, her brow tightly knit as her fingers gripped the sword's hilt with unyielding resolve. Surrounding her, spiritual energy surged and pulsed in a circle of vibrant hues—shifting shades of deep purple and radiant gold intertwined, weaving ancient rune patterns that hovered faintly in the air. These glowing runes throbbed rhythmically, perfectly synced with her heartbeat, breathing a potent magic into the formidable technique she was invoking.
"I am the one who writes my own future!"
Her eyes blazed with extraordinary intensity, shining like twin suns setting over an endless horizon. A subtle tremor coursed through her body just before she swung the spirit sword toward the very root of time itself. The instant the blade struck, the twisted branches and gnarled roots entwining "time" seemed to awaken; the bark swelled and gleamed with a radiant pinkish hue, as reality itself fractured into shards of pure energy scattering in all directions. Each fragment pulsed with the resonance of eternal waves, drawing heat from the air and replacing it with a lingering, icy chill that wrapped around her like a frozen whisper. Beneath the overwhelming surge of spiritual pressure and stolen temporal energy, Azazel's shadow flickered uneasily, his breath growing shallow and sweat tracing cold rivulets down his temples.
The girl's relentless strikes shattered the roots of time one by one.
With every blow, sparks of brilliant azure light erupted, cascading through the layers of space hovering above the earth. The canopy of trees rippled as if reality itself was beginning to tear—a delicate lattice of cracks weaving through the fabric of time and space, shimmering and flowing like cascading verses of a mystical poem carried on the night breeze. Gravity wavered unpredictably, undulating from the deepest underground strata to the boundless heights of the soul's heavens. She moved with the grace of a goddess of time, simultaneously crafting and unraveling fate—each motion leaving gentle ripples of spiritual energy in her wake, as though she were an artist meticulously painting the intricate tapestry of destiny with divine precision.
Each slash unleashed an echo of existence—not a mere sound, but a profound mystical resonance. It was the thunderous melody of fate itself, vibrating deep within the roots of the world's soul, sending ripples of raw spiritual energy cascading outward. Around them, the spiritual horizon expanded, alive with waves of shimmering power. The air roared with ancient whispers, the voices of forgotten ages passing through like fleeting shadows, stirring both dread and hope within Azazel. He stood frozen before her, his body trembling under an invisible force that seemed to press against the very fabric of reality. His expression flickered—from steely resolve to a momentary crack of unease—before hardening back into determination. He raised his hand instinctively, attempting to push away the surging torrent of energy invading his body, but his reflexes betrayed an intense inner conflict, a tension born from the overwhelming power the girl wielded.
🌪 Final Technique (Azazel) — 「Qayïn's Eye: Reverse Genesis」
Azazel revealed the eye embedded in his chest. It shimmered with a deep reddish-purple glow, like the fractured shards of a cosmic mirror reflecting a distorted universe. Within its depths lay a tangled labyrinth of fate, exposing the delicate veil that separates life from death. The gravity around Azazel shifted wildly—the earth beneath him quivered faintly while the air thickened, heat surging abruptly and scorching stray spiritual particles. Flashes of viscous, dark liquid flickered and twisted in the atmosphere, as if reality itself were bleeding. Azazel's form became one with this volatile energy, standing resolute yet ominous, his jaw clenched tight and his eyes blazing with unrelenting fury. He steadied himself, placing both hands firmly over the eye, channeling a torrent of spiritual energy into it. The eye expanded, swelling with razor-sharp focus and overwhelming, surging power.
The eye fixed its gaze on the origin of the girl's spirit, striving to reverse it with relentless determination. From his chest erupted a swirling wave of black energy, resembling a demonic vortex that pulsed with a sinister life of its own. The eye emitted a dense, dark spiritual chakra, a shadowy torrent that flooded the surroundings, plunging the air into a bone-chilling cold that carried the sinister weight of death itself. Around them, gravity twisted and strained, warping reality as if bending space into a paradoxical realm suspended between existence and oblivion. Azazel's form was engulfed in restless shadows that coiled and danced along his body like living ink; his visage hardened into a terrifying mask of focus—lips pressed firm, eyes narrowed sharply, as though peering deep into the very essence of the girl's soul with the piercing, ancient insight of a primordial force, intent on erasing her from the fabric of being, forcing her to never be born.
A wave of dark energy rippled outward, touching the shadow of the girl's spirit—an essence born from the ancient roots of time itself. This force sought to unravel the delicate threads of existence that tethered her to life. At the epicenter, layers of time converged, pressing against ephemeral ripples of anti-time that shimmered and faded with a haunting, ethereal beauty. The earth beneath them trembled violently as fragments of fractured reality materialized in midair, sparkling like jagged dark crystals caught in a twisted dance. A faint breeze stirred, carrying the mingled scents of death and rebirth, while tendrils of shadowy mist wove themselves around the battlefield, cloaking it in a shroud of ominous stillness. The girl bowed her head slightly, lips quivering beneath the weight of a fate that threatened to erase her entirely. Yet, from within, a fierce, burning resolve ignited. Her eyes flashed with sharp defiance toward Azazel as she clenched her sword with unyielding grip, her stance radiating fearless challenge against the looming threat to undo her very existence.
☯ Final Technique — 「輪回碎界·女帝無形」
Lún Huí Suì Jiè · Nǚ Dì Wú Xíng ("Shard of Samsara: The Empress Without Form")
The girl stood motionless, a statue of serene power. Silence wrapped around her like a shroud, yet the air vibrated with the slow, deliberate swirl of ancient energy ions, coalescing into an invisible mandala that shimmered with otherworldly light. Gravity seemed to dissolve, allowing tiny orbs of radiant light to drift aimlessly, like stars unbound from the night sky. The temperature plummeted to near freezing, a spiritual chill creeping through the air like frost, guarding the very core of time she was poised to merge with. Her face was the epitome of tranquility, a calm so profound it mirrored the composed grace of a Goddess on the cusp of breaching the cosmic veil. Her body formed a perfect circle as she extended both arms outward, spiritual energy pouring from her pores like an ethereal river, illuminating the ark of life with a celestial glow.
Behind her, the shadow of Iris emerged in full majesty. The silhouette resembled a divine manifestation of will and future strength, towering with wings of shimmering light unfurled wide, quivering in harmony with the gentle yet stirring pulse of existence. Surrounding her was an aura that glowed like the radiant light of a full moon, weaving a protective veil that pulsed in time with the girl's heartbeat. Iris's gaze carried understanding and admiration, her form blending seamlessly with the whispering wind that carried spiritual power across the battlefield, balancing strength with a tender grace.
Far above, within the ethereal realm of souls, the shadow of Fitran stood motionless, his back turned yet commanding. His silhouette towered—tall and unwavering—a timeless sentinel embodying the spirit of a warrior who traversed the corridors of endless time. The air around him throbbed with a dense, spiritual electric current, crackling with the promise of new consciousness ready to surge into the universe. Heat radiated intensely from his presence, rippling in waves that distorted the sacred space as manifestations of his simmering anger and unyielding resolve. Though silent, his piercing gaze cut through the void like a blade, carrying the ancient, raw power woven into every molecule of air swirling over his dark cloak.
With a deliberate, graceful step, the girl lowered herself gently to the ground, sending forth delicate vibrations that channeled profound sacred energy deep into the heart of her "Spiral Gnosis Center." The wind responded, stirring into spirals of vibrant energy that danced beneath her feet, filling the battlefield with revolving, localized gravitational currents. These currents seemed to suspend time itself, amplifying the immortality woven into the moment. Her form became a nexus where spirit and time intertwined in a storm of mysterious harmony, tracing sacred patterns that echoed the eternal cycles turning ceaselessly across the universe. Steady and resolute, her fingers extended, clutching the spirit sword like a celestial quill poised to inscribe the eternal laws of existence onto the very fabric of reality.
She summoned every version of herself from unrealized futures.
The vast expanse of time darkened, as these potential selves materialized like ethereal time raiders, synchronized across the four restless dimensions of existence. They encircled her, each radiating a distinct aura, sending waves of energy that tugged gravity toward separate zones, sustaining an indescribable equilibrium. In the gaze of every reflection, hope and regret shimmered—echoes of destinies yet to be fulfilled. Their faces merged seamlessly, like intertwined strands of luminous gems, weaving a radiant crown of power that ascended toward the spirit's boundless sky.
Together, they coalesced into a single, sacred spirit.
At the vortex's core, energy spun with dizzying speed; from the dance of darkness and light emerged a glowing figure inscribed with countless runic mosaics. Mythological constellations from countless eras adorned the spirit's form, transforming this manifestation into a living symbol of perfect harmony—an exquisite balance between fractured moments of time and the infinite expanse of space. The surrounding air thrummed with a blend of magical and spiritual resonance; the temperature at the center rose gently, remaining comfortably warm, casting a luminous glow that engraved the entire battlefield into eternal memory. The girl closed her eyes, a tender smile blooming on her lips—an emblem of freedom born from the ashes of the past, and hopes rekindled anew.
"I am not just one child.
I am all the possibilities of love yet to be fulfilled."
With a resolute motion, she drove the spirit sword deep into the pulsating core of the Gnosis Spiral. The blade, imbued with pure and concentrated final energy, struck the very vortex at the center, igniting a cataclysmic explosion of radiant light that shattered the fabric of reality and distorted time itself. Gravity surged wildly, twisting and converging spiritual and physical forces into an erratic, roaring wave that obliterated everything in its path. The air shimmered with intense heat, bathing the space in a warm glow reminiscent of a majestic spiritual aurora born from the chaos of battle. From the epicenter, waves of crackling energy rippled outward like a celestial electric current, illuminating the battlefield with otherworldly brilliance. The girl's face hardened with divine resolve, her eyes blazing fiercely with an ethereal light that spoke of unyielding determination. Meanwhile, Azazel screamed in torment, his form convulsing and distorting grotesquely, anguish and fury etched deeply into his twisted features as the very power he had wielded now recoiled, turning the tide of the conflict against him.
"You are not just my enemy..."
whispered Azazel, his form now fragmented between spirit and flesh, unraveling before her eyes.
The air around him quivered faintly with an eerie resonance. From his translucent fingertips, a thick, obsidian-black energy oozed forth, swirling like a starless midnight fog, dense and suffocating. His broken body hunched over, drawing scattered shards of his fractured soul into a throbbing, shadowy core that pulsed with malevolent life. Suddenly, the dark mass exploded outward, spraying liquid shadows that seemed to devour the light itself.
The spiritual currents in the surrounding field twisted violently, plunging the temperature into a biting freeze. Gravity distorted unnaturally, tugging unevenly at everything nearby, as if pulling all existence toward a silent abyss—a realm of time he once ruled with iron dominion. Azazel's skin contorted into deep wrinkles, his eyes blazing with furious betrayal as they locked onto the girl standing resolute, unwavering amidst the fragile vortex of temporal energy that encased her.
"...you... are a traitor of time."
The girl stared coldly at Azazel, her gaze unwavering and resolute. Slowly, with a gentle yet deliberate motion, she raised her hands toward the vaulted ceiling of Gnosis's spiral. From her outstretched palms, a glowing blue-white circle shimmered into existence, its surface etched with ancient symbols: a flawless triangle, an endless circle, and a radiant sun rising over a jagged mountain peak. The light pulsed in time with her heartbeat, a living rhythm that signaled the awakening of a sacred technique passed down through an ancient tome—one that spoke of the goddess of time and fate who once ruled the world. Like a delicate web spun from the threads of time itself, the circle unfurled outward in a spiraling dance, emitting an aura of ethereal purity and cleansing energy.
"And you are the fragment of fate... that should never have been written," she declared with quiet finality.
In an instant, Azazel shattered into shards of black light, fracturing like obsidian glass scattering in the wind. The surrounding time glyphs began to collapse, their runes flickering and dying as if caught in a dying ember's last breath. The explosion of dark fragments unleashed a violent surge of spiritual energy that rippled across the battlefield, rupturing the heavy silence with a mystical boom that echoed like the tolling of a hellish bell. At the heart of the detonation, gravity itself seemed to waver, as though the very fabric of reality was tearing loose. Jagged shards of black light streaked through space and time, slicing the air with sharp precision, stirring ripples that plunged the temperature downward, cloaking the scene in an instantaneous mist. Even in fragmentation, Azazel's visage was twisted with furious rage and vengeful defiance—his blazing red eyes burned with eternal fury, as if determined to etch his existence indelibly into the annals of time.
The girl stood motionless, her eyes fixed on the fading fragments of time that drifted downward like fragile leaves falling from the ancient tree of ages. Her right hand remained raised, fingers weaving an intricate spell that intertwined with the scattered time glyphs pulsing faintly in the air. She fought desperately to stem the collapse of time itself, striving to prevent the encroaching temporal rupture from devouring more of existence. Drawing a deep, steadying breath, she summoned the latent power that stretched across the horizon—the fragile boundary between future and past—molding it into an invisible spiritual fortress. This fortress throbbed with the raw, ancient energy of destiny, a shimmering barrier holding back the devastation wrought by Azazel, containing his destructive influence from spreading deeper into the heart of reality.