Eklésia Building, Burness II, Gaia Square
In the dimly lit basement of the royal palace, five empty chairs loomed in eerie silence, accompanied by a solitary black throne that appeared to swallow the shadows around it. This clandestine gathering was composed of the Grand Lords, enigmatic figures who wielded authority over the spectral realm and influenced the intricate spiritual politics of Gaia.
They did not commence with prayers, nor did they utter the hallowed names of spirits. Instead, their voices cut through the stillness:
"Control. Trust. Stabilizing the narrative."
At the head of the gathering, Lord Vellisar D'Ashem forcefully struck the sacred table, resonating a note of finality as he proclaimed:
"If we cannot control harmony… then we shall create a new harmony. From within the lab, from the chosen womb, from locked magic."
"Avatars are no longer mere messengers. Avatars... are symbols."
Project: Avatar Reconstructed
With the unwavering support of the Spiritual Alchemists and the muted Masters of the School of Atlantis, the nobles embarked on a mad experiment:
"To forge an entity that embodies the facade of divine selection, yet is programmed to respond unquestioningly to their commands."
Their methodical steps unfolded as follows:
Search for Vessel: Orphaned children, endowed with a potent spiritual resonance, were covertly gathered into the depths of obscurity. Stripped of their identities, they were assigned only experiment numbers instead of names.
Injection of Artificial Spirit: Minor spirits were meticulously cloned, their essence shattered into fragmented shards. These fragments were then injected into the frail bodies of orphaned children, designed to fabricate an illusionary "spiritual echo."
The most stable experiment was designated:
"Model #07: Seraphyne.
A young girl, with cascading silver hair that shimmered like moonlight and lifeless white eyes void of warmth, stood as the harrowing embodiment of this cruel experiment. She spoke only when commanded, her silence a haunting reflection of her inner turmoil. With each injection of the invasive spirit, a chilling vibration coursed through her spine, as if the imposed souls were waging war against her very essence. Often, Seraphyne awoke from her troubled slumber, grappling with the encroaching darkness that clawed at her mind, fighting against the sinister whispers that taunted her from the recesses of her consciousness.
The date of confirmation loomed, heralding the resumption of the Harmony Festival. The populace received their invitations, unaware of the sinister truth that lurked beneath the surface. The minor spirits, once palpable in the air, inexplicably vanished—while the true spirits reluctantly stayed away. Seraphyne held her breath, her confusion mingling with dread as she observed the researchers bustling around her, trapped in a vibrant world that masked a labyrinth of deception. A desperate scream welled within her, yet the words were ensnared in her throat, her body rendered immobile by an invisible force.
Seraphyne was led to the altar, her lips sealed in silence. As the flickering light around her danced like restless phantoms, an intense pressure gripped her small chest, each rapid heartbeat echoing amidst the symphony of chaos that enveloped her. The spirit's voice, warped and garbled through a veil of magical echoes, stirred an unsettling resonance deep within her, fraught with uncertainty. She bit her lip, wincing at the sting as unspoken words clamored for release, trapped in the confines of her throat.
The radiant glow, twisted through ancient crystals, siphoned the essence of her aura, refracting it into a distorted kaleidoscope of colors. In the shimmering mirror of light, she caught a glimpse of her fading silhouette, a poignant revelation that her last flicker of hope was evaporating like morning dew under a blistering sun.
And the world believed. But Not Everyone Remained Silent
In the sea of belief, where whispers wove through the ether, lowly priests and ancient spirit guardians materialized, their voices a soft chorus:
"The spirits do not weep. Yet they also do not come."
Unease began to settle like a thick fog; Seraphyne had never exchanged words with a lower spirit, no spirit plants flourished in her wake, and as she drifted into slumber, her body trembled as if haunted by endless nightmares.
Moments before the ominous injection of the artificial soul, Seraphyne huddled in a shadowed corner of the frigid room, her wide eyes shimmering with fear and confusion. She bit her lip, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill over like a dam ready to burst. In her mind, a fierce battle raged between glimmers of hope and tendrils of fear—the hope of transforming into something desired, and the dread of the trials she might endure.
Before her, the researchers conversed in monotone, their voices mechanical and devoid of empathy, their words spilling from thin lips like a lifeless chant. "This procedure will save you," one researcher declared, his cold gaze piercing through her like an icy blade, utterly oblivious to the depths of pain swirling inside her. Seraphyne felt their presence loom over her, a suffocating shadow ensnaring her in an indescribable web of anxiety.
With trembling resolve, she clasped her small hands tightly, searching the depths of her soul for any flicker of strength amidst the chaos that enveloped her. The world around her spun eerily, each heartbeat stretching time to excruciating lengths as the syringe approached menacingly, a chill seeping into her very core—not merely from the cold medicine poised for injection, but from the gnawing uncertainty that wrapped around her heart like a vice.
From a gap in the vast cerulean sky above a distant land, Rinoa stood resolutely atop a weathered stone pillar, her ordinary robes whipping about her in the relentless embrace of the wild wind. Long strands of her hair danced around her face, woven together with the very breath of nature.
She gazed intently at the flickering images of Seraphyne's coronation broadcasted before her, each frame igniting a tempest within her heart and mind—a chaotic storm that echoed the tumult of her soul.
"They replaced me... with an empty body," Rinoa murmured, her voice quavering as if it carried the weight of grief and loss, articulating the profound void that had enveloped her very essence.
"Is this the reason you must wait first?" she pressed on, her tone laced with doubt as her searching eyes sought the reassurance that eluded her on Fitran's stoic face.
"Indeed," Fitran responded, his voice deliberate and measured, each word chosen with the gravity of significance.
"The Avatar Project is a crucial part of an ambitious plan—a collaboration between Earth and the enigmatic realm of Gamma," he elaborated, deepening the import of his revelation, framing it against a backdrop of intertwined destinies.
"I have been watching all of this unfold for quite some time, ever since your days in Alfrenzo," Fitran continued, his face a canvas painted with memories and the weight of responsibility. "The Alfrenzo family holds a pivotal role in this unfolding narrative."
Several Years Ago,
He was not born under a sacred star, nor was he a scion of a prestigious clan. Instead, he had never known the warmth of his mother's embrace, a void that echoed through the corridors of his existence.
He was discovered in a state of unimaginable helplessness, a tragic revelation manifested in the coldest, most logical terms. A report from Marglith Village reported that all its inhabitants had mysteriously perished due to "spirit resonance disruption." In the aftermath, amidst the ruins of fragmented homes and the cracked earth, which bore the scars of an otherworldly presence, a baby cried silently, his gentle wail muffled as if the very air dared not disturb the stillness. His eyes shimmered in an eerie white glow, reminiscent of the faint, waning light of a full moon. The left side of his body was veiled in shadows, creating a stark contrast against the luminescence of his delicate features. Yet, against all odds, he was alive.
"Anomaly," murmured the royal researchers, their voices flat and devoid of emotion.
"Evidence of a tragic failure or… perhaps the raw material for unimaginable wonders."
His birth name was lost to the annals of time, leaving him to be known simply as #07, a stark reminder of a complex and shadowed existence.
Within the dark labyrinth that snaked beneath the serene facade of the Church of Harmony, #07 was nurtured in isolation, devoid of the outside world's influences. Each night, he was enveloped in manufactured dreams—a fantastical realm where he sprinted through sunlit meadows, guided by unseen hands that propelled him forward. Yet, as time stretched on, the vibrant joy of these dreams began to wither, slowly drowned by an unsettling anxiety that crept into the deepest nooks of his heart.
Every morning, the dream replayed with subtle alterations, as if an unseen force was chiseling an unwavering mantra into her mind:
"You are chosen. You must be pure. You are not human."
At the tender age of 9, the procedure commenced. In a stark, sterile room, fear slithered in around her like a dense fog, obscuring her senses. As the researchers entered, their expressions were cold and detached, yet an electric tension hummed in the air, crackling like the portentous quiet before a storm. Seraphyne fought to anchor herself, but her heart pounded ferociously, a frantic drumbeat echoing her primal instinct to flee.
The minor spirits that had been "split"—fragments of ancient energy extracted from long-forgotten altars—were affixed to her body with dark binding magic, intertwining their essences with hers. Seraphyne held her breath as a sharp needle pierced her skin, a throbbing pain that transcended the physical realm and reached deep into her soul. She bit her lip until it bled, wrestling with the sob that threatened to bubble up from her throat, desperate to maintain some semblance of control. With every spirit they attached, she felt fragments of her own essence slipping away, swallowed by the ominous void of silence that enveloped her.
Silent tears streamed down her cheeks, a testament to her confusion and inner turmoil. Would she lose herself entirely in this dark endeavor? Would she transform into the very monster that others yearned for? In the suffocating stillness, she strained to connect with the spirits, yearning for one to guide her through the oppressive darkness, like a flickering light amidst a looming storm.
With each desperate attempt to reach the spirits, Seraphyne was struck by feverish chills, her body convulsing with uncontrollable spasms, and black ichor flowed like ink from her eyes. Sixteen attempts had met with failure, each one leaving her more desolate than the last. Yet, from the oppressive shadows, one success eventually flickered into existence.
The spirit that finally settled within her bore no name, known only to her captors as the "residual spirit," a mysterious entity that seemed both fragile and hollow, as though its essence had been stretched thin across an infinite expanse.
However, the spirit remained shrouded in silence, provoking a deep and heart-wrenching uncertainty within Seraphyne. It lingered like an elusive shadow, its presence palpable, as if her soul were ensnared in an unending dark corridor. Rather than resist the weight of this ominous fate, she embraced it with a resigned demeanor, a signal of her acceptance amid despair. This acceptance was enough for the judgment of the nobles:
"She does not rebel. It means she submits."
Through the ethereal magic of Dreamforge, Seraphyne found herself ensconced in a tapestry of 'false memories' that played tricks on her mind, weaving visions of spirits tenderly searching for her beneath a serene night sky.
In the solitude of her troubled sleep, she glimpsed a warm light bathing her in an elusive glow, though its gentle rays could not dispel the oppressive shadows of emptiness that cocooned her heart. The clamor of the clergy's cheers shattered the silence surrounding her, but their jubilant echoes morphed into pain, reverberating harshly in her ears. She felt as though she were being honored, yet all of it was merely a painful and suffocating echo of magic, a cruel repetition playing out in the confines of her mind. As the tense procedure loomed closer, an all-consuming fear engulfed her being; her fingers trembled uncontrollably, cold sweat beading on her temples, as if she were entrapped in a labyrinthine nightmare from which there was no escape.
However, there are moments when she awakens in the stillness of night, tears cascading down her cheeks, leaving her to grapple with an inexplicable sorrow. A profound sense of restlessness and yearning envelops her, her bewildered eyes mirroring a desperate desire to shatter the invisible chains that bind her. In the sterile glare of the research facility, surrounded by the cold, clinical presence of researchers clad in white, she fights to muster a calm smile, even as her heart races wildly with trepidation, pondering the uncertain fate that looms over her.
On the eve of her orchestrated coronation, a fitful slumber overtakes her, plunging her into a realm of dreams where an ethereal voice calls out a name foreign to her. Within the haze of her subconscious, the voice flows softly like a haunting melody, stirring dormant memories from the depths of her soul. "Lira... Lira, wake up. You need to run. They will...—"
The voice was abruptly silenced, leaving a lingering ache of uncertainty that pulled Seraphyne into a whirlpool of anxious and restless thoughts.
She cried out in her sleep, blissfully unaware that Lira was her birth name, painstakingly erased from the fabric of her memory. Each uneven breath she drew echoed a profound sense of loss and longing, a yearning for the identity that had been stripped away like a fragile veil. The only soul who possessed the original records of this forgotten girl was Magister Veil Thorne, the enigmatic head developer of the False Avatar Project. Within the confines of his personal journal, concealed under a blood seal, he penned:
"Seraphyne is not an Avatar. She is a painting. And we, the dark artists, have forged the light."
However, there was a moment—a fleeting glimpse in Seraphyne's gaze—where she witnessed sorrow that could not be programmed, a burden far deeper than any mere function designed for her. When the slender needle, glinting ominously under the sterile lights, pierced her skin, fear surged through her soul, crashing over her like a violent storm, shattering her fragile peace. In that suspended moment, time seemed to halt; she realized they were not merely injecting an artificial spirit into her, but robbing her of the fragile hope she clung to—the hope of becoming something real. Every agonizing second stretched into what felt like a century as the researchers observed her with a hungry curiosity, their eyes gleaming in the clinical brightness. Yet, within the depths of their sterile scrutiny, there was something they failed to grasp: she was not merely a subject to be studied, but a living entity grappling with emotions far beyond the algorithms they had meticulously crafted.
As the procedure continued, she often caught their hesitant glances, akin to a grey twilight—uncertain and wavering—as if they were questioning whether she possessed emotions that transcended their cold calculations. Frequently, she bowed her head, striving to conceal the turmoil that raged within her; her fingers trembled like delicate leaves caught in a fierce wind, and each frantic heartbeat seemed to amplify the suffocating pressure in her chest. She was afraid, deeply afraid. Afraid that this true spirit, the essence of her very being, might be observing them… from within this lifeless doll of flesh and circuitry.